Crenshaw

11

I finally fell asleep, but around eleven I woke. I got up to go to the bathroom, and as I headed down the hall, I realized my parents were still awake. I could hear them talking in the living room.

They were thinking of places we could go if we couldn’t pay the rent.

If I don’t become an animal scientist, I would make a great spy.

My mom said how about Gladys and Joe, my dad’s parents. They live in an apartment in New Jersey. My dad said they only had one extra bedroom. Then he declared, “Plus, I couldn’t live under his roof. He’s the most pigheaded man on the planet.”

“Second-most pigheaded,” said my mom. “We could try borrowing money from our families.”

My dad rubbed his eyes. “Do we have a rich relative I’ve never met?”

“I see your point,” said my mom. Then she said how about my dad’s cousin in Idaho who has a ranch, or her mom in Sarasota, who has a condo, or his old buddy Cal, who lives in Maine in a trailer.

My dad asked which of those people would take in two adults, two children, and a dog who eats furniture. Besides, he said, he didn’t want to accept anyone’s handouts.

“You do realize we can’t live in the minivan again,” my mom said.

“No,” said my dad. “We can’t.”

“Aretha’s a lot bigger. She’d take up the whole middle seat.”

“Plus she farts a lot.” My dad sighed. “Who knows? Sunday at the yard sale somebody might give us a million bucks for Robin’s old high chair.”

“Good point,” said my mom. “It comes with extra Cheerios stuck to the seat.”

They fell silent.

“We should sell the TV,” my mom said after a while. “I know it’s ancient, but still.”

My dad shook his head. “We’re not barbarians.” He clicked the remote and an old black-and-white movie came to life.

My mom stood. “I’m so tired.” She looked at my dad with her arms crossed over her chest. “Look,” she said. “There’s nothing—nothing at all—wrong with asking for help, Tom.”

Her voice was low and slow. It was the voice she used when a fight was coming. My chest tightened. The air felt thick.

“There’s everything wrong with asking for help,” my dad snapped. “It means we’ve failed.” His voice had changed, too. It was sharp and hard.

“We have not failed. We are doing the best we can.” My mom gave a frustrated groan. “Life is what happens to you while you’re busy making other plans, Tom.”

“Really?” My dad was yelling. “So now we’re resorting to fortune cookie wisdom? Like that’s going to help put food in our kids’ mouths?”

“Well, refusing to ask for help isn’t going to.”

“We have asked for help, Sara. We’ve been to that food pantry more times than I care to admit. But in the end, this is my—our—problem to solve,” my dad shouted.

“You’re not responsible for getting sick, Tom. And you’re not responsible for my getting laid off.” My mom threw her hands in the air. “Oh, what’s the point? I’m going to bed.”

I slipped into the bathroom as my mom stormed down the hall. She slammed her bedroom door so loudly the whole house seemed to tremble.

I waited a few minutes to be sure the coast was clear. When I headed back to my room, my dad was still on the couch, staring at the gray ghosts moving across the screen.