‘Take my purse, Linda,’ Adele said as they pulled again into the driveway. She lugged the now deeply sleeping baby out of the car seat again, and Linda followed her up the driveway. ‘Stay away from the broken glass,’ Adele ordered sharply. Linda hopped dangerously among the pieces. Adele carried the baby into the living room and laid her in the playpen. She sighed. Mindy would be awake until late tonight: three naps in one day were too many. She went back out to the car and got the milk and the suit, brought them into the house, put the milk in the refrigerator, and hung the suit on a hook. Then she got a broom and dustpan and told Linda to follow her. She swept up the glass with Linda holding the dustpan. She poured the glass fragments directly into the garbage pail, being sure to jam the cover on tightly – you never know what kids might take it into their heads to pry into. She gave the broom and dustpan to Linda and pulled the hose off the rack and turned on the outside spigot and hosed down the spilled milk.
She went inside
and
took off her jacket. Linda stood in the hallway staring at her. ‘What are you looking at me for!’ Adele shrieked. ‘Are you just going to stand there looking at me all day?’ Linda edged away. ‘Take off your coat and hang it up!’
Linda took off her coat slowly, and walked toward the hall closet. Adele went into the living room and removed the baby’s jacket. She picked her up and started upstairs, then noticed Linda’s small form standing inside the closet door, silently moving. She went back down. Linda was leaning against the closet wall, weeping. Adele reached out her hand and touched the child’s head. She cried out loud then, burying her head in the coats.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ Adele said, near tears herself. ‘It’s all right, honey, I know you didn’t mean to do it.’ The child turned suddenly and buried her head in her mother’s side. Adele stood there, the baby heavy on her arm, fondling Linda’s head, murmuring, ‘It’s okay, it’s all right, baby.’ Linda stopped crying and Adele stooped
down to her. ‘I’m going to put Mindy to bed. Do you want to come and help me?’
Linda nodded eagerly, and Adele stood and took the child’s hand in hers, and the three of them mounted the stairs together. Adele’s heart was full of emotion: the small hand was placed in hers so trustingly, after so many betrayals. Adele changed Mindy’s diaper and put her in the crib.
‘How come Mindy’s sleeping now, Mommy?’
‘She’s just tired.’
‘But can I play with my dolls?’
‘Of course not! The room has to be dark and quiet.’
‘But I want to play with my Barbie doll.’ The voice was already rising into hysteria.
‘Take it downstairs, then. Hurry, get it, and be quiet.’
Linda got her doll and its paraphernalia, dropping bits of it to Adele’s whispered, ‘Be quiet, I said!’
Linda took her toys into a corner of the living room. Adele went into the kitchen and sat for a moment on a high stool, thinking. Easy night, tonight: Paul was going out. There was some leftover spaghetti for Eric and Linda. Paul wouldn’t touch spaghetti, claiming not to like it, but Adele suspected it was worry about his figure. Billy had adopted this dislike. There was a little leftover chicken for Billy. She would heat that. She sat there hunched over. She had not even asked the children about school today, she should find out what had happened to Linda in kindergarten. She sat up, drew in a deep breath, and walked toward the living room. Linda was squatting on the floor, playing with her doll.
‘Now you’re a bad girl, a bad, bad girl,’ she was saying as she slapped the doll on its bottom several times. ‘You go straight in your room and don’t come out! And don’t wake up the baby!’ her little voice said angrily. She put the baby doll on its feet and marched it toward the couch.
‘Mmmmmm,’ she whined, ‘I didn’t mean it, Mommy,’ she said in a tiny high voice.
‘You did so and you’re bad!’ she said in her Mommy voice, and threw the baby doll down on the floor on its face. The baby doll was eighteen inches long; the Mommy doll was small, less than a foot tall. She put an apron on Barbie, and said in a calm, happy voice: ‘I wonder what I should make for Daddy’s supper tonight. I know, I’ll make chocolate cake with raisins, and bacon.’ Then she paraded the Barbie doll around in a circle, humming all the while. ‘Hello, dear,’
she said in an artificial voice. ‘How was your day today? Guess what I’ve made! Chocolate cake with raisins!’ There was a silence, in which presumably the father answered.
‘Oh, yes, it’s been one of those days. After you eat, I want you to go in and spank that baby, she was so bad today! Isn’t this chocolate cake delicious?’
