smug regal face and made her,
made her,
do his nails again. Made her do 'em right there in bed where she was painting hers.
But when he had awakened the next morning, he had looked over at his wife sleeping peacefully beside him with her muddy garden shoes still on and remembered immediately that he could no longer
make
Mudear do anything he wanted her to do. And he felt like weeping in frustration. Instead, he got up, steeled his back, and went downstairs to the breakfast Betty had made for the family.
He didn't know why he could never completely and finally hate her. Now that she was dead, he had to admit that he even admired some things about her after the change. Near morning, when she climbed back into their bed following her midnight wanderings and began immediately to snore softly, he would lie in the wide king-sized bed beside her and think, She really free. She don't have to get up at any set time in the morning. One of the girls will serve her a light breakfast in bed if that's what she wants. Or if she wakes up hungry, really ravenous like some hungry wild animal, she can stroll downstairs and one of 'em ul fix her pancakes and bacon with lots of butter and Alaga syrup and milk.
He stood and began undressing for bed.
And if the milk and pancakes tear up her stomach, that was okay 'cause she would be at home and could go to the bathroom, her own lavender bathroom, whenever she wanted. And stay in there as long as she liked.
I guess I'm gonna have to die to be that free myself, he thought with a resigned sigh.
Poppa didn't know what he was going to do now that Mudear was dead and, he assumed, out of his life. He didn't think he was ever going to be able to really get her out of his life. He didn't even know if that was what he really wanted ... Mudear out of his life. Perhaps, now that she was truly gone, he would be able to find someone else, maybe somebody like his drinking buddy Patrice, someone who was not so heartless, so evil, so lacking in what he called a little human kindness.
Sometimes he feared that Mudear either was not human or didn't possess any kind of kindness and living with her all these years, forty-five altogether, had somehow contaminated him. And he feared even more that his girls, Mudear's daughters, would turn out the same way. He shivered slightly as if someone had walked across his grave at the very thought.
When he heard the sound of automobile doors closing, he went over to the side window of the bedroom and saw his two oldest daughters get in their cars. After Emily pulled off in her little red car, he stood there watching Betty sitting in hers parked in the driveway. As he watched, he smiled at the trail of cigarette smoke drifting out her car window. Betty was the only one of his girls who smoked like he did. Mudear had been a heavy smoker at one time, smoked Kool filters. Used to smoke in bed, too. But she told him one night when he came in from work late that she had heard on a medical talk show that smoking gave you wrinkles, so she stopped immediately. It seemed to him that Mudear could do anything she wanted to when she put her mind to it.
And, of course, when Mudear stopped smoking, all smoking in the house had to cease.
Looking down at Betty's cigarette smoke, he felt ashamed that he took pride in the fact that one of his girls smoked like him. As if sucking on these cancer sticks is something to be proud of, he thought. But he couldn't help it. There was so little he could claim in his own children.
CHAPTER 7
Betty sat in her car for a few minutes smoking a cigarette and looking out over the garden and the field of wildflowers around her parents' house before starting the engine. The moon, nearly full, shone through a break in the clouds and flooded the field with a soft white light that made the colors of the late-blooming wildflowersâgoldenrod and blue sage and some black-eyed susansâstand out as in an eerie night painting. And the white blooming flowers
made her,
do his nails again. Made her do 'em right there in bed where she was painting hers.
But when he had awakened the next morning, he had looked over at his wife sleeping peacefully beside him with her muddy garden shoes still on and remembered immediately that he could no longer
make
Mudear do anything he wanted her to do. And he felt like weeping in frustration. Instead, he got up, steeled his back, and went downstairs to the breakfast Betty had made for the family.
He didn't know why he could never completely and finally hate her. Now that she was dead, he had to admit that he even admired some things about her after the change. Near morning, when she climbed back into their bed following her midnight wanderings and began immediately to snore softly, he would lie in the wide king-sized bed beside her and think, She really free. She don't have to get up at any set time in the morning. One of the girls will serve her a light breakfast in bed if that's what she wants. Or if she wakes up hungry, really ravenous like some hungry wild animal, she can stroll downstairs and one of 'em ul fix her pancakes and bacon with lots of butter and Alaga syrup and milk.
He stood and began undressing for bed.
And if the milk and pancakes tear up her stomach, that was okay 'cause she would be at home and could go to the bathroom, her own lavender bathroom, whenever she wanted. And stay in there as long as she liked.
I guess I'm gonna have to die to be that free myself, he thought with a resigned sigh.
Poppa didn't know what he was going to do now that Mudear was dead and, he assumed, out of his life. He didn't think he was ever going to be able to really get her out of his life. He didn't even know if that was what he really wanted ... Mudear out of his life. Perhaps, now that she was truly gone, he would be able to find someone else, maybe somebody like his drinking buddy Patrice, someone who was not so heartless, so evil, so lacking in what he called a little human kindness.
Sometimes he feared that Mudear either was not human or didn't possess any kind of kindness and living with her all these years, forty-five altogether, had somehow contaminated him. And he feared even more that his girls, Mudear's daughters, would turn out the same way. He shivered slightly as if someone had walked across his grave at the very thought.
When he heard the sound of automobile doors closing, he went over to the side window of the bedroom and saw his two oldest daughters get in their cars. After Emily pulled off in her little red car, he stood there watching Betty sitting in hers parked in the driveway. As he watched, he smiled at the trail of cigarette smoke drifting out her car window. Betty was the only one of his girls who smoked like he did. Mudear had been a heavy smoker at one time, smoked Kool filters. Used to smoke in bed, too. But she told him one night when he came in from work late that she had heard on a medical talk show that smoking gave you wrinkles, so she stopped immediately. It seemed to him that Mudear could do anything she wanted to when she put her mind to it.
And, of course, when Mudear stopped smoking, all smoking in the house had to cease.
Looking down at Betty's cigarette smoke, he felt ashamed that he took pride in the fact that one of his girls smoked like him. As if sucking on these cancer sticks is something to be proud of, he thought. But he couldn't help it. There was so little he could claim in his own children.
CHAPTER 7
Betty sat in her car for a few minutes smoking a cigarette and looking out over the garden and the field of wildflowers around her parents' house before starting the engine. The moon, nearly full, shone through a break in the clouds and flooded the field with a soft white light that made the colors of the late-blooming wildflowersâgoldenrod and blue sage and some black-eyed susansâstand out as in an eerie night painting. And the white blooming flowers
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