It Looks Like This (12 page)

Dad’s voice is louder, booming: Toby, get out of there!

Toby doesn’t roll her eyes because she knows Dad can see her, but I can tell she wants to.

Dad pokes his head in.

He says, Why don’t you two wash up and then watch TV for a little while? Give your grandmother a break, huh?

We leave and Mom calls after us, Brush your teeth too.

I shower and brush my teeth, but it’s the kind of day where you want to stay in your robe so I do.

Toby and me find
Duck Soup
on tape and pop it into the VCR. Grandma’s house is the only time we ever use a VCR and I think she’s had it like twenty years, so it sometimes doesn’t work that great.

Dad’s reading a book in the den, some old war history book. Mom tries to help Grandma in the kitchen, but every now and then we hear Grandma tell her not to worry, and finally Mom gives up and joins Dad in the den with her own book.

The tape’s already rewound and starts right with the FBI warning.

Toby looks over at me a couple times, jealous of my robe. She already changed into normal clothes.

Groucho Marx comes on and she leans in closer to the TV.

She says, That mustache isn’t real.

I say, Of course not, Toby, that’s his thing.

She peers closer and says, But it’s not even a fake mustache, it’s just drawn on! Like with a marker.

I say, You’ve seen this before, Toby.

She says, I was like eight.

I don’t say anything.

Groucho Marx says, I’ve got a good mind to join a club and beat you over the head with it.

I laugh a bit and Toby giggles.

She looks over at me and says, Maybe I’ll change back into my robe.

I say, You can’t change back into a robe after you’re dressed.

She says, Why not?

I say, ’Cause that’s dumb. Plus Dad’ll yell at you.

On the screen Groucho Marx blows cigar smoke at Chico.

Toby says, His eyebrows are drawn on too.

I don’t say anything.

Dad walks in and looks at the TV and chuckles, barely.

He says, Which one is this?

I say,
Duck Soup.

He looks over at me and his voice changes.

He says, Jesus, Mike, get dressed, would you?

Toby smiles and sticks her tongue out at me.

I walk back down in khakis and a polo because I know Dad will want us to look nice for dinner.

It’s just before three o’clock and I can smell the turkey and it makes my mouth water. I didn’t eat any breakfast even though Mom said I should because I wanted to be really hungry for dinner. It’s almost ready.

Mom’s still in the den. She looks up from her book as I walk by and smiles.

She says, You look nice.

I picked the polo out because it’s her favorite. It’s striped, light green and blue. She says it’s very tasteful.

I say, Thanks, Mom,

and walk into the dining room. Toby’s there, setting the table probably because Dad told her to.

Beyond the doorway we can hear voices: Dad and Grandma. But over them the stove exhaust fan drowns out the words.

I look at the embroidered tablecloth: white, lacy, spotless. The silverware and dishes and glasses shine, all of them reflecting the sunlight coming in through the window.

I’m about to ask Toby if she wants help when the exhaust fan shuts off and Dad’s and Grandma’s voices turn into hushed words.

Dad says, He’s always been like that.

Grandma says, Well, why? Didn’t you ever try getting him to join a team or something?

Toby and I freeze.

Dad says, Of course, Mom. He played basketball a few years ago.

Grandma says, Anything since then?

Dad sighs and he doesn’t need to say anything after that because the sigh says everything. But he does anyway:

No, not really.

Both of their voices are quiet like they know they shouldn’t be talking but not quiet enough. I can feel my pulse behind my ears.

Grandma says, Doesn’t surprise me. He just seems a bit soft, is all.

Dad says, He’s not that soft, just likes to keep to himself.

Toby is looking at me hard, lips set, firm. She has her fist closed tight around a spoon.

Grandma says, Well, that’s soft, isn’t it?

I look back at Toby and slowly, very slowly I shake my head once.

Dad sighs again and it’s the sigh I hate most.

He says, I’ll try throwing the ball with him later. He gave me a Packers football for my birthday, you know. We tried throwing it around a bit before, but it didn’t go so well.

Grandma says, Yeah, just keep trying. I just . . .

She stops for a bit, trying to find the words, and Toby and I stare at each other.

She says, I just worry about how he’ll turn out, you know?

Dad says, Don’t. He’ll be fine.

Toby’s eyes narrow.

Very quietly, I say,

Don’t, Toby.

She looks back at me. Defiant.

Grandma says, Maybe. He just needs a push in the right direction.

Toby drops the spoon she’s holding and turns. There’s a soft thump as it hits the carpet and I rush into the kitchen behind her hoping to stop her, but I can’t and I know I can’t and she says,

Mike’s not soft and he doesn’t need a push in any direction.

Dad freezes, looking surprised and a bit angry, but most of all ashamed. That’s the worst part. He looks from Toby to me and we make eye contact and he looks away.

Grandma just looks surprised, and for a minute I don’t know if she hears the anger in Toby’s voice.

There’s a moment where nothing happens, and then Grandma’s face relaxes and she smiles a bit at Toby and says,

Dear heart, you’ll understand when you’re older.

I know right away it’s the wrong thing to say.

Toby says, If getting older means being like you, I don’t want to get older.

Grandma’s face changes and the sweetness is gone, like that. But she doesn’t get a chance to respond. Dad takes two steps to Toby and grabs her arm. His face is purple.

From the den, I can hear Mom’s voice, quiet, apprehensive:

Is everything okay?

Dad spits, Don’t you
ever
talk to your grandmother like that. Don’t you
ever
!

Toby yanks her arm out of his grip and stares back coldly. But she doesn’t say anything else.

Dad barks, Go upstairs!
Now!

She turns without a word and leaves the kitchen. I hear her loud stomps on the stairway and, from above, a door slamming shut.

