volume of stuff. In fact, she’d leave it all. No suit sorting into piles—the whole thing would be too much of an ordeal right now.
She brought the box close to her chest and stepped down from the stool. She took it to the bathroom and wiped off the layer of dust with a damp cloth. She set it down in a corner.
But then she sat on the edge of the tub and took a breath, eyeing the box with suspicion. There was something ominous about it. Pandora’s Box ? Was she even ready to look inside?
No, she wasn’t.
She loved this bathroom. It was all white with a huge old tub in which you could stretch out so your tiptoes touched the end. The mosaic tiles were original. There was a laundry chute where you could shove your stinky socks and sports clothes at the end of a tiring school day and they would magically appear fresh and ironed forty-eight hours later. Sylvia hadn’t realized how spoiled she’d been as a girl, how privileged. Because of the breakdown of the automotive industry there was a lot of unemployment now in Saginaw, even for people of her class.
She remembered the time she had made a new friend. Not from school, but from one of the streets behind, where the worn-down clapperboard houses were, and working class families lived. Her grandmother was staying with them for the summer. Sylvia must have known that her grandmother would be unhappy about her new friendship because she took her friend upstairs, like a secret, and they played in the bathroom. And Sylvia locked the door. Her grandmother lost her temper, banging her fists on the locked door, shouting, “Sylvia, get that poor-white-trash out of this house!” The girl heard. Sylvia was speechless, she’d never heard her grandmother, who was usually so kind, raise her voice like that or be so rude. The little child (how old were they, seven or eight?) slipped away and never dared play with Sylvia again.
It wasn’t until she went to college that Sylvia had a mix of friends from different backgrounds and races. At school, the black kids and white kids tended to sit at separate tables for lunch, not because they didn’t like each other or were racist, but because they felt more comfortable with classmates who were most like them, with whom they related to best. Kids would say things like “across the river,” “the East Side,” or “the First Ward,” as if they were foreign countries. Sylvia discovered that these terms all meant the same thing: the poorer neighborhoods where most of Saginaw’s racial or ethnic minority population lived, mostly African American. Things probably hadn’t changed much. The river dividing the city into two geographical areas might as well have been the Berlin Wall.
She never understood this racial chasm, how her parents could adore Jacqueline so, but be struck with shock any time she suggested bringing home a friend “from a different world than ours, honey” (as her mother would politely put it). Once, Sylvia confronted her parents at the dinner table. “How about Jacqueline then, you love her ?” she shouted. “ She’s black.”
Her father cleared his throat and went quiet. Her mother smoothed her perfect hairdo and said, “Jacqueline is different .”
Sylvia looked at the clandestine box again. Some force was preventing her from ripping it open. It was true what Melinda said about her—she could detach herself. Other people wouldn’t be able to contain themselves the way she could. She’d always done that. Saved her candy in a jar while Melinda ate hers all in one go, and then begged Sylvia to share (which she always did). Sylvia prided herself on her composure; being able to stay cool when others lost themselves. She had lost herself with Tommy and it hurt. Snooping through his cell phone, surrendering herself—losing herself when he made love to her. The unopened box was her way of mastering that control, showing that she wouldn’t crumple with her father’s suicide.
She stood up, had a pee and washed
She brought the box close to her chest and stepped down from the stool. She took it to the bathroom and wiped off the layer of dust with a damp cloth. She set it down in a corner.
But then she sat on the edge of the tub and took a breath, eyeing the box with suspicion. There was something ominous about it. Pandora’s Box ? Was she even ready to look inside?
No, she wasn’t.
She loved this bathroom. It was all white with a huge old tub in which you could stretch out so your tiptoes touched the end. The mosaic tiles were original. There was a laundry chute where you could shove your stinky socks and sports clothes at the end of a tiring school day and they would magically appear fresh and ironed forty-eight hours later. Sylvia hadn’t realized how spoiled she’d been as a girl, how privileged. Because of the breakdown of the automotive industry there was a lot of unemployment now in Saginaw, even for people of her class.
She remembered the time she had made a new friend. Not from school, but from one of the streets behind, where the worn-down clapperboard houses were, and working class families lived. Her grandmother was staying with them for the summer. Sylvia must have known that her grandmother would be unhappy about her new friendship because she took her friend upstairs, like a secret, and they played in the bathroom. And Sylvia locked the door. Her grandmother lost her temper, banging her fists on the locked door, shouting, “Sylvia, get that poor-white-trash out of this house!” The girl heard. Sylvia was speechless, she’d never heard her grandmother, who was usually so kind, raise her voice like that or be so rude. The little child (how old were they, seven or eight?) slipped away and never dared play with Sylvia again.
It wasn’t until she went to college that Sylvia had a mix of friends from different backgrounds and races. At school, the black kids and white kids tended to sit at separate tables for lunch, not because they didn’t like each other or were racist, but because they felt more comfortable with classmates who were most like them, with whom they related to best. Kids would say things like “across the river,” “the East Side,” or “the First Ward,” as if they were foreign countries. Sylvia discovered that these terms all meant the same thing: the poorer neighborhoods where most of Saginaw’s racial or ethnic minority population lived, mostly African American. Things probably hadn’t changed much. The river dividing the city into two geographical areas might as well have been the Berlin Wall.
She never understood this racial chasm, how her parents could adore Jacqueline so, but be struck with shock any time she suggested bringing home a friend “from a different world than ours, honey” (as her mother would politely put it). Once, Sylvia confronted her parents at the dinner table. “How about Jacqueline then, you love her ?” she shouted. “ She’s black.”
Her father cleared his throat and went quiet. Her mother smoothed her perfect hairdo and said, “Jacqueline is different .”
Sylvia looked at the clandestine box again. Some force was preventing her from ripping it open. It was true what Melinda said about her—she could detach herself. Other people wouldn’t be able to contain themselves the way she could. She’d always done that. Saved her candy in a jar while Melinda ate hers all in one go, and then begged Sylvia to share (which she always did). Sylvia prided herself on her composure; being able to stay cool when others lost themselves. She had lost herself with Tommy and it hurt. Snooping through his cell phone, surrendering herself—losing herself when he made love to her. The unopened box was her way of mastering that control, showing that she wouldn’t crumple with her father’s suicide.
She stood up, had a pee and washed
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