Freaky Green Eyes (3 page)

Samantha nodded quickly. “Yes, Daddy.” Probably she hadn't any idea what we were talking about. She was a dreamy ten-year-old with a sweet, shy disposition and beautiful dark eyes no one would ever call
freaky
. Through dinner she'd been quieter than usual. I guessed she was missing Mom, and she was aware of poor Rabbit whining and lonely in another part of the house.

Dad was urging us to have more of the “delicious food.” Samantha protested faintly, but Dad ignored her, spearing pieces and dropping them onto her plate. And there was so much shrimp fried rice, and sesame noodles that were stone cold and sort of squirmy-greasy, I hoped Dad wouldn't make me eat more—I was on the verge of gagging. As usual, Todd had a hearty appetite. He worked out hours every day, so he needed carbohydrates and protein to build up muscle. But I was a finicky eater, and Samantha never ate much at one sitting. I had thought I was
fairly hungry when I sat down at the table, but the sugary, gluey Chinese specialties filled me up fast. “This is our celebratory banquet, girls. Your mother couldn't make it but we made it, didn't we! We are not going to waste any of this delicious food.” I was tempted to ask why we couldn't save some of it for tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, but I knew better; Dad did not appreciate “smart-aleck” commentary. So I said, “My favorites are the black mushrooms.” And I took another serving of mushrooms, on a small mound of brown rice. Samantha, who wasn't so quick or canny, stared in dismay at the platter Dad was pushing at her. When she hesitated, biting her lip, Dad spooned more of the sweet Szechwan pork onto her plate, and the sweeter lemon chicken, which tasted like candy meat. Samantha looked as if she was about to cry.

Todd usually ignored both his sisters, but he seemed to take pity on Samantha now and deflected Dad's interest to the boxing match. “Dad, look! Wow.” The black boxer was firing blows at his opponent,
forcing the Hispanic boxer backward across the ring. Suddenly then the Hispanic boxer was down, flat on his back on the brightly lighted canvas. The referee stood over him counting in an eerie silence: Dad had turned the volume down. Dad said, “Looks like a knockout. Well done.”

While Dad was watching the screen, I began clearing away some of our plates. Deftly I eased Samantha's plate away and carried it with others into the kitchen, and Dad never noticed.

I ran water in the sink to rinse the dishes before putting them into the dishwasher. I took advantage of being out of the family room by running to check on Rabbit, who was frantic with loneliness in my bedroom. “Poor Rabbit! I'm so, so sorry. But you'll be let out soon, I promise.” (I'd overheard Dad making plans on his cell phone before dinner, and knew that he was going out for a “nightcap” later in the evening.) Rabbit licked my hands, wriggling his tail like crazy. I thought how sad it was to be a dog, a dumb animal, and not understand that the
person you love most in the world, which in this case was my mother, was actually going to come back to you.

Dad's celebratory banquet had to be complete, with fortune cookies and ice cream. Heaping bowls of fudge ripple and butter crunch. When I returned to the family room with our bowls on a tray, the telephone began to ring. It had to be Mom.

We waited for Dad to answer. Todd scratched nervously at his neck. But Dad ignored the ringing phone, watching slow-motion replays of the knockout on TV. Finally after three or four rings I made a move to pick up the receiver, but Dad shook his finger at me without turning. “Fran-ces-ca. Where are your manners? No phone calls during meals.”

“But, Dad, it might be—”

“—might be Mom.”

Samantha and I spoke at once.

Dad set his jaws in a way he had that meant the subject was closed. He said nothing, continuing to watch TV as the phone rang another time, then
clicked off into voice mail, which we couldn't hear.

I was feeling anxious, jumpy. I just knew it was Mom. And I wondered what she'd be thinking. I wondered what message she would leave. (“Sorry to miss you. Maybe you're all out at the House of Ming? Well, I'll try again later. Love you!”)

I expected the boxing program to end, but the replays continued, from different angles including overhead. The Hispanic boxer's right eye was swollen shut, and his face was shining with blood. It was terrible; the close-ups spared nothing. Not only was this twenty-two-year-old boxer hurt, he was being humiliated.

Samantha was staring toward the telephone, looking faintly sick.

Todd said suddenly, “Dad, maybe I could try boxing? With a team, there's all these other guys getting in the way.”

Dad said, “You? Boxing? You're too slow, son. You're built for football, like your old man.”

“I thought you said I was a heavyweight. . . .”

“But you don't have the skills, Todd. Or the reflexes or the drive. Those boxers are hungry to win—they're killers. Your life has been too soft. You're a suburban white kid.” It was like Dad to suddenly turn on one of us, as if all along he'd been playing some sort of game, pretending to think we were great. The way he said “suburban white kid” made me shiver.

“Anyway,” Dad continued, “you're too old to be trained as a boxer, son.”

“Dad, I'm just
twenty
!”

“That's what I said, too old. Boxers start training at fourteen or fifteen. Or younger.”

“I could learn,” Todd said stubbornly. “I bet I could.”

