“You bought rats with Chuck’s tuition money?” asked Cathryn.
“Mice,” corrected Charles.
With a delicious sense of voyeurism Chuck watched the discussion unfold. He’d been getting notes from the bursar for months, but he’d not brought them home, hoping for a time when he could bring it up without his performance being at issue. It couldn’t have worked out better.
“That’s just wonderful,” said Cathryn. “And how do you expect we are to eat from now until March after Chuck’s bill is paid?”
“I’ll take care of it,” Charles snapped. His defensiveness was coming out as anger.
“I think maybe I should get a job,” said Cathryn. “Do they need extra typing at the institute?”
“For Christ’s sake. It’s not a crisis!” said Charles. “Everything’s under control. What you should do is finish that Ph.D. thesis of yours so that you can get a job that uses your training.” Cathryn had been trying to finish her thesis in literature for almost three years.
“So now it’s because I haven’t gotten my Ph.D. that Chuck’s tuition isn’t paid,” said Cathryn sarcastically.
Michelle stepped into the kitchen. Both Cathryn and Charles looked up, their conversation momentarily forgotten. She’d dressed herself in a pink monogrammed sweater over a white cotton turtleneck, making her look older than her twelve years. Her face, framed by her jet-black hair, seemed extraordinarily pale. She went over to the counter and poured herself some orange juice. “Ugh,” said Michelle, taking a taste. “I hate it when the juice is filled with bubbles.”
“Well, well,” said Jean Paul. “If it isn’t the little princess playing sick to stay home from school.”
“Don’t tease your sister,” commanded Charles.
Suddenly, Michelle’s head snapped forward with a violent sneeze, sloshing juice from her glass to the floor. She felt a surge of liquid come from her nose and she automatically leaned forward, catching the stream in an open palm. To her horror, it was blood. “Dad!” she cried, as the blood filled her cupped hand and splattered to the floor.
In unison, Charles and Cathryn jumped up. Cathryn snatched a dish towel while Charles picked Michelle up and carried her into the living room.
The two boys looked at the small pool of blood, then at their food, trying to decide what effect the episode had on their appetites. Cathryn came running back, pulled a tray of ice cubes from the freezer, then rushed back to the living room.
“Ugh,” said Chuck. “You couldn’t get me to be a doctor if you paid me a million dollars. I can’t stand blood.”
“Michelle always manages to be the center of attention,” said Jean Paul.
“You can say that again.”
“Michelle always manages to…” repeated Jean Paul. It was easy and fun to ride Chuck.
“Shut up, stupid.” Chuck got up and threw the remains of his Grape-Nuts down the disposal. Then, skirting the blood on the floor, he headed up to his room.
After four mouthfuls, Jean Paul finished his cereal and put his dish in the sink. With a paper towel, he wiped up Michelle’s blood.
“Good gravy,” said Charles as he went outside through the kitchen door. The storm had brought a northeast wind, and with it the stench of burnt rubber from the recycling plant. “What a stink.”
“What a shit hole of a place to live,” said Chuck.
Charles’s frayed emotions bristled at the impudence, but he refrained from saying anything. It had already been a bad enough morning. Setting his jaw, he tucked his chin into his sheepskin jacket to keep out the blowing snow and trudged toward the barn.
“As soon as I can, I’m going to head for California,” said Chuck, following in Charles’s footsteps. There was about an inch of new snow.
“Dressed the way you are, you’ll fit in perfectly,” said Charles.
Jean Paul, bringing up the rear, laughed, his breath coming in concentrated puffs of vapor. Chuck spun and shoved Jean Paul off the shoveled pathway, into the deeper snow. There were some angry words but Charles ignored them. It was too cold to pause. The little gusts of wind felt abrasive and the smell was awful. It hadn’t always been that way. The rubber plant had opened in ’71, a year after he and Elizabeth had bought the house. The move had really been Elizabeth’s idea. She wanted her children to grow up in clear, crisp air of the country. What an irony, thought Charles, as he unlocked the barn. But it wasn’t too bad. They could only smell the plant when the wind came from the northeast and, thankfully, that wasn’t very often.
“Damn,” said Jean Paul, staring down at the pond. “With this new snow, I’m going to have to shovel my hockey rink all over again. Hey, Dad, how come the water never freezes around Michelle’s playhouse?”
Leaving the piece of pipe against the door to keep it open, Charles looked out over the pond. “I don’t know. I never thought about it. Must be something to do with the current because the area of open water connects with the inlet from the river, and the inlet isn’t frozen either.”
“Ugh,” said Chuck, pointing beyond the playhouse. There on the apron of frozen mud surrounding the pond was a dead mallard. “Another dead duck. I guess they can’t stand the smell, either.”
“That’s strange,” said Charles. “We haven’t seen ducks for several years. When we first moved here I used to hunt them from Michelle’s playhouse. Then they disappeared.”
“There’s another one,” cried Jean Paul. “But he’s not dead. It’s flopping around.”
“Looks drunk,” said Chuck.
“Come on, let’s go help it.”
“We haven’t much time,” cautioned Charles.
“Oh, come on.” Jean Paul took off over the crusted snow.
Neither Charles nor Chuck shared Jean Paul’s enthusiasm, but they followed just the same. When they reached him, he was bending over the poor creature who was in the throes of a seizure.
“God, it’s got epilepsy!” said Chuck.
“What’s wrong with him, Dad?” asked Jean Paul.
“I haven’t the faintest idea. Avian medicine is not one of my strongest subjects.”
Jean Paul bent down to try to restrain the bird’s pitiful spasms and jerks.
“I’m not sure you should touch it,” said Charles. “I don’t know if psittacosis is carried by ducks.”
“I think we should just kill it and put it out of its misery,” said Chuck.
Charles glanced at his older son, whose eyes were glued to the sick bird. For some reason Chuck’s suggestion struck Charles as cruel even though it was probably correct.
“Can I put it in the barn for the day?” pleaded Jean Paul.
“I’ll get my air rifle and put it out of its misery,” said Chuck. It was his turn to get back at Jean Paul.
“No!” commanded Jean Paul. “Can I put it in the barn, Dad? Please?”
“All right,” said Charles, “but don’t touch it. Run up and get a box or something.”
Jean Paul took off like a rabbit. Charles and Chuck faced each other over the sick bird. “Don’t you feel any compassion?” asked Charles.
“Compassion? You’re asking me about compassion after what you do to all those animals in the lab? What a joke!”
Charles studied his son. He thought he saw more than disrespect. He thought he saw hatred. Chuck had been a mystery to Charles from the day he reached puberty. With some difficulty he suppressed the urge to slap the boy.
With his usual resourcefulness, Jean Paul had found a large cardboard box as well as an old pillow. He’d cut open the pillow and filled the box with the feathers. Using the collapsed pillow as a protective rag, he picked up the duck and put it into the box. As he explained it to Charles, the feathers would both protect the duck from injuring himself if he had another seizure and keep it warm. Charles nodded his approval and they all climbed into the car.
The five-year-old red, rusted Pinto complained as Charles turned the key. Because of a series of holes in the muffler the Pinto sounded like an AMX tank when it finally started. Charles backed out of the garage, slid down the drive, and turned north on Interstate 301, heading toward Shaftesbury. As the old car picked up speed, Charles felt relief. Family life could never be made to run smoothly. At least in the lab the variables had a comforting predictability and problems lent themselves to the scientific method. Charles was growing less and less appreciative of human capriciousness.