Daniel Scott's short-fiction collection, Some of Us Have to Get Up
in the Morning, was published in the United States to glowing reviews. His
fiction has also appeared in many national journals including Press. Scott is the recipient of an
Artists' Fellowship from the New York Foundation for the Arts as well as a
Pushcart Prize nomination and two MacDowell Writers' Awards from the MacDowell
Colony in New Hampshire.
|
As usual Alicia’s mom is not ready when the
buzzer goes off so she yells for Alicia to get the door. Alicia separates herself from the couch and traces a lazy
path past the kitchen that belies the anticipation she always feels at times like this. Alicia supposes that
somewhere in the back of her mind she’s waiting for her mom to bring home that ideal five-star of a “man friend”
(that’s the term her mom insists on, not being one to wince at turning forty, although that hadn’t actually happened
yet). It turns out to be just two-star Buck. Alicia drapes her eyes with her lids and pushes a hot breath through her
nose.
“Well,” Buck says. “It’s nice to see you too, little miss...who’s-it-again?”
ROGER CARMODY (BUCK)
**
Thinks he’s a Wild West cowboy even though he’s from right here in Massachusetts.
Wears the pointy boots, the belt buckle big enough to see yourself in, and worst of all the stupid hat. Even talks
with kind of a Southern twang sometimes and I have to stop myself from laughing right in his big dumb face. Swears
Buck is his real middle name. Says it wouldn’t do any good to look at his license because it doesn’t have his middle
name on it. His beard is a dark, dark brown but the hair on his chest that spills over his shirt top (disgusting) is
white. How gay is that?
Buck and her mom date once every couple of months or so, which never before seemed as
weird to Alicia as it does right now. She leaves the open door and heads back to the couch, where she’s watching TV
with her little sister Marcy.
“I’ll be out in a sec, Buck!” Her mom calls from her bedroom.
“No rush, darlin’! Hey gorgeous,” he says to Alicia, “I asked you what your name was.”
“You got it right--gorgeous.”
“Ooh, a smart one!”
“Your name’s not gorgeous,” says Marcy.
“Shut your hole, skank.”
“Watch your mouth out there!” Her mom says. “Just one more minute, Buck!”
“No rush, darlin’!” He plants himself on the couch next to Alicia. “What’re we
watching? Oh I like this show!”
“Figures,” says Alicia.
“Oh you don’t like it huh?”
“I’d give it...mmm...one-and-a-half stars,” Alicia says. “Out of a possible five.”
Buck twists his face at her like she just spoke Chinese or something. Alicia almost
bursts out laughing, so stupid he looks. “That’s an interesting way of sayin’ it,” he says. “That’s how they rate
restaurants, too. In The Herald.”
“That’s how I rate everything,” Alicia says. “People too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. For instance, you get two stars.”
“Alicia!” Even though her mom is in the bedroom, she can hear everything they’re
saying because the apartment is small and the doors in it don’t close all the way. Someone, some landlord or
previous tenant, had painted over the doors several times, including the top, bottom, and side edges. Even the
hinges had thick white cracked coats. As a result, the doors--even the bathroom door--warped and got too big for
their frames.
| "CLARENCE RIDNOUR...Showed up with a paperback sticking out the
pocket of his dungaree jacket. That was sort of okay until I asked him what he was reading. Turns out it was
a book about serial killers called “They Loved To Hear Their Victims Scream!” " |
“Only two, huh?” Buck says. He seems somehow delighted. He slaps the knees of his
too-tight jeans. “That’s all, huh?” He bends over and tugs at his boots, bending Alicia’s way a little. “So tell
me: how do you rate your mom in there? And I know I don’t have to tell you to be honest because I can tell that
you’re a very honest person already.”
Alicia is tempted to break one of her cardinal rules--that a rating once made could
never be changed--and raise Buck a half-star.
Her mom emerges at last, still ornamenting the lobes of her ears. She looks almost
stunning. Her hair, coloured just that morning by her own hand, makes an attractive frame for her face. But her
face doesn’t radiate the way it usually does when she’s getting ready to leave. She looks a little mad. “I wish
you wouldn’t encourage her, Buck. We better get going.”
“This one doesn’t need any encouragin’, darlin’.” He’s sounding really Southern now.
He nudges Alicia. “Well?” he says.
