I've only had one brush with unemployment in my life. Dad was almost unemployed when I was in fourth grade. He'd been a truck driver for Diamond Dairies for fourteen years when the company was bought out. Despite all those years, he was still low man on the seniority totem pole, and the first to get laid off. When the came home that day - November, 1982 - I was in my bedroom, bouncing on my bed, listening to the oldies station, singing along with Frankie Vallie's "Let's Hang On". I always bounced on my bed while listening to music, even though I wasn't supposed to.

Mom startled me when she opened the door, and I scrambled to pretend I was doing something other than bouncing.

"Thalia, your dad got laid off today." She wasn't angry, didn't seem to notice my bouncing. Her eyes looked tired, almost dead. "We're really going to have to watch our money for a while." She stared at me, and I couldn't tell if she was waiting for me to ask a question, or answer one. What could I say? I knew what "laid off" meant, and I knew the general ramifications of it: no job equals no money. So get another job.

And he got another job within a week. One of dad's friends gave him a job in his feed store downtown as soon as he heard about the lay-off. It didn't pay nearly as much, but it was better than no paycheck at all, or sitting aimlessly, waiting for his union benefits to come in.

It wasn't a year where Christmas was missed, or where the house and car got repossessed. Materially, things went along as they always had, at least from my perspective. The only thing that changed was Dad's hours - no more being on the road by 3:30 AM. But something about Dad changed.

I think I started the big fight, but I'm not sure how. It was a gray Sunday afternoon, and we were driving home from my aunt's house. Dad had been in a mood lately, and I still hadn't learned how to tiptoe around him. I'd never had to in the past.

"What time's your interview?" Mom asked as we drove over the railroad tracks. I looked up from my book. "What interview? You already have a job." "I have an interview with the steel factory, Thalia. I'm going to talk to them at noon tomorrow." "What's wrong with working at the feed store? Are they laying you off, too?"

Dad sighed, the tips of his ears growing pink. "No, they're not. The factory job will be better for us." "Will you get to be home at night? Tammy's dad works there, and he's never home." He sighed again. "I don't know. I haven't talked to them yet." "I don't want you working nights," I whined. "What'll I do when softball season starts, if you're working nights?" "I'm guessing you'll be like the other kids and you won't have your own private coach at your mercy," he snarled. "Bob!" Mom hissed. "She was just asking. We do need to figure out how we'll adjust if they put you on the night shift."

Dad was silent, his square jaw clenched as tightly as his fingers on the steering wheel. He never drove with both hands on the wheel. He always drove with his left arm resting on the door, steering with his right hand relaxed on the top of the wheel. Today, his hands didn't budge. Mom stared out the window. I could see her face reflected in the side-view mirror. Her hazel eyes were hollow, downcast under her furrowed brow. Her thin lips vanished, they were pressed together so tightly. The stereo murmured under the purr of the Impala's heater as we rounded the corner onto our block.

I didn't want him working nights, leaving us home to sleep without him. I didn't want to tiptoe around while he slept all day. I wanted him at my softball games and science fairs. I wanted to go to work with him. At the dairy he'd take me on his route. I'd ride shotgun in the milk truck, watching as we rolled into little towns, delivering gallons of milk to the grocery store in Clinton, soft serve mix to the Dairy Queen in Calhoun. The sun would set in our rear view mirrors as we headed home, talking about the Kansas City Royals batting line-up and singing along with old country radio stations that crackled and hummed.

Back at the loading dock he'd push me around the refrigerated truck on his two-wheeled dolly while I drank half-pint cartons of chocolate milk and ate ice cream sandwiches. He'd whip me around the loading bridges, the wheels thumping against the metal slats, and I'd squeal and giggle when he'd threaten to dump me over the edge of the ramp. He always stopped just in time, catching me before I'd fall.

"Dad, you shouldn't go to that interview."

"Goddamn it, Thalia! What the hell do you know about what I should do?" He spun into our driveway and slammed the car into park. He turned around, leaning over the seat until his face was inches from mine, close enough that I could smell Aunt Eve's chocolate pie on his breath. "Do you like having a decent house and nice clothes? How about all those records and books you're always buying? You got a better idea on how we can get all that shit?"

"Bob!" Mom yelled. "Calm down!" She dug her fingers into the fabric of his sleeve, and he flung her off with one jerk of his elbow. I was too stunned to make my lower lip hold still.

"She doesn't understand what it means for me to get this job, Jill, that maybe I don't want to spend my life selling shit for farmers to put on their crops."

"That's no reason for you to scream at her. You could explain it without upsetting everyone."

Dad turned around, clutching the steering wheel and staring forward. I froze in the backseat, holding back the sob in my throat, my tears chilled on my cheeks and chin. Mom opened her door. "Bob? Come on. Let's go inside." He continued to stare, silent. She turned to me. "Thalia, go inside. It's okay."

I nodded, getting out of the car and going to the patio. I stood on the top step by the backdoor, listening to our poodle on the other side, yelping for us to come in. My eyes didn't leave the car, watching Dad's face go from red to purple, his mouth pressed tightly closed. Mom talked, reaching for his arm, his shoulder. He would snap away from her like her delicate fingers burned through his coat to his frigid skin. Finally, he slowly turned to her and spoke only a few words. I could hear his voice through the closed doors, but I couldn't make out his words. I watched as Mom's face crumbled deeper away, so deep I could feel her eyes sinking further into her and way from everything else. She got out of the car, watching as Dad spun out of the driveway, tires squalling as he rounded the corner. I could still here his engine in the distance when Mom dug her keys out of her purse, trudging to the door.

"Where's he going?" "I don't know, Thalia." Her keys jangled in the lock as the door swung open. "When's he coming back?" "I don't know. " She barely whispered her hands in her hair and tears in her eyes. The only times I'd ever seen her cry were when people died, and I'd never seen her clutch her hair like that.

My sobs broke through, shaking my whole body. They were pushed from my stomach, kicked out of my head, out of my control. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" I moaned, over and over.

"Oh, Thal, it's not your fault, Honey!" She wrapped her arms around me, entwining her fingers in my hair, rubbing my scalp. I buried my face in her shoulder, howling, trying to force everything out of me, wanting to have that hollowness I'd seen in her eyes, wanting to rid myself of the bile and fear and pressure that pushed against my bones. My stomach churned against the storm of my sobs. I tasted the sourness of my stomach at the back of my tongue. Pulling away from Mom, I ran for the kitchen sink, puking and choking until everything in my stomach was gone. My whole body burned, except where Mom's cool hands caressed my scalp, pulling my curls away from my chubby face.

She wiped my face with a cold cloth, murmuring softly, words I couldn't make out, but it didn't matter. The sounds were embyotic, soothing. My hands shook like paper in cold wind, my warm body shivering. Mom helped me into my pajamas, still murmuring her song to me as I slipped into sleep on the living room floor.

When I awoke, Mom and Dad were sitting at the kitchen table. One-third of one of Grandma's blackberry pies sat between them, their berry-stained plates stacked beside the pie tin.

"Hey Kiddo. Feeling better?" Dad asked with a slight smile tugging his lips.

I nodded sleepily. "Did you go to Grandma's?" "Yep," he said. "She sent pie. Are you up for a piece?" I hesitantly nodded again.

Dad got up from the table, rubbing my sleep-tousled hair as he walked past me, grabbing a plate from the cupboard.

He got the factory job and he's been there ever since. I've been there once, during an open house two years after he started. I have absolutely no idea what he does.