Dear Life

the bunk beds, were taking up the corners everywhere.
    Now that I come to think of it, why wasn’t my father in his overalls? He was dressed as if he had to go into town for something, first thing in the morning.
    I could not continue walking, the whole rhythm of it had been broken.
    “Having trouble sleeping?” he said.
    My impulse was to say no, but then I thought of the difficulties of explaining that I was just walking around, so I said yes.
    He said that was often the case on summer nights.
    “You go to bed tired out and then just as you think you’re falling asleep you’re wide awake. Isn’t that the way?”
    I said yes.
    I knew now that he had not heard me getting up and walking around on just this one night. The person whose livestock was on the premises, whose earnings such as they were lay all close by, and who kept a handgun in his desk drawer, was certainly going to stir at the slightest creeping on the stairs and the easiest turning of a knob.
    I am not sure what conversation he meant to follow then, as regards to my being awake. He seems to have declared wakefulness to be a nuisance, but was that to be all? I certainly did not intend to tell him more. If he had given the slightest intimation that he knew there was more, if he’d even hinted that he had come here intending to hear it, I don’t think he’d have got anything out of me at all. I had to break the silence out of my own will, saying that I could not sleep. I had to get out of bed and walk.
    Why was that?
    I did not know.
    Not bad dreams?
    No.
    “Stupid question,” he said. “You wouldn’t get chased out of your bed on account of good dreams.”
    He let me wait to go on, he didn’t ask anything. I meant to back off but I kept talking. The truth was told with only the slightest modification.
    When I spoke of my little sister I said that I was afraid I would hurt her. I believed that would be enough, that he would know enough of what I meant.
    “Strangle her,” I said then. I could not stop myself, after all.
    Now I could not unsay it, I could not go back to the person I had been before.
    My father had heard it. He had heard that I thought myself capable of, for no reason, strangling little Catherine in her sleep.
    He said, “Well.”
    Then he said not to worry. He said, “People have those kinds of thoughts sometimes.”
    He said this quite seriously and without any sort of alarm or jumpy surprise. People have these kinds of thoughts or fears if you like, but there’s no real worry about it, no more than a dream, you could say.
    He did not say, specifically, that I was in no danger of doing any such thing. He seemed more to be taking it for granted that such a thing could not happen. An effect of the ether, he said. Ether they gave you in the hospital. No more sense than a dream. It could not happen, in the way that a meteor could not hit our house (of course it could, but the likelihood of its doing so put it in the category of couldn’t).
    He did not blame me, though, for thinking of it. Did not wonder at me, was what he said.
    There were other things he could have said. He could have questioned me further about my attitude to my little sister or my dissatisfactions with my life in general. If this were happening today, he might have made an appointment for me to see a psychiatrist. (I think that is what I might have done for a child, a generation and an income further on.)
    The fact is, what he did worked as well. It set me down, but without either mockery or alarm, in the world we were living in.
    People have thoughts they’d sooner not have. It happens in life.
    If you live long enough as a parent nowadays, you discover that you have made mistakes you didn’t bother to know about along with the ones you do know about all too well. You are somewhat humbled at heart, sometimes disgusted with yourself. I don’t think my father felt anything like this. I do know that if I had ever taxed him, with his use on me of the razor strap or his belt, he might have said something about liking or lumping it. Those strappings, then, would have stayed in his mind, if they stayed at all, as no more than the necessary and adequate curbing of a mouthy child’s imagining that she could rule the roost.
    “You thought you were too smart,” was what he might have given as his reason for the punishments, and indeed you heard that often in those times, with the smartness figuring as an obnoxious imp that had to have the sass beaten out of