Anna is wearing navy. She has gotten chunky and Joanne thought the color would be becoming. I tap the floor nervously with my shoe. Anna kicks me in the shin. I have been told not to fidget. A beam of red light crosses the altar in front of the church. I trace it back to a high stained-glass window. It is the blood of Christ, trailing from his open wounds. My father walks past me now, toward the priest. I run into the aisle and throw myself at his feet, grab his pant leg and hold on. He tries to get free of me, still smiling at the wedding guests, but I won’t let go. I am a fury of white lace, snot, and tears. He inches forward, pretending to ignore the small child latched onto his ankles. I am a suckerfish.
My father and I have reached the altar. The organist begins the “Wedding March.” The guests get to their feet, a bit unsure. Now Joanne is steaming toward us down the aisle, a big pouffy veil hiding her rage. She has chosen a satin minidress, and her thick legs poke out from under it. They look like sausages stuffed into tiny shoes. She steps over me, takes my father’s hands, nods at the priest. I am lying on the ground, curled around his ankles as they take their vows. Why isn’t she wearing underpants? I’m thinking when they say the words “I do.”
1973. November, Tarrytown, New York.
One of our father’s “weekends.” He’s meant to have us every other weekend, but this is the first time we’ve seen him in over a month. They’ve had endless engagements. Joanne has too many friends and they all want to meet her old man, he tells us. “Who is the old man?” I ask. “Have we met him?”
The house is brown. In the yard, ropes hang from a bare tree where a swing used to be. Beyond it, a rocky ridge leads down to a small, muddy pond. Not swimmable, my father says, but in winter it will freeze and we can ice-skate. The living room is long and narrow with a huge plate-glass window overlooking “the lake,” as Joanne calls it. “Waterfront property is impossible to find,” she says. The only room in the house without wall-to-wall shag carpeting is the kitchen.
Saturday afternoon. Anna and I are sitting on the kitchen floor playing jacks. Outside, rain slashes the windows, a relentless gloom. I’ve gotten to tensies and I’m about to flip when Joanne comes in brandishing her hairbrush. She pulls a few strands of hair out of it, waves them at me.
“You used my hairbrush, Eleanor. After I specifically told you not to.”
“I didn’t,” I say, though I did.
“There was an outbreak of lice at your fancy new school. I’ll have to boil it.” She is furious. “If this brush gets ruined, I’m sending the bill to your mother. These are boar bristles.”
“It wasn’t me!”
“The hairs are blond. I will not stand for lying in this house.” She reaches down and sweeps our jacks up off the floor.
“Give them back!” I shout.
My father wanders in from the garage. “C’mon, you two. No fighting, no biting.”
“Don’t speak to me as though I’m a child, Henry,” Joanne says.
“She took our jacks for no reason, and she won’t give them back,” I say.
“Elle used Joanne’s hairbrush without asking,” Anna says.
“That’s not true!” I say.
“It’s just a hairbrush,” Dad says. “I’m sure Joanne doesn’t mind. Did I ever tell you your grandmother was jacks champion of her school?” He opens the freezer and looks inside. “How does chicken pot pie sound for dinner? Jo and I are out tonight.”
“I don’t want you to go out,” I say. “You always go out.”
“We’ll be right next door. And we found a great local girl to babysit.”
“Can we watch TV?” Anna says.
“Anything you want.”
“I don’t like it here,” I say. “This house is ugly. I want to go home.”
“Shut up,” Anna says. “Stop ruining everything.”
I run from the room in tears.
Behind me I hear Joanne say, through her own angry tears, “I can’t take this anymore, Henry. I didn’t sign up to be a mother.”
I throw myself on my bed, bury my face in my pillow. “I hate her, I hate her, I hate her,” I chant, like a prayer. When my father comes to comfort me, I turn away, curl myself into a pill bug.
He lifts me onto his lap and strokes my hair until my sobs subside. “I won’t go anywhere tonight, rabbit. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
“She’s mean.”