Harry, who’d lost yet another job. It wasn’t his fault, or maybe it was. He never took any work too seriously, cared one day, played backgammon the next and hid wherever, however he could. Contractors went in and out of business. They never had insurance or sick days and medical bills for Willa and Brad mounted up. When Harry fell asleep driving home one night and broke his arm, Phoebe found work at home with a typewriter she borrowed from her sister, Dawn.

“How’s it going sis?” she asked.

“Harry hates it. I can hardly get the work done.”

Dawn looked around at piles of half-folded clothes and papers lined with figures.

“How do you like it?”

“It’s okay. It tires my eyes.” Phoebe rubbed the sides of her face and forehead. “It’s kind of hard because it has to be absolutely perfect, no whiteouts, no mistakes, or they won’t pay for it.”

“What do they pay?”

“A dollar a page because it’s numbers. They only pay 50 cents for words.”

“Have you figured out for the time, which way you make the most money?”

Phoebe looked a little irritated.

“I make more by the hour if I do numbers, but it takes more concentration.” She paused. “Because of the columns and not getting lost on where I am.”

Dawn looked blank.

“Words are easier because you read and say them and it makes sense and you know where you are.”

Dawn didn’t answer.

“Numbers are just numbers. There’s nothing to tie this one to the next one. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Dawn grinned suddenly. “Not to you.”

Phoebe laughed. “Yeah, to the accountants it means,” she paused, “a whole lot.”

Dawn pushed an unfolded pile of clothes aside and rested against the headboard.

“How about the kids?” she asked, picking up a sheet of neatly typed rows.

“They’re okay. I say, mommie has to work now and they’re pretty good about it.” She made a face. “Unless they’re fighting.”

Dawn, bored, replaced the typed page on its pile. “What’s the war du jour?”

“Oh, television. Whose turn it is to feed and walk Mica. I don’t know. It hasn’t really started today.” It was more, she thought, like an undercurrent, picking, squabbling that flowed in her home like the creek, a backdrop, the background music of her twins that slid one night from being inside her to being inside her consciousness. Would she hear it if she died, she wondered suddenly, and then wondered why she wondered that. Exhaustion maybe.

“Couldn’t you get a teaching job?” Dawn asked, disgusted and concerned by all the piles of papers and clothes and the paleness of her sister’s face, the circles under her eyes, and crow’s feet beginning to stretch and deepen.

Phoebe sighed. “I’d have to get recertified. And,” she added after a moment, “Harry doesn’t want me to work outside.”

“You’re practically a prisoner around him.” Dawn had never really liked him much and usually tried to hide it by finding something, anything good to say on his behalf. It was getting harder as the years passed.

Phoebe straightened and rolled her head to loosen muscles strained by leaning too intently over numbers and numbers that sometimes seemed to crowd out any interesting or positive thought at all. Something inside her wanted to break. She rubbed her eyes.

“I’m just tired. I do what I want pretty much. I want the kids to have me home when they need someone.”

“What’s Harry for?” Dawn asked pointedly.

Phoebe laughed. “Mowing the yard. Guarding the door.”

“Oh brother.” Dawn got up to pace between the dresser and the desk. She didn’t know what to say anymore. Get out, get away from him, he’s turning to poison, turning you domestically insane.

“He’ll be back to work soon. It’s better then. I’m freer. He’s easier to please.”

“Why do you please him?”

Phoebe stared.

“Yeah. I’m sorry. You gotta do what you gotta do. Can you go to the mall with me for a bit? I need shoes. And play stuff,” Dawn added smiling.

Play stuff was lotion, crazy makeup, fancy soaps, chocolates from somewhere exotic or at least a foreign name. Take a break, she pleaded silently. Get away at least for awhile.

Phoebe saw the aisles stocked to overflowing with color and form, aromas mixing, texture, light. She rubbed her eyes again.

“I’m too tired. I just wouldn’t enjoy it tonight.”

“You’re afraid to ask him, tell him.”

“I’m always afraid.” Anger crossed her face. “Sometimes I’m just too tired to deal with it.”

Get away. Get away, Dawn thought again.

“Okay.” She reached for her raincoat. “Another day.”

Phoebe felt herself collapsing inside. “I’ll call you.” She rolled her shoulders, rubbed a sore spot over the left one, and remembered, “Thanks for stopping by. And for the typewriter.” Phoebe smiled.

“Yeah. Get some rest. Do something nice for yourself. Please?”

“I’m going to meditate. It relaxes me.”

“Okay. See ya.” Dawn pulled the door closed behind her, hoping dimly that would give her sister some moments of calm and peace.

Harry looked up from pieces of a chainsaw he meant to fix or slam against the nearest tree and shatter once and for all.

“Ain’tcha staying for supper?”

“Uh-uh.” Dawn knew he didn’t want her to and it was something they agreed upon. He didn’t want her to eat there and she didn’t want to feel pressured to. It was difficult during any meal they both were forced to attend, holidays, birthdays, to keep from saying, “Bastard! Go away home. Far away home.” And, she thought, snap her fingers and he’d disappear leaving only a trace of ever having been here, just Brad and Willa and the crow’s feet round her sister’s eyes.

“Phoebe!” she heard him thunder as she walked toward the car. “Are you still workin’?”

“I’m sorting papers.” Phoebe called. “I’ll be out in a few minutes. Are you hungry?”

“Yeah.” Harry turned a screw idly in the saw. “Take your time.” Fuck this piece of shit, he thought, racing in his mind on where to get a working one. And how. He felt rage rising in him again.

“Dad, the remote won’t work.” Willie held it out in slender, pleading hands.

Control. Harry took a breath, pushed it down toward his feet, held it until he couldn’t anymore.

“Hand it here and use the buttons for now.” Who will you meet, princess? Someone better than me. He imagined her in a long trailing dress, flowers in her hair, a decent guy with a good job. And savings, he thought, damnit. Figures bounced around in his head, and he remembered to call Drake.

“Hey, man, whatcha got?” Harry twirled the screw around.

“Yeah, where is it?”

“What time?”

“Okay. I’ll be there.”

Harry frowned as he hung up the phone. Hoinigsberg. Gas.

“Hey, Phoebe,” he yelled. “I got a job.”

Behind the door Phoebe smiled. Things’d be better any day. This job wouldn’t get away. Harry’d have work and she’d have space, a little breathing place, a tiny realm inside herself to dream and play.