desperate around the house that we didn't have anything to eat except
margarine, and now that was gone, too. She was sick, she said, of Dad's
ridiculous dreams and his stupid plans and his empty promises.
I turned to Lori, who was reading a book. "Tell them that we like eating
margarine," I said. "Then maybe they'll stop fighting."
Lori shook her head. "That'll make Mom think we're taking Dad's side,"
she said. "It would only make it worse. Let them work it out."
I knew Lori was right. The only thing to do when Mom and Dad fought
was to pretend it wasn't happening or act like it didn't matter. Pretty soon
they'd be friends again, kissing and dancing in each other's arms. But this
particular argument just would not stop. After going on about the
margarine, they started fighting about whether or not some painting
Mom had done was ugly. Then they argued about whose fault it was that
we lived like we did. Mom told Dad he should get another job. Dad said
that if Mom wanted someone in the family to be punching a time clock,
then she could get a job. She had a teaching degree, he pointed out. She
could work instead of sitting around on her butt all day painting pictures
no one ever wanted to buy.
"Van Gogh didn't sell any paintings, either," Mom said. "I'm an artist!"
"Fine," Dad said. "Then quit your damned bellyaching. Or go peddle
your ass at the Green Lantern."
Mom and Dad's shouting was so loud that you could hear it throughout
the neighborhood. Lori, Brian, and I looked at one another. Brian nodded
at the front door, and we all went outside and started making sand castles
for scorpions. We figured that if we were all in the yard acting like the
fighting was no big deal, maybe the neighbors would feel the same way.
But as the screaming continued, neighbors started gathering on the