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“I didn’t know you were afraid you’d smash Alexander’s head in.”
“Oh. Well, forget that part.”
“You could have told me that. Or Mom. She was a social worker, for God’s sake!”
“Amanda, forget it. Please.”
There was another silence. Then Amanda said, “But anyhow. The rest of what you said, De
“I still feel awful,” Jea
“Listen, I hate to run, but I’m late for an appointment.”
“Go, then,” Jea
De
Nora had been talking about Sissy Bailey’s apartment. She had taken Red to see it earlier that afternoon. But he had claimed he could poke a hole in the walls with his index finger, so on Saturday a friend of the family who was a real-estate agent …
De
“Excuse me?” Nora said.
“Jea
“Why don’t you ask him?” Nora said. She angled one last saucepan into a tiny space in the dishwasher.
“I thought maybe you could tell me.”
“Is it so hard to just go talk to him? Do you dislike him that much? ”
“I don’t dislike him! Geez.”
Nora closed the dishwasher and turned to look at him. De
Nora smiled one of her mysterious smiles.
“Okay,” De
“Thanks for making supper,” Nora told him. “It was delicious.”
He raised one arm and let it drop as he walked out.
In the sunroom the evening news was on, but Red was the only one watching. “Where’s Stem?” De
“Upstairs with the kids. I think somebody broke something.”
De
“What have we here?” De
“Seems the guys mistook the bureau for a mountain.”
“It was Everest,” Petey told De
“Ah.”
“Could you hand me that glue?” Stem said.
“You really want to use glue on it?”
Stem gave him a look.
De
Stem said, “Yep.” He squirted glue on a section of dovetailing.
“I guess you’re pretty set on it.”
Stem raised his head and glared at De
“Huh?”
The little boys glanced up, but then they went back to their racetrack.
“I’ve done my bit,” Stem told De
“Did I say that?” De
“You know perfectly well he’s just hoping we’ll talk him out of it.”
“I don’t know any such thing,” De
“Your mom,” Stem said. He set the glue bottle on the floor. “She wasn’t mine.”
“Well, fine, if you want to put it that way.”
“My mom was B. J. Autry, for your information.”
De
The little boys went on playing, oblivious. They were staging spectacular wrecks on an overpass.
“And all along, Abby knew that,” Stem said. “She knew and she didn’t tell me. She didn’t even tell Dad.”
“I still don’t see why you’re going around in a snit.”
“I’m in a snit, as you call it, because—”
Stem broke off and stared at him.
“You knew, too,” he said.
“Hmm?”
“This doesn’t surprise you a bit, does it? I should have guessed! All that snooping you used to do: of course! You’ve known for years!”
De
“Just promise me this,” Stem said. “Promise you won’t tell the others.”
“Why would I tell the others?”
“I’ll kill you if you tell.”
“Ooh, scary,” De
By now the little boys were taking notice. They’d stopped playing, and they were gaping at Stem. Tommy said, “Dad?”
“Go downstairs,” Stem told him. “The three of you.”
“But, Dad—”
“Now!” Stem said.
They stumbled to their feet and left, looking back at him as they went. Sammy was still clutching a plastic tow truck. De
“Swear to it,” Stem told De
“Okay! Okay!” De
“Swear on your life that you will never let on to a soul.”
“I swear on my life that I will never let on to a soul,” De
“I just do, all right? I don’t have to give you a reason,” Stem said. But then he said, “I read someplace that even brand-new babies recognize their mothers’ voices. Did you know that? They learn them in the womb. From the moment they’re born, it’s their mothers’ voices they prefer. And I thought, ‘Gosh, I wonder what voice I preferred, back then.’ It seemed kind of sad to me that there was some voice I’d been craving all my life but never got to hear, at least not past the first little bit. And now look: it was B. J. Autry’s voice — that gravelly rasp of hers and that trashy way of talking. When you think of how Abby talks, I mean talked! I should have belonged to Abby.”
“So?” De
“But you remember how the family mocked B. J. behind her back. They’d wince when she gave that laugh of hers; they’d make faces at each other when she was holding forth about something. ‘Oh, you know me; I just say it like it is,’ she’d say. ‘I tell it like I see it; I’m not one to mince my words.’ As if that were something to brag about! And then everybody would share these secret glances, all round the table. So now I think, ‘God, I’d die of shame if they found out she was my mother.’ But I’m ashamed of feeling ashamed of her, too. I start thinking that the family had no right to act so snooty about her. I don’t know what to think! Sometimes it’s like I’m mourning what I missed out on: my real mother was sitting right there at our dining-room table and I never had an inkling, and it makes me mad as hell at Abby for not telling me — for that stupid, stupid contract. She wouldn’t allow my own mother to tell me I was her son! And if B. J. had ever wanted me back, oh, Abby was happy to hand me over. ‘Here you are, then’—easy come, easy go. And Dad: can you believe him? He told me he would have handed me over from the outset.”