dark, tilting off the side of the road like a lame man. When we reached it, Jake opened the door and snaked an arm inside to turn the lights on. The headlights flared up, but the ceiling light wavered and died. “Why!” I said (for up till now I hadn’t taken a really good look). “Why, what
is
this?”
“Huh?” said Jake. He set the can down and unscrewed the cap of the gas tank.
“Why, it’s a—some kind of
antique,” I
said.
“Sure. Fifty-three, would be my guess.”
“But—” I said. I stepped back, peering at the toothy grille, the separate bumper like a child’s orthodontic appliance. The long, bulbous body was streaked with chrome in unexpected places. Over the headlights there were visors as coy as eyelashes, and the lights themselves had a peculiar color, I thought—dull orange, and cloudy. “It’ll stick out a mile!” I said. “Everyone will notice. It will catch people’s eyes like … for goodness sake,” I said.
Gas burbled into the tank, on and on.
“This is just plain stupid,” I said.
The can landed far away, in bushes or branches or something crackly. “Get in,” Jake told me.
I got in. He climbed in after me and slammed the door. The motor started up with a cough, and when we pulled onto the road we bounced and swayed on our squeaky springs. I let my head loll back against the seat and closed my eyes.
“Well, there’s one thing,” I heard Jake say. “You’re shed of that Frankenstein husband at least and that cruddy flowered sofa. Shed of that spooky little old lamp with the beads hanging off it. Oh, you couldn’t keep
me
shut in no boring house. Ought to be glad you’re out of it. Any day now, you’re going to be thanking me. Is how I look at it.”
But that’s the only lamp we have, I wanted to say. I’ve given the others away. I’ve given the rugs away too and the curtains and most of the furniture. How much more can I get rid of? My head was growing heavy, though, and my eyes wouldn’t open. I fell asleep.
6
I dreamed about my husband, but he was younger and lacked those two vertical hollows in his cheeks. He had on a crewneck sweater I’d forgotten he ever owned. His trousers were khaki, like the Army pants he wore while we were dating. The sight of him made me sad.
My husband was the boy next door, but to tell the truth we didn’t grow up together. He was several years older than I was—old enough to make a difference, back in school. When I was in eighth grade he was a senior, one of the Emory boys, long-boned and lazy, up to no good. Anyone could tell you who Saul Emory was. While I was just getting my bearings, in those days. I still looked like a child. I’d been systematically starving myself ever since I’d discovered my breasts (two little pillows of fat, like my mother’s chins), and you could see the blue veins in my temples and the finest details of articulation inmy wrists and knees and elbows. I had a posture problem and no one could figure out what to do with my hair.
Saul Emory graduated and went away, and I moved on through the years until I was a senior myself, and secretary of the student body and first runner-up for Homecoming Queen. I had come into my own, by then. I deserved to; I worked so hard at it. The one thing I wanted most of all was for people to think that I was normal.
Through an enormous effort of will, I became known as the most vivacious girl in the senior class. Also best-groomed, with my Desert Flower cologne and my noose of Poppit pearls, and my Paint the Town Pink lipstick refreshed in the restroom hourly with a feathery little brush like the ones the models used. I had a few boyfriends, though nobody serious. And girlfriends too; we rolled each other’s hair up at I don’t know how many slumber parties. I never gave a slumber party myself, of course. No one ever asked me why not.
I would stay after school for sorority meetings, Honor Society, Prom Committee, cheerleading … but those things can only
is
this?”
“Huh?” said Jake. He set the can down and unscrewed the cap of the gas tank.
“Why, it’s a—some kind of
antique,” I
said.
“Sure. Fifty-three, would be my guess.”
“But—” I said. I stepped back, peering at the toothy grille, the separate bumper like a child’s orthodontic appliance. The long, bulbous body was streaked with chrome in unexpected places. Over the headlights there were visors as coy as eyelashes, and the lights themselves had a peculiar color, I thought—dull orange, and cloudy. “It’ll stick out a mile!” I said. “Everyone will notice. It will catch people’s eyes like … for goodness sake,” I said.
Gas burbled into the tank, on and on.
“This is just plain stupid,” I said.
The can landed far away, in bushes or branches or something crackly. “Get in,” Jake told me.
I got in. He climbed in after me and slammed the door. The motor started up with a cough, and when we pulled onto the road we bounced and swayed on our squeaky springs. I let my head loll back against the seat and closed my eyes.
“Well, there’s one thing,” I heard Jake say. “You’re shed of that Frankenstein husband at least and that cruddy flowered sofa. Shed of that spooky little old lamp with the beads hanging off it. Oh, you couldn’t keep
me
shut in no boring house. Ought to be glad you’re out of it. Any day now, you’re going to be thanking me. Is how I look at it.”
But that’s the only lamp we have, I wanted to say. I’ve given the others away. I’ve given the rugs away too and the curtains and most of the furniture. How much more can I get rid of? My head was growing heavy, though, and my eyes wouldn’t open. I fell asleep.
6
I dreamed about my husband, but he was younger and lacked those two vertical hollows in his cheeks. He had on a crewneck sweater I’d forgotten he ever owned. His trousers were khaki, like the Army pants he wore while we were dating. The sight of him made me sad.
My husband was the boy next door, but to tell the truth we didn’t grow up together. He was several years older than I was—old enough to make a difference, back in school. When I was in eighth grade he was a senior, one of the Emory boys, long-boned and lazy, up to no good. Anyone could tell you who Saul Emory was. While I was just getting my bearings, in those days. I still looked like a child. I’d been systematically starving myself ever since I’d discovered my breasts (two little pillows of fat, like my mother’s chins), and you could see the blue veins in my temples and the finest details of articulation inmy wrists and knees and elbows. I had a posture problem and no one could figure out what to do with my hair.
Saul Emory graduated and went away, and I moved on through the years until I was a senior myself, and secretary of the student body and first runner-up for Homecoming Queen. I had come into my own, by then. I deserved to; I worked so hard at it. The one thing I wanted most of all was for people to think that I was normal.
Through an enormous effort of will, I became known as the most vivacious girl in the senior class. Also best-groomed, with my Desert Flower cologne and my noose of Poppit pearls, and my Paint the Town Pink lipstick refreshed in the restroom hourly with a feathery little brush like the ones the models used. I had a few boyfriends, though nobody serious. And girlfriends too; we rolled each other’s hair up at I don’t know how many slumber parties. I never gave a slumber party myself, of course. No one ever asked me why not.
I would stay after school for sorority meetings, Honor Society, Prom Committee, cheerleading … but those things can only
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