Mom rarely got angry. She was usually either singing or crying, but now
her face twisted up with fury. We both knew I had crossed a line, but I
didn't care. I'd also changed over the summer.
"How dare you?" she shouted. "You're in trouble now—big trouble. I'm
telling your dad. Just you wait until he comes home."
Mom's threat didn't worry me. The way I saw it, Dad owed me. I'd
looked after his kids all summer, I'd kept him in beer and cigarette
money, and I'd helped him fleece that miner Robbie. I figured I had Dad
in my back pocket.
When I got home from school that afternoon, Mom was still curled up on
the sofa bed, a small pile of paperbacks next to her. Dad was sitting at
the drafting table, rolling a cigarette. He beckoned to me to follow him
into the kitchen. Mom watched us go.
Dad closed the door and looked at me gravely. "Your mother claims you
back-talked her."
"Yes," I said. "It's true."
"Yes, sir," he corrected me, but I didn't say anything.
"I'm disappointed in you," he went on. "You know damn good and well
that you are to respect your parents."
"Dad, Mom's not sick, she's playing hooky," I said. "She has to take her
obligations more seriously. She has to grow up a little."
"Who do you think you are?" he asked. "She's your mother."
"Then why doesn't she act like one?" I looked at Dad for what felt like a
very long moment. Then I blurted out. "And why don't you act like a
dad?"