For a short time there is silence. Alicia’s mom goes to the mirror for a last
primping. Maybe she’s also a little curious about what the judgment might be. Alicia twirls her hair in her fingers,
enjoying the attention for a moment... if her freshman year was any indication high school was not going to be better
than junior high as she had hoped today she had her book bag wrested from her and tossed into the dumpster behind the
cafeteria by three other girls who then ran off screeching with laughter...“Two stars,” she says.
Alicia watches her mom’s reflection in the mirror. It doesn’t change, but her body
sways to the side a little.
“You see, darlin’?” Buck jumps up. “I told you we were made for each other!”
Her mom grabs her coat from the hook near the door. Buck hops up behind her. She
never looks at Alicia when she says, “I want Marcy in bed by eight.” Then they leave, Buck still smiling as he shut
the door behind them.
Marcy steps up. “What about me, Alicia?”
“What about you?”
“What am I? Do I get stars too?”
“You’re nothing,” she says, grabbing the TV remote. “You don’t get anything... when
she scaled the dumpster to get it back, the girls reappeared to push her in then ran away again, their laughter, like
thunder moving off. She landed face first in the garbage. She gagged from the smell until her lungs hurt, retrieved her
book bag, climbed out of the dumpster, the front of her shirt and pants smeared with wet brown stains at first. As usual
no one took notice as she walked into class and took her seat in the front row. Ms Lattimore writing algebraic equations
on the board, the class barely underway when the kids closest began wrinkling their noses looking around for the source
of the putrid trace in the air. The eyes of Ms Lattimore were led to her
--eeewwwwwwww
--oh my God I think I’m gonna be sick
--can you believe that girl
Ms Lattimore could have been the older sister of one of the pretty girls in the class
nevertheless she was in iron control
--take out a pencil and a piece of paper and copy down the equations on the board.
Alicia can I see you out in the hall please
-- I don’t know can you
a hubbub arose from the class
--in the hall now, take your things too
someone threw an eraser at her on her way out, it hit her in the back but did not hurt her
--what on earth happened to you
--Alicia I asked you a question
--you can tell me Alicia
she stepped close, put a hand on her shoulder
--someone did this to you didn’t they
--who
--who did it Alicia...
SANDY DOUCETTE
**
Sandy? Um, excuse me? Thats a girls name, right? I mean, I hate to be the one to
bring it up. Fat and hairy and flabby too. Showed up in a tight T-shirt and practically has boobs. Talk about
barf-making. Tries to be cool too by saying he likes rap. Its like get a clue you fucking fat shit. Give it up
you fucking fat old fart. And lose some weight while your at it you gross disgusting pig.
...but she would not give up the names to Ms Lattimore not even though she wanted to not
even when she wanted to bury her face in the soft brown hair and burst into tears yet she only turned to go back to class
but Ms Lattimore sent her to the girls room to wash up then she was to report to the principal’s office. Instead she
left simply walked out of the school no one tried to stop her...
As soon as she unlocks the apartment door, Alicia
senses something is different. She passes the kitchen first. The oven doesn’t have food stains splattered all over
it, and the broken linoleum floor looks shiny in spots. There’s an antiseptic tinge in her nostrils. Cleaning is
not her mom’s strong suit, but every six months or so she goes on a tear after which the apartment looks a little
better for about a day before reverting to its usual clutter and grime. These jags spare no room in the apartment
so Alicia isn’t surprised to come upon her wide-open bedroom door, her and Marcy’s beds stripped of their sheets
and pillowcases, a basket of dirty clothes in the middle of the floor. What does surprise her is her mom standing
stock-still holding in one hand the green plastic box where Alicia keeps her index cards and in the other one of
those very cards--Alicia can’t tell which one. Many more lay on the spotted mattress, some creased, and on the
floor, looking as though they’d been stepped on. In all Alicia’s imaginings never once did she dream her mom
would ever read what she wrote, would ever find it in its hiding place on the top shelf over the bed, would
ever bother to look at anything of hers so closely.
Her mom looks up. Her head starts to tremble. Alicia has been afraid of that sight
for as long as she can remember. It means her mom’s angry. It means she’s really angry when the trembling spreads
down her body, as it’s doing now, the shapely but frail vessel not enough to contain the rage she’s feeling. During
these times anything she might be holding is in danger of being dropped, and Alicia eyes the green box with concern.
“What the hell is this?” her mom says in a voice that nearly rumbles.
How stupid Alicia had been. To believe that sitting on the shelf over the bed was a
good hiding place. To behave like the green box was invisible to everyone but her. It was a stupid, little-kid
fantasy that has now cost her dearly.
“Answer me!” her mom says. “What is this!”
