Page 55 - WTP Vol. IX #9

much as a “thank you.” The Caddy’s headlights illumi- nated the shade as she backed down the driveway.
Mom cut loose with words I’d never heard before. “How dare Fiona waltz in while we’re eating dinner and present you with a list of demands like she’s the Mistress of the Manor.”
Dad had that stubborn look he got when they argued about Mrs. Sullivan. Like a boulder that can’t be budged. “Please, Perl. We’re happy here and it’s a small price to pay to stay. It would be hard to find another apartment, especially with a baby coming. Besides, Mrs. Sullivan has no husband to help with the chores. It’s our sacred duty.”
“Don’t make religious excuses. She’s a damned lousy landlady, Leo.”
“She’s not a landlady,” I said.
“Huh?” My parents asked at the same time.
“She’s a housewidow.” It took them a few seconds to get it, but then they laughed and looked at each other all lovey dovey again. We finished dinner, in peace.
Later in bed, I listened to Mom and Dad sing along with Al Jolson. They were happy. For the four years that my father was in the war, my mother listened alone and it made her sad. I was closer to Mom than Dad, because he was gone the first half my life. Dad was closer to Reva than me. Mostly, though, my parents were close to one another. They were glad
to have kids, but there wasn’t much room between them for us. I didn’t know how they’d squeeze in a third. I wondered if they were happy that I’d won the class spelling bee. True, they didn’t have time to react before Mrs. Sullivan barged in, but they didn’t pro- pose a toast after she left either.
~
On Sunday, Dad’s day off, I asked if I could help him fix the door. Not to take his side—my position with my parents was on the outside—but to spend time with him. He said I could watch. He’d brought home two rubber strips from the hardware store. Mom said Fiona should pay for them, but he said they hadn’t cost much after his employee discount. Mom let it go; she was busy knitting booties. As I watched Dad glue the strips in place, I saw that the door’s metal frame had warped. It was hard to make a straight chan-
nel for the panel to slide along. Still, in his patient, methodical manner, Dad did his best. He let me put my hands over his to press down the strips while the
“Later in bed, I listened to Mom and Dad sing
along with Al Jolson. They were happy. For the four years that my father was in the war, my mother listened alone and it made her sad.”
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