If the workshop was the goodness of childhood, symbolized by the phantom smell of her father's pipe (he sometimes puffed smoke gently into her ear when she had an earache, always after extracting a promise that she wouldn't tell Carla, who would have had a fit), then the parlor was everything in childhood you wished you could forget. Speak when spoken to! Easier to break it than to fix it! Go right upstairs this minute and change your clothes, don't you know that isn't suitable? Don't you ever ever think? Frannie, don't pick at your clothes, people will think you have fleas. What must your Uncle Andrew and Aunt Carlene think? You embarrassed me half to death! The parlor was where you were tongue-tied, the parlor was where you itched and couldn't scratch, the parlor was dictatorial commands, boring conversation, relatives pinching cheeks, aches, sneezes that couldn't be sneezed, coughs that couldn't be coughed, and above all, yawns that must not be yawned. think? Frannie, don't pick at your clothes, people will think you have fleas. What must your Uncle Andrew and Aunt Carlene think? You embarrassed me half to death! The parlor was where you were tongue-tied, the parlor was where you itched and couldn't scratch, the parlor was dictatorial commands, boring conversation, relatives pinching cheeks, aches, sneezes that couldn't be sneezed, coughs that couldn't be coughed, and above all, yawns that must not be yawned.

At the center of this room where her mother's spirit dwelt was the clock. It had been built in 1889 by Carla's grandfather, Tobias Downes, and it had ascended to family heirloom status almost immediately, shifting down through the years, carefully packed and insured for moves from one part of the country to another (it had originally come into being in the Buffalo, New York, workshop of Tobias, a place which had undoubtedly been every bit as smoky and nasty as Peter's workshop, although such a comment would have struck Carla as completely irrelevant) , sometimes shifting from one section of the family to another when cancer, heart attack, or accident pinched off some branch of the family tree. The clock had been in this parlor since Peter and Carla Goldsmith moved into the house some thirty-six years ago. Here it had been placed and here it had stayed, ticking and tocking, marking off segments of time in a dry age. Someday the clock would be hers, if she wanted, Frannie reflected as she looked into her mother's white, shocked face. But I don't want it! Don't want it and won't have it!

In this room there were dried flowers under glass bells. There was in this room a dove gray carpet with dusky pink roses figured into the nap. There was a graceful bow window that looked down the hill to Route 1, with a big privet hedge between the road and the grounds. Carla had nagged her husband with a grim fervor until he planted that hedge right after the Exxon station on the corner went up. Once it was in, she nagged her husband to make it grow faster. Even radioactive fertilizer, Frannie thought, would have been acceptable to her if it had served that end. The stridency of her remonstrations concerning the privet had lessened as the hedge grew taller, and she supposed it would stop altogether in another two years or so, when the hedge finally grew tall enough to blot out the offending gas station completely and the parlor was inviolate again.

It would stop on that that subject, at least. subject, at least.

Stencils on the wallpaper, large green leaves and pink flowers almost the same shade as the roses in the carpet. Early American furniture and a dark mahogany set of double doors. A fireplace which was just for show where a birch log sat eternally on a hearth of red brick which was eternally immaculate and untouched by even a speck of soot. Frannie guessed that by now that log was so dry that it would burn like newspaper if lit. Above the log was a pot almost big enough for a child to bathe in. It had been handed down from Frannie's great-grandmother, and it hung eternally suspended over the eternal log. Above the mantel, finishing that part of the picture, was The Eternal Flintlock Rifle.

Segments of time in a dry age.

One of her earliest memories was of peeing on the dove gray rug with the dusky pink roses figured into the nap. She might have been three, not trained for very long, and probably not allowed in the parlor save for special occasions because of the chance of accidents. But somehow she had gotten in, and seeing her mother not just running but sprinting sprinting to grab her up before the unthinkable could happen had brought the unthinkable on. Her bladder let go, and the spreading stain as the dove gray rug turned to a darker slate gray around her bottom had caused her mother to actually shriek. The stain had finally come out, but after how many patient shampooings? The Lord might know; Frannie Goldsmith did not. to grab her up before the unthinkable could happen had brought the unthinkable on. Her bladder let go, and the spreading stain as the dove gray rug turned to a darker slate gray around her bottom had caused her mother to actually shriek. The stain had finally come out, but after how many patient shampooings? The Lord might know; Frannie Goldsmith did not.

