She drinks too much and has no children. She
swears frivolously-- "Where did my fucking
glass go?"-- and I am nearly always glancing
at the children to see if they heard her. Mother
and Father didn't raise us this way.

It's a shame, and we all feel it.

The four of us and the children and Sister sit
at the dinner table for a few weeks during
summer. All of us were assigned a job in youth,
and to this day Neddy does the barbecue,
Geoffrey arranges drinks and Davy invents a
salad dressing. Sister does nothing, and when
we sit down to eat, she smokes through the
prayer and complains of her sunburn.

We keep up a boisterous conversation to avoid
thinking unfavorably of her. When the plates are
collected and the women take their coffee cups
outside, I start to relax and think of transferring
myself to the den. At this point every night I
stare ahead blankly, and wonder by what means
I am compelled to do things that I'll forget.


Index