LAUR.EN SMALL
97
four thousand dollars, but Ricky kept lending me money, just to keep
me in the game.
Our father always came home first. He ran the dermatology clinic at
the University Hospital, which was only a few miles away, around a bend
in the lake. He drove the car to work, while Rhoda took the bus
downtown, a forty minute ride. She worked at
Desire
magazine - in the
news division, she was quick to add. Sometimes the bus was late and she
didn't get home until dinner time. Then she poured herself a gin and
tonic before she'd even changed out of her work clothes.
My father strode breezily into the kitchen and smiled at me. "How
ya doin', toots," he said.
"Stop it," I said. "I hate it when you call me that."
But he wasn't listening. He was already at the refrigerator, rummag–
ing around for a beer. He grumbled, muttered something under his
breath about Rhoda, and how gin didn't need to be cold but beer did.
Then a smile, a big sigh of relief, and he snapped the tab off a can of
Blue Ribbon. He took the beer with him while he went upstairs to
change. When he came back down, he was wearing a blue terrycloth
hat, khaki shorts and canvas boat shoes with paint splatters on them. He
took a fresh beer out of the refrigerator and shoved a six-pack in, to
chill. "For good measure," he said to me with a wink.
For a minute he stared out the window at the lawn. Then he said,
"Where's your brother? He was supposed to mow the grass today."
"I don't know." Somehow Ricky had slipped away from the
kitchen table. Ricky always disapeared when our father came home.
Usually he went upstairs to his room to read his Batman comics and
Mad
magazines. But once when Rhoda and my father were hollering for him,
I found him in the attic, lying on an old mattress and staring at the
rafters.
"He'll mow the grass as long as he's living in
this
house," my father
said. It sounded ominous, but he just picked up his beer and went out–
side.
I followed him. First he went around front. For a minute my throat
tightened; you could still see the lines in the driveway where the water
had run and the muddy spot at the bottom. But he just looped the hose
over his shoulder and carried it around back, to water his vegetable
patch at the bottom of the yard. The vegetables were surrounded by
rusty chicken wire. I followed him to the edge, but I knew better than
to
go in. My hands sunk deep in the pockets of my shorts, I stood out–
side the wire, watching him. My father balanced the hose against his hip
and tipped the beer can up to his mouth. The sun glinted off the silver
bottom of the can with white streaks that hurt my eyes. The air was