“It’s...mine,” Alicia says.
“Don’t smartmouth me! Answer my question! What is this!”
But Alicia doesn’t know how to answer. For a brief moment she contemplates saying it:
“Why, mother, it’s just a file of index cards filled with observations of the men you’ve brought to the house over the
last eight months or so, arranged alphabetically by last name.”
“These are people!” her mother says. She doesn’t drop it but throws the box to the
floor, scattering the remaining cards. “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Again, Alicia doesn’t know how to answer. There’s nothing wrong with her as far as
she can see. In fact the question only prompts the question in her: “What’s wrong with you, Mom?”
In an almost undetectable movement her mom’s arm lashes to life, slapping Alicia hard
across the cheek. For an instant Alicia is blinded by a bright light out of which her mom steps up and sticks a finger
in her face.
“You better stop what you’re doing right now or you are headed down the road of being
a very strange and awful person with a very hard road ahead of you. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Alicia nods. Anything to get this woman out of her face, and out of her room. Her
mom, trembling on the wane, grabs the laundry basket and stalks out. Alicia shuts the door behind her, as much as
that’s possible. Tears well up as she gets on her knees to gather the strewn cards. All her meticulous work.
Molested by her mom’s grubby fingers. Read by her angry, overly made-up eyes. It makes her more nauseous than
when she was in the dumpster.
Alicia changes her clothes, rolling the soiled ones in a ball and sticking them in the
just-emptied hamper. She sits on the bed with the file and inspects again the damage. She had never thought there
was anything strange about what she’s been doing. She adapted the idea from a book that was given to her mom as a
gift by one of the men friends. In the book she found the music that was constantly playing on her mom’s kitchen
radio, or in the car, all alphabetized, summarized and categorized using a system that went from five stars
(“indisputably a classic”) down to one star (“poor”)--judgment could actually go lower than that when necessary
to what looked like a small black silhouette of either a turkey or an old lady with a perm. Whatever it was it
came to mean for Alicia, as the book defined it, “the absolute bottom of the barrel.”
She took the book to her mom and asked in a casual way if she could have it. She was
careful not to act particularly interested in or protective of the book. If her mom suspected a value, she might
want it for herself.
“What is it?” her mom said abstractedly.
“It’s just that book. The one Clarence gave you.”
“Clarence?”
CLARENCE RIDNOUR
**
Showed up with a paperback sticking out the pocket of his dungaree jacket. That was
sort of okay until I asked him what he was reading. Turns out it was a book about serial killers called “They Loved
To Hear Their Victims Scream!” Sorry I asked. Used the bathroom before he left. Heard him say “Oh okay,” when he
found out he couldn’t close the door. Pissed so loud I couldn’t even hear the TV. And it went on forever, like he
was saving it up all day, or maybe men’s bladders are just that big. Winked at me when he came out. Fuck off,
creepo.
“Can I have it?”
“I don’t care.”
Night after night, while her mom was out and Marcy snored, Alicia absorbed the book.
It got to the point where, hearing a song on the radio that was rated lowly, Alicia would make a fuss about it and
demand that a different station be put on. Sometimes the song was one she’d always liked, and she would secretly
be ashamed of her lack of taste. And when a song she never cared for turned out to be great, she felt ashamed
again.
Once, as she helped Marcy take her Saturday night bath, her sister started singing
one of those bad songs. Alicia hit her in the back of the head and said, “That song bites.”
“I like it,” said Marcy, splashing back.
“That’s because you’re an idiot and you don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Alicia,” said her mom, who had stepped in to grab some nail polish remover from the
medicine cabinet, “there’s no right or wrong when it comes to songs. Different people have different tastes.”
Soon Alicia got tired of rating songs and started measuring other things using her
star system--and it had become hers, with nuances and modifications added by her, such as the half-star, which
practically doubled her choice of possible judgments and allowed for greater accuracy.
“I’d give these two-and-a-half stars,” Alicia said, holding a bitten cookie away from
her face as she critiqued. “The jelly topping is good but they’re too dry and crumbly.”
Right then her mom slapped the cookie from her hand and said, “That’s starting to get
very annoying.”
After that Alicia kept her opinions to herself whenever her mom was around. It was
just as well too, since it was about this time that she started sizing up the men friends, or at least the ones she’d
met. Her mom after all was still a good-looking woman, and she attracted a lot of men at her job as a day-shift
bartender at one of the tourist traps just over the bridge in Sandwich. Usually the men stopped by the apartment
to pick her up, and Alicia would make her assessments based on those appearances. They arrived all slicked up and
ready for a night out. A strong stench of aftershave would cost, as would dirty pants or ratty shoes. Also, she
didn’t like it if they touched her mom at every opportunity. To their credit would be saying something smart or
funny, or bringing a gift.
