Two or Three Things I Forgot to Tell You by Joyce Carol Oates Page B

SUV—turned into the drive. Morgan Carmichael bounded into the house— his house—with a quick hug for both Merissa and her mother and an apology: he’d been “stuck in traffic”—some kind of “construction” on the turnpike.
    Daddy’s face was ruddy, and his breath held that smell—(Merissa was beginning to discern this smell at a distance of several feet)—that suggested he’d had a drink, or two, en route to his house .
    And Daddy, at dinner, seemed not to have much of an appetite. His manner was edgy and alert and distracted: “Hey, sorry, I had a late lunch. Couldn’t avoid it.”
    And so Daddy ate just a small portion of the bloody-rare steak.
    Merissa thought, Some poor, helpless animal had to die. For what?
    The injustice of the world—the stupid injustice of the world!—tugged at her, like Tink tugging at her elbow.
    He is one of the cruel persons of the world. Your beloved Dad-dy.
    Still, Merissa smiled at her father. There was no point in pretending that she wasn’t happy to see him and that his gaze, however casually, even carelessly, it rested on her, didn’t thrill her in a way no Blade Runner could ever touch.
    And there was no point in provoking him, as her mother had wisely said.
    Daddy had brought a “special wine” for dinner, which he opened, with some difficulty, cursing as the cork splintered. Both he and Merissa’s mother drank the wine at dinner—all of it.
    And then Merissa’s mother sent her to bring another bottle of red wine to the table, and Daddy opened that one also.
    Was this a special, festive occasion, Merissa wondered, or were her parents self-medicating ?
    How superior Merissa felt! She would not ever self-medicate with alcohol or drugs.
    Conversation at dinner was awkward. Like three people squeezed into a canoe and each trying to paddle. Mostly you’d be concerned with the canoe not tipping over, without much thought of where exactly you were going, or why.
    Merissa’s father brought up the subject—(the happy subject)—of Merissa’s early-admission acceptance at Brown—and asked her who else at her school had gotten into “top Ivy” schools; and Merissa told him, so far as she knew.
    â€œYou really got the drop on your classmates, eh? Poor kids will be sweating it out, waiting for acceptances—or rejections.” Morgan Carmichael swallowed a large mouthful of wine, as if the thought gave him pleasure. “Well, we knew—your mother and me—with that résumé of yours, you couldn’t lose.”
    Merissa smiled stiffly. Sure I could lose, Daddy. I can lose.
    And would you love me—if I did?
    Merissa’s father apologized—another time!—for not having taken her skating at the Meadowlands a few weeks ago. “But you’re a little too old to be going out with your daddy, aren’t you? Most girls your age would be, like, mortified to be seen with their dad .”
    Trying hard to be funny, using the word like as if in emulation of something Merissa might say. Except of course none of this was anything that Merissa might say.
    â€œMerissa was selected as the lead in the play,” Merissa’s mother said, “which was quite an honor! But she’s had to give it up, she has too much serious schoolwork to do. We’re disappointed—of course. But—”
    â€œGave it up? Why?”
    Daddy squinted at Merissa, holding his wineglass as if about to drink. His plank steak lay in a pool of reddish liquid on his plate, only a few bites eaten.
    â€œI didn’t give it up, I resigned.” Merissa was very tired of explaining her action, which seemed to her now, in retrospect, impulsive and self-defeating—surrendering the coveted role to a girl who envied and disliked her and had been known to say things about her behind Merissa’s back. Yet now, feeling defensive, she said irritably,