In These Times the Home Is a Tired Place: World War II in the Central Pacific

What Became of What She Had Made

23 What Became of What She Had Made Lynette hadn’t heard from Christine in six months and three days. There’d been something of an argument, nothing abnormal. Her daughter was unpleasant on the phone, and Lynette questioned her about her life and whether she ever planned to take it seriously. She figured stubbornness had kept her daughter from calling her back; or else the phone buzzed in a purse on a hook in the morgue, and Lynette really was a horrible mother. It would be her fault somehow. She almost called in a Missing Person. But Olivia, her other daughter, showed her how to check someone’s voice messages if she could break the password. For her passwords, Christine always used the street address from their derelict little split-level on the south side of Ann Arbor, the one where Lynette had spent many good hours teaching Christine in preparation for kindergarten. Olivia brought Lynette a vodka and cranberry and one for herself. They sat on Olivia’s pink floral sofa, listening to Christine ’s messages on speaker phone while Olivia’s boy Henry ran plastic farm animals violently into each other. Wet explosions punctuated Christine’s messages, which included the latest hysteria from Lynette, “Hello? Hello? Are you alive, this is your MOTHER,” an inquiry about a puppy Christine had apparently found and postered for in her neighborhood, and a litany 24 IN THESE TIMES THE HOME IS A TIRED PLACE from a man comparing Christine’s body parts to various food and drink: her mouth was orange soda. Her calf was a smooth, curved eggplant. If Christine was alive, why would she stop speaking to her mother? Perhaps there had been a car accident involving Christine and a large tree in a deep wood. When she came to, the bumper was only slightly damaged and she assumed nothing was wrong, but really she had upset her brain, causing her to lose a small square of memory, the square containing her mother. “I was a good mother,” Lynette told Olivia. Olivia shrugged, frowning at her son, who solemnly piled all his farm animals into what looked like a mass grave on the deep pink rug. Only the pig lived. The pig spoke through Henry. “Dear Heavenly Father!” it bellowed. “There’s so many sitcoms today,” Olivia said. “It’s hard to tell the difference between good and tragically funny.” Olivia’s living room was a woman exploded: everything pink and red and cream, which could’ve been surprising given Olivia was the only female in the house. But once she became a stayat -home, Olivia seemed intent on claiming the domestic space for herself, and nobody bothered convincing her there was some real guts-and-gore to the place. When Lynette first saw the room redone, she said to her daughter, “I didn’t know you were a girl!” Olivia sniffed and said, “You always deprived me of pink.” But at least she hadn’t stopped talking to her. “I’m still her mother,” Lynette said. “Maybe you could tell me why she won’t call her own mother.” “She thinks you try too hard and it’s depressing.” Henry ran full speed toward the couch and scrambled onto his mother’s lap. His pig traversed the loose midsection of Olivia’s purple sweater and then climbed the steep incline of her arm. “What does that mean?” Lynette asked. “She told you that?” What Became of What She Had Made 25 “Sometime, I think. She won’t speak to me anymore, either. We argued over circumcision,about which she knows absolutely nothing.” The pig reached Olivia’s shoulder and jumped. It flew through the air and plopped into Lynette’s half-full glass. “Thank you,” Lynette said. They watched the pig sink to the bottom. “I was hoping he’d do that.” “He’s a bad pig,” Henry said. “What’s bad about him?” Olivia asked. “He’s a faker.” “It’s not the worst thing.” Olivia sighed. She told Lynette, “That’s how his father describes our neighbor. She’s a bubbly person. She literally shrieks when she sees Henry.” “Your father can’t appreciate enthusiasm.” Lynette set her drink on the coffee table and fished for the pig. “He’d like to squash it out of the world.” “Squash,” Henry said, pushing his palm against his mother ’s thigh. “Maybe I’ll take...