illuminated by porch lights. I’m expecting revelation, something along the lines of the humiliation and the exaltation and Christ only knows what. When I reach the 1100 block of Ponderosa Lane, I slow down, my foot taking a soft turn on the brake, and there it is, 1207 Ponderosa Lane.
Catherine Bennett lives in a cranberry-colored ranch house with a maple door and shutters. Though it’s the first week of January, there’s still a life-sized wooden toy soldier—or is it a fucking nutcracker?—with painted rose-pink cheeks, a modest smile and a tall black hat garlanded with green and red Christmas tinsel.
I think: Why would a woman so efficient and mathematical not have taken down her Christmas decorations?
The front is dark, though there is a lit window at the side of the house, a golden rectangle cheering the side yard. Still, as I drive on, inch by inch past her house, there is a pallor here that I recognize. Catherine Bennett’s house has the same doomed whose woods these are/I think I know vibe of my own house. I imagine that Catherine Bennett is in her bedroom. Catherine Bennett is watching a crime show. Maybe Catherine Bennett is dead. Perhaps she slipped on the shower floor and her body is decomposing, because of course there’s nobody to call the ambulance, the morgue, whatever. Of course there’s no one to help her, because she’s all alone, isn’t she?
I crack my window and throw out my cigarette butt. I immediately light up another, the match sparking blue in the darkness. I must consider that Catherine Bennett might not be home at all. Catherine Bennett might be on some grief-limned vacation. With her affinity for paying attention, her expertise at forethought, she’s surely bought that special device that I keep meaning to buy, the one that I really, really need, the device that allows lights to click on every night at the same time, a device that makes each and every burglar put finger pensively to chin and think, What light in yonder window breaks? Ah, it must be that the homeowner is inside. Alas, I shall try another house .
But why would I fear someone who merely wants to steal a TV when I am not in my house? So maybe that’s not the device I want at all; what I want is the opposite thing, a shield to blacken the house and make it appear that no one is home so that all the big guns—the rapists and killers—will leave me be and move on to a well-lit house of prey.
I circle the block so I can drive past Catherine Bennett’s house again, and if I were a person of substance or bravery I would certainly do something . I would perhaps get out of my car and rush the creepy toy soldier/nutcracker; I would fly into him and knock him on his faux-oak ass.
Instead I park on the street directly in front of Catherine Bennett’s house: Guess who’s here! Catherine Bennett, what light through yonder window breaks? Oh, that’s right, it’s me. In your words , a girl who will not need algebra if she’s just going to get married and have babies. But let’s say I’m not going to get married and have babies. In truth, Mrs. Bennett, I am not even dating anyone, so that’s not really on the horizon. Let’s also say , for the sake of argument, that I’m not going off to college, either. Let’s say that without my mother, without our doomed year in Europe, I am completely without a plan. Perhaps I should listen to your colleague Lisa Kaplansky and start applying for grants and loans and scholarships to study art or literature. I shall steer clear of mathematics, Mrs. Bennett! But really? I cannot envision myself living in a dorm with a roommate who drinks herself sick on keg beer every night—some random Caitlin or Anna so glad to be away from her parents’ prying eyes!
Hey, Catherine Bennett, do you think what the counselors say is true: that people without a plan are more likely to act upon their impulses? And the night rises up around me, harsh and black-velvet cold, as I smoke and look at Mrs.
Catherine Bennett lives in a cranberry-colored ranch house with a maple door and shutters. Though it’s the first week of January, there’s still a life-sized wooden toy soldier—or is it a fucking nutcracker?—with painted rose-pink cheeks, a modest smile and a tall black hat garlanded with green and red Christmas tinsel.
I think: Why would a woman so efficient and mathematical not have taken down her Christmas decorations?
The front is dark, though there is a lit window at the side of the house, a golden rectangle cheering the side yard. Still, as I drive on, inch by inch past her house, there is a pallor here that I recognize. Catherine Bennett’s house has the same doomed whose woods these are/I think I know vibe of my own house. I imagine that Catherine Bennett is in her bedroom. Catherine Bennett is watching a crime show. Maybe Catherine Bennett is dead. Perhaps she slipped on the shower floor and her body is decomposing, because of course there’s nobody to call the ambulance, the morgue, whatever. Of course there’s no one to help her, because she’s all alone, isn’t she?
I crack my window and throw out my cigarette butt. I immediately light up another, the match sparking blue in the darkness. I must consider that Catherine Bennett might not be home at all. Catherine Bennett might be on some grief-limned vacation. With her affinity for paying attention, her expertise at forethought, she’s surely bought that special device that I keep meaning to buy, the one that I really, really need, the device that allows lights to click on every night at the same time, a device that makes each and every burglar put finger pensively to chin and think, What light in yonder window breaks? Ah, it must be that the homeowner is inside. Alas, I shall try another house .
But why would I fear someone who merely wants to steal a TV when I am not in my house? So maybe that’s not the device I want at all; what I want is the opposite thing, a shield to blacken the house and make it appear that no one is home so that all the big guns—the rapists and killers—will leave me be and move on to a well-lit house of prey.
I circle the block so I can drive past Catherine Bennett’s house again, and if I were a person of substance or bravery I would certainly do something . I would perhaps get out of my car and rush the creepy toy soldier/nutcracker; I would fly into him and knock him on his faux-oak ass.
Instead I park on the street directly in front of Catherine Bennett’s house: Guess who’s here! Catherine Bennett, what light through yonder window breaks? Oh, that’s right, it’s me. In your words , a girl who will not need algebra if she’s just going to get married and have babies. But let’s say I’m not going to get married and have babies. In truth, Mrs. Bennett, I am not even dating anyone, so that’s not really on the horizon. Let’s also say , for the sake of argument, that I’m not going off to college, either. Let’s say that without my mother, without our doomed year in Europe, I am completely without a plan. Perhaps I should listen to your colleague Lisa Kaplansky and start applying for grants and loans and scholarships to study art or literature. I shall steer clear of mathematics, Mrs. Bennett! But really? I cannot envision myself living in a dorm with a roommate who drinks herself sick on keg beer every night—some random Caitlin or Anna so glad to be away from her parents’ prying eyes!
Hey, Catherine Bennett, do you think what the counselors say is true: that people without a plan are more likely to act upon their impulses? And the night rises up around me, harsh and black-velvet cold, as I smoke and look at Mrs.
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