Webster’s Clothing, with a dusty mannequin in the window wearing an imitation-leather skirt and vest. A display of work boots. Clearance sale on long Johns.
A couple of antique shops, for the summer tourists, he figures. He already finds himself feeling vaguely superior to those people.
Just-like-nu Shop. Good Used Clothing. He sees a pretty faded cotton dress hanging outside. It looks like something from the forties. Carla’s type of outfit. He stops the car.
A woman comes out on the porch. Probably about forty and very thin, short brown hair, razor cut in the back. Her arms are folded across her chest. He says he’d like the dress. She looks a little surprised. “For your wife?”
“Girlfriend.” It’s the first time he has called Carla that.
“Only thing my husband ever bought me was a Waring blender and a hysterectomy,” she says. “Nicest thing he ever did was leave.”
She’s bringing out more clothes. A long double-knit lounge outfit in pink and orange paisley. A velour minidress. He says this is enough for now, gives the woman a dollar and two quarters.
He sees the girl in the back of the shop. She’s sitting on a wooden stool sipping a Coke. She has the same face as the older woman, and she is very thin too, but not stringy like the mother. Her shirt is pulled up over one breast and she is nursing a yellow-haired baby. He has never seen such white skin—even the baby is less fair. The girl does not notice Greg watching her. She is humming “On Top of Old Smokey.” She has a very pure soprano.
“Do yourself a favor and never have kids,” says the older woman. “They’ll cause you nothing but grief.”
The baby jerks away from the girl, and for a moment Greg can see her small white breast very plainly. A thin stream of milk shoots out from her nipple. She notices him looking then and pulls down her shirt. The baby makes a surprisingly loud burp. Greg reaches down for his bag.
“Come again,” says the woman in a flat voice. “I hope it fits.”
When he gets home he’s still thinking about that girl.
Sitting in the back of the shop, next to misses’ coats, Tara switches breasts. Sunshine has been sucking on the right side almost an hour, but Tara is in no rush to finish. This is her favorite thing in the world.
At the hospital they told her she wouldn’t be able to nurse her baby. Inverted nipples, nothing Sunshine could hold on to. The nurses put her on formula and sugar water without even asking, so when they brought Tara her daughter, the baby was already full, wouldn’t suck. “Forget it,” one of the nurses said. “Breast-feed a kid and you’re trapped. Can’t ever leave her with a sitter.” As if she’d want to.
At night, under the sheet, she worked on her nipples, pulling them, rolling the skin between her fingers. “Suck,” she whispered to Sunshine when they brought her in. “Please suck.” Sunshine would just sneeze every time Tara put her flat nipple up against the baby’s mouth.
On the third day her milk came in. She had a dream of being buried in the sand, woke to find her breasts huge and dripping, aching. Still Sunshine wouldn’t suck, and the milk seemed to solidify, as if there was gelatin inside. By nighttime her breasts were hard and lumpy. The nurses told her she’d better take the drugs soon, to make her dry up. No. Tara’s mother came to see her that night, after she closed the shop. “Jesus,” she said. “You look like you’re full of tumors.” Mrs. Farley has had (in addition to her hysterectomy) two radical mastectomies, and knows the look.
All that night she lay awake in her hospital bed, pulling on her nipples. At twelve, two and four, she could hear the woman in the next bed nursing her day-old son, whispering to him, big boy, take it easy, little man, go to it. The infant’s lips smacking, slurping. Just the sound, even somebody else’s baby, made Tara drip. Two wet spots on her nightgown.
The next morning her nipples stood out
A couple of antique shops, for the summer tourists, he figures. He already finds himself feeling vaguely superior to those people.
Just-like-nu Shop. Good Used Clothing. He sees a pretty faded cotton dress hanging outside. It looks like something from the forties. Carla’s type of outfit. He stops the car.
A woman comes out on the porch. Probably about forty and very thin, short brown hair, razor cut in the back. Her arms are folded across her chest. He says he’d like the dress. She looks a little surprised. “For your wife?”
“Girlfriend.” It’s the first time he has called Carla that.
“Only thing my husband ever bought me was a Waring blender and a hysterectomy,” she says. “Nicest thing he ever did was leave.”
She’s bringing out more clothes. A long double-knit lounge outfit in pink and orange paisley. A velour minidress. He says this is enough for now, gives the woman a dollar and two quarters.
He sees the girl in the back of the shop. She’s sitting on a wooden stool sipping a Coke. She has the same face as the older woman, and she is very thin too, but not stringy like the mother. Her shirt is pulled up over one breast and she is nursing a yellow-haired baby. He has never seen such white skin—even the baby is less fair. The girl does not notice Greg watching her. She is humming “On Top of Old Smokey.” She has a very pure soprano.
“Do yourself a favor and never have kids,” says the older woman. “They’ll cause you nothing but grief.”
The baby jerks away from the girl, and for a moment Greg can see her small white breast very plainly. A thin stream of milk shoots out from her nipple. She notices him looking then and pulls down her shirt. The baby makes a surprisingly loud burp. Greg reaches down for his bag.
“Come again,” says the woman in a flat voice. “I hope it fits.”
When he gets home he’s still thinking about that girl.
Sitting in the back of the shop, next to misses’ coats, Tara switches breasts. Sunshine has been sucking on the right side almost an hour, but Tara is in no rush to finish. This is her favorite thing in the world.
At the hospital they told her she wouldn’t be able to nurse her baby. Inverted nipples, nothing Sunshine could hold on to. The nurses put her on formula and sugar water without even asking, so when they brought Tara her daughter, the baby was already full, wouldn’t suck. “Forget it,” one of the nurses said. “Breast-feed a kid and you’re trapped. Can’t ever leave her with a sitter.” As if she’d want to.
At night, under the sheet, she worked on her nipples, pulling them, rolling the skin between her fingers. “Suck,” she whispered to Sunshine when they brought her in. “Please suck.” Sunshine would just sneeze every time Tara put her flat nipple up against the baby’s mouth.
On the third day her milk came in. She had a dream of being buried in the sand, woke to find her breasts huge and dripping, aching. Still Sunshine wouldn’t suck, and the milk seemed to solidify, as if there was gelatin inside. By nighttime her breasts were hard and lumpy. The nurses told her she’d better take the drugs soon, to make her dry up. No. Tara’s mother came to see her that night, after she closed the shop. “Jesus,” she said. “You look like you’re full of tumors.” Mrs. Farley has had (in addition to her hysterectomy) two radical mastectomies, and knows the look.
All that night she lay awake in her hospital bed, pulling on her nipples. At twelve, two and four, she could hear the woman in the next bed nursing her day-old son, whispering to him, big boy, take it easy, little man, go to it. The infant’s lips smacking, slurping. Just the sound, even somebody else’s baby, made Tara drip. Two wet spots on her nightgown.
The next morning her nipples stood out
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