Adele stood there silently, then turned back into the kitchen. She poured herself a glass of wine and turned on the radio. The gallon jug of cheap California was going fast: Paul would notice. Turning furtively to see where Linda was, she poured some water into the wine. She sat down again on the high stool. The radio was playing some Mantovani-ish music: ‘You’d be so nice to come home to, You’d be so nice by the fire.’ She and Paul had danced to that song, clinging to each other, way back, years ago, a lifetime ago. She’d been brisk and efficient and independent, a legal secretary, earning good money for a woman, and Paul was still a law student. She had always known that a career was not really what she wanted. She wanted to get married and have kids; she wanted to marry a professional man and have some luxuries, a life less harried than her own mother’s. But she had fallen in love with Paul in a hopeless way, like diving off the board without checking first to see if there’s water in the pool.
She leaned on her elbow, sipping the wine. The song ended, the radio announced that it was five o’clock. Wearily she rose and got the spaghetti and chicken out of the refrigerator. Eric had gotten a ride home; he came in the door grousing about something. Adele sent him upstairs to change his clothes and start on his homework.
‘What’s for dinner?’ Eric asked, and contented with spaghetti, went upstairs.
But Linda came trailing into the kitchen. ‘Do I have to eat spaghetti too?’
Adele’s back straightened. ‘You like spaghetti!’
‘No, I don’t. I don’t like it, I hate spaghetti!’
‘You always liked spaghetti!’ Adele argued. ‘You liked it when we had it on Monday.’
No, I didn’t. I don’t want it! I won’t eat it!’ The child jumped up and down on the kitchen floor. Adele swiftly reached out and swatted her on the rear, sending the child into screams of agony. She ran into the living room and threw herself on the couch crying.
The front door opened and Paul came in. ‘For God’s sake,’ he said softly, ‘can’t I ever come home to peace and quiet? All day long I listen to shit.’
Adele turned to him white-faced. ‘You have five children,’ she said hoarsely. ‘What do you expect?’
He turned to her. He was handsome and well-dressed and he had great elegance of movement. ‘Did you get my suit?’
She nodded toward the hook.
‘For God’s sake, Adele, why didn’t you hang it in the bedroom? You leave it here where the kids with their grubby paws …’
‘I didn’t have
time!’
she snapped. ‘Besides,’ she added defensively, ‘it has a plastic cover. And the kids didn’t touch it.’
The door opened and Billy came in. Billy was eight. Adele’s eyes shone when she looked at him. ‘Mrs DiNapoli had to go out for milk, so she dropped me off.’
‘Oh, that was nice, honey. How did the project go? Are you finished?’
Billy, authoritative and knowledgeable even at his age, began to explain to her the difficulty of the project and the incredible stupidity of Johnny DiNapoli.
Paul still stood idly in the kitchen. ‘Can I at least get a drink around here?’ he interjected.
‘Oh, Paul!’ Adele gasped. ‘I’m sorry!’ She ran to the refrigerator, where she had a small pitcher of martinis cooling.
‘Spaghetti!’ Paul sniffed. ‘Glad I’m going out.’
‘Oh, are we having spaghetti, Mom?’ Billy protested, his voice rising into a whine. She looked at him grimly. To children, food was everything, she thought. Their whole evening rose or fell according to what they were to have for dinner.
Paul was in the living room with his drink and his paper. Linda had snuggled up beside him on the couch. ‘I hate spaghetti!’ Linda yelled toward the kitchen.
‘Well, I have to confess I do too,’ Paul said, putting his arm around her and tickling her.
‘That’s great, that’s just great!’ Adele stormed in. ‘I try to live on our budget and spaghetti is one of the cheapest things we can have, and you undermine me right and left!’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Adele, if she doesn’t like it, why should she have to eat it?’
‘Because,’ Adele said, and was surprised herself to hear the level
and height of her voice, ‘it’s all I have, there’s only enough chicken for Billy, and I didn’t have time to make anything else!’
Paul looked up at her coolly, almost appraisingly. ‘Why not? From your color, I’d guess you’ve had time to booze it up with the girls this afternoon.’ He rose, took his suit and his drink, and went upstairs.
She stared at him. Her throat was full of tears. Injustice, injustice.
‘Am I having chicken, Mom?’ Billy asked eagerly.
‘Why can he have chicken and I can’t?’ Linda leaped up.
‘Shut up! Just shut up! You get what you get!’ she shouted and ran into the kitchen and poured herself another glass of wine. Then she made the salad and set the table. Paul came down looking beautiful, kissed her lightly on the cheek, and said he probably wouldn’t be late, but not to worry.
Adele felt calmer after he was gone. She called the children to dinner. Linda gazed at her spaghetti and refused to eat, her voice edged with hysteria.
‘You’ll go to bed without dinner, then,’ Adele said grimly.
Linda wailed.
