Women in Bed

by Jessica Keener

  “Okay,” he said.

  “I’ll read Or-feelya,” Robert said. He spoke in high grating tones.

  “O-feel-ee-ah!” Father corrected him. “Say it.”

  “I’ll feel ya,” Peter joked, grabbing a cookie with long, dexterous fingers. He was pale and light-haired like me. The oldest at seventeen, he sank into his chair, lanky—all arms and legs, a shadow of a mustache defining his upper lip.

  Father pounded a fist on the table. “Enough!” The storm perpetually brewing beneath his skin surfaced and made his face turn red.

  Everyone was silent except for the swinging door. Luanne walked back in with two cups of coffee.

  “Bring the coffee here, girl.” Father fished a cigarette from his shirt pocket and separated his saucer from his coffee cup to use it for an ashtray.

  “Don’t talk to her like that,” I wanted to shout, but my words stayed mute inside my head.

  “Luanne, the ashtrays are in the cupboard,” Mother said. “Above the refrigerator.” She spoke slowly, a careful movement of her lips.

  Robert jumped up, pressing his hands to his ears. “I can’t listen to this family!” He ran upstairs howling. Craven and overexcited, words spat out of Robert’s mouth from the time he had taught himself to read when he was three. We heard his footsteps and the bedroom door slam. Mother pressed her lips until they whitened.

  “Give me the book, Irene.”

  She obeyed.

  “Sarah, tell Robert to come back down here. He was not excused.” He took a cookie and pushed it whole into his mouth. His cheeks changed shape, sticking out like miniature fists. The oatmeal crumbs settled on the corners of his mouth.

  “Do it now.”

  I slid out. We all knew Father’s rule. Families who ate together got excused together. Anyone who veered from this cardinal regulation risked punishment. I feared for Robert who upstairs was hanging over the side of his bed reading a book. His dark hair shot up like his thoughts, abruptly and sharp.

  “You’re invading my privacy,” he said.

  “Dad wants you to come down.”

  “I’m reading.”

  “Just come down,” I said in an attempt to offer an older sister’s advice, “or he’ll blow up again.” I was three years older than Robert and knew if I stood still, he would calm down enough to reconsider. He prickled and folded his shoulders, then shoved the book under his bed and followed me down.

  By now it was pitch-black outside and the large globe light above the table reflected off the windows like a bloated fish.

  Robert stood in front of Father.

  “You will not,” Father said, smacking Robert on the cheek, “leave the table without permission. Now you may be excused.”

  Robert burst into tears and tore back upstairs. Father headed to his den office and slammed the door. Elliot started humming. I couldn’t move, paralyzed by my unintended betrayal of Robert.

  “Elliot, time for a bath. Sarah, Peter, you have homework,” Mother said.

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” Peter said, shoving his chair out from the table.

  Ashamed and horrified by what I’d done, I went upstairs to my desk and stared out my bedroom window at the weeping birch tree that hunkered over the driveway in the dark. Later that night, I knocked on Robert’s door to apologize but he wouldn’t let me in. He had pushed his bureau in front of the door.

  “I’m really sorry,” I said through the keyhole.

  I went to bed and stayed awake a long time waiting for sleep, my raw stomach unable to settle down. The hall light shone into my room. I tried humming. The vibrations of notes calmed my nerves. Ahhh, ooooo, eeeee. Oh Lord, show me the bridge. I mimicked the way Luanne opened her mouth and felt the tone change on my tongue, then shiver along the path of my cheekbones.

  I watched the treetops out my window, thin tall pine trees like still figures watching back, and the long backyard that curved up to the stars. The bright moon gleamed on the wooden floors and made my floor melt and become liquid as a pond. I invented songs. In this universe away from my father’s explosions and Mother’s thin voice, I imagined standing solo on stage singing to an auditorium filled with understanding faces. Come and see what I see.

  I sang to the moon, the hall light, and my memory of the honey summer light when the low sun slunk into my room in warm weather. I hummed. I changed my notes from high to low. I rolled them on my tongue. Singing was like eating. It filled a hungry feeling.

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