be good.
Her hand is shaking. A few clumps of dirt fall over the sides of her palms, dribbling against the casket lid. But those don’t count! Those were dropped by chance, Alice thinks. Chance, I tell you! She clenches the dirt in her hand, shakes her head, and walks away from the mourners, the dirt locked tight in her fist.
Alice doesn’t go to the after-funeral party at Maureen’s house. Besides, Maureen would probably chase her out an yway. Instead she walks all the way home from the cemetery, which is only a few miles away, along the banks of the creek, which is gurgling over smooth stones and carrying orange and yellow leaves along its current. She carries her high heels in her hands and ruins her stockings.
When she reaches her backyard, she rushes into the house because she still wants a cup of tea, mother’s famous tea, with lots of milk like the English use, and honey to sweeten it up. She still has the dirt from the grave in her hand; by now she’s molded it round and smooth and sweaty. If she held it in the hot palm of her hand and squeezed it for a long enough time, it might turn into a stone. A burial stone, in which she could drill a hole and thread it on a leather thong. She could strap it around her neck to wear forever.
But once she reaches the kitchen, she remembers again. The teapot—she threw it out the window, with all of the tea inside it too. She laughs out loud. This reminds her of something her mother used to say. “Don’t throw the baby out with the bath water!” And how she never knew what that meant. She runs outside again and searches in some nearby shrubbery until she finds the teapot, exhumes it, only to discover it broken open and all of the loose black tea spilled out.
It blends in with the damp mulch so well.
She wants to scream again. All she wants is some tea. Is that so much to ask? She goes back into the house and pounds walls and tables, surfaces, with her open palm, the one without the dirt, until it reddens with pain. The house starts to shake again. She plays it for all it’s worth, pounding on the dining room table, slamming her hand against the wall, stamping her feet on the hardwood floor. She curses. Is it so much to ask for some tea?
She sits down at the dining room table, lays her arms on the cold polished wood, then rests her head in her arms. Last night’s tears and screams boil up inside her. They’re in her throat, foa ming. But she won’t, she won’t, she won’t. She’s promised herself that she won’t. Her body shudders under the pressure.
“Alice!” her mother scolds. “Stop this right now. It’s una ttractive! Not like a lady at all.”
Now her mother’s hand is on her back, rubbing it. This feels really good. Alice lifts her head to find the teacup, the last of the teacups, sitting in front of her, empty.
“Cry into it, dear,” her mother coos into her ear. “Your tears are hot enough.”
She nods and nods, like a good girl, and she does. They slip out fast and hot down her cheeks and drop—drop one or two at a time—until the cup is full and the hand-painted house at the bo ttom is drowned beneath them. Enough tears to flood the entire house. Chairs and picture frames float down the hallways, and the walls collapse like a deck of cards. When she opens her mouth to breathe, a tiny squeal rushes out. Her cheeks and eyes are left streaked with mascara-tinted snail tracks.
“Drink,” her mother tells her. Now she’s kneading her shoulders. Alice looks into the cup to find a darkness appea ring inside, spreading through her tears like octopus ink.
“Drink, love,” her mother urges.
So she does. She drinks it. She almost chokes on the first sip, though. It is hot and bitter, not sweet at all. But she swallows and swallows, until every last drop is gone.
Born on the Edge of an Adjective
“I was born on the edge of an adjective,” Neil tells me from San Francisco. He’s calling on his new cell phone. He bought it
Her hand is shaking. A few clumps of dirt fall over the sides of her palms, dribbling against the casket lid. But those don’t count! Those were dropped by chance, Alice thinks. Chance, I tell you! She clenches the dirt in her hand, shakes her head, and walks away from the mourners, the dirt locked tight in her fist.
Alice doesn’t go to the after-funeral party at Maureen’s house. Besides, Maureen would probably chase her out an yway. Instead she walks all the way home from the cemetery, which is only a few miles away, along the banks of the creek, which is gurgling over smooth stones and carrying orange and yellow leaves along its current. She carries her high heels in her hands and ruins her stockings.
When she reaches her backyard, she rushes into the house because she still wants a cup of tea, mother’s famous tea, with lots of milk like the English use, and honey to sweeten it up. She still has the dirt from the grave in her hand; by now she’s molded it round and smooth and sweaty. If she held it in the hot palm of her hand and squeezed it for a long enough time, it might turn into a stone. A burial stone, in which she could drill a hole and thread it on a leather thong. She could strap it around her neck to wear forever.
But once she reaches the kitchen, she remembers again. The teapot—she threw it out the window, with all of the tea inside it too. She laughs out loud. This reminds her of something her mother used to say. “Don’t throw the baby out with the bath water!” And how she never knew what that meant. She runs outside again and searches in some nearby shrubbery until she finds the teapot, exhumes it, only to discover it broken open and all of the loose black tea spilled out.
It blends in with the damp mulch so well.
She wants to scream again. All she wants is some tea. Is that so much to ask? She goes back into the house and pounds walls and tables, surfaces, with her open palm, the one without the dirt, until it reddens with pain. The house starts to shake again. She plays it for all it’s worth, pounding on the dining room table, slamming her hand against the wall, stamping her feet on the hardwood floor. She curses. Is it so much to ask for some tea?
She sits down at the dining room table, lays her arms on the cold polished wood, then rests her head in her arms. Last night’s tears and screams boil up inside her. They’re in her throat, foa ming. But she won’t, she won’t, she won’t. She’s promised herself that she won’t. Her body shudders under the pressure.
“Alice!” her mother scolds. “Stop this right now. It’s una ttractive! Not like a lady at all.”
Now her mother’s hand is on her back, rubbing it. This feels really good. Alice lifts her head to find the teacup, the last of the teacups, sitting in front of her, empty.
“Cry into it, dear,” her mother coos into her ear. “Your tears are hot enough.”
She nods and nods, like a good girl, and she does. They slip out fast and hot down her cheeks and drop—drop one or two at a time—until the cup is full and the hand-painted house at the bo ttom is drowned beneath them. Enough tears to flood the entire house. Chairs and picture frames float down the hallways, and the walls collapse like a deck of cards. When she opens her mouth to breathe, a tiny squeal rushes out. Her cheeks and eyes are left streaked with mascara-tinted snail tracks.
“Drink,” her mother tells her. Now she’s kneading her shoulders. Alice looks into the cup to find a darkness appea ring inside, spreading through her tears like octopus ink.
“Drink, love,” her mother urges.
So she does. She drinks it. She almost chokes on the first sip, though. It is hot and bitter, not sweet at all. But she swallows and swallows, until every last drop is gone.
Born on the Edge of an Adjective
“I was born on the edge of an adjective,” Neil tells me from San Francisco. He’s calling on his new cell phone. He bought it
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