couldn’t hear if someone were fumbling in the silverware right this minute, walking closer and closer, those brown wingtip shoes closer and closer, Anthony Perkins, Sharon Tate, Uncle Raymond. I’m in your door, I’m on your stairs. I’m at your room. I’m at your bed, under the bed, out the window, behind the shower, in your backseat. Now she is holding that orange nightshirt up to her chest, a deep breath. Slowly, she opens thebathroom door and the bright sunlight is coming through the window. The bright sunlight making everything look so much better.
She drops the orange nightshirt onto the bed, quickly pulls the yellow sack over her head, her back to all of the photographs on the dresser. Once, at home, she had a poster on her wall, Paul Newman and Robert Redford as Butch and Sundance, a black and white poster with only their eyes colored bright blue, and she couldn’t undress in front of them; it was like anywhere she went in that room, they could see her.
“You can’t even put on a bra without turning your back to a dumb piece of paper,” Cindy used to say. “You are so crazy, Ginny Sue. I’d take the damn thing off my wall if it kept me from walking around my own room nekked.”
Virginia turns slowly and lifts her dress in front of those photos, catching a side glimpse of herself in the mirror; Mark’s parents, her parents, Gram, great-grandmother. “Virginia!” the real Mrs. Ballard would gasp.
She lets the dress fall back around her legs, a sense of dignity coming to her. “We all have bodies, Mrs. Ballard.” She puts on her tennis shoes, now just pregnant, and gets her car keys and pocketbook off the dresser, the other Virginia Suzanne staring out of that brown tin photo. I hope she knows. Virginia has a Kenya bag, too, only she bought hers because it’s big enough to hold everything; she will be able to carry Pampers and rattles and pacifiers. “Shit, you bought it for the same reason I bought mine,” Cindy had said. “You bought it because everybody else on earth has one.” Everybody else, any and everybody. You ain’t the first to have a baby. You ain’t the first wife he’s had. You ain’t the first little Monet. You just ain’t the first.
A person with the budgies should not be alone, drop a rusty nail in a bottle of vinegar. A person with the budgies should be where it’s cool and quiet, high ceilings and shade trees. She could drive home blindfolded, the road so straight and flat, cornfields and tractors, Gram coming in from the garden with a sack filled with butterbeans that she could finger while shelling them into that tin pan. High ceilings, cool, fans blowing and whirring. “I’ve comehome to stay,” she would say. “I made a mistake and now I’m back.”
But, she can’t do that. Then live with it. Live the rest of your life with it. She is going to go to Roses, walk every aisle, spend a hundred dollars in that air-conditioned building, piddle away these long hours where she can be near people that she doesn’t know, people who will not take one look at her and say, “Virginia, what’s wrong?” Strangers, she wants to be surrounded by strangers who do not notice that she is there, filling her cart up with useless items which Mark will sift through and say, “I’m surprised at you, we can’t afford this” and she will say, “I’m glad you’re surprised; I’m glad because I can’t afford you. I’m at your door, I’m in your bed, Surprise! Tell it to your first. Just go on, leave. Leave me here all by myself, big as a squash, because you wouldn’t know a speckled butterbean if you had it in your mouth!”
She sits on the edge of the bed and leans her head as far forward as her stomach will permit. Her face feels so hot, so flushed from the anger, the anger that makes her want to run so fast she’d leave this stomach way behind. “It’s hard to go home once you’ve got a child,” Gram said. “I used to go out to the country every single day. I’d
She drops the orange nightshirt onto the bed, quickly pulls the yellow sack over her head, her back to all of the photographs on the dresser. Once, at home, she had a poster on her wall, Paul Newman and Robert Redford as Butch and Sundance, a black and white poster with only their eyes colored bright blue, and she couldn’t undress in front of them; it was like anywhere she went in that room, they could see her.
“You can’t even put on a bra without turning your back to a dumb piece of paper,” Cindy used to say. “You are so crazy, Ginny Sue. I’d take the damn thing off my wall if it kept me from walking around my own room nekked.”
Virginia turns slowly and lifts her dress in front of those photos, catching a side glimpse of herself in the mirror; Mark’s parents, her parents, Gram, great-grandmother. “Virginia!” the real Mrs. Ballard would gasp.
She lets the dress fall back around her legs, a sense of dignity coming to her. “We all have bodies, Mrs. Ballard.” She puts on her tennis shoes, now just pregnant, and gets her car keys and pocketbook off the dresser, the other Virginia Suzanne staring out of that brown tin photo. I hope she knows. Virginia has a Kenya bag, too, only she bought hers because it’s big enough to hold everything; she will be able to carry Pampers and rattles and pacifiers. “Shit, you bought it for the same reason I bought mine,” Cindy had said. “You bought it because everybody else on earth has one.” Everybody else, any and everybody. You ain’t the first to have a baby. You ain’t the first wife he’s had. You ain’t the first little Monet. You just ain’t the first.
A person with the budgies should not be alone, drop a rusty nail in a bottle of vinegar. A person with the budgies should be where it’s cool and quiet, high ceilings and shade trees. She could drive home blindfolded, the road so straight and flat, cornfields and tractors, Gram coming in from the garden with a sack filled with butterbeans that she could finger while shelling them into that tin pan. High ceilings, cool, fans blowing and whirring. “I’ve comehome to stay,” she would say. “I made a mistake and now I’m back.”
But, she can’t do that. Then live with it. Live the rest of your life with it. She is going to go to Roses, walk every aisle, spend a hundred dollars in that air-conditioned building, piddle away these long hours where she can be near people that she doesn’t know, people who will not take one look at her and say, “Virginia, what’s wrong?” Strangers, she wants to be surrounded by strangers who do not notice that she is there, filling her cart up with useless items which Mark will sift through and say, “I’m surprised at you, we can’t afford this” and she will say, “I’m glad you’re surprised; I’m glad because I can’t afford you. I’m at your door, I’m in your bed, Surprise! Tell it to your first. Just go on, leave. Leave me here all by myself, big as a squash, because you wouldn’t know a speckled butterbean if you had it in your mouth!”
She sits on the edge of the bed and leans her head as far forward as her stomach will permit. Her face feels so hot, so flushed from the anger, the anger that makes her want to run so fast she’d leave this stomach way behind. “It’s hard to go home once you’ve got a child,” Gram said. “I used to go out to the country every single day. I’d
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