I let it go, just like we did with Gordon. When Richard came home, he told me the main church service was disrupted by loud laughter from the youth group’s classroom. Coop even came in to apologize. “Why were they laughing so loudly?” I asked. “Not sure. Cooper just has a way with kids.” Richard went to his chair and prepared for a long afternoon of football. I looked around for Matthew and Gordon and found them heading out the door. “Oh, no you don’t,” I said, and the boys stopped. “What?” “You stayed home sick from church, Matthew. That means you stay home sick period.” “That’s bullshit!” They opened the door. I reached over and slammed it shut. “What did you just say?” “Nothing.” “I know what you said.” “Then why did you ask?” Richard came and stood beside me. “Both of you get up to your rooms right now.” “No.” Richard grabbed Matthew by his arm and pulled him forward. Matthew winced as Richard’s grip tightened and I saw a flash of rage that compelled me to intervene. “Boys,” I said. “Go upstairs.” I held my breath, convinced Matthew was going to continue his On Sunday morning, Matthew said he was too sick to go to church, and I stayed home with him. Gordon threw an uncharacteristic fit, saying it wasn’t fair, and demanding to stay home too. Not atypical behavior for a younger brother, maybe, but unusual for him. “I thought you liked going to church,” I said as the three of us ate breakfast. “You know I hate it as much as you do,” Gordon said. “I don’t hate— ” “Yeah, right,” he said, earning a sharp rebuke from Richard, who ordered him to get ready. Gordon walked out, but when it came time to leave, we found him still in his t-shirt and shorts. He sulked like a three-year-old. I watched my husband and youngest son exchanging defiant glares. Richard’s fingers tapped his belt buckle with all the anticipation of a Western gunslinger about to draw. For a moment, Gordon seemed determined to earn a whipping. Then he laughed and sprang up off the bed, dressing with the utmost cheer. Twenty minutes after they left, Matthew’s fever broke and he seemed fine, demanding breakfast and eating it with an obnoxious smacking of his lips. “That’s disgusting,” I said. “I was just imitating the sound of the water, Mom.” I squeezed my eyes shut a moment. I had to be hallucinating. “What did you say?” “I said: what’s the matter, Mom?” I let out a long breath. “It’s not polite to smack your lips.” “Oh,” he said, nodding, and began chewing with exaggerated daintiness as he stared at me. No. 118 disobedience and provoke Richard into doing something terrible, but he marched off to his room and Gordon followed. Their bedroom doors shut without slamming and the house became quiet. Richard’s face remained bright red. “You okay?” “I swear to God, my father would have gone and cut a switch,” he said. “They don’t need to be whipped!” “I don’t see why not. It always straightened my ass out real fast.” “They’re just acting up because they’re in a new place.” “It’s been three months. That’s not new to a kid.” “School’s starting. They’ve got a lot of anxiety to let out and we’re safe targets.” “I’ll change their minds about that quick if they pull shit like this again.” Richard was acting a little too eager for my tastes and it bothered me so much I just walked away. I took a head full of excuses with me. The boys were having trouble adjusting; they were discovering girls; they were becoming teenagers and starting to rebel a little. Before I even reached the kitchen though, I found each possible reason falling away like a poor mask. Something was wrong. Tension settled over our house. Monday morning, I watched my sons eat. The only sound was the crunch of cereal and the rustle of the newspaper, that soft domestic curtain every husband and father hides behind at breakfast. Sometimes Richard would chuckle and say something like, “Mondale’s still bitching,” or “How in the hell can the Giants be worse than the Braves?” But this morning he stayed silent and I began to think he was somehow seeing through the ART BY XANDER SMITH
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