She couldn’t voice her conclusions but
| "GEORGE MULANEY...Like a slug: fat and slow and gross. Talks in a
whiny nasally way. Brought hamburgers and makes low grunting noises when eats. Holds the hamburger right in
front of his mouth while he chews like he wants to take the next bite as soon as he possibly can." |
she began writing them down on some leftover
index cards she got for an oral report she had to deliver last year. She made rankings like she had seen in the book,
though she dropped that confusing lowest symbol. In a few weeks’ time she had ten or eleven of them. She had more
when she wrote up all the men friends she could remember her mom having. Upon exhausting her memory, every new date
became an excitement to her sensibilities. The cards became so many Alicia searched the apartment for something to
put them in. A small green plastic box her mom once intended to put recipes in served nicely. She cleaned it of
the grime it accumulated sitting untouched on top of the refrigerator. The cards fit perfectly.
And though not one of the men friends rated more than two-and-a-half stars, Alicia felt
confident about the future. The chronicling of her mom’s choice of men, and of their choice of her, became a near
scientific obsession, as if she were tracking the journey across the sky of some otherwise indistinguishable star.
But now, as she tries to smooth the most rumpled of the cards and make them stand the
same taut way in the file, something is different. Their magical quality--their beauty and accomplishment--seems
diminished somehow.
Moreover, there’s probably now nowhere in the room or the whole apartment where she
could hide the file without her mom finding it if she really wanted to. That night, she sleeps with the box wedged
between her mattress and the wall. Periodically she wakes up to make sure it’s still there. In the morning, unable
to think of a hiding place--and disenchanted by her mother’s intrusion--she takes the file and throws it into the
kitchen trash. She wraps up the bag and puts it outside in the metal cans the way she does every morning. It is
remarkably easy to do. When she comes back in the afternoon, the can had been emptied by the sanitation men who
came around twice a week.
For a time after that, Alicia’s mom does not go out on any dates. She doesn’t make a
big deal out of staying in either. She watches talk shows and sitcoms while she braids Marcy’s hair, or sings along
to the radio--often the songs Alicia had once eagerly judged--as she matches up her nylons. Sometimes her mom goes
into her room and shuts the door, the impossibility of which allows Alicia to glimpse her napping or reading one of
the gossip magazines she brings home from the grocery store.
Marcy trails her like a loyal pet, and Marcy is the only daughter she really talks to.
From Alicia she maintains a frank, even polite distance. When they speak it is all necessary and hastened. Alicia
rather enjoys the quiet...
she had never before been called to Mrs Jajunem’s office it had an outer chamber
sentineled by Mrs Paroni an inner one was the principal’s actual sanctum Mrs Paroni with short white hair in short
tight curls against her head with tight pale lips that made her small mouth look like a scar that won’t heal
--name
--Alicia
--Sturtz
--yes
--sit there
no sooner had she sat than she was on her feet again ushered inside a large wooden
door Mrs Jajunem had a massive metallic desk that she looked a little small behind the blinds on the two large windows
were open revealing the teachers’ parking lot in chairs against the blinds sat Diane Thalen and Stefanie Ramsey Diane’s
face smeary with sobbing Stefanie cried too not as hard Alicia wondered how they were tracked down
--sit down Alicia Diane and Stefanie have something they want to say to you okay girls
Diane Thalen shuddered
--I’m sorry we pushed you into the dumpster I’m really sorry
Alicia stood struck not by the apology but by how pathetic and little-girlish Diane
Thalen appeared no bust to speak of bent over in a misshapen striped shirt she reminded her of Marcy more than someone
her own age one of the first in their grade to wear make-up a mess on her face now she had the vocabulary of a truck
driver she loved to use it
--Stefanie
--I’m sorry too
eyes pink Stefanie wiped her nose with her sleeve even though it wasn’t running
--I didn’t know I could get expelled
--calm down Diane you’ve got to learn that actions have consequences
--please Mrs Jajunem my father’ll kill me if I get in anymore trouble please
snot from her nose blew onto her lips the principal pulled some tissues from the box on
her desk passed them to Alicia who passed them to Diane
--I’ll tell you what I’ll let Alicia decide if you should be expelled or not she was the
one you hurt
Diane blew her nose Alicia couldn’t quite keep back a tear at Diane’s sad personal
situation she got up took the hands of the girl she had no desire to see her or anyone else get expelled that’s what
she told Mrs Jajunem
--it’s okay it’s alright
all three now wept Mrs Jajunem a little misty too Alicia looked to see the miraculous
air around her
--girls
she brought over the box of tissues she held it out a flurry of tissue-taking the girls
wiping their faces clean Alicia and Stefanie shared a snorted laugh when they grabbed the same tissue almost tore it
