Alison Lurie - The War Between the Tates - A Novel

Yes, Erica said; she could. And armed with these counterarguments she returned home, anticipating another long, stimulating discussion. In order to enjoy it fully, she waited until late that evening, when the children had finished doing their homework to rock music and gone to bed.

“I was thinking some more about that research job,” she said. “I ought to let Mr. Barclay know by Monday if I’m going to take it; it’s only right.”

“I thought we’d decided you wouldn’t,” said Brian, glancing at his wife briefly and frowning with impatience. “I thought we decided that two days ago.”

“Mm, but you know, I was thinking about it again.” Erica smiled charmingly.

“Oh, really.” Brian looked up; his frown and her smile collided in midair; both exploded.

“Yes.” Erica kept her voice even and clear. “It occurred to me that I could easily manage it if I got someone to come in two or three afternoons a week. Someone who could be here when Matilda and Jeffrey got home; and maybe she could do some of the cleaning and laundry too. A sort of housekeeper. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“No, not very,” Brian replied. This was the wrong answer. He should have said, as he often did, that of course she could have help if she wanted it; whereupon she would have said, as she always did, that she wasn’t sure she wanted to have any other woman taking care of her house and family.

“You know I don’t like to have strangers in the house,” Brian added.

“I know.” Erica frowned; now he was saying her lines.

“Anyhow, we can’t afford it.”

This too was her line. Erica began to feel that she had decided against her job for Brian’s reasons and not her own. After all, her first impulse had been toward it. If she were to back out now she would have wasted a lot of time and effort for nothing, except possibly to prove her own cowardice. Privately, she had thought of the job as a test: in a week she would be forty, and she had never earned money for anything except writing stories for children and drawing pictures and baby-sitting. She had a fine college record, but that was nearly twenty years ago, and she occasionally doubted that her intelligence had survived its long hibernation. “If I were working we could afford it,” she said.

“I don’t want strangers taking care of The Children,” Brian announced, his tone capitalizing the noun like a honorific or divine title—which it was. Though they considered themselves agnostics, during the course of their marriage the Tates had worshiped several gods, of whom the most prominent were The Children. Like most divinities, they were served only intermittently. At certain moments, to express disrespect for The Children would have been blasphemy. At other times they were treated as ordinary beings called Muffy and Jeffo—and sometimes even (under the names Mouse and Pooch) as household pets.

Mouse, Pooch, Muffy and Jeffo had long ago left the house on Jones Creek Road, to be replaced by two disagreeable adolescents; but The Children remained. Public observance of the faith continued, though they were worshiped less frequently and more formally—mainly at religious holidays such as birthdays and Christmas, and during visits to and from relatives. That Brian should call upon them now seemed to Erica unfair. Still, if he could summon the old gods, so could she.

“Darling, strangers take care of The Children all day,” she said in a clear soft reasonable .voice. “Their teachers at school are strangers, as far as you’re concerned,” she added, alluding to the fact that Brian had declined to go to any PTA evenings for the past year.

“If one of their teachers wants to resign and come to work for us, that’ll be fine,” Brian said. “But you know the kind of person you’d be able to get.”

“No.”

“Some woman who can’t find any other sort of a job. Illiterate, undependable—very possibly sick in some way.”

“Oh, I don’t think—There must be women who—” Erica gasped, stopped, rallied her forces. “If we were worried about that, she could have a checkup. Of course we don’t want Jeffrey or Matilda catching anything. She could go to Dr. Bunch.”

“I didn’t mean physically sick; though that’s possible too I suppose. I meant in the head. The sort of person you’re likely to find is going to, at the best, neglect The Children.” Brian’s voice was beginning to get tight, as if a heavy rubber band of the sort which propels toy fighter planes were being wound up in his throat. Erica knew that if the topic of conversation didn’t change soon, he would take off. But she could not bring herself to change it.

“I don’t see why—”

“I’ve explained to you why.” Another twist of the rubber band. “I don’t want you to take on an exhausting job, and I don’t want you to hire anybody. I wouldn’t be comfortable if I knew, we were both away from home, and there was someone here who might hurt Matilda or Jeffrey, or burn down the house.” Brian’s voice was dangerously tight now, knotted.

“No, of course not. Neither would I.” Erica beat off the implications of her husband’s remark. “I think you’re being a little ridiculous,” she added, laughing. “I imagine I could manage not to hire a psychotic housekeeper.

“I’d rather be ridiculous than have to worry about The Children,” Brian hissed. The plane had taken off; he was, in effect, whirring about the room now, his face pale and hard, his eyes glaring.

Erica cowered and flung up her arms. “Of course, if you feel that strongly about it,” she bleated.

“I feel extremely strongly about it.” The plane buzzed overhead, once more, then cut its engines and returned to base. “You know that.” Brian grinned at Erica—the conspiratorial, condescending grin of a moral victor.

“Yes.” She smiled weakly and falsely back.

All the rest of that evening, and ever since, Erica has felt guilty. She has been exposed as selfish, greedy and thoughtless of her family’s welfare: the sort of woman one cannot trust to do the right thing. Even though she has not taken a job, or hired a psychotic housekeeper, she has wanted to do so. Therefore she is, and will continue to be, in the wrong. Whatever she says or does, Brian’s attitude implies, she will remain there.

Light steps on the front porch; a harmonic screech as the screen door is pulled back.

“Celia?”

“Hi.” A wispily pretty little girl, with Danielle’s brown complexion and Leonard’s dark, sad, acute gaze, comes into the room. “Where’s Mommy?”

“She and Rod had to take Pogo to the doctor. They’ll be back soon.”

“Is Pogo sick?” Celia asks, curiously rather than anxiously.

“No, she was in a fight with another dog.”

“Oh. Can I have a chocolate milkshake?”

“I guess so.” Erica gets up, follows Celia into the kitchen, and opens the refrigerator.

“You don’t have to help me. I can do it myself,” Celia says coolly, moving the milk and ice cream away from Erica along the counter.

“All right.”

Erica had held Celia, then called Silly, on her lap when she had the mumps, feeding her orange sherbet by teaspoonfuls; she had taken her to her first county fair, her first puppet show. She had kissed and bandaged her cuts, scolded her for calling Roo a “fat hippotamiss,” read aloud to her, bathed her, and shampooed her stubborn, wiry hair, so unlike Muffy’s and Jeffo’s. But since Leonard left, Celia has declined to be held by anyone; she reads to herself and bathes herself.

While Erica looks on, Celia measures milk, ice cream and cocoa mix carefully into the blender. She stands on tiptoe to do this, on thin legs like Leonard’s, and lifts the heavy milk carton with thin brown arms. Celia lacks the animal solidity and strength of her mother and sister; Erica has worried sometimes that they would wear her out without noticing. In previous years she had been glad that Leonard, whose energy was also mostly nervous, was around to prevent this.