The angle of the gutters has protected them from a crush of snow. I imagine they get plonked with the occasional icicle. I crouch down—my cold gun at my knee—and see that they are the granite frog and toad from the Frog and Toad books. The soft light from the living room window illuminates their familiar faces: Toad is reading a small stone book; Frog holds one amphibious finger pensively to his lip.
Alecia, what kind of animal is a unicorn?
Alecia, where would a unicorn be found? A zoo? In the wild?
The air is shaded blue from the cold, my wild roaring breath in my ears and my mother’s voice in my head, her pseudo psychiatrist voice that annoyed me: Do not turn your depression inward. This is what women do. I’m not being sexist, Sandinista, it’s a statistical fact. When you’re sad, baby, man up .
I look in at Mrs. Bennett, a sad lumpen toad in a lavender sweat suit. She has the hard-glazed look of someone using TV like gin: a little something to take the edge off when she’s home by herself.
I take in a sharp breath that tingles my sore rib.
Alecia, hey, sleepyhead!
Something on TV makes Mrs. Bennett laugh out loud.
I pick up Toad and I take a few steps back and feel a little like Lady Liberty, like the things I am holding are equally weighted, gun in one hand, yard art inspired by children’s literature in the other. I step back, taking aim.
And there’s no deciding, of course I’m not going to … of course the gun is a prop. But if I did do it, everyone would understand. Surely my fellow students at Woodrow Wilson High School would remember Alecia’s face, first looking out the window with a dreamland expression, her world locked away, but then … A deep inhale and my teeth sting from the cold as I remember, as I try not to exhale, Mrs. Bennett tiptoeing behind her, splaying her fingers out next to her mouth before leaning down next to Alecia and yelling “Boo!” Alecia gripping the soft roll of her turtleneck sweater with both hands; Alecia letting out a hurt-bird “Whaaaaaat?”
With an awkward underhanded lob, I throw Toad at Catherine Bennett’s lit window.
I expect the sweetly lacquered crescendo of glass crashing on snow. But there is only a large thud, then a slow, sharp sound of a crack in the pane. I’m off and not turning back, the snow making my sprint quicksand slow, and then my heart slamming away as I slip-slide across the street to the safety of my car, the chilling second of Oh my God where are my keys , but there they are, right in the ignition, and I get into my car and drive out of Catherine Bennett’s subdivision with the calm assurance of a suburban mom, a firefighter, a beefy police officer.
As I’m exiting onto the interstate there is the satisfaction of the sirens in the distance, soft, swirling, pleading: A le cia, A le cia. A le cia …
I crank up the Clash all the way home, my adrenaline harnessed in perfect pitch. My gun is on the passenger seat and I am Sandinista Jones, motherfuckers, all the way home.
* * *
I let myself into my house quietly, and from the living room I can hear already Bradley snoring. He has slept through this little adventure. I have the feeling of the wife home from meeting the lover, sneaking in quietly next to my sweet cuckold of a husband: Night, honey! His snoring is loud as a French horn, it even has a golden brassy undertone; I look forward to the day I know him well enough to tease him about this.
I will myself not to sleep so I can enjoy all the scenarios racing though my mind, how Catherine Bennett might say: Officer, I was just sitting here watching TV, minding my own darn business, isn’t that the way, and then Toad sailed through the window, and I could have been killed if it hit me at just the right angle in my temple, and oh, Officer, please can you try to find my potential assailant, and please can you charge them with attempted homicide, and I bought Frog and Toad at a yard sale in 1990 and how will I ever find
Alecia, what kind of animal is a unicorn?
Alecia, where would a unicorn be found? A zoo? In the wild?
The air is shaded blue from the cold, my wild roaring breath in my ears and my mother’s voice in my head, her pseudo psychiatrist voice that annoyed me: Do not turn your depression inward. This is what women do. I’m not being sexist, Sandinista, it’s a statistical fact. When you’re sad, baby, man up .
I look in at Mrs. Bennett, a sad lumpen toad in a lavender sweat suit. She has the hard-glazed look of someone using TV like gin: a little something to take the edge off when she’s home by herself.
I take in a sharp breath that tingles my sore rib.
Alecia, hey, sleepyhead!
Something on TV makes Mrs. Bennett laugh out loud.
I pick up Toad and I take a few steps back and feel a little like Lady Liberty, like the things I am holding are equally weighted, gun in one hand, yard art inspired by children’s literature in the other. I step back, taking aim.
And there’s no deciding, of course I’m not going to … of course the gun is a prop. But if I did do it, everyone would understand. Surely my fellow students at Woodrow Wilson High School would remember Alecia’s face, first looking out the window with a dreamland expression, her world locked away, but then … A deep inhale and my teeth sting from the cold as I remember, as I try not to exhale, Mrs. Bennett tiptoeing behind her, splaying her fingers out next to her mouth before leaning down next to Alecia and yelling “Boo!” Alecia gripping the soft roll of her turtleneck sweater with both hands; Alecia letting out a hurt-bird “Whaaaaaat?”
With an awkward underhanded lob, I throw Toad at Catherine Bennett’s lit window.
I expect the sweetly lacquered crescendo of glass crashing on snow. But there is only a large thud, then a slow, sharp sound of a crack in the pane. I’m off and not turning back, the snow making my sprint quicksand slow, and then my heart slamming away as I slip-slide across the street to the safety of my car, the chilling second of Oh my God where are my keys , but there they are, right in the ignition, and I get into my car and drive out of Catherine Bennett’s subdivision with the calm assurance of a suburban mom, a firefighter, a beefy police officer.
As I’m exiting onto the interstate there is the satisfaction of the sirens in the distance, soft, swirling, pleading: A le cia, A le cia. A le cia …
I crank up the Clash all the way home, my adrenaline harnessed in perfect pitch. My gun is on the passenger seat and I am Sandinista Jones, motherfuckers, all the way home.
* * *
I let myself into my house quietly, and from the living room I can hear already Bradley snoring. He has slept through this little adventure. I have the feeling of the wife home from meeting the lover, sneaking in quietly next to my sweet cuckold of a husband: Night, honey! His snoring is loud as a French horn, it even has a golden brassy undertone; I look forward to the day I know him well enough to tease him about this.
I will myself not to sleep so I can enjoy all the scenarios racing though my mind, how Catherine Bennett might say: Officer, I was just sitting here watching TV, minding my own darn business, isn’t that the way, and then Toad sailed through the window, and I could have been killed if it hit me at just the right angle in my temple, and oh, Officer, please can you try to find my potential assailant, and please can you charge them with attempted homicide, and I bought Frog and Toad at a yard sale in 1990 and how will I ever find
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