Such questions all parents face when their kids choose to stay the heck away from the paths Mom and Dad have created for them.
After Abby stormed out of the house, Gerald sat at the kitchen table staring at a newspaper lying open to a full page of ads, his hands fisted at the table's edge. He'd told her to stay home but she'd taken off as if his anger were banter, empty threats.
Anita plugged in the coffee and stared out the kitchen window, watching Abby run down the sidewalk. Her voice was cocked and earnest. "Should we chase her‑‑are we supposed to drag her back or what?" she asked. "Ger--?"
He tried to rub the newsprint from his fingertips. "We go by what we think is right. 'Spare the rod and spoil the child.' 'A soft answer turneth away wrath.' Somewhere between those two, I suppose."
Her hands were wrapped in the dishtowel when she came beside him at the table. "I'm not up to any more right now," she said. "There's nothing left in me."
"She's fourteen," he told her. "I guess we can't let her call the shots." He didn't need to see her to know the strain that hung over her eyes. "What's it going to be like in high school?" he said.
"I won't make it," she said. "Rita Daniels says the only way to stay sane is to lock them up for four years. 'Just lock them up,' she said, 'and four years later let 'em out and tell 'em to go.' That's what she said."
He remembered what his mother, an elementary school teacher for thirty years, had once told him: when you're a teacher you see those really sweet kids with the bright eyes, and you expect too much from your own because you already know quality. It's not fair, she told him. He'd never forgotten his mother's warning. He'd always tried to let Abby be Abby and not expect a dream.
Anita folded the towel over his wrist. "She'll be back, Gerald‑‑she's so young. She's got to come back."
Anita needed to be held, he knew, so when he got up he took the back of her neck in the fingers of both hands and rubbed as if she were sore, then leaned over and hugged her. She
swept her cheek back and forth along his forearm, not letting him go.
"I don't know what on earth to do," he said.
The story is the conflict; the conflict is the story. We all know 'em.
"Growing" is about a kid and her dad.
Hope you like it.
_______________________
After Abby stormed out of the house, Gerald sat at the kitchen table staring at a newspaper lying open to a full page of ads, his hands fisted at the table's edge. He'd told her to stay home but she'd taken off as if his anger were banter, empty threats.
Anita plugged in the coffee and stared out the kitchen window, watching Abby run down the sidewalk. Her voice was cocked and earnest. "Should we chase her‑‑are we supposed to drag her back or what?" she asked. "Ger--?"
He tried to rub the newsprint from his fingertips. "We go by what we think is right. 'Spare the rod and spoil the child.' 'A soft answer turneth away wrath.' Somewhere between those two, I suppose."
Her hands were wrapped in the dishtowel when she came beside him at the table. "I'm not up to any more right now," she said. "There's nothing left in me."
"She's fourteen," he told her. "I guess we can't let her call the shots." He didn't need to see her to know the strain that hung over her eyes. "What's it going to be like in high school?" he said.
"I won't make it," she said. "Rita Daniels says the only way to stay sane is to lock them up for four years. 'Just lock them up,' she said, 'and four years later let 'em out and tell 'em to go.' That's what she said."
He remembered what his mother, an elementary school teacher for thirty years, had once told him: when you're a teacher you see those really sweet kids with the bright eyes, and you expect too much from your own because you already know quality. It's not fair, she told him. He'd never forgotten his mother's warning. He'd always tried to let Abby be Abby and not expect a dream.
Anita folded the towel over his wrist. "She'll be back, Gerald‑‑she's so young. She's got to come back."
Anita needed to be held, he knew, so when he got up he took the back of her neck in the fingers of both hands and rubbed as if she were sore, then leaned over and hugged her. She
swept her cheek back and forth along his forearm, not letting him go.
"I don't know what on earth to do," he said.