It was in the parlor that her mother had talked to her, grimly, explicitly, and at length, after she caught Frannie and Norman Burstein examining each other in the barn, their clothes piled in one amicable heap on a haybale to one side. How would she like it, Carla asked as the grandfather clock solemnly ticked off segments of time in a dry age, if she took Frannie out for a walk up and down US Route 1 without any clothes on? How would that be? Frannie, then six, had cried, but had somehow managed to avoid the hysterics which impended at this prospect.

When she was ten she had ridden her bike into the mailbox post while looking back over her shoulder to yell something to Georgette McGuire. She cut her head, bloodied her nose, lacerated both knees, and had actually grayed out for a few moments with shock. When she came around she had stumbled up the driveway to the house, weeping and horrified at the sight of so much blood coming out of herself. She would have gone to her father, but since her father was at work, she had stumbled into the parlor where her mother was serving tea to Mrs. Venner and Mrs. Prynne. Get out Get out! her mother had screamed, and the next moment she was running to Frannie, embracing her, crying Oh Oh Frannie, Frannie, oh dear, what oh dear, what happened happened, oh your poor nose oh your poor nose! But she was leading Frannie back into the kitchen, where the floor could safely be bled upon, even as she was comforting her, and Frannie never forgot that her first two words that day hadn't been Oh, Frannie! Oh, Frannie! but but Get out! Get out! Her first concern had been for the parlor, where that dry age went on and on and blood was not allowed. Perhaps Mrs. Prynne never forgot, either, because even through her tears Frannie had seen a shocked, slapped expression cross the woman's face. After that day, Mrs. Prynne had become something of a seldom caller. Her first concern had been for the parlor, where that dry age went on and on and blood was not allowed. Perhaps Mrs. Prynne never forgot, either, because even through her tears Frannie had seen a shocked, slapped expression cross the woman's face. After that day, Mrs. Prynne had become something of a seldom caller.

In her first year of junior high she had gotten a bad conduct mark on her report card, and of course she was invited into the parlor to discuss this mark with her mother. In her final year of senior high school, she had received three detention periods for passing notes, and that had likewise been discussed with her mother in the parlor. It was there that they discussed Frannie's ambitions, which always ended up seeming a trifle shallow; it was there that they discussed Frannie's hopes, which always ended up seeming a trifle unworthy; it was there that they discussed Frannie's complaints, which always ended up seeming very much unwarranted, not to mention puling, whining, and ungrateful.

It was in the parlor that her brother's coffin had stood on a trestle bedecked with roses, chrysanthemums, and lilies of the valley, their dry perfume filling the room while in the corner the poker-faced clock kept its place, ticking and tocking off segments of time in a dry age.

"You're pregnant," Carla Goldsmith repeated for the second time.

"Yes, Mother." Her voice was very dry but she would not allow herself to wet her lips. She pressed them together instead. She thought: In my father's workshop there is a little girl in a red dress and she will always be there, laughing and hiding under the table with the vise clamped to one edge or all bundled up with her scabby knees clasped against her chest behind the big toolbox with its thousand drawers. That girl is a very happy girl. But in my mother's parlor there is a much smaller girl who can't help piddling on the rug like a bad dog. Like a bad little bitch puppy. And she will always be there, too, no matter how much I wish she would be gone. In my father's workshop there is a little girl in a red dress and she will always be there, laughing and hiding under the table with the vise clamped to one edge or all bundled up with her scabby knees clasped against her chest behind the big toolbox with its thousand drawers. That girl is a very happy girl. But in my mother's parlor there is a much smaller girl who can't help piddling on the rug like a bad dog. Like a bad little bitch puppy. And she will always be there, too, no matter how much I wish she would be gone.

"Oh-Frannie," her mother said, her words coming very quick. She laid a hand against the side of her cheek like an offended maiden aunt. "How-did-it-happen?"

It was Jesse's question. That was what really pissed her off; it was the same question he he had asked. had asked.

"Since you had two kids yourself, Mother, I think you know how it happened."

"Don't be smart!" Carla cried. Her eyes opened wide and flashed the hot fire that had always terrified Frannie as a child. She was on her feet in the quick way she had (and that had also terrified her as a child), a tall woman with graying hair which was nicely upswept and tipped and generally beauty-shopped, a tall woman in a smart green dress and faultless beige hose. She went to the mantelpiece, where she always went in moments of distress. Resting there, below the flintlock, was a large scrapbook. Carla was something of an amateur genealogist, and her entire family was in that book ... at least, as far back as 1638, when its earliest traceable progenitor had risen out of the nameless crowd of Londoners long enough to be recorded in some very old church records as Merton Downs, Freemason. Her family tree had been published four years ago in The New England Genealogist, The New England Genealogist, with Carla herself the compiler of record. with Carla herself the compiler of record.