Adele sank to a chair. She took Linda’s arm and pulled her toward her, trying not to be rough. ‘Linda, I didn’t know you didn’t like spaghetti. You always liked it before. You can look at Billy’s plate. There isn’t enough chicken for both of you.’
‘Why does he get it and I don’t? He always gets everything!’ Linda wailed.
‘He got it because I knew Billy didn’t like spaghetti. Listen. I won’t make it for you anymore, okay? I didn’t know you didn’t like it. Okay?’
Linda gazed at her mother, figuring her chances. It looked as if it was spaghetti or nothing for dinner, no matter how she responded, but she was not sure whether she could trust this momentary conciliatory mood. She was not sure she wanted to; she wanted to protest about something. But Adele let go of her and rose wearily. Clearly she was not going to bend any further. Linda ate her spaghetti, expecting some reward afterward. But none came.
Adele ran the bath water. She bathed Mike, then Linda, then called Eric to take his bath. Each time, she emptied and cleaned the tub and refilled it. She put Mike to bed and came back down.
‘Read me a story,’ Linda demanded.
Demands, Adele thought bleakly. There was nothing like demands
from a child who had done something wrong. She drops the milk and I have to pay: all night. ‘I’m too busy,’ she said.
Linda pouted.
‘Turn on the TV.’
The baby cried. Adele went up and knocked on the bathroom door. ‘Hurry up out of that tub.’ She changed the baby and carried her downstairs. She took a jar from the refrigerator and placed it in a pan of water. ‘Eric!’ she yelled up. There was no answer. She marched up the stairs to the bathroom and opened the door swiftly. Eric glanced at her guiltily. There was water all over the floor; he was sitting in the tub, pink with warmth, a toy airplane in his hand. She marched into the bathroom, almost slipping on the water, pulled the plug in the tub, and lifted Eric out by one arm, roughly. Roughly, with a terry towel, she dried him, then said, Now, you get in your pajamas and get your homework done.’ She got down on the floor and sponged up the spilled water. Well, it’s one way to get the bathroom floor cleaned, she supposed and thought she would repeat that to the girls tomorrow.
When she got back to the kitchen, the water in the pan was boiling. She took the jar out with pot holders and placed it in the sink. She heated a bottle.
‘Time for bed, Linda,’ she called. Linda rose, sidled into the kitchen, and looked reproachfully at her mother.
‘Bed,’ Adele said firmly. Linda turned on her heel, and with a certain erectness of neck and shoulders, let her mother know what she thought of her. She marched solemnly and severely up the stairs.
Adele poured some milk into the cereal bowl and fed the baby cereal and jarred plums. She left the baby in the high chair, giving her rubber toys to play with, and set about cleaning up the kitchen. She realized she had not eaten. She scraped the leftovers from the children’s plates into the spaghetti pot, and ate what was left in it.
Eric and Billy were quarreling. She ordered Billy to bring his homework downstairs and Eric to go to bed. Eric was unhappy. He muttered about unfairness, he slammed the bedroom door. She finished cleaning the kitchen, then glanced at the clock.
‘Billy?’
‘Yes,’ came a reluctant sigh.
‘Did you finish your homework?’
‘Yes.’ Almost groaned.
‘Okay, bedtime.’
‘Oh, Mom, can’t I just see the end of this program?’
‘All right. But as soon as it’s over …’
‘It’s a movie, Mom.’
‘What time is it over?’
‘Ten o’clock.’
‘Well, you can just go right now, young man.’
‘Oh, can’t I …’
‘NO!’
Reluctantly, he turned off the set; reluctantly he kissed her. But she kissed him hard and held him for a minute, and he hugged her then, and laid his cheek against hers. They stayed that way for a few moments, then he went up.
It was after nine. The house was silent. Adele carried the baby upstairs and put her in the crib with her bottle, praying. And Mindy, just as if she hadn’t had three naps, fell off to sleep. She’ll probably wake up at four, Adele sighed and went into the bathroom. She drew bathwater and poured in bath oil, a luxury at ninety-eight cents a bottle, but one she felt she owed herself. She bathed, put on her nightgown and robe, and went back downstairs. She relished the silence; she felt she was eating it, breathing it in. She poured herself a glass of wine. The hell with him. She sat down in the living room. It was a mess: the doll things were sprawled over one corner, Billy’s social studies project was piled on a chair, and some unhung coats were thrown over the other chair. Paul’s tie, which he had removed when he was sitting with Linda, dangled over the couch. Adele picked up the tie and hung it over the banister, resolutely turned her eyes away from the rest, and sat down. This is your life, Mrs O’Neill.