Story Girl (25 page)

My baby sister was unearthing me with phenomenal skill. I felt like a fat and sluggish worm that was being toyed with for kicks, “I do so want to leave – I frantically want to leave, Jenny. Why would you say such a rotten thing?”

She laughed at me, “You must be so tired of spinning around like a hamster wheel.”

“I am not spinning – what’s wrong with spinning, anyway?”

“What’s out there for you, Tracy? In Hollywood? You don’t network, and I doubt you even go to parties.”

“Why does something have to be out there for me?”

“And you don’t write anything.”

“I’m working on something.”

“I bet you couldn’t write your way out of a wet paper bag.”

“I said I’m working on it, Jenny.”

“Work on it here.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I hate it here.”

“Why?”

“Because I do.”

“You only think you do.”

Luke and Clarice appeared out of nowhere, and I was spared the rest of her horrendous inquiry.

“Your dad’s back,” Luke informed us. “I think he’s moving out – moving into some motel or something.”

Clarice started kicking at her father’s leg.

“He walked into the house with a very large suitcase – the price tag still on. Probably just bought it today, I bet. I think his mom’s talking to him now.”

Jenny couldn’t get out of our fort fast enough, practically spraining her foot on a plastic cube.

“Aren’t you coming?” she asked.

“What can we do?”

“We can hog-tie him if we have to.”

“But what if leaving would be best for him?”

“It’s not.”

“How do you know for sure?” I asked.

“It wouldn’t be best for us.”

“How can something that isn’t best for him possibly be best for us?”

“He doesn’t really
want
to leave.”

“How the heck do you know what he really wants?”

She looked up at me and her eyes smoldered, “He wants to stay. And that is final.”

“You sound exactly like your mother.”

“You just want him to leave so that you can feel better about your own life.”

She turned away from me as though I were some strain of a deadly virus, gathered her family, and started running in the direction of our house.

“I think you’re being selfish, Jenny!”

She stopped and turned back to me; she said nothing.

“What?” I yelled.

“You’re like the washing machine. Full. Of. Shit.”

chapter
36

M
Y FATHER WAS
definitely moving into the motel.

At least that’s what Mary told me when I walked through the door. I heard bunglesome bustling on the stairs, and figured he was about to pack his life into the Cadillac that was now parked on the street. This was the first time I’d ever seen it anywhere other than the meticulous safety of the garage.

He finally managed to heave his new suitcase up the stairs.

“What’s going on, Dad?”

“Hey, you – taking a little space, that’s all.”

“Where are you going?”

“Bud Jarkinson’s giving me a good deal on his little motel – eighty-five a week, including ice. You remember old Jarkinson – used to give you quarters when you were growing up.”

“You’re leaving because of the shed?”

“Partly yes, partly no.”

I looked at Mary, “I thought we were gonna talk about this.”

“Listen, Tracy – if your mother wants to dismantle the backyard, and ruin all that produce, that’s her business. I’m just not gonna stick around to see it.”

“So you’re gonna live in a motel forever?”

“Maybe I’ll get a cabin somewhere – you know I’ve always wanted to live by a lake.”

“What about the winter?”

“Wood stove, down blankets, and fleece jackets.”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought.”

My father shrugged as though I wasn’t wrong.

I could feel my fear turning to anger, tightening my jaw, and switching my loyalties, “Just how long have you been planning this?”

“I haven’t been planning diddly. You know I’ve always wanted a cabin.”

Jenny, Luke, and Clarice entered the house just as I was about to call for backup. When Jenny saw her father lugging his belongings across the linoleum, she dramatically flung herself across the counter.

“Daddy’s not going far,” my father said.

“That motel’s at least ten miles away,” I reminded him.

“Which motel?” Luke asked.

“Old Buddy Jarkinson!”

“Why not just prance around and click your heels together?” I asked.

“It’s not like that,” he said. “But listen to this, Luke – you can catch fish right from the deck of your room. Plus, he’s got ESPN hooked up.”

“I’ll have to bring a couple of cold six-packs over,” Luke gushed.

Jenny punched him in the arm, “You won’t be taking beer anywhere – especially to my father’s getaway pad.”

“Careful, Jenny,” my father said. “That husband of yours may discover he has a little something called a backbone.”

Luke guffawed like a circus clown which, for whatever reason, prompted me to look at his feet. He was wearing a pair of garden-variety sneakers – appropriate for the occasion – but I was convinced he was being assisted by a pair of hefty arches.

“Well, I should be off before Bud leaves for the day – don’t want to miss out on that special rate.”

My father tried to get out the door too fast and ended up wedging his massive suitcase in the doorframe. The nasty side of me
wanted to point and laugh, but my idealistic side was rooting for him to escape before my mother descended from her post.

It occurred to me that my mother might actually be waiting for him to leave. Maybe this is what they both wanted.

Luke pried the oversized suitcase loose and carried it out to the car. He struck me as an eager accomplice – desperate to live vicariously through my father’s courageous act. I watched as my dad practically galloped after him – they looked as though they’d just escaped a wicked labor camp run by sadistic hags.

I heard the jangle and click of my mother’s heavy jewelry, and braced myself against the dining room table – not at all sure what to expect. The situation she was about to encounter would not be a familiar one.

“What’s all the commotion about?” she asked.

