street. Some were simply curious. Moms and dads got into arguments all
the time in Battle Mountain, so it didn't seem that big a deal, but this
fight was raucous even by local standards, and some people thought they
should step in and break it up. "Aw, let 'em work out their differences,"
one of the men said. "No one's got a right to interfere." So they leaned
back against car fenders and fence posts, or sat on pickup tailgates, as if
they were at a rodeo.
Suddenly, one of Mom's oil paintings came flying through an upstairs
window. Next came her easel. The crowd below scurried back to avoid
getting hit. Then Mom's feet appeared in the window, followed by the
rest of her body. She was dangling from the second floor, her legs
swinging wildly. Dad was holding her by the arms while she tried to hit
him in the face.
"Help!" Mom screamed. "He's trying to kill me!"
"Goddammit, Rose Mary, get back in here!" Dad said.
"Don't hurt her!" Lori yelled.
Mom was swinging back and forth. Her yellow cotton dress had gotten
bunched up around her waist, and the crowd could see her white
underwear. They were sort of old and baggy, and I was afraid they might
fall off altogether. Some of the grown-ups called out, worried that Mom
might fall, but one group of kids thought Mom looked like a chimpanzee
swinging from a tree, and they began making monkey noises and
scratching their armpits and laughing. Brian's face turned dark and his
fists clenched up. I felt like punching them, too, but I pulled Brian back.
Mom was thrashing around so hard that her shoes fell off. It looked like
she might slip from Dad's grasp or pull him out the window. Lori turned
to Brian and me. "Come on." We ran inside and up the stairs and held on
to Dad's legs so that Mom's weight wouldn't drag him through the