“Yeah, right,” said Rick.
But when the dog stopped barking, they were fascinated and nonplussed. If their father had beaten the neighbor’s dog to death, what would happen next? “They’d put him in jail,” said Elise.
“Nah,” said Rick. “Just a fine, but it would embarrass him.”
They filed down the stairs in excited apprehension. Elise looked back at Rick; he put his hands over his mouth and bugged out his eyes. He meant to be funny, but with his smirking mouth covered, his distended eyes had the flat hysteria of a mask.
“If he kills that fucking dog I’ll divorce him, and I mean it. I mean it! It’s not normal! What kind of person would go after a dog with a golf club?”
“An asshole,” said Rick.
Sandy banged her hand on the counter and yelled, “Shut up!” Her voice broke; she had hit her hand hard enough to hurt it.
Their father came in the back door. His face wore an expression of gentle puzzlement, his golf club was dozing in his hand. He looked as if he been holding a baby against his breast. “That poor sonofabitch is lonely,” he said mildly. “When he saw me coming, he started jumping up and down, wanting me to play with him. No wonder he barks! They’ve got the sad bastard on a short leash, walking around in his own shit.” The frilly green curtain on the back window flared out behind his armpit, the little brass bell attached to the curtain rod dangled above his head. Elise thought of the frilled collar and silly hat of a clown. “I just petted him for a few minutes,” he said. ‘And listen, he’s still quiet.” He came into the kitchen and put his golf club in a corner. It immediately fell down; he gently muttered “Shit” and bent to stand it up again, and Elise was stricken with unbearable pity. It hit her so fast, she didn’t have time to be furious or contemptuous. She looked at Rick and saw that under his look of bored distaste was a rigid muscular contraction, like a grimace of pain or rage. For a second, it was as if she was seeing through him to his skeleton. Then it was over, and he was Rick again. He was putting Pop-Tarts in the microwave, his long, agile hands moving like they knew nothing about pain or rage.
Her chest sweated from holding Penny against it. The baby’s crying had become a steady contemplative grumble, as if she had found an engrossing pocket of misery and was digging around, exploring. The rhythmic little sobs penetrated Elise and attached her to the baby. She sat on the bed and rocked. The attachment was mutual and interlocked. It made Elise feel relaxed; no matter what happened, it would be all right. She thought: formula. Robin had left a bottle of formula on the counter so Elise wouldn’t have to heat it again. Still holding Penny, she walked to the counter and got the bottle. Penny took the nipple in her mouth with a neat little grab. She sputtered, panted, then sighed and quieted as she earnestly sucked.
As soon as Penny stopped drinking, she wet herself again. She didn’t seem to care, but still Elise thought she’d better try to change her. Carefully she laid the baby on the coverlet. She undid the soaked diaper and took it off. Penny kicked and waved. Elise wet a thread-bare washcloth at the kitchen faucet and wiped the baby. Carefully she put a new diaper on. She wasn’t sure it was on exactly right, but it would do until Robin got back. She rinsed the washcloth and hung it on a tiny metal rack.
Andy came over. “We’re hungry,” he said. There was a reproachful little push in his voice, and no wonder: it was two o’clock. She got bread and peanut butter and dishes out of the cabinet. The dishes were cheap and bright-colored. There were three cups, two with flowers on them and one with a picture of a hippopotamus carrying a balloon. Elise imagined Robin in the Salvation Army, picking out cheerful dishes; she felt protective allegiance. She stood at the counter, making them all sandwiches. The linoleum on the counter was cracked and faintly buckled. There was moist black mold where the counter met the wall, and a sour smell in the drain. The odorous dirt was lush and dense. It made her feel rooted to the floor and to the making of the food. She thought of her mother, standing at the counter, making food. Mostly she thought of her mother’s hips, big and strong and set right against the counter.
She cut each sandwich into four squares and the orange into eight wedges. She poured everybody a cup of milk, and they all sat down to eat. The boys ate with concentrated faces, as if they were exaggerating their satisfaction on purpose, reassuring themselves that it really was good, that there would always be sandwiches and milk for them. Elise remembered the time she and Becky got up before everybody else and made themselves tea and peanut butter sandwiches; it wasn’t that good, but they relished the meal because they wanted to. She remembered herself and Rick and Robbie sitting at the breakfast table while their mother hurried around the room in her open coat, fixing pop-up waffles in the toaster. Their mother was always late for work. She poured their little glasses of juice with a quick, jerking motion. She put their plates before them with such force that the food almost slid off. All her movements were like the tail end of a great, bursting effort, like a grab for a lifeline in a midair leap. The children ate breakfast in the center of this surging effort. Unknowingly they aligned with it. They supported their mother with the fierce secret movements of their breath and blood.
If Elise could have written her mother a letter, she would have told her that she remembered how hard she’d worked to get breakfast on the table in the morning and how good her breakfasts were. She would tell her mother she missed her. She would tell her she had a job as a baby-sitter.
Eric looked at her. “When is our mommy coming?” he asked.
Elise looked at the clock. With a strained click, one white digit became another. It was two-forty. “She could walk in any minute,” she said, “but if she doesn’t, she’ll be back in a few hours.”
Eric looked confused, then disturbed. He licked his finger and picked at the bread crumbs on his plate with it. Andy began a loud singsong chant.
“She’ll be home soon,” said Elise. “Don’t worry.”
Andy sang louder and more insistently. He stood up in his chair and thrust his lips in the air like a singing snout. Well, Elise could sing too.
“Six foot, seven foot, eight foot—bunch! Daylight come and Blue wants to go home!”
Andy stopped with his mouth open, his eyes bright and askance. He grinned, jumped off the chair, and sang his crazy noises right at her. He paused.
Elise stood up; she waved her arms and wagged her butt. “Come Mister Tally Man, tally me banana—daylight come and I want to go home.”
The boys grinned delightedly. Eric gave a high squeak; he darted forward and grabbed her thighs, butting her with his head. She wobbled and sat down, unbalanced and abashed by the sudden burst of feeling. He climbed up on her lap and groped her body like a busy animal. Andy jogged up and down, yodeling triumphantly. Eric planted his knee on her thigh and squeezed her breasts with both hands. That startled her. Boys weren’t supposed to do that, but he was only four. She wasn’t sure what to do; it seemed mean to make him stop, but if she let him do it, he might think he could do it to anybody and he’d grow up to be the kind of guy who grabs women’s boobs on the street. Then Andy came over and grabbed at her too. She sat for a moment, perplexed. If Robin walked in, would she think that Elise was molesting the children? She put her hands on their shoulders and gently pushed. “Hey,” she said, “stop it.” They clung stubbornly. She pushed them again, harder. Eric put his face against her and let out an angry, pleading little grunt. The sound shocked her, and she hesitated. Then Andy lost interest anyway. He let go and went off toward his toys. Eric sighed and relaxed against her. Tentatively, she stroked his head. Then she stroked his back.