fragile health. My father grew bitter, sometimes downright cruel. By
my nineteenth birthday he barely spoke to me, except to criticize or scold.
Yet, once in a while, he’d smile at me like he did when I was little.
There were no smiles when I dropped out of business school. I was tired of
struggling with Economics and Accounting—tired of my father reminding me that my sister Beth was getting her Masters and
my sister Jen had given birth to her second child, happily married to her high
school sweetheart.
My dad told me, “Took hard earned money to further your education. If you can’t make it in school then it’s best you find a husband. You’ll never survive on a woman’s paycheck. Lots of guys in town ask about you.” I thought about the guys my father knew. I’d take my chances in life without them.
My mother would hug me and say, “There’s somebody out there for you, Meg.”
I wondered where and how I’d meet this somebody . I had visions of being thirty, still unmarried and living with my parents. I
told myself I wouldn’t let that happen, but I let down my guard and got into this mess.
I was bored with staying home on weekends while others were out dancing. The
drinking age is twenty-one, but fake IDs and sweet talking bouncers cure that
problem for girls my age.
My father forbade me to go to nightclubs. He said I’d only meet bums, guys who liked to drink and party. He said girls who went to bars were tramps. He’d heard stories about casual sex in back seats of cars. I figured I’d get a taste for what Dad forbade once I saved up and was far away from him.
Most of the guys who frequent clubs are in college, or their birth dates haven’t been selected by the draft. However, turmoil over the war in ’Nam made rebels out of others. In 1967 burning draft cards became vogue and
hippies made Haight Ashbury in San Francisco their Mecca. It seemed every time
I turned on the radio Aretha Franklin was singing, Respect.
I wish I’d had more respect for myself.
* * *
I didn’t eat much for dinner, just a bowl of soup and some toast. Now I’m starving.
I rise from my bed, put on my robe and open my door a crack. The hall is dark.
The house is quiet, but for the furnace kicking in and soft whispers behind
closed doors.
I gingerly climb down the stairs, passing creepy photographs hanging on walls. I
don’t dare look at them. Sometimes, even in day, eyes seem to move and lips curl
with demonic smiles. Sometimes I hear the floor creak behind me. Other times an
eerie sigh erupts.
I hear that sigh now. I stop and slowly turn. No one is there and I wonder if an
unseen entity hovers at the top of the stairs.
With a pounding heart I look from right to left. I see nothing but dark and
flickering shadows.
I convince myself it’s Marcy Long trying to spook me. She scared the heck out of Linda Sinelli the
other morning. Snuck in the bathroom while Linda was showering, pulled open the
curtains and taunted her with a kitchen knife.
Marcy nicked Linda’s arm and legs before her screams brought Maureen Dugan, the home’s social worker, to the rescue. I wonder what would have happened if no one
heard.
They took the knife away, but rumor has it Marcy’s got others hidden. I’m not sure why they don’t just send her back to Juvie.
I imagine Marcy creeping behind me, hiding in shadow and caressing the blade of
a knife. I hear soft laughter and walk faster. I don’t dare turn around for fear of what I’ll see.
Once at the bottom of the stairs I feel relief. I move past tables where potted
snake plants are displayed in antique vases. I hear a soft snore. It’s Mr. Greely, the home’s handyman. He’s asleep in a chair propped against the door to the library. I’m reminded of my old Grandpa George, resting after he tended his garden.
I look closer at Mr. Greely. He holds a mop in one hand. A bucket is at his
feet. A soft knock erupts from behind the door.
my nineteenth birthday he barely spoke to me, except to criticize or scold.
Yet, once in a while, he’d smile at me like he did when I was little.
There were no smiles when I dropped out of business school. I was tired of
struggling with Economics and Accounting—tired of my father reminding me that my sister Beth was getting her Masters and
my sister Jen had given birth to her second child, happily married to her high
school sweetheart.
My dad told me, “Took hard earned money to further your education. If you can’t make it in school then it’s best you find a husband. You’ll never survive on a woman’s paycheck. Lots of guys in town ask about you.” I thought about the guys my father knew. I’d take my chances in life without them.
My mother would hug me and say, “There’s somebody out there for you, Meg.”
I wondered where and how I’d meet this somebody . I had visions of being thirty, still unmarried and living with my parents. I
told myself I wouldn’t let that happen, but I let down my guard and got into this mess.
I was bored with staying home on weekends while others were out dancing. The
drinking age is twenty-one, but fake IDs and sweet talking bouncers cure that
problem for girls my age.
My father forbade me to go to nightclubs. He said I’d only meet bums, guys who liked to drink and party. He said girls who went to bars were tramps. He’d heard stories about casual sex in back seats of cars. I figured I’d get a taste for what Dad forbade once I saved up and was far away from him.
Most of the guys who frequent clubs are in college, or their birth dates haven’t been selected by the draft. However, turmoil over the war in ’Nam made rebels out of others. In 1967 burning draft cards became vogue and
hippies made Haight Ashbury in San Francisco their Mecca. It seemed every time
I turned on the radio Aretha Franklin was singing, Respect.
I wish I’d had more respect for myself.
* * *
I didn’t eat much for dinner, just a bowl of soup and some toast. Now I’m starving.
I rise from my bed, put on my robe and open my door a crack. The hall is dark.
The house is quiet, but for the furnace kicking in and soft whispers behind
closed doors.
I gingerly climb down the stairs, passing creepy photographs hanging on walls. I
don’t dare look at them. Sometimes, even in day, eyes seem to move and lips curl
with demonic smiles. Sometimes I hear the floor creak behind me. Other times an
eerie sigh erupts.
I hear that sigh now. I stop and slowly turn. No one is there and I wonder if an
unseen entity hovers at the top of the stairs.
With a pounding heart I look from right to left. I see nothing but dark and
flickering shadows.
I convince myself it’s Marcy Long trying to spook me. She scared the heck out of Linda Sinelli the
other morning. Snuck in the bathroom while Linda was showering, pulled open the
curtains and taunted her with a kitchen knife.
Marcy nicked Linda’s arm and legs before her screams brought Maureen Dugan, the home’s social worker, to the rescue. I wonder what would have happened if no one
heard.
They took the knife away, but rumor has it Marcy’s got others hidden. I’m not sure why they don’t just send her back to Juvie.
I imagine Marcy creeping behind me, hiding in shadow and caressing the blade of
a knife. I hear soft laughter and walk faster. I don’t dare turn around for fear of what I’ll see.
Once at the bottom of the stairs I feel relief. I move past tables where potted
snake plants are displayed in antique vases. I hear a soft snore. It’s Mr. Greely, the home’s handyman. He’s asleep in a chair propped against the door to the library. I’m reminded of my old Grandpa George, resting after he tended his garden.
I look closer at Mr. Greely. He holds a mop in one hand. A bucket is at his
feet. A soft knock erupts from behind the door.
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