A Wolf at the Table: A Memoir of My Father by Augusten Burroughs Page B

by looking at her eyes. Whether she was happy or sad or frightened or upset, it was just right there. I thought of my father’s eyes. And how they revealed absolutely nothing. When I looked at him, I saw only my own questioning, searching gaze reflected back at me.
    •    •    •
    WE DID NOT go home the next day. Or the day after that. We stayed away from home for seven more days.
    My mother saw her psychiatrist each afternoon, sometimes joined by my father. I was watched by Mr. Rice who managed the motel or simply locked in the room and told not to open the door for anyone. I remained out of school, growing so far behind I would be forced to repeat the third grade the following year.
    I longed for Ernie and begged my mother to let us get him. “We can’t, Augusten. He has that huge aquarium and besides, we can’t have pets at the motel. Your father is watching him. Your father said Ernie’s very happy and he’s getting plenty of attention.”
    “You asked him?”
    “Yes, I did. And he said Ernie is fine.”
    “But I want to go home.”
    “I know. And we will, soon.”
    The days lost their definition for me; morning and evening were identical because I spent both staring at the television. I took naps and then had trouble sleeping at night. I woke up confused, unsure of where I was. I almost never left the room and if I did it was only to walk along the concrete landing to the vending machines where I would buy a Coke or peanut M&M’s. The days seemed to double in length and there was nothing to do but wait. I felt suspended, like when the swing reaches the top bar and pauses in midair, or when you think you’re going to sneeze but don’t.
    And then finally, my mother told me to pack. “We’re going home.” And as suddenly as we’d left the red house, we returned to it.
    When we pulled into the driveway, I started to bounce in my seat. The weight of all the previous days evaporated and I was just happy to be home. I opened the door before my mother had come to a stop.
    “Don’t,” she shouted. “Wait until I’ve parked.”
    The moment she stopped, I leaped out of the car. I bounded up the front steps and opened the front door. My father was standing in the doorway of the kitchen, a smile on his face. “Well, hello there,” he said. His voice was low and steady, but there was something curious in his tone.
    “Hi,” I said, not sure if I should go to him and try and hug him or just walk past him to my room.
    “Did you have a fun trip?” he asked.
    I stood ten feet in front of him and replied nervously, “I guess.”
    My mother appeared behind me, closing the door. She walked past me, faced my father. He turned sideways in the doorway, allowing her to pass. She strode past him, went to the cabinet, and retrieved a glass. She filled it with water from the faucet and drank thirstily, the knob of her throat rising and falling.
    I turned, then ran down the hallway, opened the door to my room. “Ernie, Ernie, Ernie,” I called in the playful, nasal voice I often used with him. “ErnieErnieErnie.” His name, spoken in this way, created a noise that sounded very much like the sound he emitted when the refrigerator door was opened or he saw me enter the room with a carrot.
    My room was dark, the curtains pulled tight. I turned on the light.
    The glass walls of the aquarium were glazed with filth; crusty brown feces, rotten, liquefied lettuce. Claw marks were etched onto the glass walls, all over in a frantic, crazy pattern. The floor of the aquarium was filled with an inch of festering black fluid; rancid cedar chips and feces floated on top. His water bottle and food bowl were empty.
    Ernie, his hair matted, crispy, lay rigid in the sludge, his feces-caked mouth open in a scream. His eyes were white and cloudy.
    I started to shake. I couldn’t control myself. Even my legs were trembling and my teeth began to chatter, like I was freezing cold. I let go of my suitcase handle and it fell onto the