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By Root 736 0

the cleaning lady these last few weeks, couldn't bear the intrusion. All that matters is being with her children. Her compulsive neatness has given way to this newfound negligence, and it's liberating, if not a little crazy. But so what? She's entitled to a touch of madness. Instead of a nervous breakdown, she has rings in the toilet bowls and dust kitties in all the corners. If he doesn't care, why should she? Because it's the dailiness, all the work, effort, and attention to detail, that keep people together. Duty, responsibility, values they once shared. She aims the remote at the fireplace and the gas logs ignite with a bursting whoosh of flames that always startles her. She is remembering her mother's pronouncement of their neighbors, the Kemptons' rundown, weed-choked house around the corner from them. “Marriage on the rocks.” Surface blight, the first sign. Or message, the harm that's been done. Pain made visible. Evidence of how fast they're sinking.

She's on her way into the kitchen to light those logs next when she realizes she forgot to close the garage door. So what, who cares, she decides with perverse pleasure. Turning, she notices the blinking light on the answering machine. Four messages, the first, snappishly frantic, is from Carol, saying she just got off the phone with Ken. She's been so worried, not hearing anything from Nora that she finally called the paper Friday and left a message for him. He just got back to her this morning, and what he had to say was shocking. “Absolutely shocking. What on earth is going on there? It's one thing not to be upfront with me, but an out-and-out lie? How could you—” With a little cry Nora deletes Carol's querulous voice mid-rebuke. Once again she's met her sister's very low expectations. The next three messages are all from Ken. Each the same, terse, urgent. “Nora, call me.” Not once asking for his children, or wondering how they're doing, or do they need anything, just call me. “Sure. When hell freezes over, that's when,” she hisses, jamming the erase button so hard the machine slides off the little blue table. “Selfish bastard!” she mutters, picking it up from the floor.

“Maybe something's wrong,” Chloe says from the doorway, and for a split second it's all Nora can do to keep from spitting back, Maybe? Maybe something's wrong?

“Don't be so concerned about your father. I'm sure he's doing just fine.” Without us, she almost says, but seeing Chloe's pinched face, doesn't.

“Can I call him? Is that all right? Do you mind?” Chloe asks in a small voice, and Nora realizes she's trying not to cry.

“Oh, honey. Come here,” she says, pulling her close. Of course she can call him, anytime she wants, anytime she needs to, and she certainly doesn't have to ask permission or apologize. “He's your father, that's the most important thing. And it has nothing to do with whatever's going on between us.”

Chloe nods, limp in Nora's embrace. “It's just I … I miss him … I miss him so much it hurts,” she whimpers.

“I know. Of course you do. He's been a good father.” If nothing else.

“No!” Chloe sobs. “If he was, then none of this would've happened, and we'd still be—” The ringing phone cuts her off “It's Dad,” she says, checking the number. She stares back desperately, a grown child needing assurance that all the myths in her life are really true.

“Well, then answer it. Of course.” She starts up the stairs.

“Hi, Dad.” The anticipation in Chloe's voice follows Nora down the hallway. She's trying to sound natural, as if her father might only be away on a business trip. “I know. We just got in … the beach … well, first, we had brunch at the Sea Cliff Manor, which was great, and then we … Oh, okay. Mom!” Chloe calls up and Nora leans over the railing. “Dad wants to talk to you.”

… the thing with feathers / That perches in the soul … Nora sits on the edge of her bed, phone pressed to her ear, eyes closed. He wants to come home, she thinks in a swell of irrational elation, in spite of everything, wanting him back, desperately, hungrily. That explains the terse message, the urgency, the