takes her time. Tina’s weirding her out. The nightstand clock says they’ve been there four minutes. Surely they can stay another four. In the silence she can hear the clock whir. The cape hangs heavy from her shoulders; it is too hot for the apartment, but the weight feels terrific.
On a closet shelf she finds a stack of typed and handwritten letters rubber-banded in red. She takes it down and sets it aside on the bureau. “You don’t want that,” says Estelle, half rising. “It’s old, it’s junk—”
“I don’t always recognize people on TV, either,” says Tina. “Or at school. You think there’s something wrong with me?”
“Yes.” Rainey goes back to the hallway Pullman kitchen for a pair of shears.
“Well, then fuck you,” calls Tina.
“But there’s plenty of shit wrong with me, too,” says Rainey, walking back in with the scissors.
She snips buttons from Estelle’s blouses, lace and beadwork from a vintage sweater, ribbons from a nightgown. She puts these on the bureau with the letters. “In winter?” says Tina. “When you put a hat on? I’m not a hundred percent sure it’s you till you say something.” She takes a deep breath and locks it up somewhere for a while. “At least I always know my grandmother.” She smiles; it’s a private, knowing smile. Rainey could almost swear there’s pride in it.
She bites her lip. She prowls the room more aggressively. She finds two photo albums at the foot of the hearth and begins robbing them of photographs. “Not my father,” says Estelle, and starts to cry. “Not my grandmother.”
“Who is this?” Rainey holds up a square color photo of a woman pretending to vamp in a one-piece bathing suit. The woman’s smile is playful, as if she is somebody’s mother who would never really, actually vamp. Mothers interest Rainey: their presence, their absence, the way they react to the heat waves her body gives off near their husbands and sons.
“No one,” says Estelle.
Rainey adds it to the stack. Estelle makes a keening soundin her throat. Rainey, moving on, seizes two black journals from a nightstand drawer.
“Oh my God, no,” says Estelle, but then she looks at Tina and the gun and closes her eyes.
Rainey turns abruptly to face Tina. “Look,” she says, “if you ever don’t know who someone is, just ask me, okay?”
“Do you think I’m crazy?”
“Just ask me.”
“Are we okay?”
Rainey sighs like of course they’re okay, but she still hears it.
He gets into your room every night
.
“Do you think I have schizophrenia?”
“Just
ask
me,” Rainey says.
She goes down the hall again, cape flapping behind her; she salvages a grocery bag from under the sink, unclips the receiver from the hallway wall phone, and drops that in first. Then she drops in the letters, the cuttings, the photos, and the journals that she has piled on the bureau. The door lock, miraculously, requires a key on each side. She and Tina can actually lock these people in.
“Who’s the woman in the photo?” demands Rainey.
Estelle, crying, shakes her head.
“Take my watch,” the boyfriend tells Tina. “Leave her papers and take my watch. You’ll get fifty dollars for it, I swear.”
“Thanks,” says Tina, as if startled by his generosity. She makes him give it to Estelle, who holds it out, shrinking from the gun.
“The papers?” he says. Rainey sees Tina admiring thewatch, and she slips into a vision. She sees a tapestry made from scraps of handwriting and snippets of photos, tiny telegrams from the heart: patches of letters, strips of confessions, grainy faces of people who have, in one way or another, perhaps like her mother, split. She’ll sew buttons at the intersections, layer in some lace. In Rainey’s hands, such things will reassemble themselves into patterns as complex as snowflakes. She will start the tapestry tonight, in her pink room. What would Estelle do with this ephemera anyway, besides keep it closeted away?
“You
On a closet shelf she finds a stack of typed and handwritten letters rubber-banded in red. She takes it down and sets it aside on the bureau. “You don’t want that,” says Estelle, half rising. “It’s old, it’s junk—”
“I don’t always recognize people on TV, either,” says Tina. “Or at school. You think there’s something wrong with me?”
“Yes.” Rainey goes back to the hallway Pullman kitchen for a pair of shears.
“Well, then fuck you,” calls Tina.
“But there’s plenty of shit wrong with me, too,” says Rainey, walking back in with the scissors.
She snips buttons from Estelle’s blouses, lace and beadwork from a vintage sweater, ribbons from a nightgown. She puts these on the bureau with the letters. “In winter?” says Tina. “When you put a hat on? I’m not a hundred percent sure it’s you till you say something.” She takes a deep breath and locks it up somewhere for a while. “At least I always know my grandmother.” She smiles; it’s a private, knowing smile. Rainey could almost swear there’s pride in it.
She bites her lip. She prowls the room more aggressively. She finds two photo albums at the foot of the hearth and begins robbing them of photographs. “Not my father,” says Estelle, and starts to cry. “Not my grandmother.”
“Who is this?” Rainey holds up a square color photo of a woman pretending to vamp in a one-piece bathing suit. The woman’s smile is playful, as if she is somebody’s mother who would never really, actually vamp. Mothers interest Rainey: their presence, their absence, the way they react to the heat waves her body gives off near their husbands and sons.
“No one,” says Estelle.
Rainey adds it to the stack. Estelle makes a keening soundin her throat. Rainey, moving on, seizes two black journals from a nightstand drawer.
“Oh my God, no,” says Estelle, but then she looks at Tina and the gun and closes her eyes.
Rainey turns abruptly to face Tina. “Look,” she says, “if you ever don’t know who someone is, just ask me, okay?”
“Do you think I’m crazy?”
“Just ask me.”
“Are we okay?”
Rainey sighs like of course they’re okay, but she still hears it.
He gets into your room every night
.
“Do you think I have schizophrenia?”
“Just
ask
me,” Rainey says.
She goes down the hall again, cape flapping behind her; she salvages a grocery bag from under the sink, unclips the receiver from the hallway wall phone, and drops that in first. Then she drops in the letters, the cuttings, the photos, and the journals that she has piled on the bureau. The door lock, miraculously, requires a key on each side. She and Tina can actually lock these people in.
“Who’s the woman in the photo?” demands Rainey.
Estelle, crying, shakes her head.
“Take my watch,” the boyfriend tells Tina. “Leave her papers and take my watch. You’ll get fifty dollars for it, I swear.”
“Thanks,” says Tina, as if startled by his generosity. She makes him give it to Estelle, who holds it out, shrinking from the gun.
“The papers?” he says. Rainey sees Tina admiring thewatch, and she slips into a vision. She sees a tapestry made from scraps of handwriting and snippets of photos, tiny telegrams from the heart: patches of letters, strips of confessions, grainy faces of people who have, in one way or another, perhaps like her mother, split. She’ll sew buttons at the intersections, layer in some lace. In Rainey’s hands, such things will reassemble themselves into patterns as complex as snowflakes. She will start the tapestry tonight, in her pink room. What would Estelle do with this ephemera anyway, besides keep it closeted away?
“You
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