sheâd told them. Two oâclock, then three, after the library I must drive downtown.
It was a journey: downtown. Twelve miles south and east on the thunderous expressway.
She drove without haste. She drove like a woman already fatally stricken, resigned. She drove at a wavering speed, in the right lane. Calm as a woman in a dream the outcome of which she already knows though in fact she did not know What will happen? I will never go through with thisâwill I?
She didnât think so. It would be her first time, she hadnât such courage.
Out of the leafy suburbs north of the Midwestern city she drove. Massive vehicles passed on the left, her station wagon shuddered in their wake. The nape of her neck was bare, her pale hair swung in scissor-cut wings about her face. Suburban villages were passing beyond the six-foot chain-link fence above the expressway, barely visible from the highway that seemed to be sucking her into it, by degrees downhill in the direction of the river, what was called, as if it were a self-contained place, City Center.
The air was clamorous, like an argument among strangers you canât quite hear. It was a gusty April, not yet Easter. There was something she meant to remember: Easter. Something about the children. Her skin burned in anticipation of him.
He was her friend, she wished to think. Heâd touched her only once. The imprint of his fingers on her forearm was still visible to her, in secret.
The station wagon was a new model, handsome and gleaming and paneled in wood. A sturdy vehicle, in the rear strewn with childrenâs things. Still, gusts of wind rocked it, she gripped the steering wheel tight. Such wind! In their hillside house in Bloomfield Heights that was an old fieldstone Colonial wind whistled in the chimneys, rattled the windows with a furtive sound like something trying to get in. Doors were blown open by the wind, or blown shut with a crash. Oh Mommy! their five-year-old daughter cried. The ghost!
My appointment downtown, sheâd told Ismelda who had her cell phone number in any case. Should anything happen. Should you need me. You can pick up the children at the usual door, at their school. I will be back by five-thirty, Iâm sure.
Five-thirty! This was a statement, a pledge. She wondered should she tell him, as soon as she stepped inside the door.
I canât stay long. I will have to leave by.
It was astonishing to her, how the city began to emerge out of a muddle of wood-frame houses, aged tenements, flat-topped roofs and debris-strewn pavement. Suddenly in the distance, two or three miles ahead, were a number of high-rise buildings, some of them quite impressive. City Center was ahead, a narrow peninsula at the tip of downtown, on the restored riverfront: Renaissance Plaza. She would exit there.
The city had once been a great Midwestern city, before a catastrophic ârace riotâ in 1967. Since then, the white population had gradually declined, like air escaping from a balloon.
I wonât have the courage, Iâm not a reckless woman. I will only just talk to him. I will tell himâ¦
The next exit was City Center. Last Exit Before Tunnel to Canada. Her heart quickened like the heart of a creature sensing danger though not knowing from which direction danger will spring.
â¦I want you as a friend. Someone in whom I canâ¦
Sheâd driven the children to school that morning, as she did most mornings. Mommy in a bulky car coat. She had been married for nine years. That morning the children had been unusually fretful, tugging at her. Mommy! Mom- my ! That sound of reproach in a childâs voice, your heart is lacerated. It was a summons to her blood, she could not resist. The children adored her, they were insatiable. Perhaps they sensed something. The little girl was in kindergarten, the little boy in second grade. Mommy kiss-kiss! She laughed, she was wounded by their beauty that seemed to her fragile like
It was a journey: downtown. Twelve miles south and east on the thunderous expressway.
She drove without haste. She drove like a woman already fatally stricken, resigned. She drove at a wavering speed, in the right lane. Calm as a woman in a dream the outcome of which she already knows though in fact she did not know What will happen? I will never go through with thisâwill I?
She didnât think so. It would be her first time, she hadnât such courage.
Out of the leafy suburbs north of the Midwestern city she drove. Massive vehicles passed on the left, her station wagon shuddered in their wake. The nape of her neck was bare, her pale hair swung in scissor-cut wings about her face. Suburban villages were passing beyond the six-foot chain-link fence above the expressway, barely visible from the highway that seemed to be sucking her into it, by degrees downhill in the direction of the river, what was called, as if it were a self-contained place, City Center.
The air was clamorous, like an argument among strangers you canât quite hear. It was a gusty April, not yet Easter. There was something she meant to remember: Easter. Something about the children. Her skin burned in anticipation of him.
He was her friend, she wished to think. Heâd touched her only once. The imprint of his fingers on her forearm was still visible to her, in secret.
The station wagon was a new model, handsome and gleaming and paneled in wood. A sturdy vehicle, in the rear strewn with childrenâs things. Still, gusts of wind rocked it, she gripped the steering wheel tight. Such wind! In their hillside house in Bloomfield Heights that was an old fieldstone Colonial wind whistled in the chimneys, rattled the windows with a furtive sound like something trying to get in. Doors were blown open by the wind, or blown shut with a crash. Oh Mommy! their five-year-old daughter cried. The ghost!
My appointment downtown, sheâd told Ismelda who had her cell phone number in any case. Should anything happen. Should you need me. You can pick up the children at the usual door, at their school. I will be back by five-thirty, Iâm sure.
Five-thirty! This was a statement, a pledge. She wondered should she tell him, as soon as she stepped inside the door.
I canât stay long. I will have to leave by.
It was astonishing to her, how the city began to emerge out of a muddle of wood-frame houses, aged tenements, flat-topped roofs and debris-strewn pavement. Suddenly in the distance, two or three miles ahead, were a number of high-rise buildings, some of them quite impressive. City Center was ahead, a narrow peninsula at the tip of downtown, on the restored riverfront: Renaissance Plaza. She would exit there.
The city had once been a great Midwestern city, before a catastrophic ârace riotâ in 1967. Since then, the white population had gradually declined, like air escaping from a balloon.
I wonât have the courage, Iâm not a reckless woman. I will only just talk to him. I will tell himâ¦
The next exit was City Center. Last Exit Before Tunnel to Canada. Her heart quickened like the heart of a creature sensing danger though not knowing from which direction danger will spring.
â¦I want you as a friend. Someone in whom I canâ¦
Sheâd driven the children to school that morning, as she did most mornings. Mommy in a bulky car coat. She had been married for nine years. That morning the children had been unusually fretful, tugging at her. Mommy! Mom- my ! That sound of reproach in a childâs voice, your heart is lacerated. It was a summons to her blood, she could not resist. The children adored her, they were insatiable. Perhaps they sensed something. The little girl was in kindergarten, the little boy in second grade. Mommy kiss-kiss! She laughed, she was wounded by their beauty that seemed to her fragile like
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