Strangers

gone off to Acapulco with his latest bimbo, the airhead blond named Pepper, and that he had not bothered to leave so much as a card for Marcie, and they no doubt disapproved of Jorja letting him off the hook like this.
        Later, when Jorja was in the kitchen, squatting in front of the oven, checking on the turkey, her mother stooped down beside her and said softly, "Why'd you do it, Jorja? Why'd you put that louse's name on the gift she wanted most of all?"
        Jorja slid the rack partway out of the oven, bringing the turkey into the light. With a ladle, she scooped the drippings from the pan and basted the roasting bird. Finally she said, "Marcie shouldn't have her Christmas ruined just because her father's a jackass."
        "You shouldn't protect her from the truth," Mary said quietly.
        "The truth's too ugly for a seven-year-old."
        "The sooner she knows what a louse her father is, the better. You know what your dad heard about this woman Alan's living with?"
        "I sure hope this bird's going to be done by noon."
        Mary would not drop the subject. "She's on the call list of two casinos, Jorja. That's what Pete heard. You know what I mean? She's a call girl. Alan's living with a call girl. What's wrong with him?"
        Jorja closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
        Mary said, "Well, if he wants nothing to do with Marcie, that's fine. God knows what diseases he's picked up living with that woman."
        Jorja pushed the turkey back into the oven, closed the door, and stood up. "Could we not talk about this any more?"
        "I thought you'd want to know what the woman is."
        "So now I know."
        Their voices dropped lower, became more intense: "What if he comes around some day and says, 'Pepper and I want Marcie to go to Acapulco with us,' or Disneyland, or maybe just stay at their place for a while?"
        Exasperated, Jorja said, "Mother, he doesn't want anything to do with Marcie because she reminds him of his responsibilities."
        "But what if-"
        "Mother, damn it!"
        Although Jorja had not raised her voice, there was such anger in those three words that the effect on her mother was immediate. A hurt look crossed Mary's face. Stung, she turned away from Jorja. She went quickly to the refrigerator, opened it, and looked over the contents of the overloaded shelves. "Oh, you made gnocchi."
        "Not store-bought," Jorja said shakily. "Homemade." She meant to be conciliatory, but she realized that her comment might be misconstrued as a snide reference to her father's dismay over store-bought cookies. She bit her lip, and fought back scathing tears.
        Still looking into the refrigerator, a tremor still in her voice, Mary said, "You're going to have potatoes, too? And what's this - oh, you've already grated the cabbage for coleslaw. I thought you'd need help, but I guess you've thought of everything." She closed the refrigerator door and looked for something she could do to occupy her and get them through this awkward moment. Tears were visible in her eyes.
        Jorja virtually flung herself away from the counter and threw her arms around her mother. Mary returned the hug, and for a while they clung to each other, finding speech both unnecessary and impossible.
        Holding fast, Mary said, "I don't know why I'm like this. My mother was the same with me. I swore I'd never be like this with you."
        "I love you just the way you are."
        "Maybe it's because you're my only. If I'd been able to have a couple others, I wouldn't be so tough on you."
        "It's partly my fault, Mom. I've been so touchy lately."
        "And why shouldn't you be?" her mother said, holding her tight. "That louse walks out on you, you're supporting yourself and Marcie, going to school… You got every right to be touchy. We're so proud of you, Jorja. It takes such courage to do what you're doing."
        In the living room, Marcie began shrieking.
        What now? Jorja wondered.
        When she got to the living room archway, she saw her father trying to persuade Marcie to play with a doll. "Look here," Pete said, "dolly cries when you tilt her this way, giggles when you tilt her that way!"
        "I don't want to play with the dumb doll"' Marcie pouted. She was holding the make-believe plastic-and-rubber hypodermic syringe from the Little Ms. Doctor kit, and that unsettling intensity and urgency had taken