his daughter and I’m home now, so get out.”
I stomp past the couch and down the hall, slamming my thin bedroom door and dropping the ersatz hook-lock into place. I pick up my deck of cards for some restless shuffling, but no sooner do I spill them out of the box into my hand than the chlorinated chick taps on my door. Least, I assume it’s her.
“What,” I shout at the door, shuffling the cards rapid-fire so they sound like a tommy gun.
“You gotta light?”
“No.”
“You’re out of toilet paper and I really gotta wee.”
Wee ?
I forget the hook is there, and when I yank on the door, it pulls right out of the cheap, thin doorframe.
I stomp past her and rummage in the hall closet for toilet paper. I haven’t been to the store in a couple days and I didn’t know we were running out. Presumably my dad must have done this kind of thing for himself before I came back.
“Use a Kleenex.”
“Why so snippy? If you pardon my expression.” She leans on the hallway wall with her unlit cigarette propped between her fingers, ready for action.
“I’m not used to extending Chez Drayton hospitality to random women my dad is nailing. If you pardon my expression.”
“I’m not random. I’m Shirelle. Most people just call me Sherry.”
She sticks out her hand. I take it and her fingers feel bony and hard. I look at her face directly and I see the makeup seeping into lines around her eyes. She’s older than I thought; I’d assumed from the bleach job that she was a youngster, my age or younger. But no, she’s probably about dad’s age. My mother’s age.
“Just go. I’ve got things to do, yeah? Makes me nervous having a stranger here.”
“What stranger? I just told you my name is Sherry. You must be Camille.”
I stop in my bedroom doorway, then turn back to her slowly. “He talked about me?”
“Oh, sure. Says you’re real smart and everything, can do math in your head like some kinda whiz-kid computer. Too bad about your brother.”
“What do you mean?”
“Being a fruit and all.”
I take her elbow and start walking toward the front door. She’s wheeling along behind me with her limbs flapping everywhere. “Hey!”
When I deposit her on the porch, she clutches the railing as if I’d tossed her like a pro wrestler. “There’s a bathroom at the gas station on the corner. I bet they even have toilet paper.” The door is too light to slam hard, but it’s something.
With the curtains off the window, the room looks cleaner already. I would love to jump right to the yellow I bought, but I have a lesson to learn, I think, about instant gratification. So instead I pry open the primer can.
Even with primer, the room is better. Disappearing under my roller are scuffs and scrapes, smears of unknown origin, a sheen of dirt and neglect. I roll hard though my arms ache, and then I realize I have to do the ceiling, too, because it’s also filthy.
The radio croons behind me, tunes from my days in college, when I was so dizzy with freedom.
That’s when I hear stomping feet down the hall. I left the door open for ventilation, so I stand and watch the empty space in the frame until it fills up with my father.
His shoulders are tight and aimed forward. His black hair juts out from under his hat, and he’s got three days of beard going. Now he smells as much like the shop as he does the booze. It’s that pinnacle of the day before he really lets loose. Even so, I do not relax.
“What’s this I hear about you attacking my girlfriend?”
“I convinced her to leave, yeah? After she didn’t respond to my subtle hinting along the lines of ‘Get out of my house.’ ”
He smiled. “Oh, your house, is it? Yours? Bitch has been back one week, crawling back because your boyfriend threw you out, and now this house is yours? And now you think you can paint, too?”
“Why not? It’s in my room, which you never see. Someday you’ll sell this house, and then you’ll be glad I fixed it
I stomp past the couch and down the hall, slamming my thin bedroom door and dropping the ersatz hook-lock into place. I pick up my deck of cards for some restless shuffling, but no sooner do I spill them out of the box into my hand than the chlorinated chick taps on my door. Least, I assume it’s her.
“What,” I shout at the door, shuffling the cards rapid-fire so they sound like a tommy gun.
“You gotta light?”
“No.”
“You’re out of toilet paper and I really gotta wee.”
Wee ?
I forget the hook is there, and when I yank on the door, it pulls right out of the cheap, thin doorframe.
I stomp past her and rummage in the hall closet for toilet paper. I haven’t been to the store in a couple days and I didn’t know we were running out. Presumably my dad must have done this kind of thing for himself before I came back.
“Use a Kleenex.”
“Why so snippy? If you pardon my expression.” She leans on the hallway wall with her unlit cigarette propped between her fingers, ready for action.
“I’m not used to extending Chez Drayton hospitality to random women my dad is nailing. If you pardon my expression.”
“I’m not random. I’m Shirelle. Most people just call me Sherry.”
She sticks out her hand. I take it and her fingers feel bony and hard. I look at her face directly and I see the makeup seeping into lines around her eyes. She’s older than I thought; I’d assumed from the bleach job that she was a youngster, my age or younger. But no, she’s probably about dad’s age. My mother’s age.
“Just go. I’ve got things to do, yeah? Makes me nervous having a stranger here.”
“What stranger? I just told you my name is Sherry. You must be Camille.”
I stop in my bedroom doorway, then turn back to her slowly. “He talked about me?”
“Oh, sure. Says you’re real smart and everything, can do math in your head like some kinda whiz-kid computer. Too bad about your brother.”
“What do you mean?”
“Being a fruit and all.”
I take her elbow and start walking toward the front door. She’s wheeling along behind me with her limbs flapping everywhere. “Hey!”
When I deposit her on the porch, she clutches the railing as if I’d tossed her like a pro wrestler. “There’s a bathroom at the gas station on the corner. I bet they even have toilet paper.” The door is too light to slam hard, but it’s something.
With the curtains off the window, the room looks cleaner already. I would love to jump right to the yellow I bought, but I have a lesson to learn, I think, about instant gratification. So instead I pry open the primer can.
Even with primer, the room is better. Disappearing under my roller are scuffs and scrapes, smears of unknown origin, a sheen of dirt and neglect. I roll hard though my arms ache, and then I realize I have to do the ceiling, too, because it’s also filthy.
The radio croons behind me, tunes from my days in college, when I was so dizzy with freedom.
That’s when I hear stomping feet down the hall. I left the door open for ventilation, so I stand and watch the empty space in the frame until it fills up with my father.
His shoulders are tight and aimed forward. His black hair juts out from under his hat, and he’s got three days of beard going. Now he smells as much like the shop as he does the booze. It’s that pinnacle of the day before he really lets loose. Even so, I do not relax.
“What’s this I hear about you attacking my girlfriend?”
“I convinced her to leave, yeah? After she didn’t respond to my subtle hinting along the lines of ‘Get out of my house.’ ”
He smiled. “Oh, your house, is it? Yours? Bitch has been back one week, crawling back because your boyfriend threw you out, and now this house is yours? And now you think you can paint, too?”
“Why not? It’s in my room, which you never see. Someday you’ll sell this house, and then you’ll be glad I fixed it
Similar Books
