Golden States by Michael Cunningham

other—her neck was thin, with three deep creases and a pair of cords at the base that moved when she spoke; her forehead rose high above her dark brows, as white and placid as her throat was nervous. Her eyes watched with amusement from pockets of brown-lavender skin that turned, like the colors of a shell, to the pale cream of her cheekbones. She and David looked something alike. There was no way she could not be pretty.
    “You are,” he told her. He’d meant to say, You are pretty, but the word embarrassed him.
    “Thanks,” she said. “I’m pretty to you. That’s nice.”
    A silence caught, and held. A minute passed.
    “Do you want to go to the movies with me after school tomorrow?” David asked.
    “No, I don’t think so. Thanks. I think I’ll just stay around the house.”
    “Okay. Can’t I have just one drag of your cigarette?”
    ‘Wo,” she laughed, and ground the cigarette out in the ashtray. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”
    “It’s late.”
    “I know. That’s the best time.”
    “Can I go with you?”
    “No. It’s a school night. You’d better go back to bed.”
    “Well. Okay. See you in the morning.”
    “Right. Sleep tight.”
    “Good night.”
    David left the room and went to the top of the stairs, where he sat down and waited for Janet to leave. This time he would follow her. He rested his forehead against the wrought-iron post, which was twisted like a birthday candle. The stairs dropped away beneath him; the house was built over an abandoned mine shaft. He saved himself by clinging to the banister,holding tight while the carpeted treads, still linked, dropped soundlessly into the pit.
    This was where Dad had stood, enormous in a bathrobe, one side of which hung open to reveal the whole hairy length of his leg. The ends of the drawstring had hung down below his knees. Janet, who would have been much younger but who had always looked the same to David, had been going out and Dad had hollered to her that she wasn’t going anywhere, she was going to stay home and stop slutting around. She’d said, Oh, fine, I’ll stay here and slut around with you, and in David’s memory Dad had jumped down the whole staircase, one big leap, robe flapping. Janet got the door half open and she and Dad were fighting or hugging in the doorway, there was no telling which. He could picture Janet biting Dad on the lip. A trickle of blood ran down Dad’s chin and spotted his bathrobe. Dad had screamed like a woman. This was either just before or just after David was knocked down the stairs. He could not remember which. He could remember that Janet’s purse had had fringe that flew in rhythm with her hair as she ran across the lawn, and that a silver car had been waiting for her out in the street.
    It was some time around then that she had decided to be a doctor. During the divorce it was all she and Mom had talked about. They’d sent away for college catalogues, Mom insisting on Janet’s applying to Berkeley because it was farther away than UCLA. Dad had started pulling up in front of the house at night and sitting there, silent, in his car. Everybody had pictured Janet in a white coat with a syringe, living up north, searching for cures.
    David heard her get up with a tired sigh. He lifted his head eagerly to listen. A short silence. Then he heard her walk through the kitchen and go out the back door instead of the front.
    He went to his room and looked out the window. Janet had gone to the edge of the pool and was standing with her backto the house, her head bent, looking into the water. The reflection of a streetlight, a false moon, rode skittishly on the surface. She unbuttoned her shirt and shrugged it off. As it fell it disappeared into the dark concrete. Her skin was so white it glowed. She pulled down her jeans and stepped out of them, balancing on one foot and then the other. Her panties were a brilliant white triangle that turned her skin suddenly to ivory. She swung her arms up over her