Chapter 39
The dining room held one particular memory for Claire; seven years earlier, the night of her 21st birthday celebration.
She, her ma and da, the three of them alone in their dark row house, enjoying sponge cake with 21 candles. And Claire had felt just old enough to tease her father a bit. She aimed at nothing weighty; no revolt nor rebellion. She was happy was all, with her slice of cake and two healthy parents.
She'd announced to the room, "Tonight I greet you both for the first time as your equal, as an adult member of this family."
Claire had grinned with cleverness.
But then her father stood up suddenly and loudly and marched down the table to her side. Where he grabbed her emptied dessert plate and held it aloft. Crumbs fell silently to the carpet.
"Yours?" he'd asked her, bringing his distorted face in close. His hot breath basked her cheeks.
She was confused.
"Is this yours, Claire?" he asked, shaking the plate in the air. "By law?"
"Yes," she'd guessed.
He balked, as if his next move would be to smash the plate across her skull. Claire's mother lunged from her chair to save the good china.
"Don't!" he'd commanded them both. He'd turned his furious face toward Claire's.
And she'd stared back, alarmed beyond thinking. "Father, what did I say?" Weeping now: panicked fountains of tears, her mouth a small delicate hopeless hole. She'd angered him and didn't know why. Irrational pain blinded her.
"You are twenty-one as of today," Mr. Stiles agreed. "Law and custom might call you an adult. But not in this house. Not in my house. While you live here," he threw out his plateless hand for good measure, "under this roof, my roof, you are still a child. My child." He glanced provocatively at his wife. "My child." He'd a smile hiding and ready, though, if Claire proved compliant. Censure needn't be cruel. Give her something.
And that night she'd instantly complied; mortified and repentant.
Jack Stiles saw he'd made his point. He relaxed a fraction; adding a quiet postscript, since there was Jesus thank you nothing more really to say; he'd laid down his law. They now knew his law. "You will obey my house rules. I know that, Claire," he allowed. "And there will be no further discussion. From you," meaning his daughter. "Or from you," meaning Mrs. Stiles.
Roughly he handed to his wife the dessert plate he'd wielded.
Said as he left, "The pleasure of your birthday, Claire. I mean that." He'd pinched his trousers straight and headed for his overcoat; to spend an evening at the pub with his fellows. A daughter's doused birthday celebration was no great loss, she being female after all; the pub would loudly second that notion. So her da left contented, knowing the future and its uncertainties were within reason and his grasp. A man's home was his castle. And all within it served him. God's law. Nature's law. His law.