Free A Good House by Bonnie Burnard Page A

happened Paul had to turn his suddenly streaming face to the living-room wall and, recognizing himself in his grandson, Sylvia’s father left his armchair to go to Paul, making it worse. Patrick, who in just these few short months had learned to carry love as an unspeakable pressure inside himself, got up from his chair so fast he knocked it over. He took the stairs in five great leaps and slammed the bedroom door and after that night he wouldn’t sit with them, would not even say hello when his grandfather came in the kitchen door.
    Sylvia’s mother remained stoic. A born coordinator, she discussed practical matters with Margaret to reassure herself that everything was well in hand. She took the laundry home with her because she had a new clothes dryer in her basement and she wrote the letters that had to be written to tell the news that had to be told, attempted to supervise the homework at the dining-room table. And privately but firmly she scolded Paul. “I can’t abide this crying, Paul,” she said. “Not now. And trust me, there will be plenty of time for it after.”
    One evening in the middle of a week when Sylvia appeared to have a resurgence of strength, she called Daphne to come into the living room alone. When the door was shut and Daphne was comfortable on the bed, Sylvia said she wanted to tell her how much she regretted that she wouldn’t be around to help later, with her marriage and her babies. She lifted her hand when Daphne tried to speak, tried to say, Don’t say that, Mom. Don’t say that. Sylvia wanted badly to be frank, to be truthful. She wanted to say, Take your time when you think you’re ready for a husband, don’t just go by looks, make him talk, find out how he thinks. Or, Don’t let your heart outshout your head. Or, Whatever happens to you, don’t just settle. But she said what she had rehearsed.
    “It seems to me that smart women look for comfort and loyalty when they’re deciding on a husband and I think men want more or less the same thing. And it never hurts to have a bit of laughter thrown in.” She didn’t mention the long-ago break in Daphne’s jaw, or her apprehension about men whose interest might be queered by the malformed face, who might, instinctively, turn away.
    “Childbirth,” she said, “isn’t nearly as bad as some women willhappily lead you to believe. A young body can be trusted.” She put her hands on her own distended stomach. “There are specialized muscles in there with a job to do and one job only.” She didn’t say anything specific or descriptive about sex, except that Daphne shouldn’t be afraid of it. “Sex is mostly just for comfort and fun,” she said. “And meant to be.”
    Listening now with her eyes wide open and her hands covering her mouth, Daphne nodded and tried to lift her hands away. “I want three babies,” she said. “I’m going to have three.”
    “Three is a very good number,” Sylvia said. “Tell me what you’ll call them.”
    “Girls will be Maggie or Jill or Paula,” Daphne said. “Boys will be David or Daniel or Michael.”
    “Those are very fine names,” Sylvia said. “I like those names a lot.”
    The next evening she called Patrick and Paul and Murray in and sat them down to tell them that they would soon have wives and children, which made them look down through their knees at their feet and shake their heads. Thinking about this talk all afternoon, she had known she would have to thread her way carefully between one son’s rage and the other’s anxious tears, and looking at them now she could see her boundaries announcing themselves in Patrick’s clenched fists, in Paul’s wet cheeks. What she wanted to say to them was, Take it slow, as slow as you can. And, Before you decide, have a good long look at the mother because a daughter usually turns out just the same or just the opposite. She wanted to say, Loud, silly girls often grow up to be loud, silly women, and sullen girls tend to stay