the connection won’t be very good and it will sound like “Hold your breath for me,” and I’ll say “You’re out of your mind, baby doll,” and hang up with a crash.
There is a lull in our yard sale. I go inside and bring out beers, pouring one into a dish for Magdalena. “Well,” says Gerard, leaning back in his lawn chair, exploding open a can and eyeing the birches. “No one’s gone for the lavender teddy yet, Eleanor. Maybe they think it’s stained.”
“Well, you know, it’s not really a whole stain,” Eleanor explains. “It’s just the outline of a stain—it’s faded in the middle already. Bruises fade like that, too. After a few more washings the whole thing’ll be gone.”
Gerard blinks in mock seriousness. I gulp at my beer like a panicked woman. Gerard and Eleanor count their money, rolling it and unrolling it, making cylindrical silver towers. It’s two against one. People stroll by, some stop and browse, others keep on going. Others say they’ll come back. “People are always sayingthey’ll come back, and then they never do,” I say. Both Eleanor and Gerard look quickly up at me from their money cups, as if I have somehow accused them, one against two. “Just noticing,” I say, and they return to their money.
A very beautiful black-haired woman in a denim jumper walks by, and, noticing our sale, stops in to poke and rearrange the merchandise. She is tan and strikingly gray-eyed and all those things that are so obviously lovely you really have to give her demerits for lack of subtlety. “Oh, is the dog for sale?” She laughs rather noisily at Magdalena, and Gerard laughs noisily back (to be polite, he’ll explain later), though Eleanor and I don’t laugh; he is closer to her age than we are.
“No, the dog’s not for sale,” says Eleanor, recrossing her legs. “But you know, you’re the very first person to ask that question.”
“Am I?” says the beautiful woman. The problem with a beautiful woman is that she makes everyone around her feel hopelessly masculine, which if you’re already male to begin with poses no particular problem. But if you’re anyone else, your whole sexual identity gets dragged into the principal’s office: “So what’s this I hear about you prancing around, masquerading as a woman?” You are answerless. You are sitting on your hands. You are praying for your breasts to grow, your hair to perk up.
“A clunker,” whispers Eleanor, noticing Gerard. “Get yourself a clunker.”
I’ll probably watch a lot of TV specials: Sammy Davis singing “For Once in My Life,” Tony Bennett singing “For Once in My Life,” everybody singing “For Once in My Life.”
“Can I interest you in a Liz Claiborne?” says Eleanor, pulling down the black skirt from the tree. “I don’t know much about designer clothes, but supposedly Liz Claiborne is good stuff.”
The beautiful raven-haired woman in the denim jumper smiles only slightly. “It’s okay except for the lint,” she says, gingerly lifting the hem of the skirt, then dropping it again. Eleanor shrugs and puts the skirt back up in the tree. “No one knows anything about
character
anymore,” she sighs, and lurches back toward the tables where she piles up old complimentary airlines magazines and back issues of
People
and
Canadian Skater
.
“Just this, then, I guess,” says the woman, and she hands Gerard a dollar for a record album. I look quickly and see that it’s a Louis Armstrong record I gave him last Christmas. When the woman has left, I say, “So what’s this, you’re selling gifts? I gave you that record last Christmas and now it’s in our yard sale?”
Gerard blushes. I’ve made him feel bad and I’m not sure whether I intended it. After all,
I
have sold the wine decanter my brother gave me last year, his foot jiggling, his entire impossible life printed on his face like a coin.
“I’ve got it on tape,” Gerard says. “I’ve got the Louis Armstrong on tape.”
I
There is a lull in our yard sale. I go inside and bring out beers, pouring one into a dish for Magdalena. “Well,” says Gerard, leaning back in his lawn chair, exploding open a can and eyeing the birches. “No one’s gone for the lavender teddy yet, Eleanor. Maybe they think it’s stained.”
“Well, you know, it’s not really a whole stain,” Eleanor explains. “It’s just the outline of a stain—it’s faded in the middle already. Bruises fade like that, too. After a few more washings the whole thing’ll be gone.”
Gerard blinks in mock seriousness. I gulp at my beer like a panicked woman. Gerard and Eleanor count their money, rolling it and unrolling it, making cylindrical silver towers. It’s two against one. People stroll by, some stop and browse, others keep on going. Others say they’ll come back. “People are always sayingthey’ll come back, and then they never do,” I say. Both Eleanor and Gerard look quickly up at me from their money cups, as if I have somehow accused them, one against two. “Just noticing,” I say, and they return to their money.
A very beautiful black-haired woman in a denim jumper walks by, and, noticing our sale, stops in to poke and rearrange the merchandise. She is tan and strikingly gray-eyed and all those things that are so obviously lovely you really have to give her demerits for lack of subtlety. “Oh, is the dog for sale?” She laughs rather noisily at Magdalena, and Gerard laughs noisily back (to be polite, he’ll explain later), though Eleanor and I don’t laugh; he is closer to her age than we are.
“No, the dog’s not for sale,” says Eleanor, recrossing her legs. “But you know, you’re the very first person to ask that question.”
“Am I?” says the beautiful woman. The problem with a beautiful woman is that she makes everyone around her feel hopelessly masculine, which if you’re already male to begin with poses no particular problem. But if you’re anyone else, your whole sexual identity gets dragged into the principal’s office: “So what’s this I hear about you prancing around, masquerading as a woman?” You are answerless. You are sitting on your hands. You are praying for your breasts to grow, your hair to perk up.
“A clunker,” whispers Eleanor, noticing Gerard. “Get yourself a clunker.”
I’ll probably watch a lot of TV specials: Sammy Davis singing “For Once in My Life,” Tony Bennett singing “For Once in My Life,” everybody singing “For Once in My Life.”
“Can I interest you in a Liz Claiborne?” says Eleanor, pulling down the black skirt from the tree. “I don’t know much about designer clothes, but supposedly Liz Claiborne is good stuff.”
The beautiful raven-haired woman in the denim jumper smiles only slightly. “It’s okay except for the lint,” she says, gingerly lifting the hem of the skirt, then dropping it again. Eleanor shrugs and puts the skirt back up in the tree. “No one knows anything about
character
anymore,” she sighs, and lurches back toward the tables where she piles up old complimentary airlines magazines and back issues of
People
and
Canadian Skater
.
“Just this, then, I guess,” says the woman, and she hands Gerard a dollar for a record album. I look quickly and see that it’s a Louis Armstrong record I gave him last Christmas. When the woman has left, I say, “So what’s this, you’re selling gifts? I gave you that record last Christmas and now it’s in our yard sale?”
Gerard blushes. I’ve made him feel bad and I’m not sure whether I intended it. After all,
I
have sold the wine decanter my brother gave me last year, his foot jiggling, his entire impossible life printed on his face like a coin.
“I’ve got it on tape,” Gerard says. “I’ve got the Louis Armstrong on tape.”
I
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