my room doing homework when Mom answered the phone, and she called up to say that Dad was on the phone, and if I wanted to talk to him, I should get on the extension. I ran into her bedroom and picked up the phone; I heard him announce to my mother, âI fixed the kitchen for you!â
âFor me?â she asked, surprised.
âYes, of course for you. Who else?â
A little excitement made its way into her voice. âYou mean you put in a dishwasher? A washing machine? A dryer?â
âNo,â he said angrily. âI put in a gas stove and a new sink. An expensive sink, one of those stainless steel jobbies.â I could picture his set mouth. I could hear the lecture on the environment, on not polluting the lake.
âYou didnât take out the wood stove, did you?â I asked.
âNo, Jess. Itâs still there,â he assured me.
âAnd did you put in a toilet?â Mom asked quickly.
âNo, I didnât,â he said. âYou know how I feel about that.â He hated toilets on principle.
âAnd you know how I feel about that.â
âWhy do you have to be so petty?â
âI donât think itâs petty to care about how you spend your life. What you spend your life doing.â
âYou know damn well those things harm the environment.â
âIâm not coming to live there, Pat.â
âYou are such a bitch!â he shouted. âYou bitch, you slut, you whore!â I hung up. Dad rarely called Mom by her name; he usually called her âhoneyâ or âsweetie.â But whenever he was angry, he called her those other names.
We didnât hear from him for another month. The next time he called, I didnât pick up the extension. My mother listened and murmured something that I couldnât hear. When she hung up, she said in an odd tone of voice, âHeâs finished his studio up there.â
âBut he has such a nice one here!â I lamented. I wanted him to come back. I didnât want to live in Vermont any more than Mom did. I loved Barnes, I loved my friends, I loved Cambridge. I didnât want to move. If we lived in Vermont, Mom would have to drive me to and from school every day. Iâd never see friends, if I even had any. But if Dad had built a studio there, he was serious.
A few years earlier, he had bought an old barn and had it transported to a meadow near the cabin. Now heâd dug a foundation for it and put in a new floor and electric heat. Heâd broken through the walls to insert huge windows, one facing the lake and another facing the meadow. I remembered how dark the cabin was, tucked in the woods, and I pictured light streaming into the barn. In history we were reading a book about ancient Athens that said that the men spent their days in the bright agora, or light, open-sided public buildings, while the women were locked away in the house, running home factories, doing all the work. It gave me some insight into how Mom felt about being in Vermont.
About a month later, Dad came back to Cambridge again. Mom came home from work to find him and me sitting at the kitchen table. Dad had a whiskey and soda; I was drinking a cola. Mom stopped dead in the doorway and said in a flat voice that there were only leftovers for dinner and only enough for two. âWhat do you want to do for dinner, Pat?â
He looked at her lazily. âI can just have eggs. You know I donât care about food. You got any bacon?â
âNo.â
He shrugged. âYou can make me a cheese omelet.â
She came in and took off her coat and poured herself a drink. She put the scotch bottle beside the bottle of Canadian Club whiskey on the counter. That was a common sight. âWould it kill you to call and let me know youâre coming?â
âWhatâs the matter, you had other plans for tonight?â
Mom rarely went out at night except to political meetings. Dad knew that. She
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