taller than George, in fact. But that wasn’t the only striking aspect to her appearance. She had this long blond hair, and blue eyes, and she moved like a dancer. Her fingers, though they were always covered with paint, were the kind you’d see in a magazine advertisement for hand lotion or diamond rings, not that she had one. She wasn’t beautiful in the way movie stars and fashion models might be, but she had this very long, thin face, with a surprisingly wide space between her nose and her upper lip, which gave her a faintly animal appearance. She was the type of person other people looked at when she came into a room, without her making any effort to produce that result.
Unlike myself. I was short, with hair of a shade people tend to call dirty brown, and where my mother’s legs stretched long and thin, with elegant narrow ankles and high arches like a ballerina’s, I had thick calf muscles and wide, broad feet. Even in girlhood—long before menopause sealed the deal—I had a short, thick waist that inspired my mother to comment that I had the kind of body high-waisted dresses were invented for.
But the truth was, I didn’t like any kind of dresses. I have always felt most comfortable in jeans or overalls or, if the situation calls for it, wide, cuffed men’s trousers with a tucked-in shirt, never mind if it makes me look boyish and thick. Why pretend? I am.
The way Val kept presenting me with frilly clothes and things to put in my hair, even after I’d cut most of it off, always seemed bizarre to me. Every year on my birthday I got a new Barbie doll that I might never have taken out of the box if it hadn’t been for those times Ruth Plank and her sisters came to visit. I would have given them the whole lot, but I knew my mother wouldn’t want me to. She was the one who really loved those dolls.
Who she wanted for a daughter was someone she could have done things with, like try on clothes, or play with hairstyles, or do craft projects and make dollhouses. Val loved making things with fabric and bright colors and glued-on sequins—beaded necklaces, hand-painted shawls, ruffled outfits. Dirty as her fingernails were most of the time from painting, she would probably have loved going to one of those nail salons to get a manicure.
I never got the impression that there was love between Val and George, but Val had a big-time romantic streak. She used to do things like turn out all the lights and put candles all over the house, if George had been away for a while on one of his trips, and she’d have music going, like maybe Peggy Lee or Dean Martin, and then she’d meet him at the door in some amazing outfit she’d cooked up, with scarves and lace and possibly not that much else, which freaked out my brother in particular. He learned to make himself scarce on those nights.
I got the feeling she always ended up disappointed though. Val was a woman who loved the idea of love—more, possibly, than the reality of loving someone. She liked the trappings and the drama.
Her real love—more than George, and more than my brother and me when you got down to it, though I believe she loved us in her way—was going into whatever odd, cramped little space she’d made for herself in whatever place we’d touched down, and making artwork.
She painted faces mostly, generally women. Sometimes she cut pictures out of magazines to use for inspiration. She painted herself often, though always inmade-up circumstances—riding a horse, on a trapeze, dressed in an evening gown at some imaginary ball. I used to wish she’d make a painting of me, but if she had, she would have had to study my face for a long time, and I had the oddest feeling that she didn’t like to look at me. Not that she didn’t love me. She just preferred not to consider my face too closely, having surely recognized long before that it contained not even the faintest sign of what she loved best, which was beauty.
I KNEW, VERY YOUNG, THAT I liked a
Unlike myself. I was short, with hair of a shade people tend to call dirty brown, and where my mother’s legs stretched long and thin, with elegant narrow ankles and high arches like a ballerina’s, I had thick calf muscles and wide, broad feet. Even in girlhood—long before menopause sealed the deal—I had a short, thick waist that inspired my mother to comment that I had the kind of body high-waisted dresses were invented for.
But the truth was, I didn’t like any kind of dresses. I have always felt most comfortable in jeans or overalls or, if the situation calls for it, wide, cuffed men’s trousers with a tucked-in shirt, never mind if it makes me look boyish and thick. Why pretend? I am.
The way Val kept presenting me with frilly clothes and things to put in my hair, even after I’d cut most of it off, always seemed bizarre to me. Every year on my birthday I got a new Barbie doll that I might never have taken out of the box if it hadn’t been for those times Ruth Plank and her sisters came to visit. I would have given them the whole lot, but I knew my mother wouldn’t want me to. She was the one who really loved those dolls.
Who she wanted for a daughter was someone she could have done things with, like try on clothes, or play with hairstyles, or do craft projects and make dollhouses. Val loved making things with fabric and bright colors and glued-on sequins—beaded necklaces, hand-painted shawls, ruffled outfits. Dirty as her fingernails were most of the time from painting, she would probably have loved going to one of those nail salons to get a manicure.
I never got the impression that there was love between Val and George, but Val had a big-time romantic streak. She used to do things like turn out all the lights and put candles all over the house, if George had been away for a while on one of his trips, and she’d have music going, like maybe Peggy Lee or Dean Martin, and then she’d meet him at the door in some amazing outfit she’d cooked up, with scarves and lace and possibly not that much else, which freaked out my brother in particular. He learned to make himself scarce on those nights.
I got the feeling she always ended up disappointed though. Val was a woman who loved the idea of love—more, possibly, than the reality of loving someone. She liked the trappings and the drama.
Her real love—more than George, and more than my brother and me when you got down to it, though I believe she loved us in her way—was going into whatever odd, cramped little space she’d made for herself in whatever place we’d touched down, and making artwork.
She painted faces mostly, generally women. Sometimes she cut pictures out of magazines to use for inspiration. She painted herself often, though always inmade-up circumstances—riding a horse, on a trapeze, dressed in an evening gown at some imaginary ball. I used to wish she’d make a painting of me, but if she had, she would have had to study my face for a long time, and I had the oddest feeling that she didn’t like to look at me. Not that she didn’t love me. She just preferred not to consider my face too closely, having surely recognized long before that it contained not even the faintest sign of what she loved best, which was beauty.
I KNEW, VERY YOUNG, THAT I liked a
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