Danny was the only one who truly knew how bad Linda's parents were. He was the only one who excepted it- Wendy and Jimmy denied it, and the Reagans didn't know. And Linda intended to keep it that way.
But somehow her parents had come up in conversation one night at the Reagan dinner table. She tried so hard to get out of that conversation, and Danny had tried so hard to change subjects. That was the night Linda learned Frank and Henry couldn't let topics drop.
"So where are your parents?" Henry asked, buttering his bread.
"Where are they?" Linda wondered, bringing her hands to her lap. She was prepared to dig her nails into her palms, or jam a charm dangling from her bracelet into her palm.
"You never talk about them. So where are they?"
She swallowed, "they're busy with their jobs."
"What do they do?" Frank wondered.
"Mar—om, Mom," she fumbled and smiled awkwardly. Her voice was breathier suddenly, "Mom has two jobs, a hairdresser and a waitress in the evenings. And Dad's a xerox salesman. He... travels a lot."
"What's he like?"
"Um.... Eager," she said slowly, wishing this conversation would end.
Danny noticed her hand rub her arm where a dark ugly bruise hid under her long sleeves. "Hey, Erin, wasn't Tracey Laurent's Dad a computer salesman?"
"Who the hell is Tracey Laurent?" Erin looked up from her vegetables, only to be scolded by Mary for the language.
Danny described the imaginary Tracey, confusing everyone with each detail.
"That kinda sounds like Marianne Romano," Joe suggested, using his fork for gestures.
"Marianne Romano? No," Danny tried to deflect again, but Henry interrupted.
"Did you hurt yourself, Linda?"
She didn't realize she was rubbing her arm so intently. "Huh?"
"You keep touching your arm."
"Oh, um... I.. ran into the.. door," even she realized how lame it sounded.
"Why would you run into a door?" Jamie wanted to know.
She closed her eyes, balling her hands into fists. She suddenly wished she didn't rip off all her nails. "I wasn't paying attention."
Danny noticed her took her flower pendant in her fingers and moved it across her gold chain. A nervous tick, perhaps?
He missed the next few pieces of dialogue, and only tuned back in again to hear his father speak. He wished he didn't hear that.
"Whatever beef you have with your father, you need to fix it," Frank told Linda, and Mary hissed his name.
"Why?" Linda blurted, forgetting she wasn't supposed to have beef with her father.
"Because he's family."
Family doesn't hit you. Family doesn't push you into counters. Family doesn't punch you. Family doesn't punish you for over-cooking the damn steak.
Linda looked directly at Mary, "Mrs. Reagan? Can I be excused? I have a headache that is progressively getting worse."
"Of course. Do you need to lie down?"
"You can use my room," Danny offered, knowing she'd be more comfortable there.
"Thank you," she stood up, taking her plate. "Where should I put my plate?"
