almost icy cold now that the air outside had cooled, and the earth and foundations of the little worn-out house no longer released wave after wave of heat. The window air conditioner hummed away on the lowest setting.
At first the noise of it had driven her mad. But now she didnât think she would ever sleep without it, provided of course she ever slept. It was white noise, her background, her comfort. Part of the cocoon of the little house she thought of as a sanctuary. The little house that had belonged to her great-aunt Jodina, the little house that now belonged to her, legally, all the papers signed, a hug and a gruff kiss from the tall woman who was afraid of everything except responsibility.
Emma went to the kitchen, poured herself half a glass of white wine from the jug of Chablis. She didnât mind drinking wine from a jug. A box, that bothered her. But the jug of heavy glass had the right feel to it, and definitely the kind of price tag she needed these days.
The wine was cold. She took her glass into the living room and curled up on the worn fabric of her couch, set the glass on the coffee table she had kept since her mother died. It had folding edges with hinges that could go flat or stand up, making a box out of the surface. She sat cross-legged and stared at the wall and the framed cover of the 1929 edition of Fortune magazine. Red background, the picture of a leaping stag with arrows whizzing through the air in pursuit. Not unlike her own life. She had bought it for eleven dollars at Wal-Mart and had carted it with her, move after move. The glass in the frame had broken two moves ago, and sheâd just emptied it over the trashcan, then hung it on the wall. She ought to replace the frame and told herself she would, but knew in the back of her mind she probably wouldnât. One of those small, easy, inexpensive tasks she never took care of.
As always, the presence of her son rode the backwaters of her every thought. Emma smiled at him, her little baby boy, wherever he was. She took another sip of Chablis. Said a small prayer of thanks not just for wine, but for cheap wine.
She missed her car already. She was not likely to own a BMW again.
There were worse things.
When she saw a homeless person, her first thought was always, When . Not Poor thing , not Get a job , not There but for the grace of God go I; she just thought, When . Her friends laughed the first time she said it out loud, and afterward, when it became one of her sayings, they just smiled and tuned it out. Dark humor was one of her specialties.
Emma was the last person in the world they would suspect might actually have such a fear. But Emma knew things that so many people donât know. She knew how close she was to the edge financially and, frankly, emotionally. She knew how alone she was in the world. She knew that some of those people who wound up on the streets had started out with more than sheâd ever had, achieved more than she ever would, and had more family and friends who loved them than she did.
She was not a very good poor person. She would never forget her aunt Suki grimacing in genuine disillusionment and telling how she had gone with the church group to deliver Thanksgiving baskets to the poor families. She could still hear her auntâs contempt for the way the children in one of those families had dug through the basket right there in the middle of their living room floor and actually opened the dessert and ate it right thereânot waiting to eat it properly on Thanksgiving. Everybody in the family had shaken their heads in sorrow at the inappropriateness of some poor families, and Emma had thought at the time that she would not want to be a poor person and follow the poor person rules. And sheâd been right. She did not like poor person rules. They ground her up on the insides. She figured that a lot of poor people had ulcers. She certainly had one. A big fat angry ulcer, or whatever it was that woke
At first the noise of it had driven her mad. But now she didnât think she would ever sleep without it, provided of course she ever slept. It was white noise, her background, her comfort. Part of the cocoon of the little house she thought of as a sanctuary. The little house that had belonged to her great-aunt Jodina, the little house that now belonged to her, legally, all the papers signed, a hug and a gruff kiss from the tall woman who was afraid of everything except responsibility.
Emma went to the kitchen, poured herself half a glass of white wine from the jug of Chablis. She didnât mind drinking wine from a jug. A box, that bothered her. But the jug of heavy glass had the right feel to it, and definitely the kind of price tag she needed these days.
The wine was cold. She took her glass into the living room and curled up on the worn fabric of her couch, set the glass on the coffee table she had kept since her mother died. It had folding edges with hinges that could go flat or stand up, making a box out of the surface. She sat cross-legged and stared at the wall and the framed cover of the 1929 edition of Fortune magazine. Red background, the picture of a leaping stag with arrows whizzing through the air in pursuit. Not unlike her own life. She had bought it for eleven dollars at Wal-Mart and had carted it with her, move after move. The glass in the frame had broken two moves ago, and sheâd just emptied it over the trashcan, then hung it on the wall. She ought to replace the frame and told herself she would, but knew in the back of her mind she probably wouldnât. One of those small, easy, inexpensive tasks she never took care of.
As always, the presence of her son rode the backwaters of her every thought. Emma smiled at him, her little baby boy, wherever he was. She took another sip of Chablis. Said a small prayer of thanks not just for wine, but for cheap wine.
She missed her car already. She was not likely to own a BMW again.
There were worse things.
When she saw a homeless person, her first thought was always, When . Not Poor thing , not Get a job , not There but for the grace of God go I; she just thought, When . Her friends laughed the first time she said it out loud, and afterward, when it became one of her sayings, they just smiled and tuned it out. Dark humor was one of her specialties.
Emma was the last person in the world they would suspect might actually have such a fear. But Emma knew things that so many people donât know. She knew how close she was to the edge financially and, frankly, emotionally. She knew how alone she was in the world. She knew that some of those people who wound up on the streets had started out with more than sheâd ever had, achieved more than she ever would, and had more family and friends who loved them than she did.
She was not a very good poor person. She would never forget her aunt Suki grimacing in genuine disillusionment and telling how she had gone with the church group to deliver Thanksgiving baskets to the poor families. She could still hear her auntâs contempt for the way the children in one of those families had dug through the basket right there in the middle of their living room floor and actually opened the dessert and ate it right thereânot waiting to eat it properly on Thanksgiving. Everybody in the family had shaken their heads in sorrow at the inappropriateness of some poor families, and Emma had thought at the time that she would not want to be a poor person and follow the poor person rules. And sheâd been right. She did not like poor person rules. They ground her up on the insides. She figured that a lot of poor people had ulcers. She certainly had one. A big fat angry ulcer, or whatever it was that woke
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