She was on the toilet and the baby dropped out of her down there, still alive, a puny blue baby that could do the dog-paddle. Eventually it sunk but not before holding up one tiny finger, then two fingers, then—last chance—three fingers. When Marcy was sure that it had drowned she fished it out of the bowl and put it in a Pez dispenser for burial.
Her father is still up, listening to his “Mister Sandman” record. “Please turn on your magic beam,” Marcy softly sings along to quell an unnameable fear. “Bring me a, bring me a, bring me a—“ she sings where the record always sticks. She sits on the toilet for half an hour, in the dark. Finally she gets off and switches on the light to assure herself of her flat stomach. There is blue lint in her navel. Knowing it is only lint, she nevertheless picks it out and saves it to bury.
That following day, just when it doesn’t matter any more, she meets a Dug. He reminds her of her dream poodle, his tight, curly blond hair and brown, snappy eyes.
She
doesn’t make fun of his baggy Bermuda shorts. When the teacher says, “This is Doug Green all the way from London, England,” if he had been a poodle, Marcy would have held her flat palm under his nose and said, “Good boy.” She would like to bite his chubby legs.
At recess, intending flattery and consolation, she tells him he has ruby-red lips. He is alone beside the Elmer the SafetyElephant flagpole. He says, “Don’t talk rubbish,” and proceeds to do a series of hectic, crab-like cartwheels. The kind of cartwheels they do in England, she supposes. She tells him she has a crown at her house (the
Queen for a Day
crown, although Marcy has been led to believe it’s her mother’s lost prom-queen crown, only recently discovered in the attic). She brags that her father once mailed the Queen of England six books and that the Queen phoned him to say thank you. (This is a dream, not a memory, induced by her belief that the words “Send her victorious” are actually “Send her six storybooks.”)
The boy says, “Watch this,” and stands on his head. His shorts riding up produce in her the sentiment that her field of prospective husbands is narrowing.
On the way home from school he runs up behind her and says, “You better watch out or I’ll kiss you,” then keeps running. She stands still as white flowers open in her head. Boys gallop by her, all of them wearing Davy Crockett coonskin hats, the first such hats she has seen not on TV, herds of boys with tails on their heads. She has to go to the bathroom. She crouches behind a cedar hedge, and while she is peeing remembers the Pez container in her pencil case. Next to where she has peed she digs a hole with a sharp stone and buries her baby, finishing up with the singing of “What Can Little Hands Do to Please the King of Heaven?”
By the time she arrives home Jeanie is already there, watching
Secret Storm.
Jeanie declines a bath, so Marcy brushes her hair instead. Almost in a trance Marcy runs the brush and her hand over Jeanie’s hair until Jeanie grunts and rolls onto her back. Marcy falls off her but climbs on again, astride her stomach. They look at each other, Marcy revelling in Jeanie’s eyes. She has heard her father refer to Jeanie’s eyes as beady, and she believes this to mean like jewels, sparkling.
“You know what?” Marcy says. Her throat aches. Her chest aches with a kind of bursting.
“What?” Jeanie says.
Marcy is suddenly inspired. “You better watch out!”
“Or what?” Jeanie asks in a sarcastic voice.
“Or
I’ll kiss you!” Marcy cries to her own enthralled disbelief.
Jeanie tries to heave her off, but Marcy drops forward and clings with her wiry arms and legs. “Jeanie!” she cries, earnest now, her entire body chiming with joyful noise. “I love you so much!”
Six
T o the four of them baby Joan was what the new car was until Gordon smashed it into a tree. They often stood together in a group and just looked
Her father is still up, listening to his “Mister Sandman” record. “Please turn on your magic beam,” Marcy softly sings along to quell an unnameable fear. “Bring me a, bring me a, bring me a—“ she sings where the record always sticks. She sits on the toilet for half an hour, in the dark. Finally she gets off and switches on the light to assure herself of her flat stomach. There is blue lint in her navel. Knowing it is only lint, she nevertheless picks it out and saves it to bury.
That following day, just when it doesn’t matter any more, she meets a Dug. He reminds her of her dream poodle, his tight, curly blond hair and brown, snappy eyes.
She
doesn’t make fun of his baggy Bermuda shorts. When the teacher says, “This is Doug Green all the way from London, England,” if he had been a poodle, Marcy would have held her flat palm under his nose and said, “Good boy.” She would like to bite his chubby legs.
At recess, intending flattery and consolation, she tells him he has ruby-red lips. He is alone beside the Elmer the SafetyElephant flagpole. He says, “Don’t talk rubbish,” and proceeds to do a series of hectic, crab-like cartwheels. The kind of cartwheels they do in England, she supposes. She tells him she has a crown at her house (the
Queen for a Day
crown, although Marcy has been led to believe it’s her mother’s lost prom-queen crown, only recently discovered in the attic). She brags that her father once mailed the Queen of England six books and that the Queen phoned him to say thank you. (This is a dream, not a memory, induced by her belief that the words “Send her victorious” are actually “Send her six storybooks.”)
The boy says, “Watch this,” and stands on his head. His shorts riding up produce in her the sentiment that her field of prospective husbands is narrowing.
On the way home from school he runs up behind her and says, “You better watch out or I’ll kiss you,” then keeps running. She stands still as white flowers open in her head. Boys gallop by her, all of them wearing Davy Crockett coonskin hats, the first such hats she has seen not on TV, herds of boys with tails on their heads. She has to go to the bathroom. She crouches behind a cedar hedge, and while she is peeing remembers the Pez container in her pencil case. Next to where she has peed she digs a hole with a sharp stone and buries her baby, finishing up with the singing of “What Can Little Hands Do to Please the King of Heaven?”
By the time she arrives home Jeanie is already there, watching
Secret Storm.
Jeanie declines a bath, so Marcy brushes her hair instead. Almost in a trance Marcy runs the brush and her hand over Jeanie’s hair until Jeanie grunts and rolls onto her back. Marcy falls off her but climbs on again, astride her stomach. They look at each other, Marcy revelling in Jeanie’s eyes. She has heard her father refer to Jeanie’s eyes as beady, and she believes this to mean like jewels, sparkling.
“You know what?” Marcy says. Her throat aches. Her chest aches with a kind of bursting.
“What?” Jeanie says.
Marcy is suddenly inspired. “You better watch out!”
“Or what?” Jeanie asks in a sarcastic voice.
“Or
I’ll kiss you!” Marcy cries to her own enthralled disbelief.
Jeanie tries to heave her off, but Marcy drops forward and clings with her wiry arms and legs. “Jeanie!” she cries, earnest now, her entire body chiming with joyful noise. “I love you so much!”
Six
T o the four of them baby Joan was what the new car was until Gordon smashed it into a tree. They often stood together in a group and just looked
Similar Books
