By Carol Epstein

ly. Many times her parents would arrive home separately. Although Christine never knew what had happened between them on their evenings out, she had begun to piece together a picture of their times alone. In the last few years of listening and watching-in her house, in the homes of relatives and friends, in restaurants, and on vacations-she had decided that her parents really didn't like each other. Not, Christine realized, in the way I like my best friend Barbara or my other friend Janis. Or even my

sister. And mixed with alcohol, her parents became so many people, with ups and down that happened so quickly that it was hard to keep track of who they really were.

The front door swung open with a wild crash and then slammed shut. With her knees bent and legs drawn up to her chest, Christine stared at the little windmills and Pennsylvania Dutch people lined up in rows on her wallpaper. She was trying to decide whether she should awaken her sister and brace her for what might follow. Deciding it was better to be prepared than be jolted out of sleep, Christine crawled over to her sister's bed. At that moment she heard her mother pounding on the front door.

"Let me in, Steven. It's freezing out here! You `miserable man, open up!"

As her sister blinked open her eyes and rubbed

them fiercely, Christine cringed at the sound of her mother screaming. Her loud voice would carry and echo throughout the street, and probably wake up the neighbors. Again they would all know, she thought, that we are a terrible family. In the suminertime, with the windows wide open, Christine always felt helpless during her parents' fights. She could not even try to believe that the neighbors would not hear the language and the sound of furniture breaking. But in the winter, when everyone's windows were

Drawing by Jeanne Smith Regan

sealed, Christine felt calmer and more reassured that no one heard her parents argue.

"Now she's yelling on the front steps," Christine whispered to plump little Pat, who looked wide-eyed and frightened. "But don't you worry, Pat. I'll protect Mommy. Don't you worry about a thing.'

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Christine clasped her sister's hand, leading her out of their bedroom and down the hallway. At the top of the stairs the two small figures waited.

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"Don't you try and tell me, Martha sneered as Steven opened the front door, "that you aren't fooling around with that piece of ass at Johnnie's Bar. I saw you nod to her several times when you thought I wasn't looking. And I saw you rub up against her at the bar when you were getting our drinks."

"Martha, you are asking for it!" Steven shouted back as he swayed in front of her. "The Scotch is

talking and you know it. I've known Lizie for years, before I ever picked you up and saved you from..."

"Saved me?" Martha snarled, throwing off her coat. She stomped into the kitchen. The sound of the refrigerator opening and ice clinking followed.

"That's right. Saved you," Steven shouted as he approached Martha defiantly. "You didn't know what the fuck you were doing in the city. You couldn't handle money. You couldn't keep the jobs coming...."

"Oh, don't tell me," Martha snapped as she turned away, swirling her ice in a freshly-made drink,, "I had everyone noticing me: I was on my way, I tell you: I had talent!"

"Talent in your ass,' Steven snickered while mixing himself a whiskey.

Martha spun around to face Steven and spit at him venomously.

"You know, I've had just about all I can take from you. I'm sick of your face and whatever else goes with it. Why don't you just take a walk and get lost? You scum!"

A crack in the air whipped out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Christine and Pat stiffened and hugged each other tightly. Christine let go of her sister's hand and ran down the steps, shouting, "Stop it, please, stop fighting!"

But the two adult figures were already completely oblivious. Christine could see her Nana hovering in the dining room. As always she looked helpless and terrified, both by her own physical frailty as well as by a sense that she was absolutely ineffectual in these circumstances. Steven shoved Martha against the refrigerator and then flung a chair at her thighs. Martha scrambled to her feet and grabbed her drink, tossing the contents in Steven's face. She was shouting, "Coward, coward, you lousy bastard. Go on, hit me again!" Steven didn't waste any time. He gripped Martha's arms and pushed her against the wall. His eyes were glazed and trancelike. He was sweating and breathing hard. Calling her "bitch," he punched her in the stomach. As he pounded on her face, she pulled on his and clawed at his eyes with her fingernails. For a moment, however, Martha heard the cries of Pat and then noticed Christine waiting by the door. "Christine, call the police!" Martha cried out as she slipped to the floor in a heap.

"

Christine obeyed immediately, as she always did in this situation. Quickly clearing her head, she dialed the number. She would ask for help with a tone of competence. Christine knew that the impending arrival of police officers would put a halt to the fighting, at least for the night. When the officers arrived, they would ask if this was a domestic quarrel and if so, did Martha want Steven to sleep it off in the tank? Or perhaps Martha and Steven could patch it up, they might add. Things always looked better in the morning.

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More often than not, Steven slept it off at home. And so did Martha. In the morning, both would emerge from their bedroom looking pale but congenial. Many times they would have made love in the early dawn hours, before a mutual shower and breakfast. Sometimes Christine and Pat would see their parents hug each other in the kitchen, as Martha scrambled eggs and smiled timidly at the new day ahead. Often no mention was made of the previous night.

The next day Christine felt glad that the day was sunny. She piled on lots of clothing and cajoled her sister into plans for sledding and late afternoon skating. That night she would return to her history text. And very soon she would go to the library and ask if there were other, more interesting books on World War II. One thing she did know: the whole story of that war was still waiting to be told.

April, 1980/What She Wants/Page 9