"It's not so bad," she said. Between each toe touch, she was reaching up
into the air.
"We haven't had anything to eat but popcorn for three days," I said.
"You're always so negative," she said. "You remind me of my mother—
criticize, criticize, criticize."
"I'm not being negative," I said. "I'm trying to be realistic."
"I'm doing the best I can under the circumstances," she said. "How come
you never blame your father for anything? He's no saint, you know."
"I know," I said. I ran a finger along the edge of the desk. Dad was
always parking his cigarettes there, and it was ribbed with a row of black
cigarette burns, like a decorative border. "Mom, you have to leave Dad,"
I said.
She stopped doing her toe touches. "I can't believe you would say that,"
she said. "I can't believe that you, of all people, would turn on your
father." I was Dad's last defender, she continued, the only one who
pretended to believe all his excuses and tales, and to have faith in his
plans for the future. "He loves you so much," Mom said. "How can you
do this to him?"
"I don't blame Dad," I said. And I didn't. But Dad seemed hell-bent on
destroying himself, and I was afraid he was going to pull us all down
with him. "We've got to get away."
"But I can't leave your father!" she said.
I told Mom that if she left Dad, she'd be eligible for government aid,
which she couldn't get now because she had an able-bodied husband.
Some people at school—not to mention half the people on Little Hobart