The Love Children by Marylin French Read Free Book Online

wouldn’t understand.”
    â€œMaybe I would.”
    She lit a cigarette. “I’ll come home earlier, Jess. Will that help?”
    â€œI hope so. It’s going to be an awful Christmas if he’s like this.”
    â€œI’ll have a talk with him. Tomorrow. Before I leave, before he starts drinking. I’ll tell him how upset you are.”
    â€œDon’t put it all on me!”
    â€œHe has to see he’s distressing you. He’s distressing me too, but he wants to do that. I can’t believe he wants to distress you, though.”
    â€œOkay. But Christmas is a week from Sunday. Are we going to celebrate it?”
    She stared at me. For the first time, I saw how pale and strained her face was. I never thought my mother could be hurt. She had seemed impervious, impermeable, invulnerable.
    â€œWe should do something, shouldn’t we? Invite people.” She named some of her friends. “Okay? Want to invite Sandy and Bishop?”
    I began to feel a little better. My father didn’t act up in front of other people. It was against his code of manners. I’d already bought Mom and Dad their Christmas presents, and I’d bought a Hanukkah present for Sandy. I got a little thing, a toy car, for Bishop, as a joke Christmas gift, something small, because I was afraid he wouldn’t think to get me anything and I didn’t want to make him feel bad. It was nice having a little money, and working near the Square, near the Harvard Coop and all the other stores. I smiled. “Okay,” I said.

    My mother must have spoken to my father, because he wasn’t drunk when I got home the next day; he wasn’t even there. He came in at about six, crowing about the Monets in the Museum of Fine Arts. My parents had dragged me to museums when I was little, back when they did things together, so I knew the museum and those Monets. He was full of enthusiasm, but it seemed to be an act. It didn’t feel real. At least he wasn’t drunk—although the first thing he did when he walked into the house was pour a whiskey on the rocks. The next day, he went to the Isabella Gardner Museum, and then came home in a rage about the way things were organized there. The day after that, he went to the Fogg Museum and raved about the Rembrandts. I began to wonder if he had really gone to these museums, or if he was spending his days in a bar on Mass Ave.
    Mom did get home every day before me, and cooked dinner, just like the old days. Every afternoon, I found her standing there, smiling, in an apron, which was how I liked her most: safely tucked away in motherhood. I have to laugh at myself, looking back. Now I’m the one in the apron. We had delicious meals, and they slept in the same bed at night, and there were no quarrels that I heard. But the house was full of tension, and at times I wished I’d gone to Sandy’s after all. But I felt I’d made a bargain with Mom. She’d looked so hurt at the thought I’d leave.
    How had my powerful parents turned into these hurt birds? I didn’t like it; it made me feel like a big bad wolf.
    Christmas was nice, though. The Wednesday before Christmas Day, Dad brought home a tree, and the two of us decorated it, the way we used to when I was little. For Christmas dinner, Mom cooked a ham and roast beef and made scalloped potatoes, which I love, and lots of vegetables and everybody brought dessert.
    Mom had invited Sandy’s family—her parents, her two sisters, and her brother—although the Lipkins didn’t celebrate
Christmas. Only Sandy and her parents and her sister Naomi came—Naomi was twelve and cute—since her other sister and brother were in grad school. I liked them all a lot. The whole family was tall; the four of them looked funny getting out of their car, a Volvo, like clowns in the circus, one giant after another getting out of this little car.
    My parents had invited Annette and Ted