won’t know I know. We’ll just wait and see how he tells me, we’ll just see how he tries. Now do you understand? Not one word. Because that could spoil everything. Every thing.
“Let’s set the alarm for five and get up then. Come on, Pooh, we’ll be fresher in the morning. Our minds will think faster.”
We were never done with our work, it seemed, all those years with Ted.
We fell asleep, alone in the house. But I didn’t sleep good sleep anymore, the way I had when I was younger, at my grandmother’s. Now, I had cowering sleep. I snuck under the covers, exhausted, stealing time and comfort I didn’t deserve.
It was the fourth or fifth time that winter I’d lost my key. My mother was furious when she drove her car up the driveway and saw me, sitting on the porch. She slammed her door and marched out.
“Your lights,” I said.
“Damn.” She almost fell, she turned around so fast. “You’re ten years old, Ann, you ought to be able to keep one key.”
She opened the door and let us in. I stood in the front hall, stamping my feet. My mother set the thermostat up. My hands had swelled and turned red.
“Somebody’s going to break in one of these days with your lost keys and then you know where we’ll be. In the poorhouse.”
“There is no poorhouse in Bay City.”
She sighed. “I’m going to have to string it around your neck. And how would you like that, for all your kids to see?”
“Go ahead.” I started for my bedroom, then turned around. “What happened with the Cadillac?”
She sighed again. “I don’t know. I just don’t know yet.”
When I first saw the ’65 Cadillac, snow was blowing in tiny balls across the gold roof. The Cadillac sat like a huge painted egg on our driveway. There was one streetlamp in front of our yard and as I walked up the road, I could see the glass and chrome glitter. I went up close. It had molded fins and I walked the length of the car, running my hands on the sides, brushing down snow. I pulled off my mitten. Through the windows, the inside looked safe and closed and tended like a home. I lifted up the chrome door handle and it gave with a soft click. Ted never locked things. His office in the arena, his cars; in summer he left our back door wide open. Inside, it smelled rich. I didn’t sit down because my clothes were wet and my boots were muddy with slush. The car had thick tan carpets and no plastic mats. I reached over and opened the glove compartment. It was there, what I was looking for and afraid to see: Ted’s glasses, folded together in the beaded case that said LAS VEGAS IS FOR LOVERS . The car was his, definitely. I closed the glove compartment and then I shut the door, lifting the handle so it would fall quietly.
I was afraid to go in the house. I would have stayed in the car, but I didn’t want my wetness to ruin the leather. I did what I did all summer. I went around the garage to the side of the house and listened against the wall. In summer, if I heard fighting, I wouldn’t go inside.
I had my own key, another copy, stuffed with the string down my pocket, and I let myself in. No one called when the door slammed and I stamped my boots in the front hall. The kitchen was dark and the counters were dry and perfectly clean. I opened the refrigerator. There were only jars of things and one head of lettuce in a plastic bag. I guessed we were going out for dinner.
“I’m home,” I said and then I heard something in my bedroom at the back of the house. It was dark in there, it took my eyes a second to adjust.
“I AM your little lotus blossom.” My mother was banked on my bedspread, talking baby talk, with a light mohair blanket thrown over her. “Won’t you get your lit-tle lotus blossom a glass of wa-wa?”She still hadn’t seen me.
“Get up, Mom, it’s suppertime.” I switched on the overhead light. Ted was sitting on my bed next to her as if something was wrong. All of a sudden, I thought she was sick. Perhaps this was what
“Let’s set the alarm for five and get up then. Come on, Pooh, we’ll be fresher in the morning. Our minds will think faster.”
We were never done with our work, it seemed, all those years with Ted.
We fell asleep, alone in the house. But I didn’t sleep good sleep anymore, the way I had when I was younger, at my grandmother’s. Now, I had cowering sleep. I snuck under the covers, exhausted, stealing time and comfort I didn’t deserve.
It was the fourth or fifth time that winter I’d lost my key. My mother was furious when she drove her car up the driveway and saw me, sitting on the porch. She slammed her door and marched out.
“Your lights,” I said.
“Damn.” She almost fell, she turned around so fast. “You’re ten years old, Ann, you ought to be able to keep one key.”
She opened the door and let us in. I stood in the front hall, stamping my feet. My mother set the thermostat up. My hands had swelled and turned red.
“Somebody’s going to break in one of these days with your lost keys and then you know where we’ll be. In the poorhouse.”
“There is no poorhouse in Bay City.”
She sighed. “I’m going to have to string it around your neck. And how would you like that, for all your kids to see?”
“Go ahead.” I started for my bedroom, then turned around. “What happened with the Cadillac?”
She sighed again. “I don’t know. I just don’t know yet.”
When I first saw the ’65 Cadillac, snow was blowing in tiny balls across the gold roof. The Cadillac sat like a huge painted egg on our driveway. There was one streetlamp in front of our yard and as I walked up the road, I could see the glass and chrome glitter. I went up close. It had molded fins and I walked the length of the car, running my hands on the sides, brushing down snow. I pulled off my mitten. Through the windows, the inside looked safe and closed and tended like a home. I lifted up the chrome door handle and it gave with a soft click. Ted never locked things. His office in the arena, his cars; in summer he left our back door wide open. Inside, it smelled rich. I didn’t sit down because my clothes were wet and my boots were muddy with slush. The car had thick tan carpets and no plastic mats. I reached over and opened the glove compartment. It was there, what I was looking for and afraid to see: Ted’s glasses, folded together in the beaded case that said LAS VEGAS IS FOR LOVERS . The car was his, definitely. I closed the glove compartment and then I shut the door, lifting the handle so it would fall quietly.
I was afraid to go in the house. I would have stayed in the car, but I didn’t want my wetness to ruin the leather. I did what I did all summer. I went around the garage to the side of the house and listened against the wall. In summer, if I heard fighting, I wouldn’t go inside.
I had my own key, another copy, stuffed with the string down my pocket, and I let myself in. No one called when the door slammed and I stamped my boots in the front hall. The kitchen was dark and the counters were dry and perfectly clean. I opened the refrigerator. There were only jars of things and one head of lettuce in a plastic bag. I guessed we were going out for dinner.
“I’m home,” I said and then I heard something in my bedroom at the back of the house. It was dark in there, it took my eyes a second to adjust.
“I AM your little lotus blossom.” My mother was banked on my bedspread, talking baby talk, with a light mohair blanket thrown over her. “Won’t you get your lit-tle lotus blossom a glass of wa-wa?”She still hadn’t seen me.
“Get up, Mom, it’s suppertime.” I switched on the overhead light. Ted was sitting on my bed next to her as if something was wrong. All of a sudden, I thought she was sick. Perhaps this was what
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