warm. Laura lay her head across Ritaâs arm, cuddled close to her warmth, and fell asleep.
4
The warmth within her familyâs house could not penetrate the cold fear trembling within Rita. She was nervous; a queasy feeling rushed from her gnawing stomach into her dry throat. It was as if she were in some unknown, horrible place wherein ominous dread dwelt and from which she wished to fly. In the rose-print-papered room that had been hers, she sat before the plush scallop-shaped mirror of the dressing table brushing her hair with a silver-handled brush. This room, still reserved for her, brought back many memories. She looked at the reflection of the room in the mirrorâat the bed, at the chair upon which the small dolls her father had once bought for her sat silently, at the white window curtains she had helped Mother sew, although Rita had really contributed merely occasional distraction. This nostalgia should have made Rita feel as if she belonged here. These surroundings were luxurious and nice, and yet they stirred up memories of intense adolescent violence, of seething tension and disagreements. Rita returned her attention to brushing her hair.
The aroma of the meal being prepared rose to greet her. It was a thick, warm, inviting aroma, ⦠yet it added to the chill of fear within Rita. Her fear was increased by the apprehension of the scene she was sure would start at dinner. One always did.
Why had she come? she pondered. Why did she bother, when each visit only set off additional misunderstanding and hostility? She had returned because she wanted to be part of them; she wanted to belong to her family, she admitted to herself reluctantly. Not that she wanted to be a part of their socially dictated society, but that she wanted to be part of a warm, loving unit where the stress of the world would be forgotten in velvety, warm love. She insisted on being a whole part though, an individual part, not an undistinguished lump contributing only passive existence to the mass.
Rita conjured up the scene during the course of the meal when Father or Mother would begin preaching of the evils of the Village and of the disapproval that all good, honest, respected persons had for such a place and those who lived there. Ritaâs parents couldnât understand why a nice girl like she lived there. Hadnât they given her everything she could have desiredâclothes, toys, vacationsâthings comparable to that which children of only the best families received? âSheâll come around,â she continued, conjuring up their thoughts and words. âSheâll come around to our way of thinking when she realizes all the good things that our existence has in comparison to the degradation of the Village.â They want to assure themselves, perhaps to fill their lives with other vague dreams instead of stark reality , she interjected to herself. Something shall go wrong, something has to happen to upset the entire evening, Rita assured herself. She wished that just this once things could be different.
âRita!â Mother called from the kitchen downstairs. It was that familiar, prolonged call that grated against Ritaâs mind. It wasnât just a call, it was a yellâand yet it was more than a yell. It was a demand, an order. It manifested a complete disregard of Ritaâs integrity and privacy. But more than this, the reason it chilled Rita to the bone, Motherâs yell was prompted by laziness. Mother strained her throat to obviate the necessity of walking. Rita had learned to despise people who yelledâlazy, slovenly people who would rather tear out their lungs with screams than walk ten feet and talk quietly like human beings. Rita avoided these sorts of people because they were actually dead, although frighteningly alive-looking. It was the foolish, unwilling-to-accept-difficulties approach to reality which this yelling manifested that most angered Rita.
Mother yelled
4
The warmth within her familyâs house could not penetrate the cold fear trembling within Rita. She was nervous; a queasy feeling rushed from her gnawing stomach into her dry throat. It was as if she were in some unknown, horrible place wherein ominous dread dwelt and from which she wished to fly. In the rose-print-papered room that had been hers, she sat before the plush scallop-shaped mirror of the dressing table brushing her hair with a silver-handled brush. This room, still reserved for her, brought back many memories. She looked at the reflection of the room in the mirrorâat the bed, at the chair upon which the small dolls her father had once bought for her sat silently, at the white window curtains she had helped Mother sew, although Rita had really contributed merely occasional distraction. This nostalgia should have made Rita feel as if she belonged here. These surroundings were luxurious and nice, and yet they stirred up memories of intense adolescent violence, of seething tension and disagreements. Rita returned her attention to brushing her hair.
The aroma of the meal being prepared rose to greet her. It was a thick, warm, inviting aroma, ⦠yet it added to the chill of fear within Rita. Her fear was increased by the apprehension of the scene she was sure would start at dinner. One always did.
Why had she come? she pondered. Why did she bother, when each visit only set off additional misunderstanding and hostility? She had returned because she wanted to be part of them; she wanted to belong to her family, she admitted to herself reluctantly. Not that she wanted to be a part of their socially dictated society, but that she wanted to be part of a warm, loving unit where the stress of the world would be forgotten in velvety, warm love. She insisted on being a whole part though, an individual part, not an undistinguished lump contributing only passive existence to the mass.
Rita conjured up the scene during the course of the meal when Father or Mother would begin preaching of the evils of the Village and of the disapproval that all good, honest, respected persons had for such a place and those who lived there. Ritaâs parents couldnât understand why a nice girl like she lived there. Hadnât they given her everything she could have desiredâclothes, toys, vacationsâthings comparable to that which children of only the best families received? âSheâll come around,â she continued, conjuring up their thoughts and words. âSheâll come around to our way of thinking when she realizes all the good things that our existence has in comparison to the degradation of the Village.â They want to assure themselves, perhaps to fill their lives with other vague dreams instead of stark reality , she interjected to herself. Something shall go wrong, something has to happen to upset the entire evening, Rita assured herself. She wished that just this once things could be different.
âRita!â Mother called from the kitchen downstairs. It was that familiar, prolonged call that grated against Ritaâs mind. It wasnât just a call, it was a yellâand yet it was more than a yell. It was a demand, an order. It manifested a complete disregard of Ritaâs integrity and privacy. But more than this, the reason it chilled Rita to the bone, Motherâs yell was prompted by laziness. Mother strained her throat to obviate the necessity of walking. Rita had learned to despise people who yelledâlazy, slovenly people who would rather tear out their lungs with screams than walk ten feet and talk quietly like human beings. Rita avoided these sorts of people because they were actually dead, although frighteningly alive-looking. It was the foolish, unwilling-to-accept-difficulties approach to reality which this yelling manifested that most angered Rita.
Mother yelled
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