hadn’t slipped on the ice and broken a leg, wasn’t freezing to death in a
field. But he didn’t come.
Twenty minutes later, when Emily finally stopped shaking, Dad
picked up the phone. “Come get your wife!” he shouted into it. Mother
was cradling Emily’s head against her shoulder. Dad returned to the
sofa and patted Emily’s arm. As I stared at the three of them huddling
together, I had the impression that all of this had happened before,
and that everyone’s part was well rehearsed. Even mine.
It would be many years before I would understand what had
happened that night, and what my role in it had been. How I had
opened my mouth when I should have stayed silent, and shut it when I
should have spoken out. What was needed was a revolution, a reversal
of the ancient, brittle roles we’d been playing out since my childhood.
What was needed—what Emily needed—was a woman emancipated
from pretense, a woman who could show herself to be a man. Voice an
opinion. Take action in scorn of deference. A father.
The French doors my father had installed squawked as they opened.
Shawn shuffled in wearing heavy boots and a thick winter coat. Peter
emerged from the folds of thick wool, where Shawn had been shielding
him from the cold, and reached out for Emily. She clung to him. Dad
stood. He motioned for Shawn to take the seat next to Emily. I stood
and went to my room, pausing to take a last look at my father, who was
inhaling deeply, readying himself to deliver a lengthy lecture.
“It was very stern,” Mother assured me twenty minutes later, when
she appeared at my door asking if I could lend Emily a pair of shoes
and a coat. I fetched them and watched from the kitchen as she
disappeared, tucked under my brother’s arm.