At this, they all scoffed and laughed, aside from Willy/Billy, who began to cry softly. Billie/Milly heaved him up and cuddled him. Was this name switch going to work? His legs dangled down, and Ike affectionately licked his bare feet while Truman tried to chew Ike’s tail.
‘Where are your shoes, Billy?’
‘Doo doo,’ he mumbled.
Milly put him down and sniffed the air. Yep, definite dog excrement. She moved to the other rooms, sniffing. Hell! Only three hours to go. While she tracked down the smell by putting her nose to several places on the floor, she admitted to herself it had been a blissful week. No cooking real meals, no having to justify where the money went, or why there were no peppercorns in the grinder, or constantly telling the kids to play their records at a lower volume. No arguments. But she’d missed Jack, she had. She always did, but it was such a mishmash kind of missing. Living without him was possible, of course she knew that now, but if he for instance suddenly ceased to exist, well! It did not bear thinking about.
Darn, where was the disinfectant? There was dog poop stuck to the new rug, where Billy (already it was becoming more natural to say Billy instead of Willy) was walking earlier. Darn dog! Darn Willy! (So, not so quickly after all. It would take time, of course it would.)
Half an hour later, from the living room record player came that song again: This could be the last time, maybe the last time, I don’t know. Oh no, oh no. Donald was pretending to be Mick Jagger, prancing about, his fingers plucking air. Elisabeth was sitting, eyes closed and cross-legged, on the floor and appeared to be mouthing words. Sam was watching Sesame Street with the sound off, and Billy/Willy was on his lap, sucking his thumb. Danny was reading Herb Caen with a smile on his face, oblivious to everyone. Billie/Milly noticed, not for the first time, that they all looked related. Each completely different too, of course – but there was a thread of Molinelli running through them all, so now, arranged around the room, they looked like a tribe. All four boys had the Molinelli almost-white hair, which was really Anderson hair from her mother’s side. Elisabeth had her father’s dark hair and blue eyes, but her mother’s heart-shaped face and, it had to be said, her perfect legs. Not that she ever showed them. There was something self-contained about them all, thought Milly/Billie. Something almost insular. They were, she realised for the first time, essentially antisocial. Hardly ever invited friends round. Hardly ever went out, actually. There were at least half a dozen empty cans of Shasta on the floor, empty Fritos bags and candy wrappers eddying at the room’s edge, not to mention shoes absolutely everywhere. How did six people acquire so many pairs of shoes? But she had to admire their skill, negotiating around the house without constantly tripping. Really, it was not easy living happily in a pigsty. People underestimated slobs.
In her mind, she said sternly: Turn that down, please! I asked you to help clean up this house! But what was the point? If Jack was here and shouted at them, they’d swear under their breath but obey. Since his job changed to publishing, their lives had become patterned around his absences. Dad-at-home meant rules, clean rooms, proper meal times, proper meals, twice-daily dog walks. Dad away meant unmade beds with unfresh sheets, dog sloth, French toast for dinner three nights running, Grateful Dead on the living room record player instead of in their rooms, records left out of sleeves, and no shouting at all.
‘Children!’ she said softly during a pause between tracks.
‘What?’
They turned to look at her with identical expressions. The next track began, and Donald turned the volume down.
‘Can you please help me finish cleaning the house. Your father is, Jack is…’
‘We know! The king is on his way! Don’t sweat it.’
‘Geez! The house is fine, Mom. I’ve vacuumed the hall, and the bathroom’s clean.’
‘All we have to do is pick up in here. It’ll take two minutes.’
‘Mommy?’
‘Yes, Wil…Billy?’ He giggled at this, so she repeated herself. ‘What do you want, WilBilly?’
‘I can’t hear Sesame Street.’
‘Turn the music off, Donald. And turn up the television, Sam.’
‘Sure thing…Milly.’ Sarcastically.
Milly again, she thought. It was the perfect solution. But how strange. Was being Billie really gone for ever? Quite fundamental, yet it had happened so easily. She felt more grown up, not in a pleasant way. Milly felt more…conventional than Billie. Also childish, because the last time she was Milly, she’d been living with her mother and sister. She’d had a favourite outfit, the summer she declared herself Billie, not Milly. A red nylon dress, with white polka dots and a tiny black belt. Billie had sounded so snazzy. So modern, so not valley. And now, she was back to meek Milly. Just how much would a mother sacrifice for her child? She sighed as she took an armful of clothes belonging to Sam to the room he shared with Danny and Donald. It used to be the master bedroom – but that seemed like ancient history now. Willy/Billy was in the smallest room, Elisabeth had the converted garage, and she and Jack slept in the middle room. Somehow, over the years, the small house had expanded to accommodate them all. If another child magically appeared, she had no doubt the house would at first groan, then stretch out till a suitable corner was found. She kicked open a storage drawer at the base of Sam’s closet, and dumped in his clothes. Bending to push the drawer closed, she spotted his diary. The one she gave him for Christmas a few years ago, which was why she felt entitled now to have a quick read. Also there was the way her son’s eyes looked last night when he went to bed at the unprecedented hour of 8:30, after being dropped off by that new friend. And actually, now she thought of it, he’d been avoiding her eyes all day. So she squatted by the open drawer and quickly flicked through the diary. She was impressed – almost every page was full. Some even had scribbling going up the margin, with arrows. Peace signs appeared in various sizes, as did doodles of naked girls. The dates had been crossed out, new ones scribbled in, and some entries were longer than one page.
