forty-eight hours she’d be back in New York. She had a history paper due, and she hadn’t even thought about it. She’d have mountains of e-mail because she was on all these mailing lists; for half of them she didn’t even remember why she’d signed up. She’d have 114 messages telling her there was a wrong clue in a double acrostic from last Saturday and she didn’t even do double acrostics anymore. Fuck.
She was hungry, too. She started thinking about what she would eat when she got home. Bagels. Ice cream. Peanut butter and jelly on fried toast.
Would any of these old bags ever see each other again? She bet not. She hoped not. So why were they yammering away at each other as if they were, like, friends? Why put all that effort into something with the life span of a fruit fly? What use was anything if it was going
Five Fortunes / 81
to die, sooner or later? Friendships? Marriages? Fruit flies? Anything?
Fuck it.
She cried a little. Not from self-pity, but from despair. The more the depression sank in, the more worthless she felt, the more angry and ashamed she felt that people kept trying to save her. Why couldn’t they just let her go to hell in her own way? What did they know about what it was like to be her?
She had fallen behind the two ladies with the Audis. She was alone, and feeling rebellious enough to sit down and weep, and maybe stay there for hours until she succeeded in scaring the whole place to death, when she became aware of a slim figure in black sweats, wearing mittens and an orange knit hat. The figure came up behind her and stopped. Jill turned and looked. It was Solange.
“What are you doing here?” Jill demanded.
“I am your shepherd.”
Jill thought angrily of saying out loud, Wouldn’t you rather be someplace doing parlor tricks? Thank God, Jesus and Mary I didn’t tell anybody I thought you had told me something important.
Everyone had such a good laugh at my mother, the General. And Carter, Mother of the Year. Imagine the roar if they knew what you told me.
Aloud, she said, “My own personal shepherd?”
“There is always a shepherd at the back of the group. I like being up early.”
Jill grunted and started walking again. No skeleton found under a bush picked clean by coyotes in her future. Don’t want to scare away the customers. She stumped along the path, feeling worthless.
Man in the desert knows there is no sea.
Jill felt a hand on her shoulder and stopped walking. She turned to face Solange, who looked into her eyes, squinting with curiosity.
Solange’s face was sleek and unlined; she wore black kohl or something around her smokey yellow eyes.
“I see,” said Solange, looking away from Jill’s face.
I bet, thought Jill. They walked on in silence, Jill in the lead.
82 / Beth Gutcheon
When at last they joined the group, Jill took the section of orange she was offered and sat down on a rock. She ate the piece of orange in one bite, pits and all. Solange crossed the circle and stood at the other side of the group with her arms crossed over her chest and her back to everyone, looking out over the valley.
Jill was marching along on the downward slope in front of the Audi ladies when it began to occur to her what had happened. First, she had learned that one of the ladies had had a Saab, but the window on the driver’s-side door had exploded the week she took delivery, then a string of other annoying things had occurred, and then the brake system had failed when the car had 23,000 miles on it.
Next, Jill lost a few seconds of the conversation, and when she tried to bring her mind back to it, she couldn’t. She couldn’t do a thing with it; it was careening around the heavens like a bumper car. There was an enormous balloon in her chest, as if she’d been pumped full of helium, and she had a terrible sense that she was about to laugh out loud. She was full of mirth. The sky was bright blue and gold.
She took off her hat and mittens, warmed to her
She was hungry, too. She started thinking about what she would eat when she got home. Bagels. Ice cream. Peanut butter and jelly on fried toast.
Would any of these old bags ever see each other again? She bet not. She hoped not. So why were they yammering away at each other as if they were, like, friends? Why put all that effort into something with the life span of a fruit fly? What use was anything if it was going
Five Fortunes / 81
to die, sooner or later? Friendships? Marriages? Fruit flies? Anything?
Fuck it.
She cried a little. Not from self-pity, but from despair. The more the depression sank in, the more worthless she felt, the more angry and ashamed she felt that people kept trying to save her. Why couldn’t they just let her go to hell in her own way? What did they know about what it was like to be her?
She had fallen behind the two ladies with the Audis. She was alone, and feeling rebellious enough to sit down and weep, and maybe stay there for hours until she succeeded in scaring the whole place to death, when she became aware of a slim figure in black sweats, wearing mittens and an orange knit hat. The figure came up behind her and stopped. Jill turned and looked. It was Solange.
“What are you doing here?” Jill demanded.
“I am your shepherd.”
Jill thought angrily of saying out loud, Wouldn’t you rather be someplace doing parlor tricks? Thank God, Jesus and Mary I didn’t tell anybody I thought you had told me something important.
Everyone had such a good laugh at my mother, the General. And Carter, Mother of the Year. Imagine the roar if they knew what you told me.
Aloud, she said, “My own personal shepherd?”
“There is always a shepherd at the back of the group. I like being up early.”
Jill grunted and started walking again. No skeleton found under a bush picked clean by coyotes in her future. Don’t want to scare away the customers. She stumped along the path, feeling worthless.
Man in the desert knows there is no sea.
Jill felt a hand on her shoulder and stopped walking. She turned to face Solange, who looked into her eyes, squinting with curiosity.
Solange’s face was sleek and unlined; she wore black kohl or something around her smokey yellow eyes.
“I see,” said Solange, looking away from Jill’s face.
I bet, thought Jill. They walked on in silence, Jill in the lead.
82 / Beth Gutcheon
When at last they joined the group, Jill took the section of orange she was offered and sat down on a rock. She ate the piece of orange in one bite, pits and all. Solange crossed the circle and stood at the other side of the group with her arms crossed over her chest and her back to everyone, looking out over the valley.
Jill was marching along on the downward slope in front of the Audi ladies when it began to occur to her what had happened. First, she had learned that one of the ladies had had a Saab, but the window on the driver’s-side door had exploded the week she took delivery, then a string of other annoying things had occurred, and then the brake system had failed when the car had 23,000 miles on it.
Next, Jill lost a few seconds of the conversation, and when she tried to bring her mind back to it, she couldn’t. She couldn’t do a thing with it; it was careening around the heavens like a bumper car. There was an enormous balloon in her chest, as if she’d been pumped full of helium, and she had a terrible sense that she was about to laugh out loud. She was full of mirth. The sky was bright blue and gold.
She took off her hat and mittens, warmed to her
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