Pulling Home by Mary Campisi Page A

cotton print housedress covering her ample shape to just below the knees, white sneakers on her bunion feet.
    Corrine never went with them, never even offered to drive them in her Chevy
    Nova. She was always sleeping at 9:00 a.m.—when she was there. Most times her bed was still empty when they left for St. Peter’s and when she did show up, usually close to lunchtime, her clothes were wrinkled, her white-blond hair a giant tangle, her dark eyes smudged with mascara. Hi, Baby , she’d say, rushing to Audra and giving her a peck on the cheek, barely touching, and a half hug, ignoring Grandma Lenore’s tight-lipped stare.
    The staleness which clung to Corrine on these mornings still lingered after all these years
    —Emeraude, Virginia Slims, and alcohol.
    Grandma Lenore tried to compensate for her daughter’s lacking by reading Audra
    stories from the Bible and teaching her about respecting oneself, honoring one’s word, and keeping the Ten Commandments. Her voice was quiet and tired, but steadfast as she recited her beliefs with her tight gray bun and stooped shoulders, her arthritic fingers kneading bread or pushing a needle slowly through a ripped hem on Audra’s skirt as she spoke.
    Sadly, there was nothing she could do for her own daughter. The old neighbor
    ladies, Mrs. Gloodinski and Mrs. Rooney threw names at Corrine like loose, wild, embarrassing, and immoral. The other secretaries at Cummings Communication, where Corrine worked for Mr. George Cummings as his personal secretary, called her slut and whore , words Audra looked up in the dictionary one night after she heard Grandma Lenore telling Corrine about the phone call she received from Mr. Cummings’s wife. The other mothers at Audra’s PTA meetings refused to acknowledge Corrine in her tight-knit dresses and overdone makeup. The fathers expressed more interest, their gazes sliding from her full red lips, working around the curves of snug fabric hugging her hips, inching to her tiny ankles and three-inch pumps. She liked it when men said she could be Marilyn Monroe’s sister and flashed each of them smiles, even Mr. Dandwood, who was bald and smelled bad. They smiled back and stared at her in a strange way that made Audra look down at her loafers. If the men’s wives were there, they grabbed their husband’s arms and dragged them away. If they weren’t, then the men, four, five, six of them, sidled up to Corrine, talking, laughing, forgetting all about their children’s report cards and papers.
    Every man loved Corrine Valentine, loved the way she looked, the way she smelled, the way she smiled.
    It wasn’t until years later, when Audra was just shy of fifteen that she realized no man really loved her mother, not enough anyway to keep her from destroying herself.
    When Stanley Osgooden came into Corrine’s life with his bow ties and starched white shirts, she said, This is the one . This is the one I’m going to marry. He was small built and quiet with pale gray eyes and a soft voice. He’s wonderful. I’m going to get you a Daddy, Audra . Her mother had been so filled with excitement and hope. Her makeup became more subdued, the Emeraude less intense, the nails a light shade of pink.
    Grandma Lenore said nothing, just prayed the rosary and left the room when
    Corrine started talking about Stanley. Audra began to believe maybe Mr. Osgooden was the one. Finally , finally , she’d have a normal life. A mother and a father.
    One night, three months after they met, Stanley Osgooden made reservations at
    The Elderberry Den, a fancy restaurant that served surf and turf and prime rib . I know it’s kinda soon, but I just know he’s going to propose tonight, Corrine told Audra as she fluffed up the back part of her blond hair with a teasing comb and slipped into black pumps. I just know it. She hugged her and whispered , You’re gonna have a daddy, sweetheart.
    But Stanley Osgooden hadn’t been thinking of a proposal, at least, not the kind
    Corrine