JANICE HARRISON goes to the front door when the old bell
Scrapes the silence. Decades of rust have all but destroyed its voice, the thing will die entirely some day, the clapper freezing or the wires shorting out or whatever they do. Whenever she says she wants to call the electrician, Ronnie tells her it’s on his list of home improvements, he’ll get to it. He likes to do things himself. Harry was all for letting other people do them.
A twinge in her hip slows her progress out from the sunny worn kitchen, through the dining room, whose shades are drawn to keep the Oriental rug from fading and the polished mahogany tabletop from drying out, into the front room, where the reproduction cobbler’s bench in front of the gray cut-plush sofa causes a detour that has worn a pale path in the carpet. A big brown Zenith television, its top loaded with her mother’s dusty knickknacks, blankly stares where her father’s Barcalounger used to be. They
Don’t sit out here and watch on the sofa like they used to. Ronnie likes the little Sony in the kitchen for the evening news, watching
While he eats, and Nelson when he’s stuck at home after work has the computer upstairs that he says is more fun than television because it’s interactive. He wasn’t so interactive with his wife that Teresa didn’t move back to Ohio with the two children over a year ago. He and Roy, who is fourteen now, do a lot of e-mail, mostly rude jokes (one especially shocking joke this summer went Remember when the Kennedys used to drown only one woman at a time?), as if e-mail was as good as having a real father under the same roof.
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