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Sidney made his little slurping sounds. Tad and I stared into the fire. As he leaned against me, Tad sighed, a long, deep sigh.

“You have to let people do what they will,” my father said. “In letting them go, you bind them to you. That was my mistake. I thought that if I held her to me by marrying her, she'd be mine forever. It doesn't work that way.”

My father was not a person who often let his children or anyone else see inside his heart. We were afraid to move, to break the spell. A log popped and scattered sparks on the hearth and over onto the rug. We scrambled up to kick the sparks back inside the fireplace. When we sat down again, it was too late.

“Well,” my father said, “time to get back to work.” He left us there, the boys and me. I felt very old. I wondered what he would have said if the log hadn't popped. What secrets would he have told us?

Tad said, “Read us a Curious George, Sky?” and I said I would.

“What happened at the end?” Sidney said. His eyelids were drooping. He was almost asleep.

“I haven't read the story yet, dopey,” I told him.

“No,” he said. “I mean what happened at the end of Daddy's story?”

“I don't know,” I said.

12

My mother's been gone six days now. Almost a week. Only eight more days until she comes home.

“Is Mama coming home with him?” Tad asked me. He meant Angus.

“I don't know,” I said. Which was true. Tad shot me a wary glance out of his unblinking eyes. He thought I was lying. I can always tell when Tad thinks I'm lying. There's something about that wary look of his that makes you think you might be lying even when you know you're telling the truth.

Pamela's coming for supper again tonight. I think she invites herself. I don't think my father wants her to come that often. “How come she doesn't ask you to her house for supper?” I asked my father. “How come she doesn't ask us all to her house? She always comes here.” I try not to let my father know how I feel about Pamela. I think I do a pretty good job of concealing my feelings. It's not easy.

“Pamela is probably the world's worst cook,” my father said.

“Well, then,” I said, “why doesn't she learn? She could go to cooking school.” She's lazy. That's why she doesn't learn how to cook.

I read the boys a story every night before they go to bed. Their favorite is Curious George. They like the one about Curious George having a paper route. He folds the papers into the shape of a little boat. Then he sails the paper boats on a pond. The book has a little diagram showing how to fold papers into boats. Now Tad can hardly wait until he has a paper route. His customers will have to get used to having their papers delivered in boat form, I guess. Also, Sidney thinks it'd be neat if my mother brought him a monkey instead of a little alligator. I forgot to mention that Curious George is a monkey. Sidney thinks we should call up my mother in Africa so he can change his order.

“I could feed him bananas,” Sidney said, talking around his thumb. Try talking with your thumb in your mouth if you want to know what Sidney sounds like. Either a Russian or a Chinese. Take your pick.

“That's what monkeys eat, bananas,” Sidney said. “I could take him to show-and-tell. I think a monkey'd be more fun than an alligator. What do you think?” He leaned on my knee and looked up at me, his little face so serious. Sidney cracks me up. He really does.

“Well,” I said, “a monkey's more like a person than an alligator. If you want a pet that's like a person, I guess a monkey would be a good idea.”

“He could wear my pants when I grow out of them,” Sidney said. “And my pajamas. And my sneakers. And my underwear. And my …”

Once started, there was no stopping him. He darted back and forth to his bedroom, carrying armloads of his clothes, which he stacked in a towering pile.

My father looked on, bemused, as Sidney stuffed all his belongings into a shopping bag.

“Sidney, you're too young to go away for the weekend,” my father said. “Put that stuff back until you get a little older. Put it back until your mother gets home. She can handle this. I've got Plotsie into a situation that neither he nor I seem to be able to get out of. And I've got supper to get. My mind is befuddled.”

“Do you
like
being a father?” Sidney asked, after some thought.

My father said of course he did. “I just wondered,” Sidney said.

“You want me to fix supper?” I asked.

