There in the closet-darkness, we sit, crouch on shoes, slippers, boots. My back pushes up against the cold, hard metal, round canister of the vacuum cleaner. I pushed Barb and Maria in the closet before me, then slid the door closed. Mom ordered me to do this at times like this. It’s my job to keep Barb and Maria quiet. We wait for our parents to get through their selfish, fuckin’ fight. Donna hides under the soft, turquoise blanket on her bed.

“Get the hell out! Leave me alone!” Mommy screams. I hear a big bang as Daddy curses out the front door.

Mom stores the vacuum cleaner in our bedroom. I like our vacuum cleaner. It is funny-looking, unlike the new, sleek, low, cylinder type advertised by Sears, Roebuck and Company in The Stamford Advocate newspaper, as being noiseless, quietly swooshing over your carpets, so quiet, you won’t even notice it’s there.