to do it. You do it so you can buy Dairy Queen.”
I smiled.
“Right?”
“Yup,” I said. And then, “But what do you
do
at your job?”
“Talks on the phone and goes to meetings,” Sharla said quickly. She had once gone to work for a morning with my father. I had been so ill with a summer cold my mother feared pneumonia; and at the last minute one weekday morning, she decided to take me to the doctor. My father took Sharla with him to work. She never let me forget it.
“Talks on the phone about what?” I persisted. “What does he talk about?”
“Insurance,” my father said.
I was starting to get angry. “Yes, but what
about
insurance? Like, someone calls and they say … well, what
do
they say?”
“How about a horse bite?” my father said, moving his hand toward me.
I sighed, pulled my leg away from him.
“Well, then, how about walking on your head?”
“No!” I could just see myself in front of all the Dairy Queen customers as my father turned me upside down and held me by my ankles. He hadn’t done this in years, but you never knew. “No,” I said again.
“Well, it’ll have to be a horse bite, then.” He reached out and squeezed just above my knee. I howled in agonized pleasure.
On the way home, my father told Sharla and me he was giving us a raise in our allowance. He was going to up us to a dollar a week.
“I think I should get more,” Sharla said.
“Why is that?”
“I’m older.”
“Do you do more work?”
She stayed quiet.
“No, she does not,” I said.
“Yes, I
do!
”
“Nuh-uh, you do
less.
”
“Keep it up and I’ll give you both a pay cut instead of a raise,” my father said. Sharla and I stopped talking, but I felt her fingers pinching my thigh. I did nothing back. I was driving. I was thirty-five years old and behind the wheel of a car like Jasmine’s. I owned a cheetah and sold perfume at a fancy store. My husband was a millionaire and a veterinarian, which was convenient, considering the cheetah.
When we got home, my father went into the living room, bent down, and kissed my mother’s forehead. She was lying on the sofa, eyes closed. But when she felt his touch she reached up and put her hand on his shoulder.
He stood, turned toward us. “Want to go get something for me?” he asked. “Both of you?”
We nodded, dumb with shame and hope. He was going to kiss her. On the lips. That’s how they did it, they always found a way for us not to see. Of course we did see anyway, sometimes. It paid to practice the stealth of Indians.
“Go in my top dresser drawer and you’ll find a little brown envelope. Bring it down here, please.”
We headed upstairs, taking our time, as we knew we were supposed to do.
I went to the right side of the dresser, Sharla to the left. I found nothing but handkerchiefs in the top drawer, and so I pulled open the drawer below it. There were many socks, all folded neatly and organized by color, but againno envelope. I rooted around a little, felt something, pulled it out, and gasped. Rubbers. The same yellow kind Jasmine had. I stuffed them back in among the socks, then stood staring down.
“Shut that!” Sharla said. She had opened the T-shirt drawer on the opposite side of the dresser, and now she pulled out the little brown envelope that lay on top.
“This
is what he meant!” she said. “It’s right here where he said it was! What are you digging around for?”
“Did you see what I saw?” I asked.
She looked away, closed the T-shirt drawer. “You were looking in the wrong place.”
“Yes, but did you—”
“Shut up!” She leaned over, slammed the sock drawer shut.
I could have reported her. We weren’t allowed to say that. I think she knew I wouldn’t say anything, though.
When we came back downstairs, my father was in his chair with the newspaper, my mother sitting up with a magazine. But it was clear they’d been kissing, all right; his lips were stained pink, and both of them had messy hair. My
I smiled.
“Right?”
“Yup,” I said. And then, “But what do you
do
at your job?”
“Talks on the phone and goes to meetings,” Sharla said quickly. She had once gone to work for a morning with my father. I had been so ill with a summer cold my mother feared pneumonia; and at the last minute one weekday morning, she decided to take me to the doctor. My father took Sharla with him to work. She never let me forget it.
“Talks on the phone about what?” I persisted. “What does he talk about?”
“Insurance,” my father said.
I was starting to get angry. “Yes, but what
about
insurance? Like, someone calls and they say … well, what
do
they say?”
“How about a horse bite?” my father said, moving his hand toward me.
I sighed, pulled my leg away from him.
“Well, then, how about walking on your head?”
“No!” I could just see myself in front of all the Dairy Queen customers as my father turned me upside down and held me by my ankles. He hadn’t done this in years, but you never knew. “No,” I said again.
“Well, it’ll have to be a horse bite, then.” He reached out and squeezed just above my knee. I howled in agonized pleasure.
On the way home, my father told Sharla and me he was giving us a raise in our allowance. He was going to up us to a dollar a week.
“I think I should get more,” Sharla said.
“Why is that?”
“I’m older.”
“Do you do more work?”
She stayed quiet.
“No, she does not,” I said.
“Yes, I
do!
”
“Nuh-uh, you do
less.
”
“Keep it up and I’ll give you both a pay cut instead of a raise,” my father said. Sharla and I stopped talking, but I felt her fingers pinching my thigh. I did nothing back. I was driving. I was thirty-five years old and behind the wheel of a car like Jasmine’s. I owned a cheetah and sold perfume at a fancy store. My husband was a millionaire and a veterinarian, which was convenient, considering the cheetah.
When we got home, my father went into the living room, bent down, and kissed my mother’s forehead. She was lying on the sofa, eyes closed. But when she felt his touch she reached up and put her hand on his shoulder.
He stood, turned toward us. “Want to go get something for me?” he asked. “Both of you?”
We nodded, dumb with shame and hope. He was going to kiss her. On the lips. That’s how they did it, they always found a way for us not to see. Of course we did see anyway, sometimes. It paid to practice the stealth of Indians.
“Go in my top dresser drawer and you’ll find a little brown envelope. Bring it down here, please.”
We headed upstairs, taking our time, as we knew we were supposed to do.
I went to the right side of the dresser, Sharla to the left. I found nothing but handkerchiefs in the top drawer, and so I pulled open the drawer below it. There were many socks, all folded neatly and organized by color, but againno envelope. I rooted around a little, felt something, pulled it out, and gasped. Rubbers. The same yellow kind Jasmine had. I stuffed them back in among the socks, then stood staring down.
“Shut that!” Sharla said. She had opened the T-shirt drawer on the opposite side of the dresser, and now she pulled out the little brown envelope that lay on top.
“This
is what he meant!” she said. “It’s right here where he said it was! What are you digging around for?”
“Did you see what I saw?” I asked.
She looked away, closed the T-shirt drawer. “You were looking in the wrong place.”
“Yes, but did you—”
“Shut up!” She leaned over, slammed the sock drawer shut.
I could have reported her. We weren’t allowed to say that. I think she knew I wouldn’t say anything, though.
When we came back downstairs, my father was in his chair with the newspaper, my mother sitting up with a magazine. But it was clear they’d been kissing, all right; his lips were stained pink, and both of them had messy hair. My
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