Now she fingered that book of painstakingly amassed names, a safe ground where none could trespass. Were there no thieves in there anyplace? Frannie wondered. No alcoholics? No unwed mothers?

"How could you do something like this to your father and me?" she asked finally. "Was it that boy Jesse?"

"It was Jesse. Jesse's the father."

Carla flinched at the word.

"How could you do it?" Carla repeated. "We did our best to bring you up in the right way. This is just-just-"

She put her hands to her face and began to weep.

"How could you do do it?" she cried. "After all we've done for you, this is the thanks we get? For you to go out and ... and ... rut with a boy like a bitch in heat? You bad girl! You bad girl!" it?" she cried. "After all we've done for you, this is the thanks we get? For you to go out and ... and ... rut with a boy like a bitch in heat? You bad girl! You bad girl!"

She dissolved into sobs, leaning against the mantelpiece for support, one hand over her eyes, the other continuing to slip back and forth over the green cloth cover of the scrapbook. Meantime, the grandfather clock went on ticking.

"Mother-"

"Don't talk to me! You've said enough!"

Frannie stood up stiffly. Her legs felt like wood but must not be, because they were trembling. Tears were beginning to leak out of her own eyes, but let them; she would not let this room defeat her again. "I'll be going now."

"You ate at our table!" Carla cried at her suddenly. "We loved you ... and supported you ... and this is what we get for it! Bad girl! Bad Bad girl!" girl!"

Frannie, blinded by tears, stumbled. Her right foot struck her left ankle. She lost her balance and fell down with her hands splayed out. She knocked the side of her head against the coffee table and one hand sent a vase of flowers pitching onto the rug. It didn't break but water gurgled out, turning dove gray to slate gray.

"Look at that!" Carla screamed, almost in triumph. The tears had put black hollows under her eyes and cut courses through her makeup. She looked haggard and half-mad. "Look at that, you've spoiled the rug, your grandmother's rug-"

She sat on the floor, dazedly rubbing her head, still crying, wanting to tell her mother that it was only water, but she was completely unnerved now, and not really sure. Was Was it only water? Or was it urine? Which? it only water? Or was it urine? Which?

Again moving with that spooky quickness, Carla Goldsmith snatched the vase up and brandished it at Frannie. "What's your next move, miss? Are you planning to stay right here? Are you expecting us to feed you and board you while you sport yourself all around town? That's it, I suppose. Well, no! No! I won't have it. I will not have it!" I will not have it!"

"I don't want to stay here," Frannie muttered. "Did you think I would?"

"Where are you going to go? With him? I doubt it."

"Bobbi Rengarten in Dorchester or Debbie Smith in Somersworth, I suppose." Frannie slowly gathered herself together and got up. She was still crying but she was beginning to be mad, as well. "Not that it's any business of yours."

"No business of mine?" Carla echoed, still holding the vase. Her face was parchment white. "No business of mine? mine? What you do when you're under my roof is no business of What you do when you're under my roof is no business of mine? mine? You ungrateful little You ungrateful little bitch!" bitch!"

She slapped Frannie, and slapped her hard. Frannie's head rocked back. She stopped rubbing her head and started rubbing her cheek, looking unbelievingly at her mother.

"This is the thanks we get for seeing you into a nice school," Carla said, showing her teeth in a merciless and frightful grin. "Now you'll never never finish. After you marry him-" finish. After you marry him-"

"I'm not going to marry him. And I'm not going to quit school."

Carla's eyes widened. She stared at Frannie as if Frannie had lost her mind. "What are you talking about? An abortion? Having an abortion? You want to be a murderer as well as a tramp?"

"I'm going to have the child. I'll have to take the spring semester off, but I can finish next summer."

"What do you think you're going to finish on? My on? My money? If that's it, you've got a lot more thinking to do. A modern girl like you hardly needs support from her parents, does she?" money? If that's it, you've got a lot more thinking to do. A modern girl like you hardly needs support from her parents, does she?"

"Support I could use," Frannie said softly. "The money ... well, I'll get by."

