Because They Wanted To: Stories by Mary Gaitskill Read Free Book Online Page B

would be resting on the floor, and their father would bend over to look the cat in the face and he would sing: “Six foot, seven foot, eight foot—bunch! Daylight come and Blue wants to go home!”
    Rick despised it when their father did that, and would imitate him viciously. Elise defended their father and reminded Rick that he had been in Vietnam, where he’d risked his life and fought.
    “Yeah,” said Rick. “The retards are strong.”
    This was the thing he said when somebody who was ugly or unpopular did something smart. He could say that and take anything away from anybody. When she was younger, it hurt her to hear Rick talk about their father this way. But when she got older, she saw what he’d meant; their father was kind of a retard. She remembered him at the dinner table, yelling.
    “You think you’re such a bunch of smart, tough feminists!” he yelled. “But you don’t know anything! About men, about sex!” He grabbed the edge of the table and lunged over his dish. “There’s guys out there who would cut your bowels out to have it!”
    Elise looked at Rick and rolled her eyes. Becky, who was fourteen, began to cry. “See!” said their father. “The big feminist! Crying!” But his voice wobbled on the second exclamation, as if it was embarrassed,and his last word was almost sorry about the whole thing. He withdrew into his chair, wiped his mouth, and ate with the slightly offended air of someone who just wants to mind his own business.
    If Sandy had been there, he would never have said those things. But she was at a codependency meeting, which was why he was in a bad mood to begin with.
    Elise looked at Becky so she would see that Elise didn’t look down on her for crying, but Becky was busy composing herself and didn’t notice. Elise was angry and disgusted that their father had made Becky cry when he had actually been yelling at Elise for talking about a woman on TV who’d been saying that if girls wanted to dress like prostitutes, they should learn to act like prostitutes. Becky sniffed, tucked her fine red hair behind her ears, and took up her silverware with the delicate resolve of a young cat. Elise furtively tried to meet her brother’s eye so he would see how contemptuous she felt, but Rick was too deep in his own special contempt to respond. He stroked his dyed black hair and fidgeted disdainfully as if trying to locate some small spot worth being in, even though he knew such a spot didn’t exist, at least not among these people. One cuff of his angora sweater slid down over one long, severely articulated hand, adding to the exquisite quality of his disdain. Elise felt a pang of admiration for him. She felt dejected that he wouldn’t look at her, but she didn’t blame him. He was seventeen, and not necessarily interested in looks across the dining table, and anyway, if she were as beautiful as Rick, she thought, she’d be stuck-up too.
    The next day Elise was watching TV with Becky and Rick when their father walked through the room in a state of mild, enchanted absence. He looked as if he were in a private landscape, a place of secret relief only he knew about. He passed Becky, and as he did, he reached out and, with one finger, playfully stroked the bridge of her nose and said, “Ski nose! Ski nose!” She giggled and forgave him. He patted her shoulder and moved on. Elise had boiled with anger.
    Andy and Eric ran around the room, happily screaming. Andy waved the knotted leather cord and banged the marble balls together. Eric beat the cymbal with a colored rock. Their energy unspooled crazily and spilled all over the room. Andy ran up to Elise like a kitten dancing around a cat. He held up the banging balls andgave a shrill little scream and hopped around. Eric looked on. Elise smiled uncertainly. She wanted to answer their excitement, but she felt too big and stiff. She couldn’t remember that kind of excitement and was tentative and vulnerable before it. The boys ran to the