Organized Crime(s)

When we were small, we though ourselves generous to allow our mom to take one week a year and go on a trip all by herself. I mean the woman literally slaved over us for the other 51 weeks of the year and we were only too happy to have her get some time by herself. O.K. we weren't really happy about it, but what could you do? About a week before she left, Mom had her bags packed and her sneakers tied on - we could see her looking longingly at the front door. Once the big day arrived, she seemed to be a blur as she hopped into the VW and peeled out of the driveway - leaving flames smoldering in the gravel. We'd barely have time to register that she was truly gone. For an entire week. And standing around in the silence that followed, I am positive that had we given voice to out thoughts, they would have sounded like this...

Hot dang, she's gone.

Wow, I've been dreaming of this day my entire life.

How long do you think it would take us to dismantle the house?

I'm going straight into her closet, pull out her fanciest dress, put it on, and then do a fashion parade on the picnic table in the back yard.

She usually planned to have us stay with grandma, who would take us camping. But one year her plans got fouled up and we were left in the care of our father. Big mistake, Mom, big mistake. Actually we would go to a friend's house during the day and when Dad got done at work, he'd come pick us up. This is the story of our week together.

Day 1: (House still relatively clean) Dad got us out of bed, and sat us at the table. Ignoring the meticulous notes Mom had left as a guide to feeding her ravenous offspring, Dad starts up a batch of fried eggs (gross) and burns a pot of cracked wheat by way of providing breakfast. Once we were done, we threw our dirty dishes into the sink, not realizing that they would spend the entire week there. We get into the car and drive to the baby-sitter's house. Eight hours later, Dad shows up to cart us home. Never one to waste an opportunity, he'd picks up a large pizza and we live high on the hog that night.

Day 2: (House pretty dirty by this point) We go through the same routine. And again, with a large pizza to fortify us. We began to see Dad as a good fellow. A hero, a good time guy. Clicking our slices of pizza together in a toast to the free-wheelin' life, we begin to wonder what we saw in Mom all along. We wheedle until Dad agrees to let us stay up until midnight. The only trade-off is that we have to sit through "True Grit" again.

Day 3: (House in total shambles) Still wearing the same clothes Mom last saw us in, hair unbrushed, dirty dishes now making their way across one whole side of the kitchen. No large pizza for dinner. Instead Dad whips up a batch of macaroni and cheese. Substituting whole wheat macaroni for the regular stuff. Adding a can of salmon. And peas. We kids sit at dinner trying to distract Dad long enough to shovel spoonfuls of his "masterpiece" into glasses of grape juice, wondering aloud if we can get a dog before Mom gets home. Dad has not scored any points with us tonight. And he won't let us stay up to watch "Tora, Tora, Tora."

Day 4: (House unrecognizable from the one Mom left) Neighbors driving slowly by, wondering if they should call the code enforcement officer. I beg to go to Dad's clinic about 30 miles away instead of having to go to the baby-sitter's again. Once there I somehow convince him to let me get my ears pierced. He sends me with his secretary to the local mall. When I voice my concerns, Dad seems confident that he can handle Mom's anger at this sudden development. Pizza for dinner. And grape juice. Someone (and I'm not saying who) spills 3/4 of a pitcher of it on the kitchen floor. We kids watch in horror as Dad wipes up the spill with a bath towel. Even we know that the sugars in a grape juice spill must be cleaned up with copious amounts of water and soap - we start wondering how Mom and Dad ever got together in the first place. Dad hangs the bath towel on the back deck, where it apparently was dragged off by a raccoon during the night. We all fall asleep on the family room floor.

Day 5: (House ready to implode) We kids and our hair look like a spinoff version of the band, Flock of Seagulls. Dad surprises us with a visit to the State Fair that night. After heckling the Communists and the Democrats, we eat scones, elephant ears, and large vanilla ice cream cones from the Oregon Dairymen's booth. Ladies in the 4H building look at us with pity. I overhear a woman remark, "Oh, look at those poor homeless children. It sure is nice that they could come to the fair." Dad takes all of us on the Gravi-tron. A couple of us throw up. On the way out, we stop by the guy with the wood lathe. 3.5 hours later, having fallen asleep on the concrete floor, Dad wakes us up and we drive home.

