When Women Were Dragons(42)

My father looked around. “The corner there, I suppose.”

They set the bed down, and soon it was covered in boxes, too.

There was a Sears box with the supplies for a set of ready-to-assemble table and chairs, with instructions. I had never built anything in my life. I looked closely at the box and realized that it had a label affixed to the side with our address. It had been mailed to our house. The date on the postmark was two months earlier. How long had my father been planning this?

Beatrice didn’t speak. I didn’t speak. My father offered no explanation. He provided no context. He let the facts speak for themselves.

There was a box that said “Beatrice.”

There was a box that said “Linens.”

There was a box that said “Winter.”

There were two boxes of groceries.

There were four lamps and a stack of towels.

He paid the men, and they left. The sink dripped and the refrigerator whined and somewhere down the hall a man and woman shouted at each other. My father looked at his watch.

“Well,” he said, patting his pockets and retrieving his keys. “Home sweet home, as they say. I hope you like it.” He paused. “It wasn’t cheap,” he added.

It looked cheap, I thought.

“Where are your boxes, Daddy?” Beatrice asked. She looked up at him, her face betraying not a hint of anxiety. She had no reason to mistrust anyone. “Where will you be sleeping?”

I felt as though I had swallowed a stone.

My father cleared his throat. He met my eye at last. “Surely you understand,” he said.

I didn’t, and told him so. My ears began to ring.

“Well,” my father said, taking a step backward, toward the door. “There’s a baby on the way, after all. Considerations must be made. We all have to do our part, and so forth. And anyway, Alexandra, you have proven yourself more than capable. I really don’t understand what the problem is.” Another step.

I had to catch my breath. My father seemed suddenly very far away, as though I was observing him through a telescope turned backward. The floor, the whole room, seemed to lean at an impossible angle, swaying back and forth. I felt my stomach lurch as though I was seasick. I closed my eyes and tried to steady myself. “This can’t be your plan, Dad,” I said, my voice strangely choked. I couldn’t swallow. “I can’t run a household. Or raise a child.” Obviously I can’t, I wanted to scream. “I mean. What about school?”

My father looked away from me. He looked at the ceiling with its rivets and cracks. He looked at his shoes. His gaze fell on the counters and cupboards in the kitchenette—they were grimy. His mouth curled with distaste. We stood, he and Beatrice and I, in the apartment. It was small, with narrow windows that looked down on the street. I remember the sound of a door whining open and closing with a terrific slam. I remember the sound of footsteps in the hall. I remember a thick, greasy smell coming in from another apartment. My thoughts began to race. Where would the money come from? How would we eat? Where would I study? Who would take care of us? No one. He wanted me to do this by myself. I had no one. I wanted to sit down, but there were no chairs.

“Your mother did it. Without anyone showing her how. Your . . . you know. Your mother’s sister did too, after your grandparents passed, she finished raising your mother all by herself. It’s not that big of a deal. Anyone can do it. It’s just, you know. Nature.” My father checked his watch again. The boxes remained unopened. He was not intending to help us put things away. “You have, as they say, instincts for this sort of thing.”

“Mom was an adult when I was born.” I stared at him. “She had gone to college and everything. Plus she had you. And my—” Even then, I couldn’t bring myself to say auntie Marla, so accustomed was I to lying about it. I shook my head. “She was an adult, too. I can’t do this by myself. Dad, I’m fifteen.”

“You’re quite mature. Everyone says so.” He checked his watch.

I leaned back, as though blown by a strong wind. “And what about school, Dad? I’m top of my class. I’m taking extra courses. I love school. I love learning. And one day I’ll go to college and—”

My father’s lips curled as though he had vinegar in his mouth. “No one needs a college degree to clean a toilet or get dinner on the table. And caring for a child who is in school most of the day can’t be all that hard. I told your mother this all the time. She did all those domestic things, those family things, all by herself even with her cancer—as sick as she was, not that you ever considered that. So how hard could it be, really?” He cleared his throat. He looked at the window, toward the sky. In a brief, wild moment, I imagined it filled with dragons. Burning houses. Burning buildings. Swallowing men whole. I imagined the entire Mass Dragoning happening again, but bigger this time—every city, every town, every block, dark wings and sharp jaws and bright scales crowding the sky. I imagined myself unleashed, unhooked, unraveled, an explosion of heat and rage and frustration. My bones felt hot. My skin felt tight. The air in my lungs seemed to sizzle.

No, I told myself. I closed my eyes and tried to force the vision away. Tried to make myself forget. There is a freedom in forgetting, after all. It didn’t matter what happened before. There were no more dragons. They weren’t coming back. Everyone knew that. I tried to slow my breathing and quiet my mind. I covered my face with my hands, pressed my fingers to my skin, just for a moment, trying to right myself.