in half graciously Stefanie let her have it the girls composed themselves
--alright Diane and Stefanie you won’t be expelled but a written reprimand will be added
to your records for one year after which it will be removed if there’s no further trouble and you each get one week’s
detention starting today now go ahead you two you better get back to your classes Mrs Paroni will write you a pass
she kept Alicia behind leaned against her desk with legs crossed hands clasped against
the front of her long skirt her hair too was long but ran in a big clump down the back of her neck as if held together
by an invisible netting she smiled in her fake way suggesting that she wished to exude serene wisdom but her eyes
turned downward slightly at the corners her walk slumped her private concerns whatever they were made her aloof and
unapproachable despite her efforts the kids didn’t really like her
-- how are things going at home Alicia
she wasn’t sure what she was being asked
-- at home how are things is there anything you’d like to talk about
there was certainly nothing going on that she’d want to talk to Mrs Jajunem about
-- well anytime you need to talk to someone all you have to do is knock on my door you know that don’t you
no she didn’t know that now that she thought of it she’d never heard of such a thing a
principal whose door kids could just come up and knock on Mrs Paroni would never allow that to happen she nodded
--good
Alicia watched as she walked to the window and turned shut the blinds
--you better get back to class now
she smiled as she led Alicia out the door Alicia thought of that smile as she left
clutching her pass how it never showed any teeth when she was grabbed out of nowhere on both sides without looking
she knew they were Diane Thalen and Stefanie Ramsey at first it was possible to believe they were spiriting her off
to some fun exciting secret the three of them would share against the world but she was shoved against a bank of
lockers held there while a third girl materialized she wasn’t sure who she was she opened the locker closest to her
slammed the metal door hard against her head...
GEORGE MULANEY
**
Like a slug: fat and slow and gross. Talks in a whiny nasally way. Brought hamburgers
and makes low grunting noises when eats. Holds the hamburger right in front of his mouth while he chews like he wants
to take the next bite as soon as he possibly can. Scoops ketchup off the plate with his finger and then licks his
finger clean. Thought I was gonna geech right there when I saw that.
...then again
-- eat shit and die you little snitch...
LARRY MACLOUND
** 1/2
Talk about insensitive. Comes over and has to wait so he takes a nap on the couch.
And he’s not small. So no one else can even sit down. And sleeps like he’s dead. No movement, no sound. Turning
the TV all the way up has no effect. Excuse me, asswipe. Has curly blond hair that’s kind cute but he’s going bald
in the back. He’ll be a chrome dome for sure. Tries to comb it so the bald spot is covered over. Whose he kidding?
Say anything to him and he just shrugs and laughs like an idiot. Plus he could lose some weight.
...then a third time
--you fucking lezbo dog cuntlover...
HERNDON (or maybe Hermanson)
** 1/2
Couldn’t get his first name. Not even sure about his last name. Small thin guy with
a disgusting heavy five o’clock shadow. Couldn’t he shave? When he found out he had to wait he said he would wait
out in his car and then left. That was all. Looked at me when he talked but didn’t see me. Watched him out the
bathroom window. Smoked two full cigarettes in a row. Bobbed his head a little so he must have had the car radio
on. Stared straight ahead. Didn’t even turn his head when two girls in halter tops walked by. Suddenly looked
right up at me, so I had to back away...
...before the girls dropped her ran off tittering talking in tones she couldn’t
understand she sat up against the lockers her vision appeared somewhat sideways still she saw her book bag propped
neatly against the opposite wall the focus of their rage was her now not the things she owned not the things she
said or thought but her body her person she tottered to her feet grabbed the bag she left the school again again
no one tried to stop her by now she knew the five blocks she had to walk by heart
--hey
which was good because she still couldn’t see very clearly
--hey gorgeous
she hadn’t noticed the ratty old pick-up that had pulled up beside her that had been
following her for a little ways she turned she knew it was Buck Carmody even if he didn’t look exactly familiar
he wasn’t in his western get-up instead he wore a smirched mechanic’s outfit his beard showed streaks of white
here and there that made him look almost distinguished
--hey you don’t look so good hop in I’ll drive ya the rest of the way home
she did get in it was a good thing too because her legs were starting to wobble the
side of her head was hot and tingly but when she touched it there seemed to be no feeling to it at all
--hey what’s the matter what happened to you
--nothin’
for the few minutes of the ride that remained Buck said nothing more Alicia was
grateful for that glad he didn’t ask how her mom was doing she thought how she would bump him up to three maybe
three-and-a-half if she was doing that sort of thing anymore ...