Day 6: (House eerily silent) We sleep in to an unprecedented 8 o'clock. Dad seems to look nervous as he remembers that Mom is returning tomorrow. As it is Saturday, we drive to the lumber yard. While Dad walks around examining sheets of plywood, we kids rifle through the bins of nails. No one wants to go back to the house. We speculate that the victims of earthquakes must feel the same way. No pizza for dinner. Dad decides that today would be a good day to trim the flight feathers of his flock of ducks. Inside. We kids stare wide-eyed at Dad wrestling a Mallard duck, grabbing the scissors, and carefully ensuring that those little troublemakers wouldn't be attempting an escape from their pen anytime soon. He was pretty careful with the first few ducks, cleaning up after each one. Apparently though, it got to be too much to bother with on the later ones and he leaves the feathers where they land: into the sticky mass of partially dried grape juice from Day 4.

Day 7: (Morning)House caving in on itself. No time to worry about clean-up. We're late for church. And Dad has to figure out a way to comb out the hair of three little girls who have not had a brush touch their heads in an entire week. He has moderate success with a modified bee-hive. Sweeping a few strands of hair over the rat's nests we have going. We then change into our Gunny-Sax dresses. We're eighties from the neck down, but from the neck up - it's the 60's all the way, baby. Two of us girls get stuck in the kitchen, out tights cemented to the grape juice on the floor, feathers sticking into the bottoms of our feet. We yell for Dad and he comes to rescue us. Our tights make an audible noise when peeled from the sticky linoleum.

Day 7: (Afternoon) We forage through the mountain of left-over pizza boxes in the kitchen after a nauseating dinner of cabbage rolls that mom kindly left in the freezer. Dad neglected to read the reheating instructions. Burnt cabbage smell permeates the entire house. We all settle in for our afternoon naps, confident that if Mom returns early, she will settle for killing Dad with her bare hands and come to her senses before she reaches us.

Day 7: (Mom's arrival imminent) Dad takes a panicked look around the house and goes into dictator mode. Dad looks closely at my newly pierced ears and nervously tells me to pull my hair over them. I begin to suspect that it is Mom who wears the pants in their relationship. We throw our weights in pizza boxes into the outside garbage can. Dad, up to his elbows in sudsy water, suddenly realizes that week-long dried egg yolk actually forms a bond that is stronger than cement. I see sweat pop out on his forehead. Luckily laundry was not an issue. Wearing only two outfits all week, we do a happy dance thinking we've solved Mom's laundry dilemma. We have a fist-fight to decide who gets to tell her about our 1 outfit/week policy.

Day 7: (Mom due home at any moment) The house is looking better, but that seems to be relative. Dishes are done. Beds lumpily made. We whip the vacuum cleaner over the floors in records time. Picking up nothing, but hoping to leave those tell-tale lines in the carpet that Mom is so fond of.

Day 7: (Mom returns) We gather around her like she is some exotic new species. Gosh she smells nice. We see her eyeing the house as if she just knows that terrible things have gone on here in her absence. We are wondering if there is a way to keep her from going inside. Like a hawk she spots my earrings. I see her shoot Dad a look that says, "You.Me.Talk.Later.I.Will.Destroy.You." She enters the house and we all want to run away, screaming. And then we realize that she isn't going to come after us. She cannot move. Her feet are stuck to the floor, which we forgot to mop.

Mom is speechless. And then something happens which never happens. The whole house is entirely silent. We seem to be trapped in the vacuum of space. I can, however, feel the frantic beating of my heart.

I slowly close my eyes. And just before they close completely, I see what appears to be a tiny duck feather floating in the still air.