Lori Ostlund - After the Parade

“When your father gets home,” she said, “I want you to stay in your room.” He said that he would, and she pulled his door shut behind her.

When he heard the squad car pull into the driveway, he went to the closet and checked on the suitcase that was a secret from his father. He could hear his parents in the kitchen, the low rumble of their voices, and then his father yelling and the sound of glass breaking. His father did not like to be talked to when he first got home.

His mother had said only that he was to stay in his room. She had said nothing about not opening the door. He opened it quietly. “Where?” he heard his father say. “You have nowhere.” His mother responded, her voice too low to hear, and just like that Aaron found himself out in the hallway, pulled steadily toward the kitchen, where things were being said that he was not meant to hear.

His mother stood at the stove heating something in a pot, and his father stood nearby, still wearing his uniform, hat on his head, holster on his hip, handcuffs at the ready. Aaron stood to the side of the doorway, for the trick was not to be seen, or else his father would widen the scope of his anger to include him, and that he could not bear, not with the memory of his father’s hand on his head, ruffling his hair in front of the sitting-down Paul Bunyan, the other parents applauding what they called his pluck in standing up to the giant because people admired pluck.

Even though his mother’s back was to him, Aaron could hear her clearly now. “I can’t take it anymore,” she said. “I just can’t.”

“I said, ‘Where?’ ” demanded his father, but she kept stirring, and his father moved up close behind her. “I have a right to know. You’re not going to your parents, so where? To that chickenshit brother of yours? To the dyke? Or maybe you think the Jews will be waiting with open arms?” His father laughed. “You could start a baseball team with the band of misfits you’ve got, Dolores.”

His mother continued stirring, and his father grabbed the pot from the stove and dumped the contents onto the floor. It was stew.

“There,” said his father.

His mother stood with the dripping wooden spoon in her hand. She still did not speak. “You’re not going anywhere ’til that’s cleaned up,” his father said, his voice smug.

His mother crouched with a handful of paper towels and swabbed up the stew, but her calmness seemed to anger his father even more and he snapped open the refrigerator and began flinging food onto the floor until they were surrounded by a moat of broken eggs and mayonnaise, leftover hotdish and milk. He squirted mustard and ketchup on top, the colors creating a festive icing.

“Jerry,” said his mother. “You’re just making a mess for yourself.”

“You want to see a mess?” said his father. He was panting. “Fine, you go ahead and leave, but Aaron stays with me. Then you’ll see what a mess I can make.”

His mother rose with the stew-filled paper towels and turned toward the garbage can. “Try to stop us,” she said. “I’ll call your friends at the station and have them escort us out of the house.”

His father lunged, grabbing his mother and twisting her right arm behind her until she was bent over, her upside-down face peering at Aaron. He could see that it hurt, but his father yanked her arm higher.

“Jerry, please,” his mother said, and his father stepped back, releasing her. “Let’s go,” she said, talking to Aaron now, and his father turned and saw him there. His mother walked fast down the hallway to his room, and Aaron trotted to keep up. She boosted him onto the bed and picked up his shoes, the shoes with which he had kicked the sitting-down Paul Bunyan. “They’re getting tight,” she said. She gripped his ankles hard and forced them onto his feet.

“My suitcase,” he said.

“I know,” said his mother, and she went over to the closet and bent in.

Aaron saw his father come in and move toward the closet. He could have called to her then. “Watch out,” he could have said. “Watch out for my father.”

Instead, he watched his father place his hands on his mother’s buttocks and push her into the closet the way he had pushed her into the oven, as though he were Hansel and Gretel, and she the witch. Her head hit the wall, and his father scooped him up and dropped him inside with her. The door shut. He heard his father fumbling for the key that they kept above the door, fitting it inside the lock.

“Jerry,” called his mother. She jiggled the knob and banged on the door.

Aaron heard his bed creak loudly as his father settled on top of it. And then they waited.

Eventually — Aaron was not sure how long it had been — they heard his father rise from the bed and leave the room. His mother spoke to him then, whispering, “He’ll let us out. He will. He’s just trying to teach us a lesson.” She reached for his hand, but there in the dark he imagined that her hand was a snake or a mouse, not his mother at all. He pulled away, startled, and she did not try to touch him again. When his father returned, the smell of bacon and eggs came with him, wafting under the closet door. They could hear him setting things — a plate, cutlery, a glass — on the nightstand and the bed creaking again.

“Jerry, Aaron is hungry,” said his mother. He had not said that he was hungry.

His father did not reply, but they heard his fork scraping, the sound of him chewing and swallowing, the glass knocking against his teeth each time he drank. His father belched, as he did at the end of every meal.

“What did you have?” asked his mother encouragingly. “It smells like bacon.”

“Did I ever tell you my favorite bacon story?” his father said.

“Why don’t you open the door and tell me while I clean up that greasy pan?”

“The pan is fine,” said his father. He sounded relaxed, like he was enjoying himself. “Once the grease sets, I might spread some on a slice of bread. I’m going to need a midnight snack.”

“I can make dessert,” said his mother. “I’ll make a crisp. We still have some of those apples left from the motel.”

His father snorted. “And have him puke all over my arm again? Anyway, I have my own dessert,” he said, and they heard him take another drink.

“Jerry,” his mother said, “you know you don’t like drinking.”

“Actually,” said his father, “I do like drinking, and this is a special occasion.”

“What’s special about it?” said his mother.

His father laughed. “How can you ask such a silly question?” he said. “First of all, do you spend most nights in the closet?” His father paused to take another drink. They heard the steady expulsion of his flatulence. “No,” said his father. “You don’t spend most nights in the closet, because you have a bed, and Aaron has a bed, but you don’t care about that, about how lucky you both are to have beds.”

“Jerry, are you drunk?” his mother said.

“I’m celebrating,” said his father. “Tomorrow I’m going to be in a parade, and tonight I’m having bacon and eggs for supper, and I was just about to tell you my favorite bacon story. Don’t you want to hear my story? Do you have something else to do?”

“No,” said his mother. “I do want to hear it.”

“It’s short, but it’s very funny. When I tell the story, I want you to laugh for once in your goddamn life. Okay?”

“Okay,” said his mother. “Tell me the story, and I’ll laugh.”

“Okay,” said his father. “It’s about the Jews. Do you remember the first time I met the Jews?”

“Yes,” said his mother. “You came by to pick me up. We were going out — bowling, I think.” She paused. “What does this have to do with bacon, Jerry?”