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Kaugnay na kabanata
Doll Crimes 26
26I don’t know where Susie is. Gone for the day with his deliveries and grades. Mom bolts the front door from the inside and drags a chair up against it.“Our space now,” she says.She’s hungover again, red-eyed. My mom, she can look pretty young even though she has to be around thirty at least, but when she’s had too much to drink the night before, no amount of cleanser and hairspray can pull her youth back into focus. Her skin dries out and shows the crow’s feet and fine lines creeping in under her eyes, shrinking the blue above. Her mouth curves down at the edges against her smile—her headache grimace, warping her mouth. Her color is too waxy, too grey. Concealer helps, but it can’t change what’s beneath. We don’t have a hairdryer, so I’m combing my hair and toweling it in turns. My hair slides wispy and damp between my fingers when I pull. The process is drying it fluffy, light. My skin is slick with lotion. I’m chewing gum, eve
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27I won’t lie about what I do and don’t remember. The eye in my forehead flutters like a black moth caught in a bad dream, fetching the images that shadow the back of my mind. Because the cliff-edge dividing what was and what is…the ink dot that bleeds in place before the line changes course. It starts falling down right about here.We made waffles and we burned them.And then my mother told me about Uncle Steve.***Momma was wearing her tan-and-sheepskin jacket, the one with the broken zip and the collar that flipped up against her ears. Faded and stained. It smelled the same way old books smell. She wasn’t wearing any makeup except for her mouth—a darker shade than normal, the color like the inside of a wound. She looked young and pale and kind of still. Maybe it was the chill on her bare cheeks, the way her breath puffed in tight bursts of vapor. She was breathing like her jacket was too tight and she couldn’t take air in all th
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28We’re at the pizza place around the corner from Susie’s house. A takeaway spot with restaurant ambitions. Checkered tablecloths over plastic surfaces, fluorescent lights swapped out for candles melted into green bottles. The seating is too tight; tables and chairs crammed up against the counter where waiters do the ordering right over your head. The menu is written out in chalk on the blackboard up on the wall. Swirly letters all shaded skew. Margherita, but not like the cocktail.Regina, the name that makes boys smirk.“And what’s the little lady keen on?” Susie says to me. Smirking.“She likes calzones,” Mom says. “The more mushrooms the better.”My mother and I ate mushrooms together once a year or so back. The colors brightened up around us in booming tones, and the sand we lay on snaked in loops and patterns. I’d never understood before how everything is alive. Even dried-up water weeds. Even grains of sand. The moss growin
Doll Crimes 29
29Make the black marker tumble down an inch or two. We kept moving. We stayed at roadside motels, the safer ones with clean-enough swimming pools and no used needles or wasted condoms lying around the outside steps. Not the ones that looked too rowdy for kids our age. The worse ones were always small and sour-smelling. Water stains on the ceilings. Mattresses sloped down in the middle from years of heavy bodies and not enough turning. The bathtubs were stained with yellow rings no human hand could erase, and the mirrors were flecked with small black spots like fleas frozen behind the glass. At night the sounds of people yelling, of TVs playing too loud. Sounds masking other sounds.The check-out days, those were the best mornings. The quiet rush just before dawn. Momma ruffling my hair, dancing her fingertips to my armpits, kissing my cheeks to make me get up. Me giggling, kicking my feet, reaching my arms around her neck so she could
Doll Crimes 30
30We’re in a suburb of a city somewhere, and the suburb’s name is Rosefield. We’re on the money side of the place, the part where everything is glossy and clean. Trash-free sidewalks lined with fancy cars, cafés with frilled awnings spread over outside tables. Trimmed trees and perfect flower bushes. We got here kind of by accident, piling off the train after a lady who was hiding a kitten under her jacket. I caught the glimpse—bright green eyes mottled with brown, staring out at us from the shadow of a lapel. It tried once or twice to mew at us: tiny, bright-white fangs guarding a pretty, pink tongue. I say ‘try’, but maybe it did. The world can be loud for such a small voice, especially if nobody knows to be listening.“Follow the kitty,” my mother said when the woman stood, and jabbed me with her elbow. “Hurry. Animals are always a good sign.”I don’t know about that, but maybe.The cat didn’t really matter, of course. Not if yo
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31I don’t know why I remember this night so clearly. That night we walked for hours, back when I was nine, maybe ten. Leaving someplace we would soon forget, heading toward someplace we’d never remember. The open world vacuous around us. It was dark, and we were cold. My mother stepped slowly for me. Shadows close around her feet, blooming then vanishing like blood spills seeping in and out the concrete. I looked up at her bare throat, the underside of her chin. The tips of her eyelashes clear against the curves of her cheeks. Her hair, recently dyed red, flared a cherry color as we passed beneath the streetlights. Momma walked street-side, and when the cars rushed by some of them blared their horns and flashed their lights.I would’ve been afraid, except I was with her.I should’ve been afraid, except I wasn’t.“It’s not always going to be like this,” she said, and paused to let a car rush by before she spoke again. “One day you and
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32Photo albums. Do people still keep those? I’ve seen them more in movies than in real life. The movies have it wrong, too. Movie people have much nicer albums—they’re full, they’re glossy, like the pages get turned a lot. The albums I’ve looked through in strangers’ homes are sparse. Heavy, hardcover slabs of wasted pages. They hold a few old baby pictures, shots of grandparents, of long-ago weddings. Maybe a couple of unremarkable houses, a double-page spread of holiday shots. The albums are usually stored at the bottom of some bookcase or stashed in the back of a cupboard. Shoe-box corners. They’re always covered in dust.We don’t have an album, but we do have pictures. We keep our special ones snapped up with rubber bands, hidden down the side of our blue bag. The big one we stash at post offices and supermarket coat-checks, or lock up in hotel rooms, slid under the bed. It keeps our pictures safe among our collection of shoes and
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33I wake up to the sounds of mom and Susie fucking. Specifically, I wake to the sounds of Susie fucking. The sounds my mother makes are nothing compared. I lie still for a moment, stiff and uncomfortable on this filthy couch, in my too-tight jeans, my eyes swollen from sleep and my hair tangled around my throat. I’m nauseous and slow and scared to move. There’s revolt in my body, it’s rallying forces. Like the second I stand, I’m going to throw up. Like the moment I think clear, reality will kick me in the gut.I nestle down and doze again for a while. When I open my eyes a second time, Susie is walking past me in his boxer shorts. No shirt. His gut is taut and firm, tough fat over tougher muscle, softening his lines. Not the other kind of gut, the heavier slap-barrel type that traps you down at the hips and thighs and makes you feel like you’re caught in a compressor. Crushing you, pounding through and around in smothering shudders.
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