"There's not a bit of shame in you! Not a single thought for anyone but yourself!" Carla shouted. "My God, what this is going to do to your father and me! But you don't care a bit! It will break your father's heart, and-"

"It don't feel so broken." Peter Goldsmith's calm voice came from the doorway, and they both swung around. In the doorway he was, but far back in it; the toes of his workboots stopped just short of the place where the parlor carpet took over from the shabbier one in the hallway. Frannie realized suddenly that it was a place she had seen him in a great many times before. When had he last actually been in the parlor? She couldn't remember.

"What are you doing here?" Carla snapped, suddenly unmindful of any structural damage her husband's heart might have sustained. "I thought you were working late this afternoon."

"I switched off with Harry Masters," Peter said. "Fran's already told me, Carla. We are going to be grandparents."

"Grandparents!" she shrieked. An ugly, confused sort of laughter jarred out of her. "You leave this to me. She told you first and you kept it from me. All right. It's what I've come to expect of you. But now I'm going to close the door and the two of us are going to thrash this out." she shrieked. An ugly, confused sort of laughter jarred out of her. "You leave this to me. She told you first and you kept it from me. All right. It's what I've come to expect of you. But now I'm going to close the door and the two of us are going to thrash this out."

She smiled with glittery bitterness at Frannie.

"Just ... we 'girls.' "

She put her hand on the knob of the parlor door and began to swing it closed. Frannie watched, still dazed, hardly able to comprehend her mother's sudden gush of fury and vitriol.

Peter put his hand out slowly, reluctantly, and stopped the door halfway through its swing.

"Peter, I want you to leave this to me."

"I know you do. I have in the past. But not this time, Carla."

"This is not not your province." your province."

Calmly, he replied: "It is."

"Daddy-"

Carla turned on her, the parchment white of her face now tattooed red over the cheekbones. "Don't you speak to him!" "Don't you speak to him!" she screamed. "He's not the one you're dealing with! I know you could always wheedle him around to any crazy idea you had or sweet-talk him into taking your side no matter what you did, she screamed. "He's not the one you're dealing with! I know you could always wheedle him around to any crazy idea you had or sweet-talk him into taking your side no matter what you did, but he is not the one you're dealing with today, miss!" but he is not the one you're dealing with today, miss!"

"Stop it, Carla."

"Get out!"

"I'm not in. You can see th-"

"Don't you make fun of me! Get out of my parlor!" Get out of my parlor!"

And with that she began to push the door, lowering her head and getting her shoulders into it until she looked like some strange bull, both human and female. He held her back easily at first, then with more effort. At last the cords stood out on his neck, although she was a woman and seventy pounds lighter than he.

Frannie wanted to scream at them to stop it, to tell her father to go away so the two of them wouldn't have to look at Carla like this, at the sudden and irrational bitterness that had always seemed to threaten but which had now swept her up. But her mouth was frozen, its hinges seemingly rusted shut.

"Get out! Get out of my parlor! Out! Out! Out! You bastard, let go of the goddamned door and GET OUT!" You bastard, let go of the goddamned door and GET OUT!"

That was when he slapped her.

It was a flat, almost unimportant sound. The grandfather clock did not fly into outraged dust at the sound, but went on ticking just as it had ever since it was set going. The furniture did not groan. But Carla's raging words were cut off as if amputated with a scalpel. She fell on her knees and the door swung all the way open to bang softly against a high-backed Victorian chair with a hand-embroidered slipcover.

"No, oh no," Frannie said in a hurt little voice.

Carla pressed a hand to her cheek and stared up at her husband.

"You have had that coming for ten years or better," Peter remarked. His voice had a slight unsteadiness in it. "I always told myself I didn't do it because I don't hold with hitting women. I still don't. But when a person-man or or woman-turns into a dog and begins to bite, someone has to shy it off. I only wish, Carla, I'd had the guts to do it sooner. 'Twould have hurt us both less." woman-turns into a dog and begins to bite, someone has to shy it off. I only wish, Carla, I'd had the guts to do it sooner. 'Twould have hurt us both less."

"Daddy-"

"Hush, Frannie," he said with absent sternness, and she hushed.

"You say she's being selfish," Peter said, still looking down into his wife's still, shocked face. "You're the one doing that. You stopped caring about Frannie when Fred died. That was when you decided caring hurt too much and decided it'd be safer just to live for yourself. And this is where you came to do that, time and time and time again. This room. You doted on your dead family and forgot the part of it still living. And when she came in here and told you she was in trouble, asked for your help, I bet the first thing that crossed your mind was to wonder what the ladies in the Flower and Garden Club would say, or if it meant you'd have to stay away from Amy Lauder's weddin. Hurt's a reason to change, but all the hurt in the world don't change facts. You have been selfish."