He looks at me, but I turn away before he or Grandma can say anything else, and I walk toward the garage.

Charlie jumps up when I open the door, licking at my arms, legs, anything he can reach, tail wagging like crazy.

I close the door and sit down and let him crawl all over me, and when he’s done, he puts his head in my lap and I sit there.

I just sit.

Thanksgiving dinner is tense, almost totally silent.

Toby and Grandma don’t look at each other but ask to Please pass the gravy and Please pass the mashed potatoes and they’re polite without being nice.

Dad doesn’t let Toby have any pie.

I can tell she doesn’t care.

Later we clear the table while Grandma rests in the living room and Dad and Mom sit with her and chat.

The dining room is a disaster. We scrape food bits into the trash and scrub the dishes and put them away and wrap leftovers and roll up the tablecloth and bring it to the hamper and wipe down the table.

Toby hands me a plate, arms covered in suds up to her elbows. I wipe it with a towel and put it in the cabinet. I look at Toby and tousle her hair a bit.

I say, Thank you.

Real quiet.

She looks up and flicks a bit of soapy water at me and doesn’t say anything, but there’s a bit of a smile.

She goes back upstairs after we’re done, Dad’s orders.

I walk Charlie through the woods, letting him run around. It’s almost twilight and he takes off after every cricket and chipmunk he hears.

The leaves are still falling and it’s so nice out. I look around and take a deep breath and listen to the silent woods.

But all at once I don’t want to be here anymore, in this middle-of-nowhere part of Virginia near Kentucky where nothing ever happens except at church on Sunday.

I call Charlie and turn back.

When we get back to the yard, I look up and I see Toby watching us from the window of our upstairs room. It’s open and she’s leaning out a bit and the wind tosses her hair. She’s changed into her favorite outfit, an old pair of pink-and-blue overalls.

There was a picture Toby used to have that she loved. Toby and Marla, her best friend from Wisconsin, jumping on a trampoline in Marla’s backyard, hugging tight and laughing, their hair flying everywhere. Marla’s mom took it.

It was a great picture. Marla gave it to her on the last day of fifth grade. Then it got lost in the move. Toby sulked about it for a long time.

Toby was wearing her overalls in the picture. Now she wears them when she’s sad. Whenever she really misses Wisconsin. She doesn’t know that I know this.

She lifts her hand in a small wave from the upstairs window.

I wave back.

I put Charlie in the garage and go to the kitchen. Mom and Dad and Grandma are still in there talking, and they pay me no attention.

I open the fridge and cut a slice of cherry pie and put it on a plate with a fork. Dollop of whipped cream on top.

I pick up the plate and then stop and put it down.

In the fridge I find a jar of cherries and take one out and put it on top of the whipped cream. It makes me smile a bit.

I walk out of the kitchen and upstairs, checking to make sure they’re still in the living room and aren’t looking at me.

They aren’t.

Toby is still leaning out the window when I walk in. She turns her head only.

I walk over and put the pie on the desk. The cherry sinks into the whipped cream.

Toby grins.

We leave early morning Saturday. It’ll be late afternoon when we get back.

The car trip is mostly quiet, still tense between Toby and Dad.

I think about Mom and what she does when Dad’s tense, how she just lives with it instead of doing anything about it.

There’s Dad and Toby not talking to each other, and there’s Mom on the side, always on the side, not part of the fight but affected by it.

And I realize I’m the same way.

It’s a bit chilly when we pull up to the driveway. My legs are cramped and I stretch them before letting Charlie out, who pulls hard on the leash, happy to be home.

Me and Toby bring the bags in. Dad has a headache so he sits in the living room with the TV off, eyes closed.

Mom goes through the mail, a week’s worth of junk and a card from her mother, our other grandma, who lives in Wisconsin.

Toby’s grounded the rest of the weekend so she just goes to her room after we’re done and starts unpacking.

I go to my room and drop my bags on the floor and go straight to my computer desk. Grandma has a computer but Dad wouldn’t let us use it, so I haven’t been online in a week.

I check Facebook and I see I have a message waiting for me.

It’s from Sean.

I click on Messages and my heart’s beating a bit faster than normal.

The one from him is unread and I can see the first few words:

hey just seein what your up to. um i cant remember if you sai . . .

I click it and it says:

hey just seein what your up to. um i cant remember if you said you were going anywhere for thansgiving but anyway. you want to come over sometime? we can work on the project or not.

I breathe in through my nose, slow, and breathe it out the same way, slow.

And I smile.

We’re having dinner a few days later.

Beef stew with carrots and potatoes and celery.

Some rice with peas too.

It’s good, everything Mom makes is good. Sometimes even better than Grandma’s.

Dad says, How’d the paper go, Toby?

Toby had to write a descriptive narrative that was due today. She got it assigned the first day we got back to school from Thanksgiving and hasn’t shut up about it, saying how unfair it is to get homework right away like that. But mostly it’s ’cause she hates writing assignments, I know.

She says, Fine.

He glances at her before spooning some more stew onto his rice and scooping it up with his fork.

He says, Just fine? What’d the teacher say?

Toby says, She didn’t say anything. It was just due today — she hasn’t read it yet.

Toby got over being in trouble for Thanksgiving and things between her and Dad are less tense now, but they’ve never really gotten along that great to begin with.

He says, Well, how do you think you did?

Toby shrugs.

She’s quiet for a second but decides that she doesn’t want to test Dad so she answers,

I think it was okay. She wanted us to use a lot of adjectives and I wrote a bunch.

Dad nods and goes back to his stew.

Mom says, Well, that sounds promising.

There’s more silence for a while except all the sounds of dinner: forks scraping on plates, stew sloshing, Dad’s beer fizzing in its bottle after being set down.