THE BLANKET

A Short Story

© Jane Piirto   All Rights Reserved.

    I brought her down the extra blanket on my bed. I had three blankets and it was hot in my room so I didn’t need all of them. I had heard her trying their bedroom door but it was locked, bolted from the inside, just like they did when they were in there together taking a nap in the middle of the day.

    Earlier I had wakened up to the constant donging of the doorbell so I came down to answer it. It was 5 a.m., I remember, on the glow-in-the-dark dial of the clock. I got that clock for my eleventh birthday. I was babysitting for my two younger brothers while they went to a party.  I peered out.

    The car was running, next to the porch, and I could see the frosty clouds of exhaust swirling. I saw the glow of her cigarette in the front seat. She saw me peeking and flicked on the interior lights of the car so I could see her. She waved. Then she turned the car off and came to the locked and bolted porch door. We never lock the porch door. She motioned through the storm window for me to let her in. I did.

    “Where’s Dad?” I said, noticing that both cars were home.

     “We came back earlier and forgot to leave the porch door open,” she said. We never lock the porch door. I was afraid of monsters and vampires, but I didn’t even lock it.

     Later, I was just about to fall asleep again. I heard her knocking softly on their bedroom door, so we wouldn’t wake up. “Will you open the door to let me get a blanket, at least?” she whispered. She thought we would wake up, that’s why she whispered. But I heard her.

    She knocked again, a little louder. “Please. Let me get a blanket. For Pete’s sake. Open the door. It’s 40-below. Stop being such a little kid.”

     I sneaked to my door and saw her down the hall, in silhouette. Her head was bent to the jamb of their door, her hand on the knob. “Give me a blanket!” Then, softer, “Stop this silence.  I know you hear me.  Why did you leave me at the party? I turned around and you were gone.  That guy was just telling me what a good-looking couple we make. Were you jealous? Mad? For Christ’s sake! Talk to me. Come on, Jack. Give me a blanket. Let’s talk. This has gone far enough, your freaking out at parties, I had to ask Don to drive me home, the host leaving the party to drive me halfway across town in the middle of January.  Jack? Everything is wrong between us, and this is the crowning thing.”

    She paused.  “Jack, at least give me a blanket.” Then she muttered, “Bastard.  Uptight bastard.” She went downstairs again. I waited. Silence. Dad wasn’t answering, though I knew he must be awake. If I was, he must be. Then I got up after awhile, after I knew he wasn’t going to answer her, her and her asking for understanding, ever again. I pulled one of my blankets off and got my bed all messed, I don’t like a messy bed with loose bed clothes in a lump on the bottom, my feet get tangled up and all, and I went downstairs and gave it to her. As I came into the room, I saw her sitting, her legs under her, curled on the couch, reading a magazine, smoking a cigarette. I wish she’d quit smoking, but she hasn’t yet. Dad never smoked and once I heard him say he wouldn’t kiss her any more, if she smoked before they kissed. And I never saw him kiss her after that.

    She wasn’t crying. She’s a crier, even when dogs get killed on tv shows, or when she watches her favorite soap opera, but she wasn’t crying.

     “Here’s a blanket.”

     “Oh.” She seemed in a trance. “You heard.” She was so calm. “Come here.” She cries a lot but she wasn’t crying, didn’t even seem angry. They fought a lot and she always cried, but she wasn’t crying.

    I sat next to her on the couch, my feet on the floor, stiff. Then she pulled me over to her and put her arms around me and I curled my legs up, leaning on her. She smelled like she’d been to a party, wine and cigarettes and onion dip. She started talking into my hair, softly, as if she were talking to herself.

    She said, “You heard. Are you sad?”

    What could I say? I mumbled “Mm-hmm.”

    She said, “I know. I remember, when I was little. Once, I was sleeping and then they woke me up.  Grandma and Grandma —my mom and dad — were fighting in their bedroom; it was next to mine and I heard them through the walls. The walls were thin. They were yelling. I just lay there and listened. I tried to get back to sleep and I couldn’t. They were yelling so much.  I got so sad and I came out and begged them to stop. I was crying. I started crying. I remember I had my favorite nightgown on, the new flannel one with red flowers. The whole thing stands out still, as I say it.” She said this softly, as calmly as if she were telling me a bedtime story to lull me to sleep, into my hair.

