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drink.
    The night fights were as familiar and expected as breakfast in the morning and church on Easter. They fought almost companionably, as if it were as good a way as any to converse. But later I would riffle through the fights in my head, trying to find the one fight that set it all off, the one where they turned a corner, the one where it was no longer a quiet, ever present cruelty but something more. For years I was sure my mother’s slow, cruel words made my father do what he did; and then for other years I was sure my father had done something to make my mother say what she said. Now I think that certain things just tend toward their own center, and implode.
    It’s interesting that two people can sit in a room, doing nothing more than being precisely themselves, and, in each other’s eyes, utterly, generally fail.
    “I’m going to bed,” said my mother, not moving. “Are you coming?”
    It would occur to me, older, that this was an invitation.
    “Not right yet,” said my father, picking up a deck of cards and dealing himself a hand of solitaire.
    And it would occur to me, older, that this was a kindness of sorts, not flatly saying no. Letting a woman get into her nightgown, lotion her hands, fall asleep with a book and the bedside light still on, having forgotten to hope.
     
     
     
    My mother was angry. I stood on a chair by the stove, waiting for a pot of water to boil and listening to her bang.
    “Where’s Dad?” I finally asked. It was getting dark out. No one had been home when Esau and I came in from school. Last I checked, Esau was sitting at the writing desk with his head in his hands, trying to do his homework.
    “How should I know?” she snapped. I got off the chair and walked out of the kitchen in a huff.
    “Katie?” she called.
    I sat down on the couch. Esau was looking out the window and didn’t notice. My mother’s head appeared around the corner.
    “Katie, come help?”
    I didn’t look at her. She sighed and went back into the kitchen.
    “Dammit!” she yelled, and something got thrown. She came out of the kitchen, pulling her apron over her head and throwing it on the floor. She went over to the bar, poured wine into a flowered juice glass, and lit a cigarette. Esau turned half around in his chair. He and I watched her pace back and forth in front of the windows.
    “I’m sorry?” I said.
    “Oh, it’s not you. It’s that rat-bastard father of yours. It’s nothing. Never mind.” She sat down in a heap next to me on the couch.
    Esau started to giggle. I could see him biting the insides of his cheeks. He turned around again and put his head down on the desk. His shoulders shook.
    “What’s so funny, may I ask, mister?” asks my mother, starting to smile. He put his hands over his ears, which were turning red.
    “Did you take your medicine today?” I asked, feeling important.
    “Yes,” he said, giggling. “Rat bastard!” he finally shrieked.
    I looked at my mother, shocked. She laughed.
    Esau apologized, and said, “Don’t tell Dad I swore.”
    “I won’t tell him if you don’t tell him I called him a rat bastard,” she said, setting Esau off again. I giggled and picked at the soles of my shoes, looking sideways at my pretty mother.
    The front door opened. “Claire!” my father called. Esau stopped laughing abruptly and looked at his books. My father came into the room and surveyed us.
    “Are you growing a beard?” I asked. He put his hand up to his stubbled face and looked as if he was considering it.
    “Sure,” he said, and turned to the bar. “What’s for dinner?”
    “Nothing,” said my mother, and took a sip of wine.
    My father nodded. “Okay,” he said, and headed into the kitchen. “There’s water boiling over in here,” he called. “Were you planning to cook something in it?”
    “No,” called my mother. “I just wanted to boil some water.” She went over to the bar and brought the bottle of wine back to the couch, wedging it between