Page 43 -

given her a focal point for this excess of energy. But looking at Uncle Dave as he squinted across the river toward a pair of herons, beaks poking the muddy shore, I wondered if his love-life was only another ef- fort to combat this restlessness. I wasn’t old enough, or smart enough, to ask myself why mom was rest- less in the first place.
I shrugged. “I don’t know.” The herons were casually fighting over something one had found in the mud. Maybe it was a worm, maybe a half-rotted minnow carcass. Their long beaks jabbing toward each other, but always stopping short of doing any damage.
Uncle Dave pulled another cigarette from the pack in his pocket, but didn’t light it. He just held it in his hand, staring at the herons. “That woman needs to find herself a job. Would she have any objections if I
“Any smart person would have stopped
there, but in those days, Mom was too persistent to waste time being smart.”
floated her name around at the quarry? Something secretarial?”
I hesitated, unsure how to respond. I was remember- ing a time last fall when we were at my brother’s football game. Despite the miasma of hot dog water and teenage boys on the wrong side of a shower, fall nights like that one were the happiest we spent as a family. At half-time, as the high-school cheerleaders were strutting their stuff mid-field, the Carlsons, who my parents knew from football boosters, stopped by our bleacher.
“Howdy, there,” Mr. Carlson had said.
Dad had given a curt nod while mom started talking to Mrs. Carlson about the next fundraiser. Several times Mr. Carlson tried to engage Dad in conversa- tion but the most he got back was a reiteration of the third quarter plays. Dad didn’t talk much in general. If it was football or baseball season, he’d
ask my older brother how practice was when he got home from work. But even those conversations were truncated by Mom calling from the kitchen that din- ner was ready. On the weekends he occupied himself
with SportsCenter and outside chores.
“Really, Deedee,” Mrs. Carlson had said, “I could use some help at the shop. Nothing crazy, just a couple days a week. Think about it.”
Dad had put his arm around Mom’s shoulder and at- tempted a smile. “Oh, I think Deedee keeps pretty busy around the house, don’t you dear?”
Mom had nodded good-humoredly, giving a weak smile. She hadn’t worked outside the home since I was a baby and had a part-time job at the travel agency Uncle Dave’s wife managed.
~
But I don’t want to squash Uncle Dave’s hopes so I say “It’s worth a try I guess.”
“Might even be able to get them to start her at a higher salary,” he says, rubbing the bald patch on the underside of his chin.
I could see the idea taking shape in his mind as he stared across the river where little eddies curled mol- ten gold in the afternoon sun and the lap lap against the side of the houseboat lured us into a comfortable silence. Uncle Dave sat gathering filaments, weaving them together to form a cohesive plan, an effort to rediscover the tranquility he’d been missing. But as mom stomped through the front door, hair tied back in a bandana and a bulging trash bag in one hand, Uncle Dave quelled before her. The idea became as obscured as the bottom of the river, sunk under the murky water.
~
The day of the barbeque dawned hot and sticky. My parents and I moved through the preparations with a kind of sluggishness that to the outside observer would have signaled we were dreading rather than anticipating the day’s festivities. Tomatoes were sliced, iced tea brewed, and gallon-sized buckets of
(continued on next page)
36