    “They were surprised, and then ashamed I had heard them; it was so late, they thought I was sleeping the sleep of the dead, children’s sleep. I felt so bad I can’t say even now the right words for how bad I felt that they should say such things to each other. I was crying and pleading, I remember I pulled on my father’s shirt, he had his shirt and underpants on, must have been getting ready to go to bed, begging them to stop. It was awful.” Her voice broke, then, finally, in remembering it, in saying it, like a soap opera on tv.

    “They told me everything was all right and to go to bed. They kissed me. My mother took me into my room and tucked me in. I was almost asleep again and then I heard them speaking in normal voices. Then they were arguing. Then they were shouting again. My coming in there to tell them to stop hadn’t meant a thing. I wanted them not to fight, to be in love, to be friends, to be nice to each other, and they wouldn’t. I didn’t go back in, I knew it was something I couldn’t control, I just cried, it seemed like, all night long, but it wasn’t. They stopped soon, I guess. I guess I fell asleep after all.” She stopped and sat there silent, hugging me, breathing into my hair.

    I wasn’t saying anything.  What was she saying to me, that fights don’t mean anything after all? They why was I so sad? She squeezed me. “You know how much we love you, don’t you?”

     I didn’t want to talk. But she expected an answer, she always does. ” —yes —” I murmured.

     I just buried myself in her. Her softness. I couldn’t say anything. “Daddy and I have talked about how sad he was too when his parents had fights when he could hear everything. We’ve talked about this.”

    She was holding me tighter and tighter as if she needed me more than I could give to her need. “All parents fight.”

    They had a fight that day over lunch. He had become silent over something he didn’t like and her cheeks had flushed as she quickly rose and picked up the dishes. I hadn’t even finished my soup. “You’re a real bitch!” Dad had said. Then she had been silent, just letting the tears roll down her face, sniffing real loud. Her nose gets real red when she cries. And Dad still gets silent when he gets mad at us kids, or he stalks out, or he swears, but he won’t talk about it. I’m just like him, I can’t say what’s bothering me, I just know something is, Mom does all that talking, though, and she still doesn’t know exactly what it is, either, that makes her cry so much.

     Earlier that morning, he had invited me to go with him to check out a new place to bird watch. He teaches biology and he’s a birder, has 150 birds on his list. “We’ll just drive around and check it out,” he said.

    So I got ready. I only had 75 birds and needed more. But she was following him around, saying, “Stay and fight. Please! Don’t leave. Don’t walk out on this. I can’t stand two more weeks of silence, like a few weeks ago. Let’s talk it out. Let’s fight it out. Please!”

    Then he sent me and my brothers out to play. “We’ll go in a few minutes,” he said.

    When I came back to check when we were going to leave, they were lying on the couch watching the old movie they always have on Channel 7 on Saturdays, and she was cuddled next to him, her head on his chest. He had both arms around her. They were laughing and stroking each other’s arms.

    They didn’t see me and I just left. The guys talked about seeing their parents making love, as if it were something dirty, but I don’t mind, even if we didn’t get to go out and find more birds.  I felt glad. They were glad together so I felt glad. It was always like that between them, up and down, love and fights, hate and love, but mostly love, I know. I watched them for eleven years together. They were happy more than not.

    She was whispering into my hair again, “Sometimes you can’t even get sad anymore, sometimes it’s just one thing too much, sometimes it gets to be too cold and you can’t even get a blanket so you can sleep warm on the couch.”

     I moved to go. She let me. “Just know we love you. Do you know that?”

    “Yes,” I said into her breast.

    She started to say more but I guess she just couldn’t. I just remember she was so calm.  I just got up and went upstairs to bed. Leaving her. “Good night, my son, my love,” she muttered, but her thoughts were elsewhere. Before I fell asleep I heard my little brother go down to the bathroom. He was too young to get so sad about parents fighting.

    Only in the old days, they didn’t get divorced. I have four grandparents who live in two houses, and I visit them with my Mom and my Dad. As he went upstairs, I heard him say, as he saw Mom down there, so calm. “Mom, leave the bathroom light on, when you go to bed.”

    “O.K., my love, my son,” Mom answered.

    I remember wishing the cat hadn’t chosen my bed to purr on that night. She was purring so loud, right on my chest.  As if nothing were wrong.

END