“You know, you really are crazy,” Teddy said, hunched next to him. “You know that?”
“I know it,” Biddy said. “Now all I gotta do is do something about it.”
Punting
Biddy is a wonderful boy. Kristi has her moments, too. I’m not going to pretend we’ve had nothing but trouble from them, because we haven’t. I’m not trying to make us into martyrs. God knows we don’t qualify. It’s just that most of the time people seem to wonder what I’m worrying about. What’s wrong with Judy? Why can’t she leave well enough alone?
What am I supposed to tell them? How long do you have to be around Biddy to know there’s something wrong, there’s something he’s keeping inside of him? How long can you ignore what Kristi does or write her off as still too young to know what she’s doing?
My husband doesn’t agree. We’re fine, the kids are fine, and we don’t need to talk to anybody about anybody. It’s not surprising, really: if we don’t talk to each other, why should he be willing to talk to strangers?
Whether it’s the kids’ behavior or a new addition, I’m always pushing, he says. Always after something. Never satisfied. He says the kids learned how to sulk watching me. And what seems so awful, especially when I know the kids are hurting and we’re not helping them, is that every so often I think he may be right.
“My story’s called ‘The Girl Who Interrups,’” Kristi said. “You wanta hear it?”
Biddy looked from the TV to the rain outside. “Sure.”
“You can’t and watch TV at the same time.”
“Yes, I can. Go ahead.”
Kristi turned on the overhead light. “‘In my class I have a girl named Interruping Libby. She always interrups reading groups.’”
“How did you spell ‘interrupts’?”
“I-n-t-e-r-r-u-p-s.”
“That’s wrong. There’s a ‘t’ at the end, too: p-t-s.”
“‘Sometimes she even interrupts our silent period. I really do not like her. When my teacher is talking she says I want to talk to you so talk to me and not to her. Interrupting Libby always interrupts. People do not do that to her. My mother got fed up with her and sent my father to see her. He said she better stop that people are going to start hitting her in the mouth. So she didn’t interrupt anymore.’”
“You made that last part up,” he said.
“You like it?”
“It’s better than your other one.”
“I like it.”
The back door opened. “From the beat, beat, beat, of the tomtoms,” his father sang. Biddy and Kristi went into the kitchen. Their father was dripping with rain, setting packages along the counter in a row.
“Did a little shopping,” he said. “Got a little liquor, got a little mixer, got some rolls. You want a sandwich?”
Biddy said no and Kristi returned to the TV.
“Oh, and got a little this.” He handed a package to Biddy, who felt immediately the heft and shape of a big book.
“What is it?” he said.
His father shrugged. “Have to open it.”
He tore at the wrapping, and underneath it said in big red letters The Lore of Flight.
“God,” he said. “How’d you know I wanted it?”
“Well, you asked me questions about Bill Carver’s plane until I thought I’d drop. This’s got all that stuff in there.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Never mind where I got it.” He opened it. “See? It’s got ‘Flying a Small Aircraft,’ ‘A Typical Flight,’ a section on weapons. … It’s interesting stuff.”
Biddy closed it.
“It’s a good book,” his father said. “It’s not cheap.”
“I didn’t think so.”
His father smiled and went into the bedroom to hang up his jacket.
“What’re you doing home?” Biddy called.
“I just took off a little early. I’ll work on the cellar. You guys turned it into a real shithouse.”
“What’d you get me?” Kristi called from the den.
“Oh, Jesus.” His father came out of the bedroom and started down the cellar stairs.
“Biddy gets everything.”
“It was a book sale,” he called, his voice ringing hollow under the floor. “You want a book? You don’t read the ones you got now.”
“I want a cat,” she said.
“We’re not getting a cat.” There was the scraping sound of boxes being moved across concrete. “We can’t even take care of ourselves.”
Biddy went into the den. His sister put both feet under a hassock from her perch on a chair and kicked upward violently, flipping it across the room and off the wall.
“Jesus Christ!” his father yelled from below. “What’re you doing now?”
No one said anything. There was an angry white mark on the paneling where the leg of the hassock had hit.
“What happened?”
“Nothing,” Kristi called. “The hassock fell over.” She looked back at the TV. “It falls over all the time.”
Ronnie and Cindy sat opposite each other at the Lirianos’ kitchen table. There was a fruit dish with three pears between them. Biddy was waiting for Mickey, who couldn’t find his shoes. Ronnie was drinking anisette.
“How about this,” Ronnie said. “‘Fair trial? Whaddaya mean, fair trial? If I get a fair trial, I’m dead. What I need is an unfair trial.’”
“Oh,” Cindy said. “I know it’s George Raft, but I don’t know which movie.”
Ronnie swirled his anisette. It left a clear film on the glass.
“I don’t know,” she finally said.
“That’s two in a row. Go ahead.”
“Well, what movie was it from?”
He wouldn’t tell her. “All right,” she said. “‘Dignity. Always dignity.’”
“Gene Kelly. Singin’ in the Rain.”
She made a face.
“‘When you side with a man, you stick with him. Otherwise you’re no better than some animal.’”
She played with a spoon. “I should know this,” she said.
“You should. William Holden in The Wild Bunch.”
“How do you play this?” Biddy asked.
“Badly.” Cindy swept some hair behind her ear.
“We’re trying to stump each other a certain amount of times,” Ronnie said.
“‘She just goes a little mad sometimes. We all go a little mad sometimes,’” Cindy said. “‘Haven’t you?’”
Biddy lifted a salt shaker. “Who said that?” he asked.
“Poor Norman.” Ronnie sat forward. “Anthony Perkins in Psycho.”
“Rats,” Cindy said.
“Might as well run up the white flag,” Ronnie suggested. “I think you’re in over your head here.”
“Over my head. Listen to this nine-inch worm.”
“Nine-inch worm?” Biddy said.
“It’s a joke,” Ronnie said. “A filthy joke, I might add. Ms. Liriano here apparently designed and built the sewers of Paris.”
Biddy sat back, lost.
“What do you think, Biddy?” she said. “Why am I marrying this yim-yam? Do I have a soft spot in my heart for strays?”
“The soft spot’s in your head,” Ronnie said.
“Our first fight,” she said. She leaned closer to Biddy, conspiratorial. “Isn’t he a homely sucker, Biddy? Look at the face. Looks like a fist with eyes.”
Ronnie laughed.
“You’d better watch yourself,” she said. “I might come to my senses.”