He reached down and helped her up. She came to her feet like a sleepwalker. Her expression didn't change; her eyes were still wide and unbelieving. Relentlessness hadn't yet come back into them, but Frannie dully thought that in time it would.

It would.

"It's my fault for letting you go on. For not wanting any unpleasantness. For not wanting to rock the boat. I was selfish, too, you see. And when Fran went off to school I thought, Well, now Carla can have what she wants and it won't hurt nobody but herself, and if a person doesn't know they're hurting, why, maybe they're not. I was wrong. I've been wrong before, but never as bad as this." Gently, but with great force, he reached out and grasped Carla's shoulders. "Now: I am telling you this as your husband. If Frannie needs a place to stay, this can be the place- same as it always was. If she needs money, she can have it from my purse -same as she always could. And if she decides to keep her baby, you will see that she has a proper baby shower, and you may think no one will come, but she has friends, good ones, and they will. I'll tell you one more thing, too. If she wants it christened, it will be done right here. Right here in this goddamned parlor."

Carla's mouth had dropped open, and now a sound began to come from it. At first it sounded uncannily like the whistle of a teakettle on a hot burner. Then it became a keening wail.

"Peter, your own son lay in his coffin in this room!"

"Yes. And that's why I can't think of a better place to christen a new life," he said. "Fred's blood. Live Live blood. Fred himself, he's been dead a lot of years, Carla. He was worm-food long since." blood. Fred himself, he's been dead a lot of years, Carla. He was worm-food long since."

She screamed at that and put her hands to her ears. He bent down and pulled them away.

"But the worms haven't got your daughter and your daughter's baby. It don't matter how it was got; it's alive. alive. You act like you want to drive her off, Carla. What will you have if you do? Nothing but this room and a husband who'll hate you for what you did. If you do that, why, it might just as well have been all three of us that day-me and Frannie as well as Fred." You act like you want to drive her off, Carla. What will you have if you do? Nothing but this room and a husband who'll hate you for what you did. If you do that, why, it might just as well have been all three of us that day-me and Frannie as well as Fred."

"I want to go upstairs and lie down," Carla said. "I feel nauseated. I think I'd better lie down."

"I'll help you," Frannie said.

"Don't you touch me. Stay with your father. You and he seem to have this all worked out. How you are going to destroy me in this town. Why don't you just settle into my parlor, Frannie? Throw mud on the carpet, take ashes from the stove and throw them into my clock? Why not? Why not?"

She began to laugh and pushed past Peter, into the hall. She was listing like a drunken woman. Peter tried to put an arm around her shoulders. She bared her teeth and hissed at him like a cat.

Her laughter turned to sobs as she went slowly up the stairs, leaning on the mahogany banister for support; those sobs had a ripping, helpless quality that made Frannie want to scream and throw up at the same time. Her father's face was the color of dirty linen. At the top, Carla turned and swayed so alarmingly that for a moment Frannie believed she would tumble all the way back down to the bottom. She looked at them, seemingly about to speak, then turned away again. A moment later, the closing of her bedroom door muted the stormy sound of her grief and hurt.

Frannie and Peter stared at each other, appalled, and the grandfather clock ticked calmly on.

"This will work itself out," Peter said calmly. "She'll come around."

"Will she?" Frannie asked. She walked slowly to her father, leaned against him, and he put his arm around her. "I don't think so."

"Never mind. We won't think about it for now."

"I ought to go. She doesn't want me here."

"You ought to stay. You ought to be here when-if-she comes to and finds out she still needs needs you to stay." He paused. "Me, I already do, Fran." you to stay." He paused. "Me, I already do, Fran."

"Daddy," she said, and put her head against his chest. "Oh, Daddy, I'm so sorry, just so goddam sorry-"

"Shhh," he said, and stroked her hair. Over her head he could see the afternoon sunlight streaming duskily in through the bow windows, as it had always done, golden and still, the way sunlight falls into museums and the halls of the dead. "Shhh, Frannie; I love you. I love you."

CHAPTER 13.

The red light went on. The pump hissed. The door opened. The man who stepped through was not wearing one of the white all-over suits, but a small shiny nose-filter that looked a little bit like a two-pronged silver fork, the kind the hostess leaves on the canape table to get the olives out of the bottle.