dust all day long, a peppery, irritating odor of frustration, and some days, some nights, my impatience with life was so unbearable I thought I would burst through my own skin. Something needed to happen. Anything. One night I sat on the stoop of the house and watched people walk by, or bicycle by, or drive by in the occasional car, and my eagerness to join that parade almost made me jump up and run. The direction didn’t seem to matter. All that mattered was the possibility of movement and escape.
Momma didn’t notice my unhappiness any more than she had paid attention to my father’s. She had gone deeper into her own regrets.
“Look at my legs,” she said petulantly one day, pulling up her dress. “They’re still as good as a girl’s.” And they were, slender and strong and shapely. “I could have been a dancer in New York.” She tapped out a couple of steps, then collapsed onto the sofa. “Bring me a glass of cold tea, Nora. And turn on the radio.”
There was money in the world, in those years, and lots of ways to spend it. People were buying Model Ts, radios, clothes, taking weekend trips to Niagara Falls, going out to restaurants where some waiters put two fingers of gin in your glass if you ordered “milk.” Life had become a kind of party, and Momma hadn’t been invited.
“If only I hadn’t gotten pregnant,” she would sigh. “I had such potential.”
• • •
“O keydoke,” I said after Jamie asked me to go away with him a second time. “But shouldn’t we get married first?”
“Artists don’t get married,” Jamie explained somewhat grandly. “We’re going to be bohemians, Nora.”
“That’s a quarterback bootleg,” I said, using the only football term I knew. It meant a fake play. “It’s your family.” I had never been invited over for Sunday lunch, never formally met them. They thought I wasn’t good enough for their boy.
“I promised my dad I wouldn’t get married till I was twenty-five,” Jamie admitted. “If I do, well, he’ll be pretty mad and disappointed. He might cut me out completely. You’ll come away with me anyway? You know you’re the only girl for me.”
I pretended to have to think about it. Let’s see. The choice wasto stay in Poughkeepsie, cleaning up poodle piss and listening to my mother and aunt complain about how unfair life was, or run away to New York with the man I loved.
“Give me a couple of weeks,” I said. This was, I knew even then, an irrevocable decision. Once a girl ran off with a boy, or even spent a single night with him, her reputation was ruined forever. I would be as bad as one of the summer regatta girls, doomed to being snubbed on the street, whispered about, no longer thought good enough to be invited into the homes of respectable people. But I didn’t care. If Jamie was going, I was going with him. But how?
Jamie and I were making love one night in the backseat of the delivery van when I remembered Daddy’s tin box buried under the peony bush. I had forgotten about it and left it behind when we moved into my aunt’s house. For when you want to leave, he had said. He had known.
“What’s wrong?” Jamie sat up next to me, alarmed. “Was I hurting you?”
“I know where I can get some money. At least, I hope it’s still there.”
“Later, honey,” he said, nuzzling my neck.
“Now. This won’t wait.”
We straightened our clothing, Jamie muttering all the while, and drove to my old neighborhood. Jamie parked the van across the street from the house and switched off the engine. Crickets chirped and a dog barked down the street in the darkness, and I sat there, fighting tears because I missed my father. The house had been painted a cheap pastel blue over its original gray. Daddy would have hated the color. The new owners had torn out the honeysuckle that had twined on the front porch. What if they had dug up the peony and found the box?
“Come on,” I said, nudging Jamie. “Now or
Momma didn’t notice my unhappiness any more than she had paid attention to my father’s. She had gone deeper into her own regrets.
“Look at my legs,” she said petulantly one day, pulling up her dress. “They’re still as good as a girl’s.” And they were, slender and strong and shapely. “I could have been a dancer in New York.” She tapped out a couple of steps, then collapsed onto the sofa. “Bring me a glass of cold tea, Nora. And turn on the radio.”
There was money in the world, in those years, and lots of ways to spend it. People were buying Model Ts, radios, clothes, taking weekend trips to Niagara Falls, going out to restaurants where some waiters put two fingers of gin in your glass if you ordered “milk.” Life had become a kind of party, and Momma hadn’t been invited.
“If only I hadn’t gotten pregnant,” she would sigh. “I had such potential.”
• • •
“O keydoke,” I said after Jamie asked me to go away with him a second time. “But shouldn’t we get married first?”
“Artists don’t get married,” Jamie explained somewhat grandly. “We’re going to be bohemians, Nora.”
“That’s a quarterback bootleg,” I said, using the only football term I knew. It meant a fake play. “It’s your family.” I had never been invited over for Sunday lunch, never formally met them. They thought I wasn’t good enough for their boy.
“I promised my dad I wouldn’t get married till I was twenty-five,” Jamie admitted. “If I do, well, he’ll be pretty mad and disappointed. He might cut me out completely. You’ll come away with me anyway? You know you’re the only girl for me.”
I pretended to have to think about it. Let’s see. The choice wasto stay in Poughkeepsie, cleaning up poodle piss and listening to my mother and aunt complain about how unfair life was, or run away to New York with the man I loved.
“Give me a couple of weeks,” I said. This was, I knew even then, an irrevocable decision. Once a girl ran off with a boy, or even spent a single night with him, her reputation was ruined forever. I would be as bad as one of the summer regatta girls, doomed to being snubbed on the street, whispered about, no longer thought good enough to be invited into the homes of respectable people. But I didn’t care. If Jamie was going, I was going with him. But how?
Jamie and I were making love one night in the backseat of the delivery van when I remembered Daddy’s tin box buried under the peony bush. I had forgotten about it and left it behind when we moved into my aunt’s house. For when you want to leave, he had said. He had known.
“What’s wrong?” Jamie sat up next to me, alarmed. “Was I hurting you?”
“I know where I can get some money. At least, I hope it’s still there.”
“Later, honey,” he said, nuzzling my neck.
“Now. This won’t wait.”
We straightened our clothing, Jamie muttering all the while, and drove to my old neighborhood. Jamie parked the van across the street from the house and switched off the engine. Crickets chirped and a dog barked down the street in the darkness, and I sat there, fighting tears because I missed my father. The house had been painted a cheap pastel blue over its original gray. Daddy would have hated the color. The new owners had torn out the honeysuckle that had twined on the front porch. What if they had dug up the peony and found the box?
“Come on,” I said, nudging Jamie. “Now or
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