Home Front(38)

As he walked down the darkened hallway, he knocked on the girls’ doors, yelling for them to get up.

Downstairs, he made a pot of coffee, realizing too late that he’d made enough for two. Then he stood there, waiting impatiently. As soon as it was done, he pulled out the glass carafe and poured himself a cup.

Only it wasn’t done; coffee dripped down, splattering and burning on the warming pad below. He shoved the carafe back into place, ignoring the steaming sizzle, and looked at his list.

Today was “clown” pancake breakfast day.

Ha.

Instead, he rifled through the cupboards, found some cereal, and thumped it down on the table. Tossing some bowls and spoons alongside it, he grabbed the newspaper from the porch and sat down to read it.

The next time he looked up, it was 8:07.

“Shit.” He threw down the paper and ran up the stairs, opening Betsy’s door.

His daughter was still asleep.

“Damn it, Betsy, get up.”

She sat up in bed slowly, blinking, and glanced sleepily at the clock by her bed and then screamed.

“You didn’t wake me up in time!” The horror on her face would have been funny any other time. He knew how precise Betsy was, just like her mom; she hated to be rushed.

“I knocked on your door and yelled at you,” he said, clapping his hands. “Get going.”

“I don’t have time. I don’t have time.” She jumped out of bed and looked in the mirror. “My hair,” she groaned.

“You have five minutes to be at the table for breakfast.”

“No shower?” Again, the horror. “You can’t mean it.”

“Oh. I mean it. You’re twelve. How dirty can you be? Go.”

She glared at him.

“Move it.” He strode down the hall to Lulu’s room. As usual, his youngest daughter slept spread-eagle on top of the blankets with a zoo of stuffed animals gathered around her. He threw the toys aside and kissed her cheek, pushing her tangled hair aside. “Lulu, honey, it’s time to wake up.”

“I don’t wanna,” she said, rolling away from him.

“Time to go to preschool.”

“I don’t wanna.”

He turned on the light and went to her dresser. Opening the top drawer, he pulled out some tiny pink-flowered underwear and a pair of small elastic-waisted yellow corduroy pants and a green sweater. “Come on, Lulu, we need to get you dressed.”

“Those are summer clothes, Daddy. And they don’t go together. Get the yellow sweater.”

“This is what you’re wearing.”

“Am not.”

“Are, too.”

“Mommy lets me pick—”

“Come here, Lucy,” he said sternly.

Scrunching her face up, she climbed out of bed and padded toward him. All the time he was dressing her, she was complaining.

“There,” he said when she was dressed. “Pretty as a picture.”

“I look ugly.”

“Hardly.”

She reached up for the pair of wings on the dresser top. “Pin it on me, Daddy. It means she’s thinking of me. Ow! You poked me.”

“Sorry,” he mumbled. Picking her up, he carried her downstairs and into the kitchen. There, he put her in her chair and poured her a bowl of cereal.

“It’s clown pancake day,” she informed him crisply, looking down at her wings. “Look at the calendar.”

“It’s Captain Crunch day.”

“That’s for special. Is Mommy coming home?”

“Not today.” He poured the milk into her bowl.

Betsy came running into the kitchen and stopped dead. “I can’t go to school like this,” she cried, flinging out her arms dramatically. “Look at my hair.”

She did sort of look as if she’d just undergone electric shock therapy. “Put a twisty thing in it.”

Betsy’s eyes widened at the thought, her face paled. “You’re ruining my life already.”

“Mommy’s not coming home yet,” Lulu said and burst into tears.

“Eat,” Michael snapped to Lulu; to Betsy, he said, “Sit down. Now.”

Outside, he heard the grinding of gears, the rattling of an old engine. He looked through the kitchen window and saw the yellow blur of a school bus pull up at the end of his driveway.

“I’m late,” Betsy howled. “See?”

Michael ran to the back door and flung it open, yelling, “Wait—”

But it was too late. The bus was pulling away.

He slammed the door shut. “When does school start? That wasn’t on her damn list.”

Betsy stared at him. “You don’t even know?”

“Eat. Then go brush your teeth. We’re leaving in two minutes.”

“I’m not going to first period,” Betsy said. “Ooooh no I’m not. Zoe’s in that class. And Sienna. When they see my hair—”

“You’re going to school. I have a ferry to catch.” Michael looked at the wall clock and grimaced. He was going to miss his ferry, which meant he was going to miss his first meeting of the day.

Betsy crossed her arms. “I’m on a hunger strike.”

“Fine,” he snapped. “Be hungry.” He grabbed the dishes and put them in the sink, cereal and milk and all. In the mudroom, he found Lulu’s pink rubber boots and picked them up.