It wasn't a smart move to argue with Dad on any subject, especially sports. Why Todd persisted I don't know. Dad said, “You don't have the killer instinct, Todd. Even mediocre boxers have to have it. Football's different—it's guys on a team. Like brothers.” Dad's voice took on a faint, unnerving jeer. “Basically, football
is a game.”

I would wonder at this remark afterward. Didn't Dad love football, hadn't football been his life? Yet now he seemed to be disparaging it for being only a game.

Todd swallowed a large mouthful of beer. His face was flushed and sulky. Dad took notice of this, laughed, and squeezed Todd's left biceps with approval. “You're in great condition, son, I'm proud of you. Next fall, things are going to happen in your life, I predict.”

Todd mumbled. “Sure, Dad.”

“Boxing isn't for boys from Yarrow Heights. I wouldn't allow you to step into the ring. Know why?”

Todd shrugged. “Why?”

“Because I'm your dad, and I love you.”

I'm your dad, and I love you
.

Dad turned to Samantha and me, who were looking wistfully on.

“Franky-girl, Sam-Sam: your daddy loves you, too. When you're good girls, not naughty.”

We laughed as if we'd been tickled. Almost, I could feel Daddy's strong fingers running up and down my ribs making me squeal with laughter.

For Daddy had not disciplined either of us in some time. You could almost forget there'd been such a time.

Fortune cookies! One by one we broke them open, and read aloud our fortunes with Dad as an audience.

Todd went first. In a high nasal voice meant to mock a Chinese accent, he read: “‘Someone who admires you is waiting to be discovered.'” He shrugged, pretending indifference. “That's cool.”

Dad said, miming Chinese sagacity, “Time will tell!”

Samantha broke open her cookie and squinted at the tiny red print. “‘You bring joy and contentment to all.'” She ducked her head shyly.

Dad said, “That's our Sam-Sam. Somebody's got your number.”

My fortune was: “‘A calm mind restores calm.'” In a louder voice I reread: “‘A calm mind bestows calm.' Not much of a fortune!”

Dad said severely, “But wise. Somebody's got your number, Fran-ces-ca.”

What did this mean? Did Dad think of me as a troublemaker?

For a paranoid moment I wondered if Dad had planted that fortune in my cookie, to rebuke me. Maybe he sensed Freaky Green Eyes roiling in my heart.
He knows he can't control Freaky
.

The way Dad was looking at me, as if I wasn't his daughter but some impudent red-haired stranger he was sizing up . . .

But Freaky isn't real, I wanted to tell my father. Freaky is just an idea.

Dad broke open his fortune cookie last, and read his fortune in a booming TV voice. “‘You will cross a wide water.'” He paused, pondering what this might mean. Then he smiled. “Of course! The Pacific Ocean. And the Atlantic. Round-the-world coverage
with Reid Pierson and associates. Perfect.”

I saw a lone cookie remaining on the plate. Mom's.

Our usual order from the House of Ming was for five people, so they'd sent over five fortune cookies.

Samantha naively pointed at the cookie, just discovering it.

“That's Mom's. We can save it for her.”

Dad snatched the cookie up. He was making an effort to smile.

“No, Sam-Sam. In your mother's absence, an emissary will read it for her.”

Dad tore off the cellophane wrapper, broke the cookie in two, drew out the little fortune, and read, in his TV voice: “‘You will—cross a wide water.'” There was a pause. Todd and I exchanged a nervous glance, the first rapport we'd had in a long time. A strange expression came over our father's face as if he'd been insulted, or maybe it was only a joke—an audience was watching him keenly to see how he would react. He laughed. “Well! A coincidence.
Must be the fortune-teller has run out of original ideas, we're into reruns. Your mother and I have the identical fortune, it seems. But we won't have the identical future.” Dad broke the cookie into several pieces and ate it, slowly.

We all ate our cookies, which were slightly stale and hadn't much taste.

Something is going to happen.

The worst you can think, regarding your parents: something has already happened. What?

That night. I lie awake listening.

No. I am not listening. It's thunder, pelting rain. Mixed with my dreams.

In another part of the house. Muffled, through the walls. A raised voice. Dad's voice. Controlled, reasonable.
Why can't you, why won't you, I'm warning you
. The words are indistinct, but the rhythm of the voice is unmistakable.

The second voice, the weaker voice. High-pitched, a woman's voice. I feel scorn for it. The deeper voice rolls over it, obliterates it. Like thunder rolling across the sky.

I'm awake, sitting up in bed. Kicking at the covers. It was nothing, only thunder. Now rain is pelting against my windows. Where I left a window partly open, rain is being blown inside, wetting papers strewn across my desk.

It was nothing. Only thunder
.

In the bathroom mirror Freaky Green Eyes glares at me. I feel a crazy urge to claw at those eyes.

In the morning Samantha came shyly into my room. I looked up, surprised to see her. My room is off-limits, this time of morning. I'm half dressed, brushing at my flyaway hair. “Franky? I heard them again last night. I couldn't sleep.”

Samantha looked at me anxiously. I could see her
eyelids trembling. I wanted to hug her, quick. Hide my face against her hair, so she couldn't see it.