“No,” my father said.”I can handle it. But thanks anyway.” My specialty is spaghetti with clam sauce. We've had it quite a lot since my mother went away. Last time I added some hot pepper flakes to jazz it up. Those little flakes don't look like much, but do they ever pack a wallop! Dad and the boys choked and coughed and carried on. I finished all mine. It brought tears to-my eyes, but I wasn't going to admit defeat

Tad tugged at my sleeve. “I've got something to show you,” he said.

“Is it a secret or can you show it to me here?”

My father was checking the refrigerator, and Sidney was off in his room, humming loudly, opening and closing drawers. We were alone. Tad opened his mouth. “See. Another one.” He waggled his front tooth with his tongue.

“Can I feel?” I said. He nodded.

“It's hardly loose at all. You won't be losing that one for a while,” I reassured him. “Probably not until after Mama gets home.”

“You think so?” Tad said anxiously. “If it comes out and I put it under my pillow, somebody might take it.” Tad gave me a dark look. “This time if he lays a finger on it, he's gonna get it. Pow!” The flow of words stopped, but from the fierce glint in his eye, I knew he meant what he said. Sidney had better not flush this one down the toilet

“We'll figure out something, Tad,” I said, patting him. “Don't worry.”

Sidney showed up, huffing and puffing, dragging an old ski jacket with a zipper that didn't work. “He can have this,” he said. “For when it gets cold.”

“This is going to be the best-dressed monkey in the whole State of Maine,” I told him.

You'd think as long as Pamela comes to our house so often for supper she'd bring something. A deck of cards or a candy bar. Something. She has never once brought us anything. Some people grow on you. You don't like them at first but you get to like them when you know them better. Pamela is just the opposite. I liked her all right at first, but she's been going downhill steadily ever since. I decided to give her one last chance to win my heart. I opened the drawers we kept the knives and forks in and left them open. So she'd have no trouble finding them after she asked what she could do to help, and I said, “Set the table,” and then she couldn't possibly come back with “Where do you keep the knives and forks?” because they'd be sitting there, staring out at her. With people like Pamela, you have to stay one step ahead all the time. Lazy people will do almost anything to get out of doing things. I hate lazies.

At last I heard a car outside. It was Pamela. Right on time, probably suffering from hunger pains. Sidney had just discovered an old coloring book. Each page bore a big slash of color across the pictures he was supposed to color. Just one big slash.

“Look at this,” he commanded, showing it to me. “I must've did this when I was just a little baby.” His voice was loaded with scorn. He tossed the coloring book into his shopping bag along with his discarded clothing intended for his monkey and staggered around the room, looking like a helper from the Salvation Army.

“Hi, ducks!” Pamela greeted us. “I brought you a pressy.” What do you know.

The boys descended upon her, shouting, “What is it?” forgetting, for the moment, that she wasn't their favorite person. She had brought us a half gallon of ice cream. The cheap kind, I'm sorry to say, the kind that has more air and ice in it than cream. I know that's looking a gift horse in the mouth, but it's true. She must've leaned into the frozen food compartment and thought, Those little monsters will never know the difference. She was wrong. I knew.

“Thank you,” I said.

“What kind is it?” Tad asked.

“Why, Tad,” Pamela cooed, “can't you read that? A big boy like you. See, that's a C, then that's an H,” and so on, giving Tad a spelling lesson that humiliated him and made him clamp his mouth shut as tight as any clam.

I kept waiting for Pamela to say, “What can I do to help?” in that special voice of hers. She didn't say it. She sat on one of the kitchen stools watching my father cook supper.

“How long till we eat, Dad?” I said.

“Not long. Ten, fifteen minutes.”

I looked over at her. She was drinking sherry out of one of my mother's good glasses, swinging her foot, admiring her knees. I could tell setting the table was far from her thoughts.

What would my mother do? I wondered. Would she outwait Pamela, then, when the food was ready, spring into action, pretending she'd forgotten to set the table? Or would she simply say, “Here are the knives and forks. Go to it.”

I decided my mother would take the direct approach. She usually does. “Here, Pam,” I said, handing over the utensils. She'd told me to call her by her first name. I guess she thought that would make us friends. Also closer in age.

