“Is there anything else?” At dinner he’d look under the table and yell, “Are you under there, Mrs. Rich Bitch?”
When she was little she actually thought this was a real woman.
Chris nods as he chews. Georgia looks over the ocean; the music is low on the radio. She is beautiful, well traveled, deep, experienced. She’s a mother eating fast food with her son. They should do this more often. Come up here, hang out, talk. What are his goals, his dreams? What are hers? She’s about to ask. She’ll just come out and say: “What do you want, Chris? What do I want?” but just then Zoë issues a sharp wail that stabs their beautiful bubble. It’s an awful, awful sound, and her breasts respond to it immediately, like servants. Wetness blooms on her blue shirt. Two round wet circles, one bigger than the other.
“I need to feed her,” she says. Chris looks at her shirt and stops chewing.
She passes him her food, then turns to get on her knees and move over the console. She unbuckles Zoë and brings her to the front so Gabe won’t wake up and see them. Zoë makes frantic movements, butting her mouth into Georgia’s shirt.
“Hold her,” she says, and Chris looks down at his hands, then places everything on the floor and takes his sister.
Georgia sits back down in front, then unbuttons her shirt and pulls down her bra. She has never bought one of those nursing bras with the flaps. She just pulls one side down and it stays underneath her boob. “Okay,” she says.
He hands her to Georgia, but positions his body so that he faces forward.
Her exposed breast is spraying milk all the way to the dash. It’s like an old-fashioned hose-end sprinkler. Zoë latches on and sucks desperately, and Georgia’s unused breast drips. Zoë pops off, takes a few breaths, then goes back.
Chris looks out the right of the car, then reaches down for hisshake. He sucks on the straw, then stops. He turns the radio’s volume up a little louder, looks down at the baby, then looks away. She knows she has lost him. He sees her for what she is, for the only thing she can be. The beautiful woman and the soldier are gone. He gets shot in the head. She breaks her neck somehow. Everything has vanished.
And now Gabe is awake, in tears, his face red and critical. He makes the sign to be fed over and over again. Gabe want milk. Gabe want milk. All of her children are always so hungry.
“Use your words,” Georgia says, but Gabe keeps signing. She doesn’t know why she ever taught him such a thing.
“You’re not an ape!” she yells. “Use your words! Just say what you want! Just speak like everyone else!”
“Mom,” Chris says.
“What?” Georgia yells. “What, Chris?”
Georgia has ripped Zoë off her nipple, and her depleted breast hangs like a sock. Zoë roots around her chest like a little pig looking for truffles. The woman’s voice on the radio does a kind of ethnic yodel, and all Georgia can think is that this woman seems terribly, terribly free.
“Just ignore it,” Chris says. “Let’s just get home.” He takes Zoë from her arms, then gets out of the car to put her back in the seat. Does he even know how to buckle a car seat? Does she care? She fixes her bra and her shirt. Gabe screams and continues to make signs.
“Stop that,” she says forcefully. “Stop making those signs or the bad men are going to get you. The gang is going to get you.” Gabe takes a pause, looks at her searchingly, then howls. When Chris opens the door to put Zoë in, he says something to his younger brother, but she’s not sure what. She faces forward, looks out at the lights below. Gabe is suddenly quiet. She glances back, and he has his pacifier in his mouth, his lids heavy with what looks like bliss.
Chris walks back to his side, and as he’s getting in, the car brightens with someone’sheadlights and for a second she sees them all lit up as if onstage. Two cars come into the lot, rolling in slowly over the gravel.
“What if
When she was little she actually thought this was a real woman.
Chris nods as he chews. Georgia looks over the ocean; the music is low on the radio. She is beautiful, well traveled, deep, experienced. She’s a mother eating fast food with her son. They should do this more often. Come up here, hang out, talk. What are his goals, his dreams? What are hers? She’s about to ask. She’ll just come out and say: “What do you want, Chris? What do I want?” but just then Zoë issues a sharp wail that stabs their beautiful bubble. It’s an awful, awful sound, and her breasts respond to it immediately, like servants. Wetness blooms on her blue shirt. Two round wet circles, one bigger than the other.
“I need to feed her,” she says. Chris looks at her shirt and stops chewing.
She passes him her food, then turns to get on her knees and move over the console. She unbuckles Zoë and brings her to the front so Gabe won’t wake up and see them. Zoë makes frantic movements, butting her mouth into Georgia’s shirt.
“Hold her,” she says, and Chris looks down at his hands, then places everything on the floor and takes his sister.
Georgia sits back down in front, then unbuttons her shirt and pulls down her bra. She has never bought one of those nursing bras with the flaps. She just pulls one side down and it stays underneath her boob. “Okay,” she says.
He hands her to Georgia, but positions his body so that he faces forward.
Her exposed breast is spraying milk all the way to the dash. It’s like an old-fashioned hose-end sprinkler. Zoë latches on and sucks desperately, and Georgia’s unused breast drips. Zoë pops off, takes a few breaths, then goes back.
Chris looks out the right of the car, then reaches down for hisshake. He sucks on the straw, then stops. He turns the radio’s volume up a little louder, looks down at the baby, then looks away. She knows she has lost him. He sees her for what she is, for the only thing she can be. The beautiful woman and the soldier are gone. He gets shot in the head. She breaks her neck somehow. Everything has vanished.
And now Gabe is awake, in tears, his face red and critical. He makes the sign to be fed over and over again. Gabe want milk. Gabe want milk. All of her children are always so hungry.
“Use your words,” Georgia says, but Gabe keeps signing. She doesn’t know why she ever taught him such a thing.
“You’re not an ape!” she yells. “Use your words! Just say what you want! Just speak like everyone else!”
“Mom,” Chris says.
“What?” Georgia yells. “What, Chris?”
Georgia has ripped Zoë off her nipple, and her depleted breast hangs like a sock. Zoë roots around her chest like a little pig looking for truffles. The woman’s voice on the radio does a kind of ethnic yodel, and all Georgia can think is that this woman seems terribly, terribly free.
“Just ignore it,” Chris says. “Let’s just get home.” He takes Zoë from her arms, then gets out of the car to put her back in the seat. Does he even know how to buckle a car seat? Does she care? She fixes her bra and her shirt. Gabe screams and continues to make signs.
“Stop that,” she says forcefully. “Stop making those signs or the bad men are going to get you. The gang is going to get you.” Gabe takes a pause, looks at her searchingly, then howls. When Chris opens the door to put Zoë in, he says something to his younger brother, but she’s not sure what. She faces forward, looks out at the lights below. Gabe is suddenly quiet. She glances back, and he has his pacifier in his mouth, his lids heavy with what looks like bliss.
Chris walks back to his side, and as he’s getting in, the car brightens with someone’sheadlights and for a second she sees them all lit up as if onstage. Two cars come into the lot, rolling in slowly over the gravel.
“What if
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