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mistymidnight

Author's notes: Thanks for the feedback, everyone!

            To Solar Princess/Jebus: About whether or not Tara, Mommy, and Bethie all live together: they don't live in the same house, but they do live in the same neighborhood. Like, maybe next door or something. I guess Tara's aunt (Bethie's mom) isn't around too much, seeing as she's constantly cooking for the family and cleaning up after Bethie…in other words, the kind of woman the family wants.

            Also, I looked and looked and I couldn't find out Tara's mother's first name, therefore I made one up. If she does have a first name mentioned on the show, I'd love to know. If you know her first name, pass it along and you'll be the subject of my undying gratitude! Until then, though, Tara's mother's name is Brooke.

"Asparagus, steak, baked potatoes, and watermelon," Tara's mother said, setting each dish down at the table in front of the group: Tara, Donny, Daddy, Bethie, and Mommy herself.

            Bethie gave Mrs. MaClay an angelic grin and said, "Everything sounds delicious, Aunt Brooke," she said primly, shooting Tara a superior glance."

            "Thank you, Beth," smiled Mrs. MaClay, placing a baked potato on Beth's plate. "I'm glad you think so."

            "Potatoes again?" muttered Mr. MaClay darkly, poking his with a fork.

            Tara's mother said nothing, but looked a little worried.

            Mr. MaClay gave a sigh and cut open his baked potato.

            "Mommy, I don't want asparagus," Tara complained.

            "Tara, you will eat what's put in front of you," Mr. MaClay commanded. "Look at Beth. She does what she's told."

            Bethie beamed and nibbled another bit of asparagus, mostly for show, since she slipped in into her napkin as soon as no one was looking.

            "B-b-but I h-hate a-a-aspar-a-agus," Tara stammered, shrinking under her father's glare. "M-m-maybe I could have c-c-corn o-or s-s-something."

            "You will eat what is put in front of you!" Mr. MaClay roared, standing up and pounding the palms of his hands onto the tabletop. "Is that clear?"

            Tara nodded meekly, biting her lip to keep the tears from spilling over.

            "Aww, Tara, don't be a crybaby," Donny said, sawing his steak with a tremendous amount of effort.

            "In my class at school," Bethie began, seizing the moment, "I'm the best speller. I can spell 'crybaby'. C-R-Y-B-A-B-Y—"

            "Aw, Beth, put a sock in it," Donny grumbled.

            "Donny," his mother began, "please don't be fresh with your cous—"

            "Are you the one providing the discipline around here?" demanded Mr. MaClay. Mrs. MaClay stayed silent, not meeting his glare. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!" thundered Mr. MaClay, grabbing her shoulder and shaking her. She looked up at him and he let go of her shoulder with a final push. "I make the rules around here. Remember that." He turned back to his baked potato and said, "So, Beth, what else can you spell?"

            "I can spell 'Marlboro cigarettes'," Bethie pronounced proudly. "M-A-R-L-B-O-R-O—leave a space—C-I-G-A-R-E-T-T-E-S …"

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            "'I can spell 'Marlboro cigarettes''," Tara mimicked, pulling a nightgown out of her drawer. "I can spell 'Marlboro cigarettes'. Anyone can."

            The truth was, Tara and Bethie were the only ones in their respective pre-kindergarten classes that could spell 'Marlboro cigarettes'. Bethie could spell it because she saw her father's pack of them every waking moment; Tara could because she learned it from Bethie. Both of them had been placed in first grade reading classes for their coming kindergarten year.  Tara had the natural skills for it, and Bethie's parents had used the American capitalistic system to get Bethie in. Bethie loved to tell people this. Tara would love to tell these people that "using the American capitalistic system" simply meant that Bethie's parents had paid for her to get in. Bethie certainly wasn't stupid, she was a bright girl, but she was nowhere near as intelligent as Tara.

            Tara picked out some play clothes for tomorrow and laid them on the rocking chair next to her bed. Tara was meticulous about her room and clothes. She liked to have everything nice and neat, even under her bed. Although she'd never admit it, part of the reason she kept it so clean under there was so that she—and Miss Kitty, of course—could crawl under at a moment's notice.

            "For goodness sakes," Tara said, adopting a favorite expression of her mother's, "even you could spell that, Miss Kitty."

            Miss Kitty agreed and proved that she could by spelling it, with only a little help from Tara.

            Tara pulled up the covers and turned off the light, pulling Miss Kitty closer to shield herself from the ominous darkness. But nothing could shield her from the shouts of her father.

            "—acting as if you always know best!" she heard him yell downstairs. "No wonder Tara was so disagreeable about her meal. Do you see the way John and Caroline raise Beth? They raised her right. They don't teach her that pagan witch crap. They don't coddle her. They teach her values, they teach her her rightful place in life! What she's good for! If you raised Tara the way Caroline raises Beth, then things wouldn't be like this!"

            Tara listened to the silence. She didn't cry much when her father yelled at her mother, not anymore, it was a commonplace experience. But Tara couldn't help it—whenever her father yelled at her, it was all she could do not to cry. Tara snapped back to attention when she heard a smack! and a cry from downstairs.

            "You'll do well to listen to me next time, woman!" she heard her father yell. "And you tell Tara to behave herself next time, especially when we have guests!"

            "Bethie's not a guest," Tara mumbled to herself and Miss Kitty. "She's just Bethie."

            Tara quickly closed her eyes and steadied her breathing, though, hearing her father come quickly up the stairs. She heard him pause outside her door, then heard him come in and felt him sit on the bed. "Tara?" he said quietly.

            "Yes, Daddy?"

            "Did you hear your mother and me arguing?"

            Tara nodded. She couldn't lie to Daddy. It was hard for her to lie and Daddy always saw right through it.

            "Do you know why we argue?"

            Tara shook her head.

            "Because sometimes Mommy is bad, just like you are sometimes. But Mommy is going to try to be better, and I want you to try, too, Tara. Do what Mommy and Daddy tell you, and you'll do okay in life."

            "Okay, Daddy," Tara said. Daddy scared her.

            "Okay, Tare. Go back to sleep."

            Tara waited until she heard his footsteps fade and then breathed a sigh of relief, holding Miss Kitty even closer.

            "I don't like Daddy," she whispered to Miss Kitty, so quiet Tara herself could barely her it. "I don't like him one bit."

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Okey-dokey, done with that. Remember, reviews are like the gasoline for my writing machine. See ya!

mistymidnight