In the next room, Mrs. Wallace was shouting at Eddie. Kathy put her hands over her ears, trying to block it all out. But she couldn’t block the smell of the place, a combination of cleaning fluid and yesterday’s cabbage that got into her throat and eyes and hair.
Her hair.
“She has red hair!” Mrs. Wallace screamed.
“It’s brown.”
“It’s red in the light.”
“Am I the only redhead in Boston, for Chrissake?”
“How stupid do you think I am? That’s her kid. Admit it.”
“Who?”
“You know exactly who I mean. Sylvia, that shanty Irish tramp.”
How dare she? Keep my mother’s name out of your ugly mouth, Kathy wanted to shout. But she couldn’t say a word. This woman had power over her—whether she was safe and housed and fed. Biting her lip, she clenched her hands in her lap.
“That ended years ago,” Eddie said.
“Then who’s that sitting on my couch? Be a man and admit what you did, Eddie. That’s your bastard out there.”
“The mouth on you.”
“You bring your bastard into this house and expect me to act like a lady about it? Get the fuck out.”
“All right, all right. She’s Sylvia’s kid. There, I said it. Happy now?”
But he hadn’t said the thing that mattered most. He hadn’t claimed her as his own. He never did. She could hardly expect it now, in front of his witch of a wife. Still, it stung.
Mrs. Wallace had noticed.
“Your kid. She’s your kid. Say that.”
“Why do you dwell? What good does that do?”
“Jesus Christ, I’m sick of your bullshit.”
“What’s past is past. I got nothing going on with Sylvia anymore. Haven’t for years. She works for Ray as a receptionist. He came crying to me, saying she’s sick with leukemia, can I take the kid while her mother gets treatment.”
She hated Eddie then, not for herself, but for her poor mother, who’d wasted her life on him, ungrateful monster.
“If Ray’s so concerned, let him take her. She’s not my problem.”
“He can’t. He’s at the Mayo Clinic with Sylvia.”
“The Mayo Clinic? Wait a minute. How long are you asking for the girl to stay?”
“Just while Ray gets Sylvia settled. Then he’s coming back, and he’ll take the kid. I’ll make sure of it.”
“Till he gets her settled? What’s that mean?”
“A few days, that’s all. The kid’s quiet. She’ll be no trouble.”
“And what if the mother doesn’t come back? What then?”
The way she talked about Sylvia dying, in a voice so cold, so matter-of-fact—Kathy wanted her dead. She closed her eyes and prayed. Please, God, strike down that evil witch. But nothing happened. They were still talking in there, and Kathy had to hope they’d let her stay.
“She’s not gonna die, I promise,” Eddie said.
That was the first hopeful thing she’d heard. She grabbed on to his words, whispering them like an incantation as she fidgeted on the plastic-covered sofa. She’s not gonna die, she’s not gonna die, she’s not gonna die.
“No,” Mrs. Wallace said loudly.
“What do you mean, no? Don’t tell me no.”
“It’s too much to ask. I don’t want her in my house.”
“Your house? This is not your fucking house. I pay the mortgage. I pay for your car, your clothes, your food. I support your mother and your deadbeat brother. You know what that means? What I say goes. And I say, make her up a bed in the sewing room. Feed her. And send her to school with Charlie in the morning. It’s a few days. You can handle it.”
“Charlie! Did you think about him for one second? About your legitimate son? What am I supposed to tell him?”
“Whatever you want. Say she’s a long-lost cousin. I don’t care.”
“How dare you put her above this family! Goddamn it, Eddie. You motherfu—”
There was a crash, followed by the tinkling of broken glass, a scream, and several loud thumps. Mrs. Wallace let out a wail. Stomach in knots, Kathy cowered on the sofa, pulling a hard, shiny cushion over her head to block out the yelling and crying. It went on for a while, but eventually things got quiet. She sat up, hearing muffled sobs and Eddie talking in a soothing tone. She couldn’t make out the words, but the pitch was conciliatory. Did the wife win the argument? She didn’t want to stay in this creepy house that smelled of cabbage with a crazy lady who hated her guts and a man—her father—who from the sound of it just hit his wife. But the other option was foster care. They fed you dog food there, beat you with belts. And worse.