“Dad’s moving into a motel,” I said.

My mother looked at me with genuine surprise, as if she’d had no inkling of the shaky ground beneath her very own kitchen, “Was this your idea, Tracy?”

“Why me?”

“The timing’s a little odd, that’s all – you come home with all your fancy ideas and all of a sudden your father’s moving out.”

“Have you been sniffing glue?”

I didn’t mean to be so rude, but her accusation ignited my guilt and subsequent defenses.

“It’s just all a little too convenient. Your father was perfectly fine a week ago.”

“Was he
really
?” I asked.

“Yes, he was.”

“So, what exactly are you saying? If I wasn’t around, you guys would be enjoying a storybook marriage? Or better yet, if I’d started dating the oven man and wore nylons on a regular basis, you’d both somehow morph into master communicators?”

My mother didn’t answer, but Jenny was moaning in the corner.

“I cannot believe you’re blaming me for your own crappy marriage.”

“It does seem a bit of a stretch, Joanne,” Mary said.

“Of course you’re going to side with her,” my mother said. “You probably put her up to it. You never liked me anyway.”

“That’s absurd.”

“No – it’s not.”

It was as if every single member of my family felt compelled to pass the buck of responsibility, including myself.

“I see myself in you, Joanne,” Mary said.

My mother gulped back her pent-up emotion; she opened and slammed a random cupboard door.

The guys came back inside the house and reluctantly found seats at the table. My mother stared at my father like he’d just been caught pissing on her bulk supply of silk, “So, we receive an anniversary gift from our youngest daughter, and you decide to move out?”

My father could only twiddle his thumbs. I looked at my grandmother, but she was deeply engaged with her mood ring. Her maharishi skills seemed to be a little hit or miss. I really didn’t want to be the facilitator now – given my inability to be neutral – but it seemed there was no other option.

“I don’t think it’s quite so simple, Mother.”

“Nothing’s ever simple with you.”

She looked at me with uncertainty – perplexed as to how I could do this to her after she’d granted me life, and nurtured me so carefully into the super brat I had so clearly become.

I felt especially guilty given that she’d so recently nursed me back from the skin inferno, given up her bed, and even tossed her doilies in the air to show me what a maverick she was.

It was almost impossible not to run over to her and wrap my arms around her, tearfully admitting my gratitude – no matter her particular genius for driving me nuts. But I sat frozen – suppressing an impulse to stand on the table and scream that I was not against her, that I loved her, and only ever wanted what was best for her and my dad.

Instead I said, “Stop blaming Dad for your unhappiness.”

I waited for his usual race to her rescue, but it didn’t come. I looked at him and knew in an instant how much he longed for the freedom of Bud’s motel room – the freedom to watch sports, drink beer, be alone and do nothing.

“I’ve never blamed your father for anything, and I am not unhappy.”

Nobody budged, breathed, or believed her.

And she looked so forlorn that Jenny finally came to her aid, “Maybe Dad’s the one who’s unhappy.”

“Maybe we should leave,” Luke said.

“Leeeeeeave!” Clarice screamed.

At this point, I was ready to get in the car and drive over to Bud’s motel myself.

“This is a little dramatic,” my mother said. “All because of a shed?”

“It was a bad gift,” Jenny said. “I didn’t know it would cause
this
.”

“I didn’t realize our marriage was so rice paper thin, Herbert.”

My father shrugged his shoulders, and I was annoyed that I would have to translate his body language.

“Maybe he’s just tired of feeling unimportant,” I said.

I looked at him to see if he would dispute me, but he said nothing.

My mother’s jaw tightened and her bangles hit the table hard, “What on the great plains are you talking about, Tracy? You don’t even live here and now you’re declaring your father unimportant? He’s the one who had the damned income all those years. I’d say he had all the importance.”

Luke picked up Clarice and informed us that he was taking her back to their hotel. Everyone nodded and said goodbye, even Jenny didn’t protest. My grandmother poured us all a mug of coffee.

I put way too much sugar in my mug and saw that I was shaking.

“I’m so sick of feeling like the bad guy,” my mother said. “And what do I do to deserve it? Cook, clean, iron people’s clothes – make sure everyone’s comfortable.”

“You’re a domestic goddess, Mother.”

“I’m not fishing for compliments, Jenny.”

I gulped back my coffee and shot Mary another silent plea. Couldn’t she do something – quote from a book, give a sermon, light a candle? Damn.

We were in way over our heads.

Maybe it was time to sink.

chapter
37

H
E
’
D WANTED HIS
license plates upstairs.

My father was in the middle of making a case for himself and – like hearing from a favorite actor who’d retired long before – I had never been so riveted. The entire family drama was unfolding like some sort of peculiar miniseries.

“That’s all I ever really wanted up here – and I’ve wanted it for decades. I didn’t even mind all the doilies and the stitchings, and the potpourri, and knick knacks and the bric-a-brac, the pumpkin carpet, the pastel walls, the dried flowers in every corner.”

He turned to my mother who was sitting directly across from him, “I asked you if we couldn’t just incorporate the plates somehow. Maybe frame a couple in the kitchen – something classy. Even put them in the little bathroom that nobody ever used. You just said no, time after time. It didn’t matter to you what I wanted. It mattered to you what you wanted.”