do,” said Lucy. “Why don't you suggest gardening, Eula? You could get her started with a gift of seeds.”
“She just needs him to pay some attention to her,” said Eula. “There he is with that pile of junk, no wonder she feels left out.”
“But it's artwork,” said Lucy. “As an artist he should get some kind of dispensation.”
“Some art!” said Eula. “Bunch of junk screwed together.”
“He better watch out or Mama will have the spacemen after him,” said Ethel.
“I told Louise not to mention outer space,” said Eula. “If she gets on to outer space, they'll be done took back their five thousand dollars and gone.”
“I got a S for you today,” said Louise, holding out a big black sans serif S. “And some O's. Look a here, this is how they like it.” On the ground she laid out a row of black O's printed on clear plastic. She straightened the row, made a tiny adjustment, checked the angle of the sun, and stood back.
“Who?” he asked, settling the big S into one corner of his assemblage.
“I'm not supposed to talk about it,” said Louise. “But this is what brings them down; O's and A's and some others, set out east to west.”
“Hey,” he said, “whatever. I like it.” And carefully he laid the row of O's above a black and white picture of Marilyn Monroe with her lips pursed. Then he putan arm around Louise's shoulder and they stood together, just looking. “Whoa!” he said, and he grinned so wide that his cheeks shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Smokin’!”
“Mistral!” the typographer blurted out, kicking off the covers. “Brush script! No! No!” He moaned and thrashed his head from side to side. Out at the chicken house, one of Louise's insomniac roosters, awakened by the moonlight and the odd cries from the house, rose up, flapped his wings once, and crowed.
Quietly the woman untangled a blanket from the tumbled covers, crept into the living room, and sat in the dark, hugging her knees.
The typographer was out in the backyard, aimlessly walking up and down the chicken yard, picking at the dried brown twigs of vine that clung to the fence. From the ground Marilyn Monroe looked up through Louise's O's, and from the house ostentatious sounds of leaving could be heard—suitcases being flung and dragged across the floor, impetuous footsteps, doors slamming.
“Hey,” said Louise. “Today's the day. I got you some A's.”
He looked at the A's, but he didn't snatch them up and try them out in different positions, slipping them around from place to place and muttering.
“She's leaving me,” he said.
Louise looked around furtively. From the front yard they could hear a car door slam. “Let me tell you something,” said Louise.
The woman appeared in the door, her pocketbook on her arm. “Take me to the airport?” she called in a flat, tight voice.
“I'll give her one thing—she sure knows how to leave him,” said Ethel. “A few hours of framming and banging and slinging things around, and then vroom! she's gone.” It had taken Ethel over a year to leave Roger, counting the months it took to root cuttings from his grandmother's night-blooming cereus.
“I imagine they'll have to do it all over again when they get to their real home,” said Lucy. “This leaving was just for show.”
“And all because of him screwing numbers and letters and pieces of junk together,” said Eula, remembering Melvin's pickup truck coasting silently away from the house under cover of darkness, dozens of fine little wire pens stacked in the back, and then the next morning the dreadful silence and the blood-spattered clothes.
“I imagine it's not just that,” said Lucy, “I imagine he was not with her in spirit. It was not a marriage of true minds.”
“She's a hard woman,” said Eula. “High-strung.”
The typographer was leaning up against the kitchen counter drinking whisky, and Louise was making an arrangement on the kitchen table—bits of string,
“She just needs him to pay some attention to her,” said Eula. “There he is with that pile of junk, no wonder she feels left out.”
“But it's artwork,” said Lucy. “As an artist he should get some kind of dispensation.”
“Some art!” said Eula. “Bunch of junk screwed together.”
“He better watch out or Mama will have the spacemen after him,” said Ethel.
“I told Louise not to mention outer space,” said Eula. “If she gets on to outer space, they'll be done took back their five thousand dollars and gone.”
“I got a S for you today,” said Louise, holding out a big black sans serif S. “And some O's. Look a here, this is how they like it.” On the ground she laid out a row of black O's printed on clear plastic. She straightened the row, made a tiny adjustment, checked the angle of the sun, and stood back.
“Who?” he asked, settling the big S into one corner of his assemblage.
“I'm not supposed to talk about it,” said Louise. “But this is what brings them down; O's and A's and some others, set out east to west.”
“Hey,” he said, “whatever. I like it.” And carefully he laid the row of O's above a black and white picture of Marilyn Monroe with her lips pursed. Then he putan arm around Louise's shoulder and they stood together, just looking. “Whoa!” he said, and he grinned so wide that his cheeks shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Smokin’!”
“Mistral!” the typographer blurted out, kicking off the covers. “Brush script! No! No!” He moaned and thrashed his head from side to side. Out at the chicken house, one of Louise's insomniac roosters, awakened by the moonlight and the odd cries from the house, rose up, flapped his wings once, and crowed.
Quietly the woman untangled a blanket from the tumbled covers, crept into the living room, and sat in the dark, hugging her knees.
The typographer was out in the backyard, aimlessly walking up and down the chicken yard, picking at the dried brown twigs of vine that clung to the fence. From the ground Marilyn Monroe looked up through Louise's O's, and from the house ostentatious sounds of leaving could be heard—suitcases being flung and dragged across the floor, impetuous footsteps, doors slamming.
“Hey,” said Louise. “Today's the day. I got you some A's.”
He looked at the A's, but he didn't snatch them up and try them out in different positions, slipping them around from place to place and muttering.
“She's leaving me,” he said.
Louise looked around furtively. From the front yard they could hear a car door slam. “Let me tell you something,” said Louise.
The woman appeared in the door, her pocketbook on her arm. “Take me to the airport?” she called in a flat, tight voice.
“I'll give her one thing—she sure knows how to leave him,” said Ethel. “A few hours of framming and banging and slinging things around, and then vroom! she's gone.” It had taken Ethel over a year to leave Roger, counting the months it took to root cuttings from his grandmother's night-blooming cereus.
“I imagine they'll have to do it all over again when they get to their real home,” said Lucy. “This leaving was just for show.”
“And all because of him screwing numbers and letters and pieces of junk together,” said Eula, remembering Melvin's pickup truck coasting silently away from the house under cover of darkness, dozens of fine little wire pens stacked in the back, and then the next morning the dreadful silence and the blood-spattered clothes.
“I imagine it's not just that,” said Lucy, “I imagine he was not with her in spirit. It was not a marriage of true minds.”
“She's a hard woman,” said Eula. “High-strung.”
The typographer was leaning up against the kitchen counter drinking whisky, and Louise was making an arrangement on the kitchen table—bits of string,
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