Rabbit, Run - John Updike [114]
Janice repeatedly hugs him and talks to make him laugh and is very happy doing the actual coloring. In high school, art was the one subject she wasn’t afraid of and she always got a B. She smiles in the delight of coloring her page, a barnyard, so well, of feeling the little rods of color in her fingers make such neat parallel strokes and her son’s small body intent and hard beside hers. Her bathrobe fans out on the floor around her and her body seems beautiful and broad. She moves to get her shadow off the page and sees that she has colored one chicken partly green and not stayed within the lines at all well and her page is ugly; she starts to cry; it is so unfair, as if someone standing behind her without understanding a thing has told her her coloring is ugly. Nelson looks up and his quick face slides wide and he cries, “Don’t! Don’t, Mommy!” She prepares to have him pitch forward into her lap but instead he jumps up and runs with a lopsided almost crippled set of steps into the bedroom and falls on the floor kicking.
She pushes herself up from the floor with a calm smile and goes into the kitchen, where she thinks she left her drink. The important thing is to complete the arch to the end of the day, to be a protection for Harry, and it’s silly not to have the one more sip that will make her long enough. She comes out of the kitchen and tells Nelson, “Mommy’s stopped crying, sweet. It was a joke. Mommy’s not crying. Mommy’s very happy. She loves you very much.” His rubbed stained face watches her. Like a stab from behind the phone rings. Still carrying that calmness she answers it. “Hello?”
“Darling? It’s Daddy.”
“Oh, Daddy!” Joy just streams through her lips.
He pauses. “Baby, is Harry sick? It’s after eleven and he hasn’t shown up at the lot yet.”
“No, he’s fine. We’re all fine.”
There is another pause. Her love for her father flows toward him through the silent wire. She wishes the conversation would go on forever. He asks, “Well, where is he? Is he there? Let me speak to him, Janice.”
“Daddy, he’s not here. He went out early this morning.”
“Where did he go? He’s not at the lot.” She’s heard him say the word “lot” a million times it seems; he says it like no other man; it’s dense and rich from his lips, as if all the world is concentrated in it. All the good things of her growing up, her clothes, her toys, their house, came from the “lot.”
She is inspired; car-sale talk is one thing she knows. “He went out early, Daddy, to show a station wagon to a prospect who had to go to work or something. Wait. Let me think. He said the man had to go to Allentown early this morning. He had to go to Allentown and Harry had to show him a station wagon. Everything’s all right, Daddy. Harry loves his job.”
The third pause is the longest. “Darling. Are you sure he’s not there?”
“Daddy, aren’t you funny? He’s not here. See?” As if it has eyes she thrusts the receiver into the air of the empty room. It’s meant as a daughter’s impudent joke but unexpectedly just holding her arm out makes her feel sick. When she brings the receiver