TEXT A In the evenings, they go
to the mall. Once a week or more. Sometimes, they even leave the dinner dishes
in the sink so they will have enough time to finish all the errands. The father
never comes he hates shopping, especially with his wife, Instead, he stays at
home to read the paper and put around his study. To do things that the other
dads must be doing in the evenings. To summon the sand to come rushing in and
plug up his ears with its roaring silence. Meanwhile, the mother
arms herself with returns from the last trip. Her two young daughters fro get
games of flashlight tag or favorite TV shows and strap on tennis shoes and
seatbelts: and they’re off. On summer nights, when it’s light until after, the
fireflies arrive, the air is heavy and moist. The daughters unroll their windows
and stick the whole of their heads out into the slate blue sky, feeling full
force the sweaty, honey suckle air. In the cold mall, their rubber soles squeak
on shiny linoleum squares. The younger daughter tries not to step on any cracks.
The older daughter keeps a straight-ahead gaze; her sullen eyes count down each
errand as it’s dune. It is not until the third or, on a good
night, the fourth errand that the trouble begins. The girls have wandered over
to examine rainbow beach towels, perhaps, or some kind of pink ruffled
bedspread. The mother’s voice finds them from a few aisles away.
Dinner squirms in the daughters’ stomachs. Now comes that what if
I-threw-up-right this second or where-is-a-rabbit-hole-for-me-to-fall-into
feeling that they get around this time of evening, at the mall. The older one
shakes her ponytails at the younger one. Her blue eyes hiss the
careful-don’t-cry warning, but the younger one’s cheeks only get redder. Toe by
toe, the daughters edge towards housewares where they finger lace placemats or
trace patterns in the store carpet with sneakered soles. The mother’s voice
still finds them, shaking with rage. Finally, heels slapping in her sandals, she
strides towards them and then keeps going. They follow, catching her word-trail,
"Stupid people. Stupid, stupid’, stupid. I HATE stupid people." It’s the little
skips between steps the younger one takes to keep up with her mother’s long,
angry legs. It’s the car door slamming and the seat belt buckle yanked into
place. It’s those things that tell the daughters how the next few hours will
go. In the car, the older one sighs and grinds her back teeth.
The younger one feels her face get hotter and her eyes start to swell. She
stares at an ice cream stain on the back of the front .4eat and sees a pony, a
flower, and a fairy in that splash of chocolate mint chip. The mother begins on
both at once. "And when we get home, if your shoes are still in the TV room, I’m
throwing them out. Same for books. No more shit house. No more lazy, ungrateful
kids. "And so on and so on through the black velvet sky and across the Hershey
bar roads. On into the house with a slap or two. "You’ll be happy when I’m in my
grave," wails at them as they put on their nightgowns and brush their teeth. The
older one sets a stone jaw and the younger one tries not to sob an she opens
wide, engulfing her small hand and. scrubbing each and every molar.
The father is not spared. The volcanic mother saves some up just for him.
"Fucking lousy husband Do-nothing father." And on like that for an hour or so
more. Then in the darkest part of the night, it’s bare feet and cool hands on a
small sweaty forehead. Kisses and caresses and "Sorry Mom got a little mad."
Promises for that pink ruffled bedspread or maybe a new stuffed animal. Long
fingers rake through the younger one’s curls. "Tomorrow evening, we’ll get you
some kind of treat, Right after dinner, we’ll go to the mall." Which category of writing does the text belong to