Dudley picked up a girl at the academy a few years ago, don't know how he did it, but Reba is even nastier than he is. She regrets hooking up with him, but won't admit she let herself down in doing so. Now she's mad at him because she feels trapped, but her suppressed anger comes through as nagging. He's never known anything different, his mother nagged his father, his father was a pushover and a petty bully. They all took out their frustrations on his cousin Harry. He tries to forget about Harry, why his parents didn't abandon him he can't figure out. Harry the lazy, Harry the weird.
"Dudley, can you call Mac for me and tell him I'm not coming in today? I don't feel well."
"You call him, I have to get ready. Dad will be angry if I'm late to the shop."
"Duds? I need a bucket," she croaked. Silence, save for gargling from the bathroom. There was a bucket right under the sink, Reba knew. She rolled over with a groan and vomited on the hardwood floor. Dizziness gripped her, and she viewed her husband with a glare. He was standing, gaping in the doorway.
"Ew! Can't you do that in the toilet?"
Staggering to her feet, she groped along the wall to the bathroom and emptied the remainder of her stomach into the toilet. "Happy?" she asked icily, washing her mouth out under the faucet. Upending the cleaning supplies from the bucket under the sink onto the floor, she dropped his washcloth into it and threw it at him, "Next time I say I'm sick, maybe you listen."
"It's a girl."
"A girl! I slave after you for nine months and you give me a girl?"
"Not for you, Dudley."
"Sir, could you talk with your wife about this later? She needs to rest."
"Woman, get your girl out of here, I'm trying to eat." Toast in one hand, Reba looped an arm around the waist of the screaming toddler tugging at Dudley's untucked shirt.
Straightening and settling the now cooing girl on her hip, she protested, "She just wanted to be picked up! Can't you help me with anything?"
"Time of death, four o one am." The surgeon turned and stripped off bloodstained gloves into the can by the sink. Turning on the water, he took his time washing off the metallic-smelling liquid, some of it dried, that had splattered all the way up past his elbows. It had been a long night, and he still had to talk to her spouse. Groaning, he thought of the child that had been with him, quiet and reserved, her face a complete blank. He worried about her, most girls her age would have been crying as he tried to tell her gently that her mama might not make it through the surgery that afternoon.
She didn't want to cry in front of her father, he'd make fun of her later for it, even if he wouldn't now. Even he wasn't insensitive enough for that. It was so unfair! He'd always said he was her mama's child, never willing to take responsibility for her. "She's your daughter!" Or, "your girl," he'd say to her ma. What would he do now? She didn't know where they were driving, she was afraid to ask, but from the front passenger seat she knew this was not the way they'd come. Eventually she fell off in a half-sleep, resting her head on the shoulder seatbelt attached above her head, way too high for the eight-year-old girl.
Dudley drove silently, trying to decide what to do. He was going to leave Reba's daughter with his mother Petunia, but after that, what? He didn't want to raise her by himself; he'd talk his mother into it.
"Wake up, we're here." Rebecca hadn't really been sleeping, she couldn't; too much was uncertain. What would her father do? He had never taken much of an interest in her except when she directly affected him, like doing something that made him look bad. She'd learned that early, and was usually very quiet when around him. Why was she at her grandparent's house? Was her father planning to go to work today? They'd been up all night at the hospital. After several minutes of persistent knocking, Petunia answered the door.
"Dudley, what are you doing here? Its early."
"Reba died this morning, Mother."
"Oh, Dudley, I'm so sorry. Come in, you must be tired."
"I can't stay, I need to get home. Listen, can you take Rebecca for a while? I can't take care of her right now."
In retrospect, she should have known it would have happened. "A while" had turned into a month, a month into a year and grief for her mother had turned into anger and hurt towards her father. Today was her tenth birthday. Last year her father had sent her a card, no present, just a card, two weeks late. She thought maybe her grandmother had told him to, after waiting for him to send something. Nothing had come, and she had heard her on the telephone last week, crying and screaming. Rebecca had made herself scarce, but when the card finally came, she set fire to it on the back patio and watched it burn, carefully sweeping the ashes into her grandmother's perfect garden.
Today Petunia was happily bustling around the kitchen, singing to herself off-key. She said she had a surprise for her, but wouldn't tell her what it was, even after all Rebecca's pestering over breakfast. She was showing Rebecca how to make stars from strips of paper for decorations when someone knocked on the front door. "That must be the bakery with your cake. Could you get the door, pumpkin? I want to finish this star." Petunia's excitement had been contagious; so she jumped up and ran to the door, throwing it open without looking through the window first.
Why did he have to spoil her birthday? She was having so much fun with grandma, and then he had to show up. She felt betrayed, but then, she had never told grandma how angry she was at him. Grandma had thought she would be pleased to see her father, that it would be a treat on her special day. He sat fidgeting on the couch in the sitting room, waiting for her to open the present he had brought her. Uncomfortable under her cold stare, he shifted his gaze to her artwork hanging on the wall and commented on its nice wood frame. Remembering his card from last year, and her fire on the back patio, she wished she could do the same with this second token. Fondly picturing the warm glow the fire had made of the card, she smiled and stroked the package, imagining tongues of fire following her fingers across its bright paper. She had been only half listening to the babble of strangled conversation in the room, but now she noticed it had stopped, and as she realized that the fire her fingers had traced was real, she heard a frightened shriek and felt the package whisked away into the empty fireplace to burn itself out safely.
