The Funhouse

liked those spooky stories so much.

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    6
        
        Mama was always the first up in the morning. She went to Mass every day of the week, even when she was sick, even when she had a really bad hangover. During the summer, when school was out, she would expect Amy and Joey to attend services and take Holy Communion nearly as often as she did.
        On this Monday morning in May, however, Amy still lay in bed, listening to her mother move through the house and then into the garage, which was directly under Amy's bedroom. The Toyota started on the second try, and the automatic garage door rumbled up, coming to rest with a solid thud that rattled Amy's windows.
        After her mother had gone, Amy got out of bed, showered, dressed for school, and went downstairs to the kitchen. Her father and Joey were finishing a breakfast of toasted English muffins and orange juice.
        “You're running late this morning,” her father said. “Better grab a bite quick. We're leaving in five minutes.”
        It's such a beautiful morning,” Amy said. “I think I'll walk to school today.”
        “Are you sure you have enough time?”
        “Oh, yes. Plenty of time.”
        “Me too,” Joey said. “I want to walk with Amy.”
        “The elementary school is three times as far as the high school,” Paul Harper said. “Your legs would be worn down to your knees by the time you got there.”
        “Nah,” Joey said. “I can make it. I'm rough and ready.”
        “One mean hombre,” his father agreed. “But just the same, you'll ride with me.”
        “Aw, shoot!” Joey said.
        “Bang,” Amy said, pointing a finger at him.
        Joey grinned.
        “Come on, hombre,” his father said. “Let's get moving.”
        Amy stood at one of the living room windows, watching the man and the boy drive away in the family's Pontiac.
        She had lied to her father. She wasn't going to walk to school. In fact she didn't even intend to go to school at all today.
        She returned to the kitchen, made a pot of coffee, poured a steaming mug of it for herself. Then she sat down at the kitchen table to wait for her mother to get back from Mass.
        Last night, tossing restlessly in bed, plotting how best to make her confession, she had decided that she should tell her mother first. If Amy sat them down and told them both at the same time, Mama's reaction to the news would be calculated to impress not only her daughter but her husband, she would be even tougher on Amy than she might be if Amy told her in private. And Amy also knew that if she told her father first, it would look as if she were sneaking around behind her mother's back, trying to drive a wedge between her parents, trying to make an ally of her father. If Mama thought that was the case, she would be twice as difficult as she otherwise might have been. By telling Mama first, by according her at least that much special respect, Amy hoped to improve her chances of getting the abortion she wanted.
        She finished the mug of coffee. She poured herself another, finished that one, too.
        The ticking of the kitchen clock seemed to grow louder and louder, until it was a drumbeat to which her nerves jumped in sympathy.
        When Mama finally came home from Mass, entering the kitchen through the connecting door to the garage, Amy had never been more tense. The back and underarms of her blouse were damp with perspiration. In spite of the hot coffee, there seemed to be a lump of ice in her stomach.
        “Morning, Mama.”
        Her mother stopped in surprise, still holding the door open, the shadowy interior of the garage I visible behind her. “What are you doing here?”
        “I want to-”
        “You should be in school.”
        I stayed home so I could-”
        “Isn't this final exam week?”
        “No. That's next week. This week we just review material for the tests.”
        “That's important, too.”
        “Yes, but I don't think I'll be going to school today.”
        As Mama closed and locked the door of the garage, she said, “What's wrong? Are you sick?”
        “Not exactly. I-”
        “What do you mean-not exactly?” she asked, putting her purse on the counter by the sink. “You're either sick or you're not. And if you aren't, you should be in school.”
        “I have to talk to you,” Amy said.
        Her mother came to the table and stared down at her. “Talk?