by Mary Robison
Going down the hall, he heard Cleveland in his room being busy at something.
Chris cleaned up the kitchen, loaded and ran the dishwasher. He carried out two sacks of trash, and on his way back to the house snapped a bunch of blooming zinnias. He put them in a pitcher on the counter.
Lola came in with Violet behind her. “Elves have been at work,” Lola said.
“You name it,” Chris said. “Eggs, poached or soft or coddled. You want waffles?”
Lola reached for the coffee can.
“Sit down. I’ll do it,” Chris said. “There’s the Sunday paper. Pay attention to the world.”
9
Lola read an article about Indira Gandhi.
“That whore,” she said, and turned the page.
10
Cleveland mashed socks into the corners of his suitcase and snapped the valise closed.
He lay down between his luggage and the headboard. “Sleep,” he said, and shut his eyes.
11
Maureen was in the garage. She lay curled on the back seat of Cleveland’s Oldsmobile, dreaming.
12
You go like gypsies. Like popcorn. Watch a grasshopper.
They go off, fired from little guns, and land any-old-where. Dragonflies waltz. Kids like you drizzle and spurt. Don’t slobber, Violet. Don’t make bubbles with your spit. Keep jazzing around, so you don’t get bored,” Chris said to his daughter.
They waited out Maureen.
13
Maureen grabbed an armrest and pulled herself up. She looked through the back window. The garage doors were open, making a kind of proscenium for the scene outside on the driveway court. There, in hazy evening sunlight, was Chris’s car with its broken face.
Maureen groaned and rubbed her eyes. She lifted the door handle. She pushed herself out of the car and snuck into the house through the kitchen entry. By the sinks, a glass pot with a little cold coffee was waiting for the next dishwasher load. She hefted the pot with two hands and drank.
Violet boomed through the door and ran at Maureen’s legs.
“What time is it?” Maureen said.
Violet thought.
“Why am I asking her?” Maureen said.
Chris came in. “Good evening, Maureen,” he said.
“Yeah,” Maureen said.
“Anything you want to say?”
“The rebels are in the palace,” she said.
“That’s approximately right,” Chris said.
Maureen snagged the cigarette that Chris tossed her. She got it lighted on one of the burners. “Don’t tell me,” she said, exhaling. “Howdy hanged himself on his belt. Lola stuck up a savings and loan. And my father ran away from home.”
“One out of three,” Chris said.
“Grandpa’s gone,” Violet said.
“Good,” Maureen said.
“Grandpa wanted to go away,” Violet said.
“Where?” Maureen said.
“Fort Worth for a while,” Chris said. “I think he said L.A. too. He’s got some family in Atlanta? He mentioned Atlanta.”
“An extended trip,” Maureen said. “Well, good. And while he’s gone, you’re going to be our father?”
“The thing is,” Chris said, “he didn’t mention oming-cay ack-bay.”
“Cut the pig Latin,” Maureen said. “I don’t hide the ugly truth. He’s not coming back?”
“Grandpa isn’t?” Violet said.
“Settle down,” Maureen said.
“I’m pregnant,” Lola said, straying in from the back of the house. She was still in her bathrobe and scuffs. She had a decorator box of tissues under one arm.
“That’s nice,” Maureen said. “Who was it, Howdy, Dad, or Chris?”
14
Howdy was in the old garage downstairs from his apartment. He’d hung three yellow bug bulbs in a row, and now he stood in the center of the floor with his hands on his hips and his eyes on the cement.
“He lives,” Chris said, trotting up.
“Hello,” Howdy said.
“Looking at your shoes there?”
“Just looking,” Howdy said.
“It’s very yellow in here,” Chris said. “Did you make it all yellow, Howard?”
“Don’t try to be funny,” Howdy said. “I’m the funny one, not you. And don’t take me for an idiot, either. It’s the worst mistake you could make about me. I only let some people take me for an idiot, and you’re not one of them.”
Chris snapped his head back as though he’d been slugged by a champion.
They went together across the yard and toward the main house. “Daddy left us?” Howdy said.
“This afternoon,” Chris said. “Took the Saab out to the airport and somebody’s supposed to pick it up.”
“He must have been feeling bad,” Howdy said. “He never even said good-bye.”
“That’ll happen,” Chris said.
15
Maureen and Violet were playing with a balloon, breathing the helium inside it.
“What’s wrong with my voice?” Violet said.
Maureen took the balloon, let loose its opening, and sipped some of the gas.
“The same thing that’s wrong with mine,” she said, and then she said, “Oh,” and moved to the breakfast room windows to gaze out into the yard.
Howdy was on the driveway, kicking up twigs. Chris stood on the grass, his cigarette a dot on his fist. He was looking at the big house.
Lola came over and watched with Maureen.
“Napoleon,” Lola said. “Or Magellan.”
“Yes,” Maureen said. “And either way, it’s curtains.”
Author photograph by Pier Rodelon
MARY ROBISON was born in Washington, D.C. She is the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship, two Pushcart Prizes, an O. Henry Award, the Los Angeles Times Book Prize for Fiction, and the 2018 Arts and Letters Award in Literature. She is the author of four novels and four story collections. She lives in Gainesville, Florida.