My father stopped at the sink with the Lava soap in his hand. He didn't turn around.
"Who is she, Ted?"
"She's nobody. She's—it's not what you think, Ro."
"Then tell me what it is." My mother's voice was very calm, which was worse than yelling. "Tell me what it is that it isn't. Tell me who Euphemia Spratley is, and where you go on Thursday nights, and where sixty dollars went, and why you got up and walked out of the one thing that was going to save this house. Tell me any one of those things, Ted, and I'll listen. I'll sit right here and listen. But you tell me now."
My father stood at the sink. He turned on the water. He started scrubbing his hands with the Lava, slowly, the gray lather going up to his wrists. Boog jumped up on the drainboard and sat next to the faucet, waiting for his thread. My father didn't give it to him. He just scrubbed and scrubbed.
"I can't," he said.
"You can't."
"It's not something I can say."
"Then you can't stay," my mother said.