fault for sending him off that way. She was barren. Barren. It was the loneliest word she'd ever heard; she'd never done anything worthwhile, been anything worthwhile, and now she never would. Danny could be proud of his job, and he had friends who understood him. He saved people, for God's sake. And she canned plums.
Without moving, she watched him through half-closed eyes. He hung his uniform shirt carefully over the chair by
75
the dresser, creased his pants and draped them over a hanger, lined up his boots, and she thought he was beautiful. The tanned broad shoulders and back, and the white buttocks that made him look like a little boy. He wasn't the slim, perfect Danny she'd fallen in love with, but the trace of a belly only made him dearer to her. She fought the rush of love. She had to be stubborn, as stubborn as he was, because if he wouldn't do this one thing she asked of him, she knew they were lost.
No, they weren't lost. She was lost.
She had never wanted anything more than to be like everyone else, to be accepted, but if it hadn't been for Sonia Hanson—Sonia, square and broad-faced and stump-legged, but full of confidence and loyalty—Joanne wouldn't have had a girlfriend in high school. Walt Kluznewski had adored Sonia ever since first grade, and if he'd looked twice at Joanne, Sonia would have blamed him and not Joanne.
She'd asked Sonia once, "Sonie, why don't they like me? I mean, they act like they like me when we're all out there leading cheers, and then they just walk away after, like I wasn't even there."
Sonia had snorted in disbelief. "Joanne, you're so dumb! You look like Elizabeth Taylor, and every single bitchy one of them would gladly kill to look like you. Besides, at least half of them are panting after Danny, and he's nice and polite to them, but he belongs to you. They're so jealous they almost wet their pants, so they try to make you miserable. Just ignore them."
"I can't help how I look."
Sonia laughed. "Neither can I, and I'm lucky big old Waltie doesn't mind. He likes me and I like you and Danny loves you, and high school doesn't last forever. Before long, we'll all be fat, jolly married ladies with babies and nobody will remember who did what at Natchitat High."
It worked out for Sonia. She married Walt and had three kids in three years, and Walt Kluznewski ran his Standard station with a big grin on his face in hot summer or icy winter. All the really smart girls in their class went off to college and then settled down in Seattle or Spokane. The
76
rest of them got married and turned into housewives who seemed to accept Joanne. She ran into them at the Safeway, most of them pushing one baby in a shopping cart, and carrying another one under their belts. She was invited to baby showers and Tupperware parties, but Sonia was still her only friend.
Nobody wanted a thirty-one-year-old cheerleader. She was never the one anybody called when they needed a shoulder to cry on. She never really pleased anyone—not even Danny. Sooner or later, he would look at her and realize how dull she was, his pretty little wife who cleaned his house and spoke sweetly to his friends, and was afraid to ask him why he cried out in his sleep. She knew it was important to him that she be in the farmhouse waiting for him when he came back from his other life, but that was only for now. Maybe not even for now; maybe there was already another woman out there who was alive and vital. And not barren.
She shifted slightly and felt a gush of warm blood between her thighs. She had tried so hard not to bleed this month, willing herself to breathe gently, to handle her body as if it were breakable, not even running for a whole week of mornings and evenings—when running was all she had that belonged only to herself.
"You awake?" Danny whispered, and she lay silent. "Hey, babe, you awake?
I'm home."
She was resolute, drawing her body so tightly into itself that she barely touched the sheet beneath
Without moving, she watched him through half-closed eyes. He hung his uniform shirt carefully over the chair by
75
the dresser, creased his pants and draped them over a hanger, lined up his boots, and she thought he was beautiful. The tanned broad shoulders and back, and the white buttocks that made him look like a little boy. He wasn't the slim, perfect Danny she'd fallen in love with, but the trace of a belly only made him dearer to her. She fought the rush of love. She had to be stubborn, as stubborn as he was, because if he wouldn't do this one thing she asked of him, she knew they were lost.
No, they weren't lost. She was lost.
She had never wanted anything more than to be like everyone else, to be accepted, but if it hadn't been for Sonia Hanson—Sonia, square and broad-faced and stump-legged, but full of confidence and loyalty—Joanne wouldn't have had a girlfriend in high school. Walt Kluznewski had adored Sonia ever since first grade, and if he'd looked twice at Joanne, Sonia would have blamed him and not Joanne.
She'd asked Sonia once, "Sonie, why don't they like me? I mean, they act like they like me when we're all out there leading cheers, and then they just walk away after, like I wasn't even there."
Sonia had snorted in disbelief. "Joanne, you're so dumb! You look like Elizabeth Taylor, and every single bitchy one of them would gladly kill to look like you. Besides, at least half of them are panting after Danny, and he's nice and polite to them, but he belongs to you. They're so jealous they almost wet their pants, so they try to make you miserable. Just ignore them."
"I can't help how I look."
Sonia laughed. "Neither can I, and I'm lucky big old Waltie doesn't mind. He likes me and I like you and Danny loves you, and high school doesn't last forever. Before long, we'll all be fat, jolly married ladies with babies and nobody will remember who did what at Natchitat High."
It worked out for Sonia. She married Walt and had three kids in three years, and Walt Kluznewski ran his Standard station with a big grin on his face in hot summer or icy winter. All the really smart girls in their class went off to college and then settled down in Seattle or Spokane. The
76
rest of them got married and turned into housewives who seemed to accept Joanne. She ran into them at the Safeway, most of them pushing one baby in a shopping cart, and carrying another one under their belts. She was invited to baby showers and Tupperware parties, but Sonia was still her only friend.
Nobody wanted a thirty-one-year-old cheerleader. She was never the one anybody called when they needed a shoulder to cry on. She never really pleased anyone—not even Danny. Sooner or later, he would look at her and realize how dull she was, his pretty little wife who cleaned his house and spoke sweetly to his friends, and was afraid to ask him why he cried out in his sleep. She knew it was important to him that she be in the farmhouse waiting for him when he came back from his other life, but that was only for now. Maybe not even for now; maybe there was already another woman out there who was alive and vital. And not barren.
She shifted slightly and felt a gush of warm blood between her thighs. She had tried so hard not to bleed this month, willing herself to breathe gently, to handle her body as if it were breakable, not even running for a whole week of mornings and evenings—when running was all she had that belonged only to herself.
"You awake?" Danny whispered, and she lay silent. "Hey, babe, you awake?
I'm home."
She was resolute, drawing her body so tightly into itself that she barely touched the sheet beneath
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