Double

I pushed open the front door and went in, dumping my purse on the table in the hall. The place was a big, rambling ranch house. Originally it had stood on an acre of land, but as more kids had arrived and more room was needed, it had expanded until it sprawled haphazardly toward all four lot lines. Bedrooms had been added in one direction, and in the other the kitchen had been moved twice, until it was now at the extreme end of the house. From year to year nothing had ever been in the same place; in a way it was like moving without ever having to pack.

Ahead of me was the old living room, which had been converted into a playroom, and beyond that what was left of the backyard — the part with the pool. The pool had been there when Ma and Pa had bought the house, but it had later been cracked by a sonic boom from the fighter planes at Miramar Naval Air Station. My parents had sued the Navy, but had never been able to prove their case, and since they couldn’t afford to repair the pool, eventually they’d had a couple of loads of dirt hauled in, filled it, and turned it into a vegetable garden. We’d always had plenty of zucchini and corn and melons, and since we hadn’t been raised to expect luxury, it was no hardship to drive to the beach for a swim.

I went through the playroom, stepping carefully over stuffed animals and games, and went outside. The brick barbecue was going full blast, but no one was to be seen. Taking a shortcut around the grape arbor, I entered the kitchen by the side door.

My mother stood at the center chopping block, making hamburgers. Her long hair, red streaked with gray, was fastened on the top of her head with a couple of barrettes, and beads of perspiration stood out on her forehead. When she heard me close the door, she turned and said, “Aha! There’s the prodigal daughter. Did you get registered at the convention all right?”

“Yes.” I grinned at her and then at Charlene, who leaned heavily against the refrigerator, her shape reminiscent of the back end of a Volkswagen Beetle. She was a curly haired towhead, like the rest of my siblings. Although there is an eighth Shoshone Indian blood in the McCone family, I’m the only one it came out in — a genetic accident unkindly labeled a “throwback.” I’ve taken plenty of abuse in my time because of that label.

My Uncle Ed was at the opposite counter, wrapping ears of corn in tinfoil. I went over and hugged him; his shiny bald head came exactly to my chin. “Where’s Aunt Clarisse?” I asked. “And where are the kids?”

“Clarisse took them off to the bedroom so Charlene could get some peace,” Ma said. “She’s telling them stories.”

“Uh-oh.” I glanced at Charlene, and she shrugged. Aunt Clarisse was a good storyteller, but she had a lurid imagination. The kids would probably be unable to sleep tonight, after being regaled with tales of witches, ogres, and dismemberment.

“And Joey?” I asked.

“Picking up his date,” Charlene said.

“A date?”

“Her name’s Cindy.”

“A new one, of course.” Joey changed ladies as quickly as he changed careers.

“Yes.” Charlene grinned companionably at me. “This one’s a computer programmer.”

“My, he’s coming up in the world.”

“Don’t scoff,” my mother said. “Programmers make good money. Maybe she’ll marry him and support him.”

“And where, while all this preparation is going on, is Pa?”

“The garage, of course. You can fetch him when you put the corn on.”

“And John?”

Ma patted the last hamburger into shape — none too gently — and slapped it down on the plate. “Your brother John has taken himself off into the canyon — with a six-pack.”

“Hmm.”

She turned from the chopping block, wiping her hands on her apron. “Sharon, I wish you’d talk to him. At least make him join the party. You always could talk to him better than any of us.” The vertical lines between her brows deepened, and her mouth turned down woefully.

“I’ll see what I can do, Ma.” I patted her arm and went to take the platter of corn from Uncle Ed. “You want to help me with these, Charlene?” I said.

“Sure.” She pushed away from the fridge and waddled out the door after me. “God,” she said when we were out of earshot of the kitchen, “Ma’s as bent out of shape as John is.”

“Well, it’s not easy being asked to raise two more kids at her age — especially after what she went through with us.”

“I know.”

I set the platter down on the edge of the barbecue and looked for the tongs. As usual, they had fallen off into the dirt. I brushed them off on my jeans and started putting the corn on the coals. “Even with Nicky leaving you alone as much as he does,” I went on, “you’ve never come down here from L.A. and dumped your kids in Ma’s lap.” Ricky was Charlene’s musician husband; he had a pattern of getting her pregnant and then going out on tour with his country-and-western group. As soon as the baby was born, he’d return and work at local gigs until the next rabbit test came up positive.

“Yeah, that’s me — good old self-sufficient Charlene.” Her mouth twisted bitterly.