Continental Drift

“I’ll stay awake,” he said, cutting her off.

And, indeed, he did stay awake. He lay down in the kids’ room and tried to nap while Elaine ironed in the living room, but in five minutes he was back in the kitchen, flipping the dial of the radio back and forth, then drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, pacing from room to room in the trailer and outside in the cluttered yard, walking to the sea, where, lost in a reverie, he’d stand a moment, then quickly step away, as if discovering he’d walked to the edge of a cliff.

He was shuffling back toward the trailer when he saw his daughters coming toward him along the sandy lane from the school bus stop. Emma waved and walked faster toward him, but Ruthie showed no sign of recognition and fell behind her younger sister.

Bob scooped Emma into his arms, lifted her up and leaned his weight against the front fender of the car. “Hi, baby. How’d it go? Good day at school? You like kindergarten?”

“Yeah,” she said, and shoving a fistful of crumpled paper in his face, she said, “Look! I got a star for drawing.” Then she wrinkled up her face and pulled away. “Yuck, Daddy! Whiskers!”

Bob put her down, spread out the sheet of paper and studied her drawing for a moment, lollipop people in front of a rectangle that, despite the absence of windows and doors, was clearly meant to represent their trailer. The broad crayon strokes against tan, pulpy paper had caught with precision the faded shade of flaking yellow. In the foreground, there were five stick figures of various sizes with large, disk-like heads, all but one of the five, the tiniest, wearing grim faces, mouths that were straight lines, eyebrows pointing down in scowls.

“Who’s the happy one here?” Bob asked. “The little guy.”

“Robbie. That’s Robbie.”

“How come he’s the only one who’s happy?” Ruthie had come up to them and stood silently behind Emma and peered anxiously back over her shoulder at the trailer, as if expecting someone to come out the door and scold her.

“Hi, Roots,” Bob said. “How’s it going?”

She turned and faced him, her dark head a heavy blossom on a thin stalk.

“You okay?” Bob said too quickly.

She nodded.

“Good day?”

Emma looked at the ground, as if embarrassed by her older sister, who nodded again, silent and withdrawn.

“Did you see Emma’s drawing?” Bob asked. “Isn’t it terrific? Look, here’s Robbie, smiling to beat the band.” He held the sheet of paper out before her and pointed with his finger at the figure that was Robbie. Ruthie raised her eyes and glanced at the drawing.

“Which one’s Ruthie?” Bob asked, turning to Emma. “It’s hard to tell.” Indeed, of the five figures, the three in the center were as alike as triplets, all with sour expressions and masses of dark curls on their heads. The tiny, bald, grinning figure on the left was the baby, of course, and the large, bald, frowning figure on the right, though the same size as the triplets, was clearly Bob. The three females in the center, as grim and harsh-looking as Furies, were drawn exactly alike.

“That’s Mama,” Emma said, pointing at the Fury standing next to Bob. “And that’s Ruthie. I’m next.”

Ruthie’s interest in the picture suddenly flared, and she edged closer and seemed about to smile.

“How come only Robbie’s little? All the rest of us are the same size,” Bob said. He could see them now, all five of them, exactly as Emma had. The Dubois Family — an angry male out on the right and, despite his proximity to the others, a solitary, who’s either in command of the others or their surly slave; then three angry females at the center; and last, as solitary as the first, a male, but half the size of the others and wearing a silly grin on his face.

“Well … Robbie’s a baby,” Emma said.

“He doesn’t know anything yet,” Ruthie added in a low voice.

To Bob, the three females seemed to be glancing toward the man, as if angry at him, whereas the man, like the baby, seemed to be looking straight out at the world. “Who’re you guys mad at?” Bob asked. “You all look so mad.”

“I don’t know,” Emma said slowly. “I think … I think everybody’s worried. That’s why Robbie’s smiling. He’s not worried yet. He’s only a baby.”

“Well, what’re we worried about?” Bob asked. “The way all you guys are looking at me, you must think I’m the one who made you worry or something.” He laughed, but it was thin.

“No. We’re just worried, that’s all. About things. School and stuff, and supper. Stuff like that …”

“You’re not mad at me, then?”

“No,” Ruthie pronounced.

“I’ll make another picture later,” Emma said, and grabbing the sheet of paper, she started for the trailer. “One that shows us happy. Like Robbie.” Ruthie turned and followed, her sweater, held by one sleeve, dragging the ground behind her.

“That’s all right,” Bob said. “This one’s fine. I like this one fine.”

Then he, too, entered the trailer. He told Elaine he was going up to Islamorada for the evening papers, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and went out again.

“Take the girls with you!” Elaine called through the screened door.