Early Warning

She glanced through the window. Gray, who was fourteen, was sitting on the third step of the staircase, reading a book. As she watched, he wiped his nose with the back of his hand, pushed up his glasses, and turned the page. There was a laugh — Brad’s laugh — and here he came, stretched out on his back, sliding down the carpeted stairs. Just then, Claire had her Lot’s-wife moment — knowing perfectly well that she should not, could not, look into the past, and yet having the occasion of doing so come upon her like a stroke of lightning. Her hand trembled as she opened the door, and tears came to her eyes. How could this happen, she wondered, after so much preparation? Was mere familiarity that potent?

The boys, of course, greeted her as they always did: Where were the last two Popsicles? Could she sign the note from the teacher right away, before it was forgotten? Did she buy any milk? She nodded, smiled, passed them. When she got to the kitchen, she thought it was only an illusion that Lot’s wife was looking backward. Really, she was looking into the future, that strange city empty of herself, and she was thinking, I know nothing else but this.

Putting away the groceries, she did what she always did, which was imagine the boys talking about her someday — out of the blue, no reason of any kind, she must have gone crazy, or, alternatively, good riddance, we never liked her anyway, never understood why he married her in the first place, females are only good for two things and I forget what the second one is. Her hands were still trembling as she smoothed butter over the skin of the chicken and set it in the roasting pan.

But then Paul gave her a wonderful gift. She had just scrubbed the potatoes and was peeling the first one. Brad had the refrigerator door open, and Gray had brought his book into the kitchen. He was saying, “What does this word mean?” and pointing, when the back door flew open and slammed against the wall. Everyone jumped. Paul stormed into the kitchen, yelling, “I ran over a bicycle! Brad, your bicycle was lying right in the driveway, and I ran right over it, and now the—”

Brad jumped away from the refrigerator and closed the door. His mouth had dropped open. Gray moved back toward the doorway to the dining room, ready to flee. Paul yelled, “God damn it!”

Claire said, “Are you still on top of the bicycle?”

“No, I am not, for God’s sake! I backed off it.”

“Then no harm done.” She glanced at Brad. “Except to the bike.”

“It’s dark! I don’t know if there’s no harm done. There could be oil or gas dripping out of the underside of the car. And the car damaged, too, for Chrissakes. It could be quite a dangerous situation. Not to mention—”

She said, “Why don’t you not mention it?”

Brad started for the dining room, and Paul said, “Come back here, young man!” Claire dropped the peeler and the potato and stepped between Paul and Brad, who made it through the door. Paul’s voice sharpened. “Did you hear me?”

“How could he not hear you? You sound like an air-raid siren.”

And then he gave it to her — he popped her right on the chin and knocked her down.

She was lucky she didn’t whack the back of her head on the edge of the table; that was the first thing she thought. She landed sitting. Her neck hurt. Paul stood above her, and she saw his face, which was red with rage, become gradually infused with disbelief. And it was true that he had never hit her before. For Claire, though, there was nothing unbelievable about it. She knew that he had wanted to — that the kicking of a door or the smack of a fist on the table was only a substitute. It could be said, though she would never say it, that her change of tone — a bit of sarcasm for the first time in their lives — had startled him and undone his last mote of self-control. She turned her head. The boys were frozen in the doorway. She said nothing. Paul said, “Your mother fell down.”

“You liar,” said Claire. It was possible that Gray and Brad had never seen an argument, because it was possible that Claire had never talked back. Claire shook her head, leaned forward, and helped herself up with the chair. Not even the desperate look on Paul’s face aroused her pity, and that was how she knew that whatever love she had once felt for him had left no trace.

Finally, Paul said, “I’m s—”

Claire stood right in front of him and said, “I don’t care.” Then, “Dinner will be ready in an hour.” She went back to peeling potatoes.