At our house, you tiptoed and whispered during the day and became free each evening at nine-thirty when Eddie Banas, Ray's fellow third-shifter, pulled into the driveway and honked. However angry we could make our mother, she would never have fed us to the five-foot-six-inch sleeping giant who snoozed upstairs weekdays in the spare room, rose to his alarm clock at three-thirty each afternoon, and built submarines at night. "We better get out there and help," Thomas said. As she Windexed and wiped the glass, her circular strokes gave the illusion that she was waving in at us. Her coat pockets were stuffed with paper towels.
She was outside looking in when it happened-standing in the geranium bed on a stool so she could reach the parlor windows. Whenever Ray gave an order, my brother and I snapped to attention, but our stepfather was duck hunting that weekend with his friend Eddie Banas. We were supposed to help her outside with the window washing.
Thomas and I had spent most of that morning lolling around in our pajamas, watching cartoons and ignoring our mother's orders to go upstairs, take our baths, and put on our dungarees. One Saturday morning when my brother and I were ten, our family television set spontaneously combusted.
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