settled in!”
“Yes,
ma’am. Thank you,” said Mary.
“Oh, for
Heaven’s sake! No one ever calls me ‘Ma’am.’ Joan will do fine.” My mother
stood there, smiling like a feeb. “Your stepfather seems awfully nice. He hopes
you’ll be comfortable here with us, but that you won’t stay away too long. I
think he misses you already.” When she got no answer, she said, “Well, I’ll
just leave you two alone to get acquainted,” and flounced out.
Mary
flopped down on the bed, threw her arms above her head, and stared at the ceiling.
The stubble in her armpits was like tiny black seeds.
“Dinner’s
at six,” I said, and closed the door as quietly as I could.
***
We established a routine.
Mary made breakfast, I got my mother up and off to campus. After breakfast I
did the dishes and went into my room to read. Mary rode my old bicycle to the
store with money my mother left taped on the TV. I did laundry in the
afternoon, and Mary cleaned house. When my mother came home Mary made dinner.
At first I didn’t help her, then my mother made me. “Can’t you see how lonely
she is?” she hissed. “Go on, now, and try to make friends. ” The kitchen
was small, and Mary’s thick, sad body made it smaller. By then I’d come to
wonder about the scar on her left hand, a small, white crescent, like a moon in
the morning sky. I watched it rise and fall along the counter top, in and out
of the dishwasher, on the handle of the refrigerator, up to a stray hair she
pushed behind her ear.
All we
said to each other were things like, “Here’s the frying pan,” and, “Where do
you guys keep the paper towels?” At table my mother tried to draw her out.
“You’re a good cook, Mary. Did you learn that at home?” and, “My, the way you
ride that bike all over tells me you’re used to hard exercise. Isn’t that so?”
Mary just
shrugged, which I could tell pissed my mother off. She wanted gushing thanks
for being allowed to stay in such a nice house, in such a nice neighborhood,
with such nice, nice people. When Martha called to see how things were going,
my mother said, “Oh, fine, I suppose. Certainly hasn’t learned the art of
conversation, though, has she?”
When the
novelty of Mary wore off and life got back to normal—a new normal, I mean—my
mother went back to moping, usually in the late afternoons.
“Thing is,
guy dumps you, all you can do is say, ‘Later, Slick,’” said Mary one afternoon,
peering at the pimply chicken she’d put in the oven.
“Two guys.
The second one moved to California.”
“Yeah,
why?”
“To be an
artist or something.”
“The creep
who hooked my mom thought he can write poems. As if.”
Her face
was hard. She peeled potatoes slowly, lifting the skin from each as if she
wanted it to bleed. She’d been here for three whole weeks, I realized. When she
wasn’t doing chores, she stayed in her room and played solitaire with a grubby
deck of cards she’d brought with her.
“Better
spill it,” she said.
“What?”
“Whatever’s
on your mind.” She pulled a piece of potato skin from the blades of the peeler
and dropped it in the trash can below the sink. I waited for her to look at me.
She didn’t.
“Okay.
What was so bad about living at home?” I asked.
Mary put
the peeler on the counter and faced me, hands on hips. One of her blue eyes had
a splash of yellow I hadn’t noticed before, like a single flame. She stepped
toward me and pinched my right boob, hard.
“Ouch!”
“That. He
done it to me over and over, then he done a few other things I don’t need to
show you.”
My boob
throbbed. “Didn’t you tell someone?”
“Like who?
My mom’s so in love with the jerk, she’d never believe me.”
“What
about the police?”
“Sure. I
can’t prove shit.”
“Didn’t
you at least try?” The flame in her eye didn’t seem quite as fierce.
“No.”
“You
should. He’d get in a lot of trouble. He could even go to
“Yes,
ma’am. Thank you,” said Mary.
“Oh, for
Heaven’s sake! No one ever calls me ‘Ma’am.’ Joan will do fine.” My mother
stood there, smiling like a feeb. “Your stepfather seems awfully nice. He hopes
you’ll be comfortable here with us, but that you won’t stay away too long. I
think he misses you already.” When she got no answer, she said, “Well, I’ll
just leave you two alone to get acquainted,” and flounced out.
Mary
flopped down on the bed, threw her arms above her head, and stared at the ceiling.
The stubble in her armpits was like tiny black seeds.
“Dinner’s
at six,” I said, and closed the door as quietly as I could.
***
We established a routine.
Mary made breakfast, I got my mother up and off to campus. After breakfast I
did the dishes and went into my room to read. Mary rode my old bicycle to the
store with money my mother left taped on the TV. I did laundry in the
afternoon, and Mary cleaned house. When my mother came home Mary made dinner.
At first I didn’t help her, then my mother made me. “Can’t you see how lonely
she is?” she hissed. “Go on, now, and try to make friends. ” The kitchen
was small, and Mary’s thick, sad body made it smaller. By then I’d come to
wonder about the scar on her left hand, a small, white crescent, like a moon in
the morning sky. I watched it rise and fall along the counter top, in and out
of the dishwasher, on the handle of the refrigerator, up to a stray hair she
pushed behind her ear.
All we
said to each other were things like, “Here’s the frying pan,” and, “Where do
you guys keep the paper towels?” At table my mother tried to draw her out.
“You’re a good cook, Mary. Did you learn that at home?” and, “My, the way you
ride that bike all over tells me you’re used to hard exercise. Isn’t that so?”
Mary just
shrugged, which I could tell pissed my mother off. She wanted gushing thanks
for being allowed to stay in such a nice house, in such a nice neighborhood,
with such nice, nice people. When Martha called to see how things were going,
my mother said, “Oh, fine, I suppose. Certainly hasn’t learned the art of
conversation, though, has she?”
When the
novelty of Mary wore off and life got back to normal—a new normal, I mean—my
mother went back to moping, usually in the late afternoons.
“Thing is,
guy dumps you, all you can do is say, ‘Later, Slick,’” said Mary one afternoon,
peering at the pimply chicken she’d put in the oven.
“Two guys.
The second one moved to California.”
“Yeah,
why?”
“To be an
artist or something.”
“The creep
who hooked my mom thought he can write poems. As if.”
Her face
was hard. She peeled potatoes slowly, lifting the skin from each as if she
wanted it to bleed. She’d been here for three whole weeks, I realized. When she
wasn’t doing chores, she stayed in her room and played solitaire with a grubby
deck of cards she’d brought with her.
“Better
spill it,” she said.
“What?”
“Whatever’s
on your mind.” She pulled a piece of potato skin from the blades of the peeler
and dropped it in the trash can below the sink. I waited for her to look at me.
She didn’t.
“Okay.
What was so bad about living at home?” I asked.
Mary put
the peeler on the counter and faced me, hands on hips. One of her blue eyes had
a splash of yellow I hadn’t noticed before, like a single flame. She stepped
toward me and pinched my right boob, hard.
“Ouch!”
“That. He
done it to me over and over, then he done a few other things I don’t need to
show you.”
My boob
throbbed. “Didn’t you tell someone?”
“Like who?
My mom’s so in love with the jerk, she’d never believe me.”
“What
about the police?”
“Sure. I
can’t prove shit.”
“Didn’t
you at least try?” The flame in her eye didn’t seem quite as fierce.
“No.”
“You
should. He’d get in a lot of trouble. He could even go to
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