Windmills of the Gods

‘In a sense. It’s for Beth. She’ll only eat natural foods.’

‘Why don’t you just put her out to pasture and let her graze?’

Mary laughed. ‘That’s what my son suggested.’ Mary picked up a package and studied the label. ‘It’s my fault. I never should have taught Beth how to read.’

Mary drove home carefully, climbing the winding hill towards Milford Lake. It was a few degrees above zero, but the wind chill factor brought the temperature down to well below zero, for there was nothing to stop the winds from their biting sweep across the endless plains. The lawns were covered with snow, and Mary remembered the previous winter when an ice storm had swept the county and the ice snapped the power lines. They had no electricity for almost a week. She and Edward made love every night. Maybe we’ll get lucky again this winter, she grinned to herself.

When Mary arrived home, Edward was still at the hospital. Tim was in the study watching a science fiction programme. Mary put away the groceries and went in to confront her son.

‘Aren’t you supposed to be doing your homework?’

‘I can’t.’

‘And why not?’

‘Because I don’t understand it.’

‘You’re not going to understand it any better by watching Star Trek. Let me see your lesson.’

Tim showed her his fifth grade mathematics book. ‘These are dumb problems,’ Tim said.

‘There are no such things as dumb problems. There are only dumb students. Now let’s take a look at this.’

Mary read the problem aloud. ‘A train leaving Minneapolis had one hundred and forty-nine people on board. In Atlanta more people boarded the train. Then there were two hundred and twenty-three on the train. How many people boarded in Atlanta?’ She looked up. ‘That’s simple, Tim. You just subtract one hundred and forty-nine from two hundred and twenty-three.’

‘No, you don’t,’ Tim said glumly. ‘It has to be an equation. One hundred and forty-nine plus n equals two hundred and twenty-three. n equals two hundred and twenty-three minus one hundred and forty-nine. n equals seventy-four.’

‘That’s dumb,’ Mary said.

As Mary passed Beth’s room, she heard noises. Mary went in. Beth was seated on the floor, cross-legged, watching television, listening to a rock record, and doing her homework.

‘How can you concentrate with all this noise?’ Mary shouted.

She walked over to the television set and turned it off and then turned off the record player.

Beth looked up in surprise. ‘What did you do that for? That was George Michael.’

Beth’s room was wallpapered with posters of musicians. There was Kiss and Van Halen, Motley Crue and Aldo Nova and David Lee Roth. The bed was covered with magazines: Seventeen and Teen Idol and half a dozen others. Beth’s clothes were scattered over the floor.

Mary looked around the messy room in despair. ‘Beth – how can you live like this?’

Beth looked up at her mother, puzzled. ‘Live like what?’

Mary gritted her teeth. ‘Nothing.’

She looked at an envelope on her daughter’s desk. ‘You’re writing to Rick Springfield?’

‘I’m in love with him.’

‘I thought you were in love with George Michael.’

‘I burn for George Michael. I’m in love with Rick Springfield. Mother, in your day didn’t you ever burn for anybody?’

‘In my day we were too busy trying to get the covered wagons across the country.’

Beth sighed. ‘Did you know Rick Springfield had a rotten childhood?’

‘To be perfectly honest, Beth, I was not aware of that.’

‘It was awful. His father was in the military and they moved around a lot. He’s a vegetarian, too. Like me. He’s awesome.’

So that’s what’s behind Beth’s crazy diet!

‘Mother, may I go to a movie Saturday night with Virgil?’

‘Virgil? What happened to Arnold?’

There was a pause. ‘Arnold wanted to fool around. He’s dorky.’

Mary forced herself to sound calm. ‘By “fooling around”, you mean –?’

‘Just because I’m starting to get breasts the boys think I’m easy. Mom, did you ever feel uncomfortable about your body?’

Mary moved up behind Beth and put her arms around her. ‘Yes, my darling. When I was about your age, I felt very uncomfortable.’

‘I hate having my period and getting breasts and hair all over. Why?’

‘It happens to every girl, and you’ll get used to it.’

‘No, I won’t.’ She pulled away and said fiercely, ‘I don’t mind being in love, but I’m never going to have sex. No one’s going to make me. Not Arnold or Virgil or Kevin Bacon.’