“Go to it,” I said, smiling at her. “Pam.”

Slowly, very slowly, she put down her glass and said “Why, of course, dear. I'd be glad to help. All you had to do was ask me.” She uncrossed her legs, slid her bottom off the stool, and stood there, waiting, no doubt, for my father to say, “You do it, Sky. Pam's a guest,” as he had on several occasions. This time he was silent The boys watched as she laid out the knives and forks and spoons, lining them up as carefully as if she'd been a waitress at a classy restaurant.

I went into the bathroom, locked the door, and sat on the hard edge of the tub, smiling to myself. Then I turned on the cold water and washed my face hard, to bring myself into line. I laughed until I cried.

13

A light, cold rain was falling Monday morning when Nell and I met at the bus stop.

“Where's everybody?” I said. We were the only ones there. Tad had a cold and Sidney too. “Where's your brothers?” I asked Nell.

“Down with nothing,” she said. “Watching TV all day long. She said they could stay home. She lets them get away with murder. Because they're boys.” She shot a glance at me. “Mothers favor boys. I bet your mother does the same.”

“No,” I said truthfully. “She doesn't.”

“Baloney. That's your story. If it was me, I'd have to be dying before she'd let me stay home from school. She's soft in the head when it comes to the boys. You can't tell me your mother's not the same.”

I could tell by Nell's voice that this was one of her ornery days. Likely she'd contradict everything I said. She got like that.

I decided to change the subject. “Seems like spring will never come,” I said brightly. “Blink your eyes and you miss it entirely.”

“I'm hot.” Nell flapped her coat in the stiff breeze blowing from the harbor. “I'm boiling.” The gray sky hung down so low I was sure I could touch it, puncture it, bring down torrents on my head. The rain would turn to snow before long; the damp seeped into every opening it could find.

“I seen worse weather'n this plenty of times,” she said. “Why, where we lived before, we had blizzards that could make you cry out with the cold. Temperature was down around thirty below, stayed there all winter. This is nothing.”

“Winds get so strong around these parts,” I countered, “they make your eyeballs jangle, they're so bitter.” When it comes to one-upmanship with the weather, I'm a pro. Maine people like to talk about the weather. We figure as long as we're stuck with it, we might as well turn it into something to brag about—its awfulness, its severity. “I've seen storms,” I told Nell, “where it hails and snows, thunders and lightnings all at the same time.”

“All mothers are soft on boys.” Nell ignored the weather and took up where she'd left off. “They just naturally take to sons more'n daughters.” Her face was pinched and blue, and she stamped her feet in their raggedy sneakers to keep the blood going.

“My mother doesn't,” I repeated.

“How would you know? She's never around for you to find out.” When Nell was mean, her nose and chin got very pointed, almost like a witch's, and her eyes glittered in a special way.

“That's mean and it's not true,” I said, trying to keep my voice under control. “I'd say you got out the wrong side of the bed this morning.” I turned my back on her. I didn't have to listen to that guff.

“When I grow up”—Nell's voice changed, became soft and almost dreamy—“I'm not having any kids. You won't catch me being a mother. No siree.”

She had a way of saying something outlandish one minute, something meant to shock or offend; then next minute she'd switch and say something to pull you back, almost like a fisherman with a fish on his line. Reel it out, let it struggle, try to work free, then deliberately reel it back in when it was almost gone. I turned halfway back to her, trying to see her face. She had pulled up her coat collar, and it shielded her face from me.

“Why not?” I had to ask.

“Who wants to be tied down?” she said in her old, fierce way. “You get yourself a mess of kids, you're saddled for life. Can't have any fun, always broke from buying shoes and medicine. Then they have the bellyache and keep you up all night, plus you have to take 'em to the doctor for shots and all, and that costs plenty. Kids are more trouble than they're worth, my ma says. She looks straight at me when she says it, too. There's lots of females in this world should never have kids.” She fixed me with an icy stare.

“I suppose,” I said, wanting her to continue, not sure of what she said.