it banging around his head. He started with
Who is he
and finished by putting me in the hospital. We’d had this conversation plenty, though there hadn’t ever been a he. I’d never
stepped out on Thom Grandee. I’d never so much as pointed a toe in the direction of that doorway.
“Next door?” Joe said, sounding so skeptical that I might as well have said I’d spent the morning skipping on down to hell
to bring the devil some cool, sweet tea.
I nodded and sent Mrs. Fancy a mental apology for the lie I was about to tell on her. “I’m cat sitting for our elderly neighbor.
She comes home tomorrow, so I was giving her place a good cleaning. It was all over filth.”
Charlotte’s spiky fingers flexed on her knees. She somehow managed to look down her short peck of a nose at me, even though
she was seated. “You could have left a note,” she said in her needle-thin voice. Charlotte was made entirely of angles. Even
her small boobies were pointy, so sharp that it was a mystery to me how none of her boys had lost an eye while trying to breast-feed.
“I got Margie and me a set of them mobile phones, Thom. I can track her in a second,” Larry said. Mystery solved. Larry had
clearly never been breast-fed.
I had to squint to keep my eyes from rolling in their sockets. Track Margie, my butt. Larry lived chained to Margie’s leg
in the few hours he wasn’t chained to his daddy’s. He seemed happy enough grazing on whatever scant grass he found around
their ankles.
The phone suggestion didn’t even register with Thom. He didn’t so much as spare his brother a grunt.
Who is he.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” I said. I plucked at my dirty T-shirt, then ran my palms down the sides of my ancient jeans.
Exhibit A. “I must look a mess.” I picked my scraggled hair up off my neck and raised my eyebrows at Thom. Exhibit B, and
I hoped he could read my answer in the air around me as clear as I could read his question:
Do you think this is what a girl wears, how she does her hair, when she goes out to meet a lover?
I couldn’t stop myself from thinking that if I ever did step out, this would be the way. I would go to and from his arms in
a ponytail, wearing clam diggers, no makeup on. I’d look like I’d spent the day gardening instead of on my back. I blinked
at the thought, and on theinside of my closed lids I saw Jim Beverly’s sweet and boyish monkey face again, his long upper lip and his flat nose, his
eyebrows waggling as he made some joke and pulled me down to lie beside him.
“Look at me,” I said again, quieter, to Thom, only to Thom. “I’m all over dirt and cobwebs.”
Thom passed his big palm down over his face, slow, as if he’d been born with a caul and was only now rolling it away. He looked
me up and down with fresh eyes. I prattled on. “You should have seen under her beds. I’m surprised I didn’t find Jimmy Hoffa
buried there in all that filth. I should run grab a quick shower.”
I started to turn away, but Thom surged to his feet. My breath caught. He was so fast. His long strides carried him around
our coffee table, eating up all the room between us. I took two panicked steps backwards, until the wall stopped me. My hands
came up.
Thom steamrollered straight toward me with his bright eyes blind. He was seeing only the shape of me, as a thing to break,
as if his parents and his liverless brother weren’t clotting up our home. He pushed through my hands like they weren’t there,
but then his arms folded around me instead of rising up against me. I found myself pressed hard against him, my nose smashed
flat against the broad slab of his chest. He buried his face in my hair and inhaled, drawing in sweat and ammonia like he
was sniffing daisies.
I smelled him, too, the dark clove scent of my husband, and my eyes closed all on their own. My arms snaked their familiar
way around him, and all at once it felt like we were alone in our
Who is he
and finished by putting me in the hospital. We’d had this conversation plenty, though there hadn’t ever been a he. I’d never
stepped out on Thom Grandee. I’d never so much as pointed a toe in the direction of that doorway.
“Next door?” Joe said, sounding so skeptical that I might as well have said I’d spent the morning skipping on down to hell
to bring the devil some cool, sweet tea.
I nodded and sent Mrs. Fancy a mental apology for the lie I was about to tell on her. “I’m cat sitting for our elderly neighbor.
She comes home tomorrow, so I was giving her place a good cleaning. It was all over filth.”
Charlotte’s spiky fingers flexed on her knees. She somehow managed to look down her short peck of a nose at me, even though
she was seated. “You could have left a note,” she said in her needle-thin voice. Charlotte was made entirely of angles. Even
her small boobies were pointy, so sharp that it was a mystery to me how none of her boys had lost an eye while trying to breast-feed.
“I got Margie and me a set of them mobile phones, Thom. I can track her in a second,” Larry said. Mystery solved. Larry had
clearly never been breast-fed.
I had to squint to keep my eyes from rolling in their sockets. Track Margie, my butt. Larry lived chained to Margie’s leg
in the few hours he wasn’t chained to his daddy’s. He seemed happy enough grazing on whatever scant grass he found around
their ankles.
The phone suggestion didn’t even register with Thom. He didn’t so much as spare his brother a grunt.
Who is he.
“I wasn’t expecting company,” I said. I plucked at my dirty T-shirt, then ran my palms down the sides of my ancient jeans.
Exhibit A. “I must look a mess.” I picked my scraggled hair up off my neck and raised my eyebrows at Thom. Exhibit B, and
I hoped he could read my answer in the air around me as clear as I could read his question:
Do you think this is what a girl wears, how she does her hair, when she goes out to meet a lover?
I couldn’t stop myself from thinking that if I ever did step out, this would be the way. I would go to and from his arms in
a ponytail, wearing clam diggers, no makeup on. I’d look like I’d spent the day gardening instead of on my back. I blinked
at the thought, and on theinside of my closed lids I saw Jim Beverly’s sweet and boyish monkey face again, his long upper lip and his flat nose, his
eyebrows waggling as he made some joke and pulled me down to lie beside him.
“Look at me,” I said again, quieter, to Thom, only to Thom. “I’m all over dirt and cobwebs.”
Thom passed his big palm down over his face, slow, as if he’d been born with a caul and was only now rolling it away. He looked
me up and down with fresh eyes. I prattled on. “You should have seen under her beds. I’m surprised I didn’t find Jimmy Hoffa
buried there in all that filth. I should run grab a quick shower.”
I started to turn away, but Thom surged to his feet. My breath caught. He was so fast. His long strides carried him around
our coffee table, eating up all the room between us. I took two panicked steps backwards, until the wall stopped me. My hands
came up.
Thom steamrollered straight toward me with his bright eyes blind. He was seeing only the shape of me, as a thing to break,
as if his parents and his liverless brother weren’t clotting up our home. He pushed through my hands like they weren’t there,
but then his arms folded around me instead of rising up against me. I found myself pressed hard against him, my nose smashed
flat against the broad slab of his chest. He buried his face in my hair and inhaled, drawing in sweat and ammonia like he
was sniffing daisies.
I smelled him, too, the dark clove scent of my husband, and my eyes closed all on their own. My arms snaked their familiar
way around him, and all at once it felt like we were alone in our
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