Let Them Talk

(Six)

"I stole his watch."

I'm sitting on the couch, Mom is collapsed into a chair, makeup blurred and slept in. Her legs are drawn up defensively against her stomach and the overstuffed cushions look like they're swallowing her.

"I...it's probably worth a few thousand. He won't make a big deal about it though." She smiles hollowly. "His wife makes more than he does. Can't risk a divorce, especially if he loses."

"Divorce? Over a watch?"

She flicks a hand, her dark circles heavier than eyeshadow. "It's the little things, I'm told."

"You know you don't have to do this. It's not the only option."

"I know I don't "have" to but I want to. We-"

"You could get a job. Even part time, and then we wouldn't have to steal. The payments from Dad would cover the rest."

"It's stealing, but only from husbands and fathers who rob their families of trust-- the food chain or some shit. 'Suburban Darwinism.'"

The toaster pings.

"I'm not leaving our fates in his hands," she says flatly, while I grab butter and a knife and a plate. "He's crazy."

(By "his" she means Kevin Hayes, father of yours truly)

Half a grapefruit goes next to the toast, wrap the other half in plastic and put it back in the fridge. Arrange properly, grab a spoon, walk back to the living room.

"I have my moments, too, I know, but he's the whole show. The freakshow, I mean."

I set the plate down, and resume my position on the couch. She takes the spoon and slices into the fruit methodically; dividing it into halves, then quarters.

"I went to Dartmouth," she mumbles a few minutes later, tearing off a corner of the toast.

"I know."

"Fuck." Tears, held back with practiced difficulty.

"It's not that bad."

She crooks an eyebrow, not looking up from the plate. "It's pathetic-- too horrible for real love? Get it from me instead- I'll take your wallet, your credit card, or both."

"Well, like I said, it could be worse."

"It would be worse," she snaps, "but we live in a good area. They aren't expecting it to be like in the cities."

She makes it halfway through the grapefruit without talking and then sets the plate down, looking nauseous. A few seconds pass, then, "His wife is visiting relatives."

"So?"

She unfolds herself from the chair, walks toward the hallway. "So I'll be there until they get back." The curtains rattle open in the dining room, midmorning light spilling over the sill and onto the floor tiles.

"It'll be four or five days, maybe. I'll text you."

"Okay."

"Do you want me to send to to stay with someone?"

"No, that's-- it's okay. I'll be fine on my own."

She smiles weakly, and clenches her fist around the watch until the links grind.

"Thank you, Joss."

***

When my alarm goes off and I pad downstairs to pull on a jacket, the red numbers of the clock whir in front of my face like a countdown.