On that inevitable afternoon, Alicia returns from
school to find her mom on the phone with a man. She can always tell when her mom is on the phone with a man
because her voice goes high like a little girl’s and she laughs a lot and says things like “No way!” and “Really?”
Alicia heads for her room. She uses the reflecting side of a compact disc to examine her face. The side of her
head does not look any different, though it feels puffy. She lays down and tries to sleep but her mom is talking
particularly loud at the moment, right outside the door, her body blocking the crack of light. “Alright,” she
says. “I’ll be ready.”
The prospect of whoever is coming doesn’t interest her much, nor does her mom’s
apparent desire for her to know her plans. She drifts off to sleep. Sometime later she wakes, feeling quite a
bit better. She goes out to find her mom stinking up the place with hairspray. Her mom looks her way and says,
“Well. It lives.” It’s the first time in days that she’s spoken to Alicia in a manner that could accurately be
called normal. She looks a tad more glamorous than usual--in fact, she doesn’t usually use hairspray. She wears
a flowered blouse with a skirt that isn’t in need of ironing. “I want her in bed by eight,” she says, nodding
toward Marcy.
Marcy runs up. “You’re leaving?”
“Yup.”
“Where are you going?”
“Out.”
“When are you coming back?”
“When I get back.”
“Who are you going with?”
Alicia can tell her mom’s eyes have fallen on her, but she just keeps staring into
the refrigerator.
“His name is Malcolm,” she tells Marcy. “He’s very nice. He works for his brother’s
real estate firm. They’ve sold the some of the really nice houses over in Hyannis. He went to college up in
Boston.”
Alicia lets shut the refrigerator door. “What about supper?” she yawns.
“There’s macaroni.”
Alicia fills a pot with water and sets it on the stove. Her mom crisscrosses the
apartment in her usual pre-date dash, only there’s something more deliberate in it this time; she pivots her hips
to make her skirt flair out, her hair bounces as she walks. As Alicia microwaves the spaghetti sauce, her mom
freezes to announce that she’s going to change into her blue top because she thought it looked nicer. Then she
disappears into her bedroom. Alicia suspects that soon she’ll be called upon to answer the door. She decides
she’ll make Marcy do it.
When the macaroni is done, Alicia fills two bowls and she and Marcy sit themselves
in front of the TV as they eat. By the time Alicia goes back to the stove for seconds, she can’t help noticing
that her mom has not left yet. She eyes her walking from the window in the bathroom to the window in her bedroom,
her arms folded against her chest. Finally, her mom makes a small bowl of macaroni for herself and sits down at
the TV with the girls. She’s trembling a little, and she rests the bowl in her lap and carefully lifts
quarter-spoonfuls to her mouth.
“I thought you were going out,” Alicia says.
Her mom just shoots her a look that says, “Don’t cross me right now.”
After awhile her mom gets up from the couch. Her trembling has worsened to where
she barely makes it to the kitchen sink before dropping the bowl and spoon there with a great clatter. She
disappears into her bedroom.
At eight Alicia sends Marcy to bed, but stays up herself to watch more TV. She’s
not sure how much time has passed before she’s startled by the telephone. She rises to answer it but her mom
emerges to pick it up before it can finish its second ring. Her conversation is hushed and brief. When it’s
over she disappears again, then reappears in the flowered blouse.
The buzzer goes off and in a whirlwind she’s holding her coat at the opened door.
“I’m meeting Malcolm downstairs,” she says. “Don’t stay up too late.” Then she’s gone. Alicia goes back to her
TV show.
During the commercial, she goes to the bathroom. As she’s wiping herself, she spots
her mom through the window sitting on the passenger side of a pick-up truck. The hood is open and a man is leaning
in under the streetlight. Alicia can tell from the tight jeans and cowboy boots that it’s Buck. He stands up
straight just then, his hands on his hips, perplexed.
* * *
|
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