with the finesse of an animal but the beauty of a young goddess, put her hand right at the heart of my desire. A hot white wind blew. It came tapping through the andromeda against the side of the house. And then the breathtaking whipping sound of the elm made me open my thighs. Somewhere a door slammed, one of the outside doors, stopping us for a minute, but we were both so otherworldly hot, and anyone coming in the room to check on us would have seen, by candle or flashlight, just a tangle of white sheets and two young girls hiding in each other’s arms from the thunder and lightning. Nora said, “This is how he does it to me.”
The blackness around me held my shyness at bay, and Nora was over my body, kissing my breasts. The hissing of smaller, higher winds into the larger gusts reassured us of our privacy, and we moved to the unpredictable sound-and-light show.
“You touch me now,” Nora whispered.
I knew this was the future. This was the way I would writhe in the future. But for now I passed my hand over her thighs and felt for her. I was boiling for all the future times, not quite able to be in the moment. She hula-hooped her hips in a circle as I touched her. Then another gust of wind as the elm right out my window shook and whipped like someone being spanked. She asked me not to stop. Her hard breathing became a cry of an animal. I was worried that she was hurting, but more worried that Mommy would hear us and come running through the closed but unlocked door. Nora still didn’t know how excited I was. She was the one needing and asking. I was only complying with her requests.
Now the rain slanted so heavily against the glass of the window right next to the bed that I was sure something would break. “This is just what Eric does. Please do it some more.” I smelled the sweetness of her. There was nothing like it ever before. She reached with her head down the length of my torso and her hair was thick with sweat. We got into an awkward position with each other, but I imagined we were like two smaller branches of the elm, twisting and tossing and making room so that they could move against each other without breaking.
I heard footsteps running down the hall right outside the room. Nora and I quickly disentangled our bodies as Peter opened the door.
“Are you scared?” He was so thrilled. “It’s a hurricane !”
Did I want to be Euridice or Orpheus or Al Jolson?
“Go chase the wild and nighttime streets, sang Daddy.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
the twenty-ninth floor
At night in bed I heard God whisper lullabies
While Daddy next door whistled whiskey tunes
And sometimes when I wanted, they would harmonize
There was nothing those two couldn’t do
Embrace me you child, you’re a child of mine
And I’m leaving everything I am to you
Go chase the wild and nighttime streets, sang Daddy
And God sang, Pray the devil doesn’t get to you
—“Embrace Me, You Child,” 1972
S ome things you pick up early, but there are no words for them yet. They’re simply fragments of a puzzle created by other people doing things, thinking things, deciding things, forgetting things, and not least, lying about things.
My whole life I’d never been able to put a name to the feelings I’d had for my father. I had spent my childhood craving his love and never getting it. As time went on, I drew away from him, losing myself in a sky full of many different kinds of clouds. I’d never been good at any of the things I believed mattered to Daddy. I had no innate talents to speak of. I couldn’t play the piano, and I wasn’t as pretty as my sisters. I couldn’t help but think back on the night he scrawled in my autograph book, Roses are red / Violets are pink / I love you with your darling fat nose / I’ve just had a drink. In Daddy’s eyes—despite my mother telling me not to take what he wrote seriously—I wasn’t even good at my nose.
There was more. I wasn’t funny in front of him. I stammered and
The blackness around me held my shyness at bay, and Nora was over my body, kissing my breasts. The hissing of smaller, higher winds into the larger gusts reassured us of our privacy, and we moved to the unpredictable sound-and-light show.
“You touch me now,” Nora whispered.
I knew this was the future. This was the way I would writhe in the future. But for now I passed my hand over her thighs and felt for her. I was boiling for all the future times, not quite able to be in the moment. She hula-hooped her hips in a circle as I touched her. Then another gust of wind as the elm right out my window shook and whipped like someone being spanked. She asked me not to stop. Her hard breathing became a cry of an animal. I was worried that she was hurting, but more worried that Mommy would hear us and come running through the closed but unlocked door. Nora still didn’t know how excited I was. She was the one needing and asking. I was only complying with her requests.
Now the rain slanted so heavily against the glass of the window right next to the bed that I was sure something would break. “This is just what Eric does. Please do it some more.” I smelled the sweetness of her. There was nothing like it ever before. She reached with her head down the length of my torso and her hair was thick with sweat. We got into an awkward position with each other, but I imagined we were like two smaller branches of the elm, twisting and tossing and making room so that they could move against each other without breaking.
I heard footsteps running down the hall right outside the room. Nora and I quickly disentangled our bodies as Peter opened the door.
“Are you scared?” He was so thrilled. “It’s a hurricane !”
Did I want to be Euridice or Orpheus or Al Jolson?
“Go chase the wild and nighttime streets, sang Daddy.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
the twenty-ninth floor
At night in bed I heard God whisper lullabies
While Daddy next door whistled whiskey tunes
And sometimes when I wanted, they would harmonize
There was nothing those two couldn’t do
Embrace me you child, you’re a child of mine
And I’m leaving everything I am to you
Go chase the wild and nighttime streets, sang Daddy
And God sang, Pray the devil doesn’t get to you
—“Embrace Me, You Child,” 1972
S ome things you pick up early, but there are no words for them yet. They’re simply fragments of a puzzle created by other people doing things, thinking things, deciding things, forgetting things, and not least, lying about things.
My whole life I’d never been able to put a name to the feelings I’d had for my father. I had spent my childhood craving his love and never getting it. As time went on, I drew away from him, losing myself in a sky full of many different kinds of clouds. I’d never been good at any of the things I believed mattered to Daddy. I had no innate talents to speak of. I couldn’t play the piano, and I wasn’t as pretty as my sisters. I couldn’t help but think back on the night he scrawled in my autograph book, Roses are red / Violets are pink / I love you with your darling fat nose / I’ve just had a drink. In Daddy’s eyes—despite my mother telling me not to take what he wrote seriously—I wasn’t even good at my nose.
There was more. I wasn’t funny in front of him. I stammered and
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