One entry, about a year old, in messy handwriting:
I love Frances. This is it. Destiny. I gave her a necklace tonight for her birthday and told her I love her. She didn’t say she loved me too, but so what.
How sweet! Sam was a romantic. She’d always thought he was different.
Now I get all those love songs. It’s like when I finally started to inhale, after months of smoking doobies and wondering what the fuck everyone was talking about.
Sam smoked pot? Well, of course he did. So did Jack, actually.
Wonder if she’ll let me fuck her now.
What? Oh well.
She flicked to the final page. Yesterday’s date. The handwriting was different. The pen had not been pressed hard enough, and at times almost faded into transparency. But there were the words still, loud as a smoke alarm.
On acid. Flying. I can hardly feel this pen, and Che Guevara is winking at me from the wall. Henry said it lasts for at least 8 hours, which means I have 3 hours to go. Fuck. But this will pass. All things must pass, as the song says. All things must pass away.
Milly shut the diary quickly, replaced it and closed the drawer. Her heart raced as if a train had mysteriously derailed from that rarely visited side of downtown, and was heading straight for her home. And in a way, that was exactly what had happened. She had been so relaxed all week, but here was life, rushing to meet her again.
Finally, with thirty minutes till his father’s return, Sam was out in the backyard scooping up dog poop with an old spoon into a brown paper bag. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Thirteen, under the steps. Fourteen and fifteen, behind the barbecue. Most were dry, odourless, but some were soft and fresh. The dogs were following him around, sniffing their own excrement as if they’d never seen it before. Billy, who was increasingly less a Willy, was playing hide-and-seek with Elisabeth in the house. Elisabeth was actually reading Seventeen magazine, but every few minutes shouting numbers, and Ready or not, here I come! Where’s that Billy who used to be Willy? Danny and Donald were playing Pong, sitting on the floor in front of the television with their remote controls in their laps. There was a hollow ping! every time one of their paddles hit the ball. Milly, who was less Billie already, surveyed her house. It looked a little sneaky, a little false, with a shoe toe peeping out from under a sofa, and the kitchen junk drawer refusing to shut. The kitchen floor was still wet, highlighting the corners that the mop had missed. Jack was on his way home, the house was superficially clean, and the kids were all present. Tick, tick, tick.
But Sam had taken acid.
She watched him in the yard, from the kitchen window. Milly often let her eyes linger on her first born; of all the children, he resembled her most. As for taking drugs, however, he got that from his father. Loving intoxication from whatever source. Which reminded her, had she dusted his water pipe recently? He might be wanting that when he got home. Grass was not scary, but acid was. While Milly was considering what to do, she noticed Sam pulling himself up the tree in the backyard. He hadn’t climbed a tree in years, what was he doing? Up and up he climbed, and Milly felt a coldness creep over her skin, despite the sun. Sam paused on a branch about forty, maybe fifty feet up. She stared at him but did not go outside, because she had to keep her eyes on him in order to will him down safely. He hardly looked like Sam, way up there. She imagined him looking down, seeing the yard and the dogs, and maybe even her own worried face looking out the kitchen window. He started swinging down quickly, holding on to branches with his hands, not stopping to find proper footholds. Like a monkey, she thought. Then she watched as he missed a branch and hung by one hand, his other grappling in the air for another place to grip. The bark was smooth and he was a big boy. It was obvious to Milly he couldn’t hold his own weight long, and she watched as his hand slid off the branch. He fell quickly, but her own reactions seemed to happen in excruciating slow motion. She opened doors and ran out of the house, but it didn’t feel like running. Tried to scoop up her son as if he was six again, his gangly legs and arms spilling awkwardly. He moaned a little but didn’t open his eyes.
‘Shush now, you’ll be fine,’ she ordered softly over and over. Danny carried his feet while Milly held him under his arms. He swung heavily between them. Elizabeth opened the back seat door and helped them slide Sam’s body across the seat.
‘Want me to come?’ asked Elisabeth.
‘Stay!’ Milly commanded, as if she was a puppy. The adrenalin still pumping, her arms and legs trembling.
‘Look after…him.’ Pointing at Billy/Willy, and blank about his name. ‘Everyone stay put till I get back.’ Even her voice was shaking now. She was one big shake.
‘Is he okay? Is Sam hurt bad?’
‘I don’t know. Your father will be here soon. Tell him.’
Then she got in the car and burned rubber for the first time in her life. The acrid smell seeped into her panic, even as she hurtled the old station wagon down China Camp Road, the shortcut to Marin General Hospital. She had never felt this afraid. She’d never driven this dangerously. She figured (in some calm, calculating room in her mind) that since she’d driven twenty-six years without breaking any traffic laws, she was due a little leeway and would get away with this. She had the perfect excuse, the only excuse really. This was an emergency, and she wanted to scream at the Volkswagen puttering along at thirty. She hit her horn, then swerved out to see if it was clear for her to pass.
