But I am deep down ... and I do not make ... a sound ...
- River Tam, The R. Tam Sessions
Bars are on the walls, shadows cast by the lamplight and the stair railing, the railing of the stair. If I crouch behind the posts I can see down. Dad doesn't look up and neither does Mom. If I keep still, they won't see me.
Mom is drinking. She always has a drink in her hand. My friend's mom looks kind of funny because she never does except at parties.
Dad is yelling at her in his soft voice. My friend's mom shouts loudly, but Dad never raises his voice. He just makes it sound like he's angry. His face gets angry.
Dad is yelling at Mom, and Mom is saying that she doesn't care.
If I keep still, they won't see me. If I don't want them to see me, I'll have to wait until Dad stops yelling at Mom. If he looks up, he'll be angry and yell at me in his soft voice.
So I hold still, and wait for Dad to get tired of yelling. Mom is snapping at him, and I'm afraid that she'll start yelling. Mom yells loudly like my friend's mom. Once Mom starts yelling, Dad starts staring at her like he hates her. Then they both act like they can't stand each other anymore and Dad goes to his study and Mom goes to her room and drinks and then she yells for me to come and cheer her up. Then she gets mad at me if I'm not wearing my sailor suit.
But Mom stops snapping and starts to cry. When she cries, Dad pretends he isn't mad anymore but he keeps yelling at her in his softer voice. It's a softer voice but it hurts to hear it.
I hold onto the stair railing and watch to see if Dad will look up. I bump my head against the posts, remembering a day when Dad, Mom, and I played zoo. I was the tiger, Dad was the bear, and Mom was the antelope. She looped her hair by her ears to look like antelope ears and opened her eyes wide and put the corners of her mouth down. She looked silly, but not like an antelope. Dad fluffed up his hair, squinted his eyes, and showed his teeth and growled. I clawed my hands and roared. Mom hopped up and down on her step, Dad growled on another step, and I knelt on the floor above them and roared down at them. Then Mom said she was tired of being an antelope and wanted to be a swan. Dad said she should be a goose, and Mom got mad and didn't want to play anymore. She stomped off, and Dad followed her, teasing her. I asked him to come back and play with me more, but he didn't say anything and followed Mom, calling her names. I wanted to go trick-or-treating as a tiger that year, but Mom said I was cuter as a sailor and Dad told me that if I loved her I'd just go as a gosh darned sailor. Only he didn't say gosh darned. But my teacher doesn't like it when I say things like Dad says them.
Dad keeps yelling at Mom in his softer voice. He tells her things that don't sound nice, and uses the words that my teacher doesn't like. Mom is crying, and keeps gulping her drink like it'll make her happy and not sleepy.
Mom shoves Dad out of the way, gets up out of her chair, yells at Dad using more words my teacher doesn't like, yells at him to get the heck out of her way or she will freaking shoot him, she freaking will, and then she'll shoot herself, she freaking will. My stomach hurts tighter.
Dad tells her to shut the heck up and to quit making promises she won't keep. "Anyway, I won't let you leave me with that little booger upstairs," Dad says.
Mom looks up the stairs, and my stomach hurts even tighter, but she doesn't say anything. She just looks at me for a minute, then gulps down the rest of her drink and wanders off farther away from the stairs. Dad just watches her go. She starts yelling at Dad again, but from the kitchen. Dad sighs loudly, and goes after her to keep shouting at her without raising his voice.
I let go of the railing and go to my bedroom, my heart jumping because Dad didn't see me and thinking quietly of the day we played zoo.