It was a famous idea to be so well-known. Tina, known for her antics, Corine for being the baby, Mom the stunning beauty, and Dad so unhappy. Each day we met and it was as if we were a band, getting ready to warm-up or else warming-up for a performance. The performance was the evening supper, dinner, where we would sit--so hungry and Dad on the verge of exploding. He would not speak about his job as a social worker, even though we were dying to know any detail. Any detail at all. Coors, Bud.
It was lasagna or spaghetti or tacos. Tina and I. Mom was at school--Corine too little and not interested. Mom later at work--Dad, home at 5:30, the same every day--to eat quickly--if Mom was there he be so angry--wouldn't like the food, act spoiled.
Tina always spilled her glass of milk. Dad was mad. Milk was expensive but cheap compared to the cartons in Nome that we never bought--only tasting some at our friends' house. They later moved to Arizona, their dad a pilot for Weins.
When Mom got home, she didn't eat, but when to bed and slept. She worked as a teacher. We never saw her except in the mornings when we wanted a ride instead of the bus. She would be upset, coffee cup in hand, running late.
She was a great teacher. The kids loved her. She loved the kids. She could talk forever to the parents. She loved to talk. Period.
I'd help her in her classroom after school sometimes--clean up construction paper, gather scissors and glue--and then whole days during breaks from college when she was going through chemo and wore a wig.
I hate the wig, it is so itchy and hot, she said.
Once, she took it off and showed her bald head to her students. They were very frightened. She didn't look like the same person without hair or fake hair.
I'm doing fine, she lied.
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