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the cushions.
    “Well, then,” my father said, coming back into the room and sitting down. “We’ll starve, then.”
    “Most likely,” she agreed.
    “Claire.”
    “Yes, Arnold.”
    “Go make dinner.”
    “Make it yourself.”
    My father stood and looked out the window, then turned and pitched his highball glass against the north wall.
    “Claire.”
    “Go to hell.”
    “Claire.”
    “You’re drunk.”
    “I’m drunk and hungry. And I’m getting annoyed.”
    “That’s a shame. Go sweep up the glass.”
    My mother poured more wine for herself. I realized they were both drunk. I was hungry too. It seemed like a bad time to move, though, so I stayed still.
    “Claire,” my father said, turning on the television, “I’m going to watch the news. When it’s over, I want dinner.” He sat down.
    “Well, you’ll have to make do, then.” She stood up, steadying herself on the arm of the couch. “I’m going out.”
    “No you’re not,” my father said calmly. “You’ll stay right here.”
    She didn’t stop, and suddenly my father was standing in front of her, blocking her way. She moved left, and so did he. Right. They stood still.
    “I can’t make dinner if you don’t move,” she said.
    He moved, and she walked out of the house.
    My father stood there for a second, then followed her out. We heard them yelling in the driveway. Esau and I both bolted for the front door just as my father shoved my mother back through it and into the hall, where she sprawled on the floor.
    My father’s face was red.
    “Rat bastard! Rat bastard! Rat bastard!” Esau screamed, his legs flying at my father’s knees. He seemed to be dancing around my father like a weird little elf, flapping his hands, but his feet were connecting. My mother scrambled away and got up as my father lunged after Esau’s impossible, electric feet. Esau turned and ran, and his bedroom door slammed.
    My father turned and smacked my mother. She barely flinched.
    “Nicely done,” he said, breathing hard. He looked at the door as if noticing that it was open, then went through it, shutting it with strange care on his way out.
    My mother was looking at nothing.
    “Does it hurt?” I finally asked.
    “What?” she said, looking down at me as if surprised to find me there. “Oh. No.”
    We stood there for a moment more. She reached for my hand and we went into the kitchen. She set the chair by the stove again and lowered the heat under the empty pot where the water had all boiled off.
    “It needs more water,” I said, pointing. She looked. She turned the heat off.
    “I’m not very hungry,” she said. “Are you?”
    I shook my head even though I was so hungry I wanted to chew my fingers. She looked relieved. We sat on the couch and I watched her light cigarette after cigarette, the smoke blue in the glow of the television. She petted my hair as if I was a dog, and ashes fell on her skirt. We watched the news.
    We sat in the thrumming space between my father and my brother. I wanted time to move slowly, to linger here, where my mother was not my own but almost.
    “You’re tired,” she said. Her breath was dry and smooth on my cheek. “Go to bed.”
    I could feel her eyes on my back as I went down the hall to my room.
    I took off my shoes and got into bed in my clothes. I listened to the rustle and murmur of her in Esau’s room, giving him his medicine. She sang softly until his crying slowed.
    I dozed and woke sometime later to the thumping, whimpering sound of Esau having a nightmare.
    I stood outside his door. The house was silent except for the muffled sound of tears in a pillow. I whispered, “Esau.” I knocked hesitantly. I tried the door, but it was locked. I knocked and knocked. I sat down cross-legged in front of his door, knocking. He stopped crying after a while, his breath shivering. I lay down on my side on the floor and kept knocking. I heard him get up, cross the room, lie down on his side of the door. I whispered,