"Dudley, can you call Mac for me and tell him I'm not coming in today? I don't feel well."
"You call him, I have to get ready. Dad will be angry if I'm late to the shop."
"Duds? I need a bucket," she croaked. Silence, save for gargling from the bathroom. There was a bucket right under the sink, Reba knew. She rolled over with a groan and vomited on the hardwood floor. Dizziness gripped her, and she viewed her husband with a glare. He was standing, gaping in the doorway.
"Ew! Can't you do that in the toilet?"
Staggering to her feet, she groped along the wall to the bathroom and emptied the remainder of her stomach into the toilet. "Happy?" she asked icily, washing her mouth out under the faucet. Upending the cleaning supplies from the bucket under the sink onto the floor, she dropped his washcloth into it and threw it at him, "Next time I say I'm sick, maybe you listen."
"It's a girl."
"A girl! I slave after you for nine months and you give me a girl?"
"Not for you, Dudley."
"Sir, could you talk with your wife about this later? She needs to rest."
"Woman, get your girl out of here, I'm trying to eat." Toast in one hand, Reba looped an arm around the waist of the screaming toddler tugging at Dudley's untucked shirt.
Straightening and settling the now cooing girl on her hip, she protested, "She just wanted to be picked up! Can't you help me with anything?"
"Time of death, four o one am." The surgeon turned and stripped off bloodstained gloves into the can by the sink. Turning on the water, he took his time washing off the metallic-smelling liquid, some of it dried, that had splattered all the way up past his elbows. It had been a long night, and he still had to talk to her spouse. Groaning, he thought of the child that had been with him, quiet and reserved, her face a complete blank. He worried about her, most girls her age would have been crying as he tried to tell her gently that her mama might not make it through the surgery that afternoon.
She didn't want to cry in front of her father, he'd make fun of her later for it, even if he wouldn't now. Even he wasn't insensitive enough for that. It was so unfair! He'd always said he was her mama's child, never willing to take responsibility for her. "She's your daughter!" Or, "your girl," he'd say to her ma. What would he do now? She didn't know where they were driving, she was afraid to ask, but from the front passenger seat she knew this was not the way they'd come. Eventually she fell off in a half-sleep, resting her head on the shoulder seatbelt attached above her head, way too high for the eight-year-old girl.
Dudley drove silently, trying to decide what to do. He was going to leave Reba's daughter with his mother Petunia, but after that, what? He didn't want to raise her by himself; he'd talk his mother into it.
"Wake up, we're here." Rebecca hadn't really been sleeping, she couldn't; too much was uncertain. What would her father do? He had never taken much of an interest in her except when she directly affected him, like doing something that made him look bad. She'd learned that early, and was usually very quiet when around him. Why was she at her grandparent's house? Was her father planning to go to work today? They'd been up all night at the hospital. After several minutes of persistent knocking, Petunia answered the door.
"Dudley, what are you doing here? Its early."
"Reba died this morning, Mother."
"Oh, Dudley, I'm so sorry. Come in, you must be tired."
"I can't stay, I need to get home. Listen, can you take Rebecca for a while? I can't take care of her right now."
In retrospect, she should have known it would have happened. "A while" had turned into a month, a month into a year and grief for her mother had turned into anger and hurt towards her father. Today was her tenth birthday. Last year her father had sent her a card, no present, just a card, two weeks late. She thought maybe her grandmother had told him to, after waiting for him to send something. Nothing had come, and she had heard her on the telephone last week, crying and screaming. Rebecca had made herself scarce, but when the card finally came, she set fire to it on the back patio and watched it burn, carefully sweeping the ashes into her grandmother's perfect garden.
Today Petunia was happily bustling around the kitchen, singing to herself off-key. She said she had a surprise for her, but wouldn't tell her what it was, even after all Rebecca's pestering over breakfast. She was showing Rebecca how to make stars from strips of paper for decorations when someone knocked on the front door. "That must be the bakery with your cake. Could you get the door, pumpkin? I want to finish this star." Petunia's excitement had been contagious; so she jumped up and ran to the door, throwing it open without looking through the window first.
Why did he have to spoil her birthday? She was having so much fun with grandma, and then he had to show up. She felt betrayed, but then, she had never told grandma how angry she was at him. Grandma had thought she would be pleased to see her father, that it would be a treat on her special day. He sat fidgeting on the couch in the sitting room, waiting for her to open the present he had brought her. Uncomfortable under her cold stare, he shifted his gaze to her artwork hanging on the wall and commented on its nice wood frame. Remembering his card from last year, and her fire on the back patio, she wished she could do the same with this second token. Fondly picturing the warm glow the fire had made of the card, she smiled and stroked the package, imagining tongues of fire following her fingers across its bright paper. She had been only half listening to the babble of strangled conversation in the room, but now she noticed it had stopped, and as she realized that the fire her fingers had traced was real, she heard a frightened shriek and felt the package whisked away into the empty fireplace to burn itself out safely.