Walter was finishing his junior year in high school when Dorothy’s father died and left her the little lakeside house in which she’d spent her girlhood summers. In Walter’s mind, the house was associated with his mother’s disabilities, because it was here, as a girl, that she’d spent long months battling the arthritis that had withered her right hand and deformed her pelvis. On a low shelf by the fireplace were the sad old “toys” with which she’d once “played” for hours—a nutcracker-like device with steel springs, a five-valved wooden trumpet—to try to preserve and increase mobility in her ravaged finger joints. The Berglunds had always been too busy with the motel to stay long at the little house, but Dorothy was fond of it, had dreams of retiring there with Gene if they could ever get rid of the motel, and so did not immediately assent when Gene proposed selling it. Gene’s health was bad, the motel was mortgaged to the hilt, and whatever small curb appeal it had once possessed was now fully eroded by the harsh Hibbing winters. Though Mitch was out of school and working as an auto-body detailer and still living at home, he blew his paychecks on girls, drink, guns, fishing equipment, and his souped-up Thunderbird. Gene might have felt differently about the house if its little unnamed lake had had fish in it more worth catching than sunnies and perch, but, since it didn’t, he didn’t see the point of holding on to a vacation home they wouldn’t have time to use anyway. Dorothy, normally the paragon of resigned pragmatism, became so sad that she went to bed for several days, complaining of a headache. And Walter, who was willing to suffer himself but couldn’t stand to see her suffering, intervened.
“I can stay in the house myself and fix it up this summer, and maybe we can start renting it out,” he told his parents.
“We need you helping here,” Dorothy said.
“I’m only here for another year anyway. What are you going to do when I’m gone?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Gene said.
“Sooner or later, you’re going to have to hire somebody.”
“That’s why we need to sell the house,” Gene said.
“He’s right, Walter,” Dorothy said. “I hate to see the house go, but he’s right.”
“Well, what about Mitch, though? He could at least pay some rent, and you could hire somebody with that.”
“He’s on his own now,” Gene said.
“Mom still cooks for him and does his laundry! Why isn’t he at least paying rent?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“It’s Mom’s business! You’d rather sell Mom’s house than make Mitch grow up!”
“That’s his room, and I’m not going to throw him out of it.”
“Do you really think we could rent the house?” Dorothy said hopefully.
“We’d be cleaning it every week and doing laundry,” Gene said. “There’d be no end to it.”
“I could drive down once a week,” Dorothy said. “It wouldn’t be so bad.”
“We need the money
“And what if I do what Mitch does?” Walter said. “What if I just say no? What if I just go over to the house this summer and fix it up?”
“You’re not Jesus Christ,” Gene said. “We can get along here without you.”
“Gene, we can at least
“I’ll go there on weekends,” Walter said. “How about that? Mitch can take over for me on the weekends, can’t he?”
“If you want to try selling Mitch on that, go ahead,” Gene said.
“I’m not his parent!”
“I’ve had enough of this,” Gene said, and retreated to the lounge.
Why Gene gave Mitch a free pass was clear enough: he saw in his oldest son a nearly exact replica of himself, and he didn’t want to ride him the way he’d once been ridden by Einar. But Dorothy’s timidness with Mitch was more mysterious to Walter. Maybe she was already so worn out by her husband that she just didn’t have the strength or the heart to battle her son as well, or maybe she could already see Mitch’s failed future and wanted him to enjoy a few more years of kindness at home before the world had its tough way with him. In any case, it fell to Walter to knock on Mitch’s door, which was plastered with STP and Pennzoil stickers, and try to be a parent to his older brother.
Mitch was lying on his bed, smoking a cigarette and listening to Bachman-Turner Overdrive on the stereo he’d bought with his bodyshop earnings. The refractory way he smiled at Walter was similar to their father’s, but more sneering. “What do
“I want you to start paying rent here, or do some work around here, or else get out.”
“Since when are you the boss?”
“Dad said I should talk to you.”
“Tell him to talk to me himself.”
“Mom doesn’t want to sell the lake house, so something’s got to change.”
“That’s her problem.”
“Jesus, Mitch. You are the most selfish person I’ve ever met.”
“Yeah, right. You’re going to go away to Harvard or wherever, and I’m going to end up taking care of this place. But I’m the selfish one.”
“You are!”
“I’m trying to save up some money in case Brenda and I need it, but I’m the selfish one.”
