“You certainly did,” said Mother, with more than a touch of sarcasm.
“I’m seeing someone,” Daddy muttered.
I think I said “Oh.” I must have-because my mouth was in exactly that round shape that it forms when you say oh, except that I forgot to close it for quite some time afterward. I must have been mentally flipping through Redbook articles, trying to come up with an appropriate response. Finally I stammered, “Well, of course. You’re at the dangerous age, aren’t you, Daddy? Fear of mortality and all that. I’m sure the counselor will cover all that. I mean, you couldn’t be seriously considering leaving Mother-”
Nobody said anything.
“And if marriage counseling is expensive, then I’d be happy to pay for the sessions,” I said gently. “I can’t stand by and see Mother’s heart broken.”
My mother chuckled.
Bill and I looked at her suspiciously. “Don’t worry about me, you two. I don’t want him back,” she said.
“What?” we cried.
“Oh, for years I’ve been thinking that once you children were launched safely into the world, I’d be free to do what I want to do. Until now I’ve spent all my life being told what to do by some man. First there was Dad. Then I married Doug when I was too young to know who I wanted to be. Since then I’ve been a den mother, a bridge partner, a housekeeper, a wardrobe consultant, a chauffeur-but I got lost in the shuffle. Now I want to be Margaret, not Doug’s wife or Bill and Elizabeth’s mother. I suppose I wouldn’t have had the courage to try life on my own, but when Doug had his hormone attack with that sweet young thing”-she giggled-“I decided that I was entitled to start over, too.”
“She’s just saying that,” said Bill. “She doesn’t want any of us to worry.”
“I don’t mind if you worry,” Mother replied. “I certainly worried enough about you two when you were growing up. Since you seem to be concerned, I’ll tell you that I’m going white-water rafting on the New River next weekend with Troy Anderson. I met him in my karate class at the community college.”
“Karate class,” Bill echoed.
“We’ll be all right, kids,” said Daddy, looking disgustingly cheerful. “But if you two need any counseling sessions to get over the trauma of your parents’ divorce, I’ll be happy to foot the bill.”
Sarcasm is a very irritating habit. Unfortunately it runs in our family. It practically gallops. There seemed nothing left for me to do but return to Scotland, where my wonderfully unsarcastic husband was waiting.
My parents left after that. Daddy said he had dinner plans; Mother murmured something about expecting a phone call. Bill and I looked at each other across the table of half-full wine cups and shrugged.
“Well, we tried,” said Bill. “And Mom is right. We are grown. Powell Hill tells me that the state has dropped the investigation. The law firm is solvent. I guess I’ll be all right. And you have a husband and an inheritance, so you should be fine.”
“Fine?” I echoed. Honestly, men have no sense of values. “Where are we supposed to have Thanksgiving now? And who gets the Christmas tree ornaments? And what about the tin punch picture I made for them at camp? Don’t they care which one of them gets to keep that? Our whole history is being fragmented by a legal process.”
“Yeah. Kind of makes you feel like an Eastern European country, doesn’t it?” Bill mused.
“So you are going to let them do this?” I demanded.
He shrugged. “Mother fired me, remember? I don’t think either of us can stop it. All we can do is try to stay close to both of them in their separate lives. And remember we’ve always got each other.”
He beamed at me like an earnest sheepdog, and I patted his hand. “I’m so glad you’re my brother, Bill,” I said. “And not my attorney.”
Sharyn McCrumb
