“Ma, I don’t need anything. Would you leave me alone?” Frank stormed out of the room.
“How’s Janoots? Is he okay?” My mother reached over and lifted me into her arms. Sharp lines creased her forehead, her hands tensed against my body. “Aw, shoot. Look at this. He’s all wet. Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked Connie.
“Me? What did I do?”
“I told you to keep an eye on your brother. I swear”—turning to my father—“you can’t leave them alone for two seconds.”
“I didn’t do anything!” Connie cried.
“All right, go to your room!” My mother’s face twisted with disgust.
“Oh boy.” Connie stomped out of the kitchen. “I get blamed for everything around here.”
“Look at you,” my mother said, eyeing my wet pajamas.
I stretched my arms in the direction of my brother and sister, wanting to be with them. I didn’t understand why my parents were so angry, but I thought it was because of something I had done.
***
My father bought a used, streamlined, four-door Hudson that my five-year-old brain saw as a big turtle with headlights. The car constantly gave him trouble; every other time he turned the key, the thing wouldn’t start. It wheezed and sputtered, and we’d all sit in silence, wondering if the car had finally dropped dead.
“Well, I guess you got what you paid for,” my mother once commented in her I told you so voice.
“C’mon, honey,” my father said, repeatedly turning the key while pumping the gas pedal. “Talk to me. Talk to me.” When he finally got the car started, he leaned toward my mother and gave her a flurry of loud kisses inches from her face. “Ya see?” He smiled. “It’s not what’cha say. It’s how ya say it.”