you all go ahead? I’m not much in the mood for ice cream.” We all stared at her. “Well, I’m
sorry,
” she said. “I just … I don’t feel quite right.”
“Is it—?” my father began, but she interrupted him, her hand over his, saying, “It’s nothing, I’m sure. I just feel a little off. You go ahead, I’ll stay here and watch television. I’ll be fine.” She stood up and began clearing the dishes.
“That’s our job,” I said. “We do that. You shouldn’t do it if you’re sick, anyway.”
“I can clear the table,” she said. “I just don’t feel like eating ice cream.”
“We’ll bring you back a sundae; you can keep it in the freezer,” my father said.
“That would be nice. Thank you.” She smiled at him.
Something that had started tightening in my chest now relaxed. I went to change shorts; I wanted to wear the loosest waistband I had.
After we were out of sight of the house, my fatherpulled the car over. “Who wants to help drive?” he asked.
“I do!” both Sharla and I said. I loved it when we got to do this, and it was rare. You had to be in the car with just my father—my mother wouldn’t permit us to “drive;” and we were hardly ever in the car without her. What happened was, whoever was “helping” sat by my father and steered. He would take his hands off the wheel completely, saying, “I trust you, go ahead.” And then, “I
trust
you, I trust you now. Okay. Okay.” Finally he would shout
“OKAY!
THANK YOU!” and grab the wheel away from you, just in the nick of time, it seemed to me. After a moment during which he quietly regained his composure, he would say, “Good job. You did just fine.”
My father let Sharla help first, saying I could have a turn on the way home. “Age has its privileges,” he told me.
I said nothing, sat sulking by the window. I
knew
age had its privileges; I was witness to that fact practically every day of my life, courtesy of Sharla. But soon I lost myself looking in other people’s windows. I liked pretending I lived in every house we passed. But I liked even better coming back to the knowledge that I lived where I did. I was happy; I knew this.
At Dairy Queen, we found one of the tiny picnic tables empty and claimed it. We sat eating our cones and watching the lines of people stepping up to the window and walking away with their prizes. I liked best seeing what the fat people got.
One very tall man came away from the window with a chili dog, which I had always wanted to try; but we never went to Dairy Queen for dinner. Occasionally it occurredto me to request a chili dog instead of ice cream, but that would have felt uncomfortable, improper. Dairy Queen was for ice cream and dessert, that was all. It was a rule in our family, and therefore law in the world.
It was a little unsettling not to have my mother there with us; the table was unbalanced. There was not a child and a parent on each side, as we were used to. Our father sat on my side, and though I was grateful for this, I felt bad for Sharla, who seemed deserted. It was also too quiet. My mother was the one who always initiated conversation, and then did what she needed to keep it going. A silent table was the sign of a lazy hostess, she always said. I felt obliged to substitute for her. I turned to my father, cleared my throat, and asked, “Do you like your job?”
“Do I like my
job?
” my father said. He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
I laughed.
“I’m serious,” he said.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Sharla asked.
He looked at her. “I mean … Well, I guess I don’t really see the sense in thinking about things like whether I like my job. I like the people I work with. I like the view from my office window. But I don’t think about whether I like the job itself.”
“I’ll bet everybody else knows if they like their job!” I said, although I had no idea.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “You just do it, that’s all. You have
sorry,
” she said. “I just … I don’t feel quite right.”
“Is it—?” my father began, but she interrupted him, her hand over his, saying, “It’s nothing, I’m sure. I just feel a little off. You go ahead, I’ll stay here and watch television. I’ll be fine.” She stood up and began clearing the dishes.
“That’s our job,” I said. “We do that. You shouldn’t do it if you’re sick, anyway.”
“I can clear the table,” she said. “I just don’t feel like eating ice cream.”
“We’ll bring you back a sundae; you can keep it in the freezer,” my father said.
“That would be nice. Thank you.” She smiled at him.
Something that had started tightening in my chest now relaxed. I went to change shorts; I wanted to wear the loosest waistband I had.
After we were out of sight of the house, my fatherpulled the car over. “Who wants to help drive?” he asked.
“I do!” both Sharla and I said. I loved it when we got to do this, and it was rare. You had to be in the car with just my father—my mother wouldn’t permit us to “drive;” and we were hardly ever in the car without her. What happened was, whoever was “helping” sat by my father and steered. He would take his hands off the wheel completely, saying, “I trust you, go ahead.” And then, “I
trust
you, I trust you now. Okay. Okay.” Finally he would shout
“OKAY!
THANK YOU!” and grab the wheel away from you, just in the nick of time, it seemed to me. After a moment during which he quietly regained his composure, he would say, “Good job. You did just fine.”
My father let Sharla help first, saying I could have a turn on the way home. “Age has its privileges,” he told me.
I said nothing, sat sulking by the window. I
knew
age had its privileges; I was witness to that fact practically every day of my life, courtesy of Sharla. But soon I lost myself looking in other people’s windows. I liked pretending I lived in every house we passed. But I liked even better coming back to the knowledge that I lived where I did. I was happy; I knew this.
At Dairy Queen, we found one of the tiny picnic tables empty and claimed it. We sat eating our cones and watching the lines of people stepping up to the window and walking away with their prizes. I liked best seeing what the fat people got.
One very tall man came away from the window with a chili dog, which I had always wanted to try; but we never went to Dairy Queen for dinner. Occasionally it occurredto me to request a chili dog instead of ice cream, but that would have felt uncomfortable, improper. Dairy Queen was for ice cream and dessert, that was all. It was a rule in our family, and therefore law in the world.
It was a little unsettling not to have my mother there with us; the table was unbalanced. There was not a child and a parent on each side, as we were used to. Our father sat on my side, and though I was grateful for this, I felt bad for Sharla, who seemed deserted. It was also too quiet. My mother was the one who always initiated conversation, and then did what she needed to keep it going. A silent table was the sign of a lazy hostess, she always said. I felt obliged to substitute for her. I turned to my father, cleared my throat, and asked, “Do you like your job?”
“Do I like my
job?
” my father said. He shrugged. “I don’t know.”
I laughed.
“I’m serious,” he said.
“What do you mean, you don’t know?” Sharla asked.
He looked at her. “I mean … Well, I guess I don’t really see the sense in thinking about things like whether I like my job. I like the people I work with. I like the view from my office window. But I don’t think about whether I like the job itself.”
“I’ll bet everybody else knows if they like their job!” I said, although I had no idea.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “You just do it, that’s all. You have
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