"Why not?"
"They don't have to. Dad's got a place in Florida and Long Island and Maine and New York. So when they quarrel, they just go off. Different places. And I can't be with either of them because the other won't let me," Janet choked. "I guess they'll quarrel Saturday," she said.
"Gee, that's tough." Pip-Emma gave a small hoarse chuckle. "Pop and Ma get mad sometimes. But Ma says, 'You old son-of-a-gun, I guess I gotter live with you and like it.' And Pop says, 'I like it fine, you old so-and-so.' And he takes us out and gives us a sundae at the drugstore. Ma says you can't stay mad in two rooms."
"I wish we lived in two rooms," Janet said.
Pip-Emma knitted her black brows. "Maybe," she said, "you might tell 'em so."
"I'd be too scared."
But Pip-Emma was after her thought like a terrier after an elusive rabbit. "If my Pop and Ma were here, I'd jump into their darned old water. I wouldn't care how cold it was. I wouldn't be scared. Maybe if your Pop and Ma are along, you'll win the race, and then you'll never be scared again."
"But I shan't win it. I'll lose my breath like I always do. And
Clara's so fat. She just has to float."
"Maybe if she was sick—if she eats something—"
"She can't. Prissy's got her on a diet. She's Prissy's pet."