“No, you don’t,” she said. “Not until every plate is clean. Eat your vegetables first, and then we’ll see about candy.”
They finished their vegetables in record time, and after the dishes were washed they each had a candy bar to eat down under the willow tree. Butch licked the wrappers.
Grandma was taking a nap in the little cottage, and Mom was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the porch rubbing sandpaper back and forth on an old chair. Dad was home that day. He was trying to think, he explained to the children. He’d make awful faces and run his fingers through his hair. Sometimes his face would light up, and he’d write like fury, and then again he would crumple what he had written into a ball and throw it on the floor. Mom scratched at the chair.
“Elizabeth,” Dad said. “Elizabeth, my dear, dear wife, what are you doing to that chair?”
She looked at him through the rungs. “I’m taking the old finish off,” she answered. “I just know that under these layers of paint, it’s walnut or mahogany, or even cherry.”
Daddy picked up his papers. “Elizabeth,” he said. “You scratch away to your heart’s content. I’m going to do my writing out on the terrace.”
“Oh,” said Mom, looking up. “Am I driving you away?”
He made believe he was pulling out his hair. “No,” he gurgled. “You’re driving me cr’razy!”
“I’m so sorry, dear,” said Mom and kept on scratching.
Once established on the terrace, Daddy stretched his legs and started all over again. Buick lay at his feet, sunning himself, and every little while he edged over and licked Daddy’s hand.