sense that life had the daily habit of victimizing her in a variety of creative ways. When she spoke, her voice was thin; she clipped her words, as if flinging them out like little darts.
“Rita will be down soon,” she said curtly. She did not ask me in, so I stood on the porch like a delivery boy, waiting for a tip.
She tried to ignore me, pitching her gaze over me, around me and back into the house, where I heard the blurring voice of the TV. She stuffed her hands into her pale, blousy blue-patterned dress pockets. I did not understand how such a beauty had come from such remarkable homeliness.
I stepped back, hearing the soft creaking wood beneath my feet, struggling not to notice the cracked and peeling paint; the streaming rust stains from a faulty gutter. The night wind was damp and smelled of burnt leaves.
“Why are you going out with Rita?” Mrs. Fitzgerald asked, pointedly, in a low even voice that nearly fell into a course whisper.
The question jarred me. “Why?”
I thought, why is everybody asking me the same damned question? It seemed so obvious. “Why am I going out with Rita?”
“Yes.”
“…I… like her.”
“Do you?” It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge.
“Yes.”
I adjusted the collar of my denim jacket, hoping the conversation would shift to another subject.
“Have you always gotten what you wanted?” she asked. Her voice took on a grinding quality that unnerved me.
I couldn’t think of a response. “I like her stories,” finally emerged, as I glanced expectantly toward the pale second floor window, wishing Rita would hurry. “I like her.”
In the uneasy moment, I heard the agitated raspy bark of the dog next door. He didn’t seem to like me either.
“Rita dates a lot,” her mother continued, in a supercilious tone. “Many boys. Handsome boys.”
“Yeah… I bet.”
“A photographer from a Philadelphia magazine is coming to take a whole bunch of pictures and she’s going to model a new line of clothes for Clayton Stores all over Pennsylvania. On television.”
“That’s great,” I said, rocking on my heels. “Nice.”
“She’ll be in the state pageant, too.”
“Yeah, I heard that.”
She still wasn’t looking at me. Her tone turned ugly. “Why is Rita going out with you?”
This time, the question really irritated me and my voice rose with emotion. “How the hell should I know!? Ask her!”
“Don’t talk to me like that!” she snapped.
“Well, why don’t you ask your daughter, Mrs. Fitzgerald? Ask her. Not me!”
“I don’t need to ask her!” She yanked her bony hands from her pockets. They clenched into fists. “You and your family…so much money. Your mother so snobby, your father, so special with his expensive suits and gold watch. Walking around like they own the town. Walking around looking down their noses at us. Now you want Rita. Rita…my daughter. My daughter! You think just because your parents have all that money that you can have anything you want, don’t you?!”
Her face was raw with accusation.
There were many things I wanted to spit out, but I kept quiet. I drew a hot breath, just as I heard Rita’s quick footsteps clicking down the wood stairs. When she stepped onto the porch, trading glances with us, Mrs. Fitzgerald suddenly expanded with importance, gaining two inches in height. She moved aside adroitly, allowing Rita to pass under the amber glow of the porch lamp. Studying her daughter, Mrs. Fitzgerald was suddenly transformed into near attractiveness. For a brief moment, I saw her drowning in glory, like a woman having a religious experience. The transformation was startling. She crossed her thin arms and viewed her statuesque enameled girl, dressed in a taut ruby-red blouse, dark pants, and two-inch matching red heels. Her hair, lush and shimmering, was twisted up and artfully tied with a golden silk scarf. Giving off perfume, Rita presented her face to me and smiled warmly. I shuddered with a man’s
“Rita will be down soon,” she said curtly. She did not ask me in, so I stood on the porch like a delivery boy, waiting for a tip.
She tried to ignore me, pitching her gaze over me, around me and back into the house, where I heard the blurring voice of the TV. She stuffed her hands into her pale, blousy blue-patterned dress pockets. I did not understand how such a beauty had come from such remarkable homeliness.
I stepped back, hearing the soft creaking wood beneath my feet, struggling not to notice the cracked and peeling paint; the streaming rust stains from a faulty gutter. The night wind was damp and smelled of burnt leaves.
“Why are you going out with Rita?” Mrs. Fitzgerald asked, pointedly, in a low even voice that nearly fell into a course whisper.
The question jarred me. “Why?”
I thought, why is everybody asking me the same damned question? It seemed so obvious. “Why am I going out with Rita?”
“Yes.”
“…I… like her.”
“Do you?” It wasn’t a question. It was a challenge.
“Yes.”
I adjusted the collar of my denim jacket, hoping the conversation would shift to another subject.
“Have you always gotten what you wanted?” she asked. Her voice took on a grinding quality that unnerved me.
I couldn’t think of a response. “I like her stories,” finally emerged, as I glanced expectantly toward the pale second floor window, wishing Rita would hurry. “I like her.”
In the uneasy moment, I heard the agitated raspy bark of the dog next door. He didn’t seem to like me either.
“Rita dates a lot,” her mother continued, in a supercilious tone. “Many boys. Handsome boys.”
“Yeah… I bet.”
“A photographer from a Philadelphia magazine is coming to take a whole bunch of pictures and she’s going to model a new line of clothes for Clayton Stores all over Pennsylvania. On television.”
“That’s great,” I said, rocking on my heels. “Nice.”
“She’ll be in the state pageant, too.”
“Yeah, I heard that.”
She still wasn’t looking at me. Her tone turned ugly. “Why is Rita going out with you?”
This time, the question really irritated me and my voice rose with emotion. “How the hell should I know!? Ask her!”
“Don’t talk to me like that!” she snapped.
“Well, why don’t you ask your daughter, Mrs. Fitzgerald? Ask her. Not me!”
“I don’t need to ask her!” She yanked her bony hands from her pockets. They clenched into fists. “You and your family…so much money. Your mother so snobby, your father, so special with his expensive suits and gold watch. Walking around like they own the town. Walking around looking down their noses at us. Now you want Rita. Rita…my daughter. My daughter! You think just because your parents have all that money that you can have anything you want, don’t you?!”
Her face was raw with accusation.
There were many things I wanted to spit out, but I kept quiet. I drew a hot breath, just as I heard Rita’s quick footsteps clicking down the wood stairs. When she stepped onto the porch, trading glances with us, Mrs. Fitzgerald suddenly expanded with importance, gaining two inches in height. She moved aside adroitly, allowing Rita to pass under the amber glow of the porch lamp. Studying her daughter, Mrs. Fitzgerald was suddenly transformed into near attractiveness. For a brief moment, I saw her drowning in glory, like a woman having a religious experience. The transformation was startling. She crossed her thin arms and viewed her statuesque enameled girl, dressed in a taut ruby-red blouse, dark pants, and two-inch matching red heels. Her hair, lush and shimmering, was twisted up and artfully tied with a golden silk scarf. Giving off perfume, Rita presented her face to me and smiled warmly. I shuddered with a man’s
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