*
Wapello was the place they'd chosen to raise their kids, his third teaching job‑‑first a rural school in the hills of southern Wisconsin, then a junior high in downtown Dubuque, and finally Wapello, a suburb so old some people still picked up their mail from the wall full of numbered boxes at the post office downtown. They'd bought a seventy‑year‑old house, one they could fix up slowly. The woodwork needed refinishing, and he'd already put in some extra outlets upstairs and made a place for a dishwasher in the kitchen. He'd promised Abby months ago already that she'd have that basement room because she was tired of sleeping with a first‑grade sister, but there are only so many hours in a day. Now she was gone, walked right out after he demanded she stay home.
The day Abby was born was more clear in his mind than the day Teddy came along, or Lisa, even though Lisa was born only six years before. When he woke up that morning, Anita was lying next to him, naked, wrapped up in his housecoat.
"I think my water broke," she told him.
What did they know? It was the first baby and it was four weeks early. He was already in the bathroom, Anita breathing in quick, firm gusts, while he tried putting together her overnight bag. "Eye‑liner," she yelled, jerking out just enough wind, and he stood there at the sink and realized he had no idea where to look. "Sure," he said, figuring that once the baby was born he'd have to get one of Anita's friends over to grab what she needed.
They'd reached the hospital after eight, and Abby was born by nine‑thirty‑‑bright eyed, even muscular. In the den closet three slide trays were full of shots of their first‑‑some with the cat, some where she'd be lying on her back looking at her fingers, some in her mother's baptismal gown, some on her tummy, perfectly naked, her little baby butt puckered up behind her. Lisa and Teddy never got into much more than a stray shot on vacation.
Abby, their firstborn, was seeing a boy every teacher hated, a high school freshman. Nightly, Abby was seeing him. His name was Budge, a kid in a sneer every minute.
"What do you do when you get sick just to think of your daughter with a kid like that?" Gerald once asked Benny Gates, a language arts teacher who'd had more than his share of trouble with kids.
"You sit and wait," he said, sneaking a clay ashtray out of his desk. "You sit on your butt and wait. Maybe you pray too. If you're like me, you pray a lot." He put the ashtray down and took a pack out of the bottom drawer. Behind his desk, there was a book ad thumbtacked into the wall. "People without hope don't write novels," it said, but Gerald couldn't see the name beneath the bold print. People without hope don't do much at all, he thought. They don't teach or fix up houses or have kids.
The day Abby was born was more clear in his mind than the day Teddy came along, or Lisa, even though Lisa was born only six years before. When he woke up that morning, Anita was lying next to him, naked, wrapped up in his housecoat.
"I think my water broke," she told him.
What did they know? It was the first baby and it was four weeks early. He was already in the bathroom, Anita breathing in quick, firm gusts, while he tried putting together her overnight bag. "Eye‑liner," she yelled, jerking out just enough wind, and he stood there at the sink and realized he had no idea where to look. "Sure," he said, figuring that once the baby was born he'd have to get one of Anita's friends over to grab what she needed.
They'd reached the hospital after eight, and Abby was born by nine‑thirty‑‑bright eyed, even muscular. In the den closet three slide trays were full of shots of their first‑‑some with the cat, some where she'd be lying on her back looking at her fingers, some in her mother's baptismal gown, some on her tummy, perfectly naked, her little baby butt puckered up behind her. Lisa and Teddy never got into much more than a stray shot on vacation.
Abby, their firstborn, was seeing a boy every teacher hated, a high school freshman. Nightly, Abby was seeing him. His name was Budge, a kid in a sneer every minute.
"What do you do when you get sick just to think of your daughter with a kid like that?" Gerald once asked Benny Gates, a language arts teacher who'd had more than his share of trouble with kids.
"You sit and wait," he said, sneaking a clay ashtray out of his desk. "You sit on your butt and wait. Maybe you pray too. If you're like me, you pray a lot." He put the ashtray down and took a pack out of the bottom drawer. Behind his desk, there was a book ad thumbtacked into the wall. "People without hope don't write novels," it said, but Gerald couldn't see the name beneath the bold print. People without hope don't do much at all, he thought. They don't teach or fix up houses or have kids.
___________________________
Tomorrow: the storm as Abby leaves.
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