with her mother, though she had three sisters, all much older, all living in their own houses with their own dishwashers, lists of emergency phone numbers, and husbands who had good jobs, good values and well-shaped eyebrows. This family had been symmetrical, a family of plans and lists and decisions made years in advance into which Hazel was a very late, very surprising accident followed almost immediately by her father’s diagnosis. While Mother grew fatter, Father grew smaller, and everyone felt certain that they were watching a direct transfer of life from one body to another.
The two of them were never in the world together—by the time Hazel entered, her father had already closed the door behind him. Her mother was still wearing black in the delivery room, surrounded by a ring of grieving daughters. The final shock came when the baby was a not a boy but a girl, looking nothing like the man she was meant to replace.
“How was your afternoon?” Hazel’s mother asked.
“Fine,” Hazel said, considering if this was a true answer and deciding it was. “Yours?”
“Just the usual disasters. The club has the red, white and blue flowers ordered in time for the Fourth, and what is the city out there planting in every median? Marigolds.”
Hazel did not tell her mother that she had had sex with a convenience-store clerk and that it was disappointing but harmless—she felt no ache to see the boy again, no real change in her own body, no broken heart. She had done this grown-up thing, yet she knew her mother would find her even more childish for it.
• • •
HAZEL WALKED the northern quadrant of town and, since it was a Saturday, there were a lot of folks out in their yards trimming bushes and pulling dandelions out of the ground with flowered-canvas hands. The day after that, it was the same thing, only the western quadrant, where she watched the first few innings of a family softball game and petted some dogs in the dog park. She walked past a flower shop where the dyed-blue carnations were the best thing going. She walked through the church parking lot. Father O’Donnel’s Honda was the only car there. She peeked into the backseat: an open gym bag, one ratty gray running shoe out, one in.
“Hi,” someone said roughly. Hazel turned around fast. It was a tall man and big, too. He had a fat face and a comb-over; his shirt buttons were barely holding. He was close.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” he said again. She edged to her right, her back pressed up against the car.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“No. Thanks.” Hazel tried to smile.
“Oh. I’d like to talk to you.”
“I have to go.”
“Actually, you have to stay.” He put his hand on her arm, but didn’t grab hard. She didn’t say anything, wanted to play it smart. “Look,” he said, “don’t scream. I won’t hurt you if you don’t scream.” Hazel did not scream. Later she thought she might have been better off if she had. But at that moment everything was underwater and she was underwater and there was a strong current pulling her deeper.
The big-faced man took her hand, almost gently. His round fingers interlaced with her skinny ones. Her heart took over her entire body. She was a drum. Did she ask the obvious questions?
Why am I walking? Why am I not drinking a Shirley Temple and adjusting my bikini top over and over at the country-club pool like all the other girls? Why did I agree to grow up?
Her body asked the questions for her, that terrified, slamming heart spoke them so loud that she could not breathe fast enough to fuel it, but the drumbeat was empty of answers. They walked behind the church, under the dark of the steeple-shaped shadow and into the maples covered in the new green of summer leaves. The man stopped walking and smiled at her.
“I just want to have some sex with you,” he said. “I won’t hurt you if you have some sex with me.” She was barely breathing, the trees were barely breathing,
The two of them were never in the world together—by the time Hazel entered, her father had already closed the door behind him. Her mother was still wearing black in the delivery room, surrounded by a ring of grieving daughters. The final shock came when the baby was a not a boy but a girl, looking nothing like the man she was meant to replace.
“How was your afternoon?” Hazel’s mother asked.
“Fine,” Hazel said, considering if this was a true answer and deciding it was. “Yours?”
“Just the usual disasters. The club has the red, white and blue flowers ordered in time for the Fourth, and what is the city out there planting in every median? Marigolds.”
Hazel did not tell her mother that she had had sex with a convenience-store clerk and that it was disappointing but harmless—she felt no ache to see the boy again, no real change in her own body, no broken heart. She had done this grown-up thing, yet she knew her mother would find her even more childish for it.
• • •
HAZEL WALKED the northern quadrant of town and, since it was a Saturday, there were a lot of folks out in their yards trimming bushes and pulling dandelions out of the ground with flowered-canvas hands. The day after that, it was the same thing, only the western quadrant, where she watched the first few innings of a family softball game and petted some dogs in the dog park. She walked past a flower shop where the dyed-blue carnations were the best thing going. She walked through the church parking lot. Father O’Donnel’s Honda was the only car there. She peeked into the backseat: an open gym bag, one ratty gray running shoe out, one in.
“Hi,” someone said roughly. Hazel turned around fast. It was a tall man and big, too. He had a fat face and a comb-over; his shirt buttons were barely holding. He was close.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi,” he said again. She edged to her right, her back pressed up against the car.
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“No. Thanks.” Hazel tried to smile.
“Oh. I’d like to talk to you.”
“I have to go.”
“Actually, you have to stay.” He put his hand on her arm, but didn’t grab hard. She didn’t say anything, wanted to play it smart. “Look,” he said, “don’t scream. I won’t hurt you if you don’t scream.” Hazel did not scream. Later she thought she might have been better off if she had. But at that moment everything was underwater and she was underwater and there was a strong current pulling her deeper.
The big-faced man took her hand, almost gently. His round fingers interlaced with her skinny ones. Her heart took over her entire body. She was a drum. Did she ask the obvious questions?
Why am I walking? Why am I not drinking a Shirley Temple and adjusting my bikini top over and over at the country-club pool like all the other girls? Why did I agree to grow up?
Her body asked the questions for her, that terrified, slamming heart spoke them so loud that she could not breathe fast enough to fuel it, but the drumbeat was empty of answers. They walked behind the church, under the dark of the steeple-shaped shadow and into the maples covered in the new green of summer leaves. The man stopped walking and smiled at her.
“I just want to have some sex with you,” he said. “I won’t hurt you if you have some sex with me.” She was barely breathing, the trees were barely breathing,
Similar Books