At the same time, I couldn't show her that I was scared. She'd asked me about Dad and Mom in the past, since that weekend Mom went to Santa Barbara, and always I said it was nothing much, probably nothing much, you know how Daddy is, Daddy has a temper but it dies down fast, Daddy will kiss and make up, Daddy loves us. The way Samantha was watching my face, I knew I had to be very careful. I took the occasion to brush her hair, which needed it. I said, “I don't think so, Samantha. I didn't hear anything. It must have been a dream.” I paused, thinking. “Maybe it was thunder. There was a storm last night.”

Morning mist pressed against the windows. You could see a few evergreens, and Lake Washington vague and shimmering, but nothing more. Samantha winced when my hairbrush hit a snarl. “Franky, I know what dreams are! This wasn't a dream, and it wasn't thunder. I heard Daddy shouting at Mom. He said—”

I pushed Samantha from me. Her hot, squirmy little body. I wanted to press my hands over my ears. I didn't want this, not before school. Not on a busy morning when already I had too much to think about.

I heard myself say, “Ask Mom, then. Ask Mom about it. She's causing this. Ask Mom!”

But Samantha couldn't. And I couldn't. And Mom wouldn't have told us anyway. Smiling that smile of hers, brave, stubborn, breathless all that spring as if her pulse was fast, like she'd been running.

I guess I did blame Mom. She provoked Dad with her attitude, and Dad, being Reid Pierson, couldn't help but react. On TV he was super cheerful, but around the house, well—he could be moody. That was just Dad's personality.

It seemed to happen gradually. Or maybe I wasn't old enough to notice. But around the time I was in eighth grade, the tension began to show. Mom was
losing her enthusiasm for being Mrs. Reid Pierson in public. She'd never felt comfortable at the gigantic banquets and cocktail receptions, fund-raisers that were always honoring Reid Pierson and other celebrities in order to sell tickets; she'd try to make a joke of how miserable she was amid swarms of strangers in tuxedos and long dresses eager to shake the hand of Reid Pierson and get his autograph, but looking through Krista Pierson as if she didn't exist. Still, for about fourteen years she'd gone with Dad to such events, and she'd looked the part of Reid Pierson's beautiful wife, Krista, who'd once been a TV news announcer herself for a Portland station. Now I overheard Mom say to Dad, “This party tonight! I don't want to go, honey. I'm just not in the mood for packs of people. Please can I stay home?” and Dad said, “No, darling. You can't. You're my date, see?” Dad was treating this as a joke, or a game. It was like they were playing Ping-Pong in the family room.

Mom said, “Of course it's wonderful that you're being honored, and I know it's for a good cause, but
I'd so much rather stay home with the girls and work a little in my studio. Tomorrow—”

“Krista, do you even remember what tonight's occasion is?”

“The Medical Center? Or—no, United Charities?”

Coldly Dad said, “Check your calendar. Get your facts straight.”

“Honey, it doesn't matter what it is. The same people are always there, saying the same kinds of things. The amplification is deafening, everyone drinks too much, it won't break up until past eleven
P.M
. Please can't I—”

Dad was sounding patient, but exasperated. I was backing away, not wanting to hear how this would end. My heart had begun to beat, hard, in worry for Mom. “It's the
Seattle Times
‘Outstanding Citizens of the Year' awards. They only choose eight people. It will make the front page of the paper—it's a very big deal. And it would look peculiar if Reid Pierson came by himself. If his wife, Krista, didn't give
a damn about this award.”

Mom protested, “Of course I care, Reid. I do care. I'm proud of you. But no one would miss me. That's why I want to stay home tonight. I'd like to make an early dinner for Francesca and Samantha, just the three of us. It seems we never see enough of one another any longer, and suddenly they'll be gone, like Todd. The house will be empty, I'll be—”

“Lonely? With just your husband?”

“Honey, you're always gone. And when you're home, you're going out every evening. It's no kind of life, and it's getting worse. And I—I'm not the person you married any longer. I'm not twenty-two years old.”

“No, you're not. You're pushing forty. You'd better be grateful you have a husband who wants you to appear in public with him, who's still in love with you. Lots of people we know, that isn't any longer the case with their marriages.”

Mom said, hurt, “Reid, what do you mean? Are you—threatening me?”

“No, darling. Why should I ‘threaten' you? Have
I ever threatened you, even with the truth?”

“What—is that supposed to mean?”

“You're a smart woman, Krista. So you think. With your artsy new friends whose ‘values' are so superior to mine. You should be able to figure out certain facts for yourself.”

There was a pause. Some movement. I heard a muffled sound I didn't want to think was Mom crying.

By this time I was almost out of earshot of their voices. Making my escape. Still I heard Dad's voice raised now, and angry. “Why the hell did you marry Reid Pierson, if you don't want to be Reid Pierson's fucking wife?”

Pressing my hands against my ears. Even Freaky wasn't in a mood to hear.

Crossing over
. That was what my mother was doing, too. Last winter, spring, summer. I guess I didn't want to know. I didn't want to think where it might lead, how some of us might be hurt and left behind.