Jane Smiley - Early Warning

Michael had heard the doorbell, too, and he knew what it meant. He walked toward the stairs, and when he came to the top, he stood there looking down and said, “Daddy!” (Maybe they saw more of Frank than she gave Frank credit for?) Then Michael turned and knelt, putting his hands on the top step, and made his way backward down the five carpeted steps. Frank didn’t believe in gates — why live in a split-level if you were going to restrict their freedom? Any kid could fall down five or six steps and live to try again. Michael turned, sat on the second step from the bottom, and kicked his feet. Richie pushed his book aside and stood up. Whatever Michael was doing, Richie had to do, too. His diaper was full, but she wasn’t quite ready to change it. Instead, she went over to the table and got her ashtray and her pack of Luckies.

ON A QUITE SNOWY DAY (for D.C.) at the end of February, Lillian Manning found Lucy Roberts, only four, sitting on the couch in the playroom at seven-thirty in the morning, waiting for the cartoons to begin. Lillian felt the little woolly feet of Lucy’s sleeper; they were cold and wet. She found some of Deanie’s PJs in the laundry (Dean and Arthur had gone to Dean’s third skating lesson), then called Betsey Roberts, who was sound asleep and hadn’t realized that the front door to her house was unlocked and wide open. Fortunately, the Robertses lived across the street and down one: not much harm done. Betsey said Lucy could stay, so Lillian gave her a couple of pancakes and some orange slices. While Timmy and Debbie were eating their cereal, the knocks on the front door began. By the time Bugs Bunny came on, there were twelve children cross-legged on the floor staring up at the TV. They sat quietly for Roy Rogers and Sky King ; then some of the girls went up to Debbie’s room, taking Tina with them, and a couple of the boys went out to the backyard with Timmy to slide down the “ski slope” Arthur had made.

Lillian carried Lucy home in her dried-out sleeper. Betsey seemed a little embarrassed — Lucy, she said, was such an active child, and she talked about Debbie every day — where was Debbie, was Debbie coming, what was the name of Debbie’s teddy bear? Lillian and Betsey laughed together.

When she got home, one of the boys had a scrape on his elbow. Lillian washed it off and put some mercurochrome on it, and though Lillian could see tears frozen on his cheeks, he dashed out to play some more. They were standing on their sleds now, teetering at the top of the tiny slope, and then raising their hands and yelling as they slid down. Five inches of snow — no more — but Arthur had sprayed it with water and let it freeze overnight. Lillian watched out the window while she did the dishes. Arthur had installed a Dishmaster on the spigot of the kitchen sink; the water ran through a hose to a brush with a button on it — when you wanted to scrub, you pushed the button for suds, and when you wanted to rinse, you stopped pressing the button.

Dishes done, Lillian went to the bottom of the stairs and listened. All was quiet. Maybe they were dressing up, which was fine with Lillian, who threw all of her old heels and slips and blouses and skirts into Debbie’s dress-up box. She decided to check on Tina, though really she was checking to see if the girls were fighting yet.

Tina was lying on her back at the top of the stairs, her blanket in her hand and her thumb in her mouth, sleeping. Lillian opened the gate without a squeak and gently picked up the toddler. Tina awoke only long enough to snuggle against Lillian while she carried her into her crib. It was one-thirty-five. She would sleep until three, Lillian guessed. Tina had such thick hair now, it was down past her shoulders and dark, like Arthur’s. In fact, she looked so much like Arthur, and had so many of his mannerisms, it was almost uncanny to watch her. Arthur hardly ever disapproved of anything, but when Timmy did intentionally hit a tennis ball into the front picture window just to see if it would bounce (“It wasn’t a baseball! I thought the tennis ball would, I really did!”), Arthur’s eyebrows made a V-shape over his nose, and the corners of his mouth turned down. Tina made the same face when she saw green beans on the tray of her high chair.

The four girls were playing nicely — Debbie in charge, as usual. Lillian watched them from the doorway, smiling when anyone looked at her. Debbie was a strict child, but fair. Once, Lillian had pointed out that maybe her friends, unlike Timmy, did not know the rules to some game and were not actually flouting them; Debbie was amazed. When Lillian then suggested that if Debbie knew more than other children it was her job to be patient and teach them, Debbie understood immediately. She was a good girl. No one in this room reminded Lillian of herself or of Jane, her first friend. These girls had always been in neighborhoods populous with children who were not cousins. Mama had pitied the children Lillian knew, and why not? During Lillian’s Depression childhood, there had been plenty of kids in rags or in shoes with flapping soles — Jane’s parents ordered the family shoes out of a catalogue once a year, and when the children grew out of them, they wore them anyway. Children had disappeared — the farm was lost, said Papa. Lillian had hated those words, imagining that a farm could be lost in the woods, like Hansel and Gretel. Now Margie Widger marched her third piece up the last tunnel into the Sorry! home base (which looked rather like a bomb shelter for the four members of the Yellow family), then glanced at Lillian. Lillian said, “When you girls are hungry, I’ve got peanut butter, salami, and chicken-rice soup.”

But there was no peanut butter — Timmy and the boys had found it and eaten it, digging it out with carrot sticks and celery. While she was cleaning their mess up, Arthur came in with Dean. Dean was larger and stronger than Timmy had been at the same age, though not as daring, so Arthur had decided Dean would start at four and soon be playing hockey for, as Arthur always called them, “Les Canadiens.” Arthur had not actually been to Montreal, but he also declared that Dean would begin his French classes in the summer. He called him Doyen and sang to him in French—“Alouette,” “La Vie en rose.” Arthur now also went about asking people if he himself didn’t look very much like Yves Montand, but younger.

Lillian said, “How did he do?”

Arthur said, “How did you do, Doyenny, mon fils ?”

Dean looked up at Arthur and said, very carefully, “Tray bun, papaaah.”

Arthur grinned, then came over and hugged Lillian and said, “You are such an exceptional broodmare, ma chère. ” He kissed her on both sides of her neck while Deanie stared. Lillian extricated herself and said, “You must be hungry, Dean.”

Dean said, “Is there ham?”

“Jambon!” said Arthur.

Lillian said, “Please go out back and check the boys for broken bones and missing teeth.”

“They’ve been having that much fun, huh?” He went out the back door. Dean went to the table and climbed into his chair. Lillian knew what that broodmare remark meant — he was in the mood for another. Bob and Bev D’Onofrio, at the end of the street, were about to produce number eight, and the Porters, three streets away, had a child in every grade at the elementary school. Lillian knew more about how babies were made now, and at a certain time of the month, she did a little more late-night sewing or pretended every so often to have fallen into a deep, deep sleep. Four was enough, she thought. If he got really importunate, she would give Arthur a puppy — he was a big fan of Rin Tin Tin.