I go downstairs after knitting a fashionable new scarf. Mother is lying down on the couch, a wet washcloth over her forehead. The living room is in complete and total disarray.
“For God’s sake, Mom, you look mighty bedraggled!”
“It’s your father. I don’t see why he has to be such an envelope-pusher.”
“What now?”
“He’s taken it upon himself to eat all the raisins in the house.”
“That doesn’t seem so extreme.”
“Do you know how many raisins are in this house?”
“Who made this mess?”
“Your father. The beast. The wretched whoremonger. Always looking for more raisins.”
Father comes out of the kitchen, swollen and lumpy.
“You gonna start in on me now, too?”
I shake my head. It’s best to leave him alone when he gets like this. Back in my room, I wrap my new scarf around my neck and lie on my bed. Later, I awake to find my father rooting through the mattress. I pretend to remain asleep just so there isn’t any awkward conversation, knowing he will find plenty of raisins.
