Alison Lurie - The War Between the Tates - A Novel

Even after he has reoccupied his own territory there will be difficulties in pacifying the natives. He must resign himself to a long, hard campaign. He must arm himself this time with better arguments, including those suggested in imagination by. his colleagues. He must, like Chuck, defend self-determination; like Randall he must speak of responsibility—of his and Erica’s moral obligation to carry out their sworn promises to each other, to society, and above all to Jeffrey and Matilda. He must point out to Erica that her plan was not only against her own interests—which in her present martyr’s mood will hardly weigh with her—but against the interests of The Children. How could she think of exposing them to so much pain, disruption and scandal?

These arguments must convince her, since they are true. But even if they do not, eventually the argument, and the proof, that he loves her and prefers her to Wendy and all other women, must prevail.

Of course as long as Erica goes on seeing the abhorrent Danielle, his campaign will be twice as difficult. He must begin as soon as possible to separate them, pointing out at every opportunity—but subtly—how aggressive and unfeminine Danielle is, how hostile she has always been to men, and specifically to him. Erica is loyal to Danielle out of habit, because they were in college together, and such habits are hard to break. But she must realize that people change, not always for the better. After all, Danielle is not the only possible friend in town. Among the wives of his colleagues there are many pleasant, normal women.

It is quite dark in Brian’s office when he leaves, but outside the air is still saturated with dull gray light. The clouds hang low, heavy and fuzzy, though it is not actually drizzling. As he stops for the traffic signal by the bridge, he suddenly sees a very peculiar, unpleasant thing crossing in front of his car: a sort of faceless, headless dwarf in black galoshes with a dirty burlap bag pulled down over most of its body. Though this formless thing does not seem to notice Brian, who is also protected from it by the metal armor of his Karmann Ghia, his breath stops; he feels shock, dread. Then, ahead, coming toward him along the sidewalk in the damp dusk, he notices two more uncanny dwarfish figures: one red with horns and the other wrapped in a sheet. Of course; it is Halloween. He breathes. The light changes and he drives on, passing on his way home other children dressed as skeletons, pirates, Mickey Mouse, Dracula, Batman, and other conventional monsters.

It is still light enough for him to remark again how disreputable his yard looks. The grass is strewn with broken twigs and damp leaves, and in places with rotting wormy apples. Even more offensive are the overturned cans by the drive, spilling wet papers and bottles and foul sodden garbage into the gravel and grass. The dogs of Glenview Heights have been at their trash again, and no one has done anything about it.

Trying to set aside his disgust and anger, to compose himself for the coming battle, Brian enters the house. He is aware first of rock music soaking down from above; next that all the lights are burning in the empty kitchen, the refrigerator door is partly open, and there is food abandoned on the table: a box leaking crackers, a carton of milk souring, smeary jars of peanut butter and jam.

“Erica?”

There is no reply. He turns off the light, slams the refrigerator door, and walks through to the sitting room. Slouched down on the sofa, reading a comic book and eating a leaky sandwich, is a skinny adolescent boy with thick wire-rimmed spectacles, long dirty blond hair, and acne.

“Jeffrey. Is Mom home?”

Jeffrey looks up briefly, chewing, and returns to his comic.

“Please answer me when I speak to you. And take those muddy shoes off the table.”

“I did answer you.”

“Excuse me, you did not.”

“I shook my head,” Jeffrey says in a sullen argumentative voice, not moving his feet. “That’s an answer, isn’t it?”

“Not a very polite one.” Brian waits, but his son remains silent. “Where is she, then?”

“Idunno,” Jeffrey mumbles, spitting crumbs. “She wenout.”

“Mm.” Brian paces back the length of the carpet and looks out the window, noticing—as he would have noticed sooner if he were in a calmer state of mind—that Erica’s car is not parked in the driveway next to the overturned cans.

“Jeffo, I’d like you to do something about the yard,” he announces, attempting to speak pleasantly, even humorously. “I’ve only been gone two days, and already the place looks like a suburban slum.”

“Yuh,” his son mutters, not glancing up.

“The lawn needs to be raked. And there are a lot of twigs and branches down; you’d better stack them by the back wall. The leaves and apples can go onto the compost heap. And I’d like you to pick up that garbage. Those idiot dogs have got into it again, because somebody forgot to put the rocks on top of the cans. You know,” he adds conversationally, “it seems to me you shouldn’t have to be told about this sort of thing. You’re getting old enough now to take some responsibility for the place, to notice when you come home from school if something needs to be done, and attend to it.”

There is no visible response to this speech. Jeffrey turns a page of his comic book.

“So come on, now,” Brian continues, speaking louder and a little less pleasantly. “Go outside and get started on the job, before you forget.”

Finally his son looks up. “Wouldja stop persecuting me, okay?” he asks in a tone of deep grievance. “I’ll do it later.”

“I want you to do it now.” Brian keeps his voice even with difficulty. “And while you’re at it, you can clean up that mess you left in the kitchen.”

“I didn’t leave any mess!” Jeffrey slams his comic down on the sofa. “Why do you always blame everything on me, huh? If there’s any crap in the kitchen, it’s Muffy’s crap. Whydoncha ask her to clean it up?”

Brian represses a comment on his son’s choice of language. “All right, I will. And you get to work on the yard, okay?”

The rock music intensifies as Brian climbs the stairs; soon he can make out the words, which express crude, clamorous physicality. He thinks, as he has thought before, how disagreeable and unsuitable such music is for a thirteen-year-old girl. Matilda is presumably still technically inexperienced; but shut up for hours every day with those obscene noises, how can she retain any real innocence?

On the third-floor landing the frenetic pulsing and shouting are intolerable, and his knock inaudible. So, apparently, is his voice.

“Matilda? Are you there, Matilda?’

Receiving no answer, Brian opens the door. A fat witch is in the attic bedroom, standing with her back to him before a mirror. She wears the traditional filthy black skirt and cape, with peculiarly stringy and shiny long black hair falling from under a tall cardboard hat.

“GOTCHA BOOM BOOM,” screams a hoarse licentious male voice from opposite speakers, as if summoning the fat witch to a Black Mass.

“Matilda!” Brian shouts.

The witch turns. Beneath the pointed hat and straggling black plastic hair is a plump young painted face, chalk-white and hideously asymmetrical. One eye has been outlined and rayed in electric blue and black so that it resembles a huge spider; the other eye is Matilda’s. Would you turn that record down, please? I’d like to speak to you!”

With an air of sulky weariness the witch crouches and reduces the volume minimally. “GOTCHA Boom Boom ...

“I wanted to ask you, Muffy—I said, turn it down so you can hear what I have to say.”

“I can hear you now.”

Exasperated, Brian crosses the room and turns off the record player. “Boommmmm.”