Nightfall
* * *
Quiet now, in the house.
This was unusual; normally there would have been some noise, some motion out in the hall, some reminder that the house was shared by eight people.
There had been times there had been more.
But it was quiet now.
Beside him, Annie breathed, the sound of it familiar, almost unnoticed. He had come, over the years, to know the sound, to recognize it, at times to welcome it and at others to fear it. He supposed, indeed hoped, that his breathing meant the same thing to her.
Perhaps he should ask her sometime.
Sometime.
But not tonight.
Eric stretched a bit, trying to think. Robbie knows. He knows where she is, where she is living in Florida. I guess that's something.
But is it enough?
Is it so important that she get away from us?
You sent her to Buffalo, remember? What must that have been like? You remember the Colonel, how he was when you were young, how he was with Julie. You know that deep down you've always felt that this was why Julie took up drinking.
Mary drank too, didn't she?
I had to do something. She was so out of control.
Beer.
The thought came to him, wouldn't go away. I drank beer, just a week ago. I sat in a bar with a friend and I drank beer. And we talked too, about Mary, about daughters and sons. When was the last time I did that?
With Morgan? Maybe.
Things were so much simpler then. Like they weren't real.
With Edward Shaw they're real. Eight kids, that man has. And he holds that household together because he knows it is right that he do so, that he be the father, that he bring home the paycheck and feed and clothe them and keep them safe. And so he drinks a little beer once in a while to unwind, and he welcomes you into his world of unwinding and beer. He listens to you when you talk about things that Annie and the kids and Lou and everyone don't understand, that they can't understand, about how hard it is to be a father, to be a patriarch.
It's up to you, Eric. No one else can be the father in this family.
Mary?
Your fault. I know you tried, I know you did everything you could to get her to stay with Ben, but it wasn't enough.
It's never enough, unless you take complete control.
Like your father did.
Like Edward Shaw does.
Eric Camden sighed, brought his hands up to his temples and rubbed at them, hoping the sensation would quell the migraine he knew was building there.
#
Annie felt the motion of her husband beside her, heard him sigh. She had not been sleeping, though it had been close.
Almost sleep. That place where thoughts are sometimes more real than reality itself.
Clean, always clean. Not just the place, but everything. They kept it all clean. No toys on the floor, no dust on the mantle, nothing out of place. A place you could show the world, a place that announced that this woman was a good woman, a good wife, a good mother.
Clean.
Clean.
Even thoughts, even words. Your daughter comes in, asks for something she shouldn't, and when you rebuke her she does not complain, does not stalk away, does not say something hurtful. She does as she is told and the air is not filled with questions.
Strict? Yes. But there were rules in that house over there. Parents were obeyed. Children knew they were loved because their parents took the time to make rules, consistent rules, and keep them.
My parents never did.
God, I love them, but they never did.
That's how I got into trouble. That's how.
But I'm a good mother, aren't I?
Am I?
Do I love my children enough to make sure they do what is right?
Is my house clean like it should be?
Annie sighed. She didn't know. There were no rulebooks for being a parent. You just did the best you could, tried to give your children values, tried to teach them right from wrong. But in the end, you had to let them go.
Didn't you?
Did Rebecca?
A little gold cross, worn against the pretty ruffled blouse. A testament.
Thanks to the Lord Jesus Christ, all my children know their place.
My house is clean.
* * *
Quiet now, in the house.
This was unusual; normally there would have been some noise, some motion out in the hall, some reminder that the house was shared by eight people.
There had been times there had been more.
But it was quiet now.
Beside him, Annie breathed, the sound of it familiar, almost unnoticed. He had come, over the years, to know the sound, to recognize it, at times to welcome it and at others to fear it. He supposed, indeed hoped, that his breathing meant the same thing to her.
Perhaps he should ask her sometime.
Sometime.
But not tonight.
Eric stretched a bit, trying to think. Robbie knows. He knows where she is, where she is living in Florida. I guess that's something.
But is it enough?
Is it so important that she get away from us?
You sent her to Buffalo, remember? What must that have been like? You remember the Colonel, how he was when you were young, how he was with Julie. You know that deep down you've always felt that this was why Julie took up drinking.
Mary drank too, didn't she?
I had to do something. She was so out of control.
Beer.
The thought came to him, wouldn't go away. I drank beer, just a week ago. I sat in a bar with a friend and I drank beer. And we talked too, about Mary, about daughters and sons. When was the last time I did that?
With Morgan? Maybe.
Things were so much simpler then. Like they weren't real.
With Edward Shaw they're real. Eight kids, that man has. And he holds that household together because he knows it is right that he do so, that he be the father, that he bring home the paycheck and feed and clothe them and keep them safe. And so he drinks a little beer once in a while to unwind, and he welcomes you into his world of unwinding and beer. He listens to you when you talk about things that Annie and the kids and Lou and everyone don't understand, that they can't understand, about how hard it is to be a father, to be a patriarch.
It's up to you, Eric. No one else can be the father in this family.
Mary?
Your fault. I know you tried, I know you did everything you could to get her to stay with Ben, but it wasn't enough.
It's never enough, unless you take complete control.
Like your father did.
Like Edward Shaw does.
Eric Camden sighed, brought his hands up to his temples and rubbed at them, hoping the sensation would quell the migraine he knew was building there.
#
Annie felt the motion of her husband beside her, heard him sigh. She had not been sleeping, though it had been close.
Almost sleep. That place where thoughts are sometimes more real than reality itself.
Clean, always clean. Not just the place, but everything. They kept it all clean. No toys on the floor, no dust on the mantle, nothing out of place. A place you could show the world, a place that announced that this woman was a good woman, a good wife, a good mother.
Clean.
Clean.
Even thoughts, even words. Your daughter comes in, asks for something she shouldn't, and when you rebuke her she does not complain, does not stalk away, does not say something hurtful. She does as she is told and the air is not filled with questions.
Strict? Yes. But there were rules in that house over there. Parents were obeyed. Children knew they were loved because their parents took the time to make rules, consistent rules, and keep them.
My parents never did.
God, I love them, but they never did.
That's how I got into trouble. That's how.
But I'm a good mother, aren't I?
Am I?
Do I love my children enough to make sure they do what is right?
Is my house clean like it should be?
Annie sighed. She didn't know. There were no rulebooks for being a parent. You just did the best you could, tried to give your children values, tried to teach them right from wrong. But in the end, you had to let them go.
Didn't you?
Did Rebecca?
A little gold cross, worn against the pretty ruffled blouse. A testament.
Thanks to the Lord Jesus Christ, all my children know their place.
My house is clean.