bready flesh and below, somehow, the shuddering forgetting of the ratatat-tat . Mary, Ethel, Rita, Rose, Lizzie, Catherine, Betty, Angie, Kate, Amelia, Amanda, Abigail, Mabel, Isabel, Izzy, Grace. All of them, all of them colliding into one flickering late-night clamoring bliss. And then, the next day, another.
Shipping back to the States, back home to Muskegon, recovered, heâd stop over in New York, just for a few days, to celebrate. Knowing, too, that in New York, there would be more of this, more girl frenzy, more girl medicine.
And walking into Clark Monroeâs Uptown House, he had every intention of a blonde, brunette, redheaded girl marathon, until he saw across the bar a raven-haired girl who didnât give a fuck about him.
A girl named Dotsy.
TEN
W hooping cough. Pertussis. Three months old. Twelve weeks in this world and there they were, racing through each light, red lights even, to get to Mercy General Hospital before paroxysm, seizure, death.
Elizabeth Lynn Krause, an infant, not gonna make it. Thatâs not what they said, but you could tell, thatâs what they were thinking. A newborn nose crusted over in snot, that flek flek flek, hoop hoop hoop , over and over.
The nurse had practically grabbed the baby and thrown her in the Mercy General ER herself. Tubes and pipes, pipes and tubes, a pipe in her mouth, to clear the lungs, a tube down her throat. Breathe, baby, breathe. Lord above, clear out this gunk, do not slaughter this innocent.
And Dotsy, after all sheâd been though. The nine months of waddling, the conked-out childbirth, the breast to babyâs lips.
The truth of the matter is, before the nine months, Dotsyâd always been what they liked to call ânervous.â Frantic. Terrified. Misfiring. A brain full of turning gears and pistons, backfiring, broken, sped up somehow. Her brain a constant tumbling, a careening landscape, a frenzied paralysis of fear, terror, hysteria,pointed, sparked by . . . nothing. A panic dread. A blank canvas urgency to do . . . what?
That was what the drink was for. The stiff cocktail was to quell the panic. Calm down! Stay still! Stop spinning! It was only the firewater remedy that put this riveting panic brain to rest. Shut it off. Please someone put a wrench in the gears. And the vodka was the wrench. And the gin. And the whiskey. For others, a pleasure. For her, medicine. Panic killer. Brain freeze.
But the nine months had shifted the startle gears, too, somehow. The pulsing, rushed, stubborn hormones had taken over Dotsy and set her down to rest each night. Youâre okay. Youâre okay now. Sleep.
The storm had subsided. Nine months of serene, tranquil waters. Yes, she knew it was the hormones, of course. But knowing didnât break the spell. Basal nature. Stubborn, willful, unrelenting.
And when the baby arrived, the breast to her mouth, the neurotransmitters, hormones, had flooded the waters again. Oxytocin. Love drug. Love your baby. You will never stop. You will protect this crying, goopy thing with your life. You never knew, did you? Well, Dotsy, this is it.
And the nursing, again, a drug of calm, serenity, tide. A body drug of peace, an armor of ardor. A shield. You are happy. You are happy now. All is passed. Everything is as it should be.
And Dotsy knowing, knowing it was a trick, an ambush, releasing halcyon into the blood. But again, knowing was irrelevant, superfluous, laughable even. Knowing didnât change it. Unrelenting nature. Miracle bodies.
And how Dotsy had hated her body, too, all those years before. What is this thing? What is this thing I have to go around in? What is this thing bleeding and bubbling and burbling? This secret thing, I canât tell anyone. She hated this thing. Didnât everyone? Wasnât that the point of being a girl? To hate this flesh that bleeds, this bread body, this too-vulnerable carousel, this danger-part below. This place where theyâll get you.
A body
Shipping back to the States, back home to Muskegon, recovered, heâd stop over in New York, just for a few days, to celebrate. Knowing, too, that in New York, there would be more of this, more girl frenzy, more girl medicine.
And walking into Clark Monroeâs Uptown House, he had every intention of a blonde, brunette, redheaded girl marathon, until he saw across the bar a raven-haired girl who didnât give a fuck about him.
A girl named Dotsy.
TEN
W hooping cough. Pertussis. Three months old. Twelve weeks in this world and there they were, racing through each light, red lights even, to get to Mercy General Hospital before paroxysm, seizure, death.
Elizabeth Lynn Krause, an infant, not gonna make it. Thatâs not what they said, but you could tell, thatâs what they were thinking. A newborn nose crusted over in snot, that flek flek flek, hoop hoop hoop , over and over.
The nurse had practically grabbed the baby and thrown her in the Mercy General ER herself. Tubes and pipes, pipes and tubes, a pipe in her mouth, to clear the lungs, a tube down her throat. Breathe, baby, breathe. Lord above, clear out this gunk, do not slaughter this innocent.
And Dotsy, after all sheâd been though. The nine months of waddling, the conked-out childbirth, the breast to babyâs lips.
The truth of the matter is, before the nine months, Dotsyâd always been what they liked to call ânervous.â Frantic. Terrified. Misfiring. A brain full of turning gears and pistons, backfiring, broken, sped up somehow. Her brain a constant tumbling, a careening landscape, a frenzied paralysis of fear, terror, hysteria,pointed, sparked by . . . nothing. A panic dread. A blank canvas urgency to do . . . what?
That was what the drink was for. The stiff cocktail was to quell the panic. Calm down! Stay still! Stop spinning! It was only the firewater remedy that put this riveting panic brain to rest. Shut it off. Please someone put a wrench in the gears. And the vodka was the wrench. And the gin. And the whiskey. For others, a pleasure. For her, medicine. Panic killer. Brain freeze.
But the nine months had shifted the startle gears, too, somehow. The pulsing, rushed, stubborn hormones had taken over Dotsy and set her down to rest each night. Youâre okay. Youâre okay now. Sleep.
The storm had subsided. Nine months of serene, tranquil waters. Yes, she knew it was the hormones, of course. But knowing didnât break the spell. Basal nature. Stubborn, willful, unrelenting.
And when the baby arrived, the breast to her mouth, the neurotransmitters, hormones, had flooded the waters again. Oxytocin. Love drug. Love your baby. You will never stop. You will protect this crying, goopy thing with your life. You never knew, did you? Well, Dotsy, this is it.
And the nursing, again, a drug of calm, serenity, tide. A body drug of peace, an armor of ardor. A shield. You are happy. You are happy now. All is passed. Everything is as it should be.
And Dotsy knowing, knowing it was a trick, an ambush, releasing halcyon into the blood. But again, knowing was irrelevant, superfluous, laughable even. Knowing didnât change it. Unrelenting nature. Miracle bodies.
And how Dotsy had hated her body, too, all those years before. What is this thing? What is this thing I have to go around in? What is this thing bleeding and bubbling and burbling? This secret thing, I canât tell anyone. She hated this thing. Didnât everyone? Wasnât that the point of being a girl? To hate this flesh that bleeds, this bread body, this too-vulnerable carousel, this danger-part below. This place where theyâll get you.
A body
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