Read Online A Hope in the Unseen by Ron Suskind - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ron Suskind
Ads: Link
adding, “She’s a pro, she ought to know.” Cedric concurs, hopeful of this expert testimony about his impending sex appeal.
Feeling charitable, like a Christian woman should, Barbara nods a greeting toward the prostitute, though the woman doesn’t notice.
She gets home from church near midnight. Cedric is asleep, and when she wakes up at 7:15 the next morning he has already gone. On her way to work, she carefully breaks the remaining $20, buying five days’ worth of bus tokens—$2.20 for a round trip—which costs $11. Today, she’ll eat no breakfast or lunch.
At 6:10 P.M. , Barbara walks heavily into the apartment, feeling tired and anxious.
“How’s school today, Lavar?”
“Fine,” he says, his voice high and solicitous, not looking up from the TV.
“Choir practice Saturday, don’t forget. You know, I’ll be going all day too for missionary meeting.”
He nods from the couch.
“I hope you knew to eat a big lunch today?” she says as she moves to the bedroom to change. “You know, it’s the first week, with rent and all.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I knew. Got seconds on salad. Ate all I could.”
By the time she emerges in her white pullover house dress, he’s already in his room, having ceded her the couch. She slumps onto it, weak and bone-tired from a long day and no food.
She begins to flip channels and figure out a five-day budget in her head. In the morning she’ll get some packs of Oodles of Noodles, a cheap, add-water noodle dish, for tomorrow night and maybe some macaroni and cheese for Saturday. That’ll about use up the $9 she’s gotleft but get them to Sunday dinner at church. She can write a check on Monday, which won’t arrive at the bank until Tuesday, when her weekly check will have been deposited.
Relieved to have some sort of plan, she puts her head back and drifts off. At 10:15, she awakens with a jerk in the glow of the TV. She walks around the apartment to clear her head and grabs a glass of some flat Coke from the nearly empty refrigerator. She looks over at the overflowing sink.
“Lavar?!” she calls out, loud and testy, as she makes for the couch. “What about these dishes?”
Cedric stomps out of his room, takes off his gray wool polo shirt, torn at the elbow, and bellies up to the sink in his white undershirt.
He thrusts his arms into the wet dishes and muck. Barbara sees him from the corner of her eye. She knows there’s nothing worse than doing dishes when you’re hungry.
“This is completely disgusting,” he mumbles, and looks toward the couch. She heard him but looks straight ahead at the TV, deciding she’s not going to respond.
She feels herself start to simmer. She would have gotten a beating for saying that to her father, much less her mother. A bad beating. A switch seems to flip in her gut, starting a familiar internal monologue: she’s been working like a slave her whole damn life and
she
never complains …. She’s been killing herself, her lifeblood channeled through scriptural pieties and long-shot hopes for Cedric’s future, leaving her own urges untended and volatile.
“I hate doing these damn dishes,” he says, this time too loud to ignore.
She jumps up, thumping across the room, fast, right up into his face. “I pay the rent here. I support you. I give everything to you. You don’t want to do your part? You don’t like it? When you complain it makes me want to kill you! You hear me?”
He’s stunned and begins to cry. His hands, full of grease and congealed fat, stay plunged in the water.
The switch now flips back, the fury gone, and she looks away, ashamed. An apology rises toward her lips, but she bites it off. No, no. Can’t apologize. She goes back to the couch.
Cedric gathers himself, silently finishes the dishes, and then gets the bucket and Ajax under the sink to scrub the bathroom.
Barbara Jennings will lie out here tonight, like every night (her double bed long ago buried under a mountain of clothes),
Feeling charitable, like a Christian woman should, Barbara nods a greeting toward the prostitute, though the woman doesn’t notice.
She gets home from church near midnight. Cedric is asleep, and when she wakes up at 7:15 the next morning he has already gone. On her way to work, she carefully breaks the remaining $20, buying five days’ worth of bus tokens—$2.20 for a round trip—which costs $11. Today, she’ll eat no breakfast or lunch.
At 6:10 P.M. , Barbara walks heavily into the apartment, feeling tired and anxious.
“How’s school today, Lavar?”
“Fine,” he says, his voice high and solicitous, not looking up from the TV.
“Choir practice Saturday, don’t forget. You know, I’ll be going all day too for missionary meeting.”
He nods from the couch.
“I hope you knew to eat a big lunch today?” she says as she moves to the bedroom to change. “You know, it’s the first week, with rent and all.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I knew. Got seconds on salad. Ate all I could.”
By the time she emerges in her white pullover house dress, he’s already in his room, having ceded her the couch. She slumps onto it, weak and bone-tired from a long day and no food.
She begins to flip channels and figure out a five-day budget in her head. In the morning she’ll get some packs of Oodles of Noodles, a cheap, add-water noodle dish, for tomorrow night and maybe some macaroni and cheese for Saturday. That’ll about use up the $9 she’s gotleft but get them to Sunday dinner at church. She can write a check on Monday, which won’t arrive at the bank until Tuesday, when her weekly check will have been deposited.
Relieved to have some sort of plan, she puts her head back and drifts off. At 10:15, she awakens with a jerk in the glow of the TV. She walks around the apartment to clear her head and grabs a glass of some flat Coke from the nearly empty refrigerator. She looks over at the overflowing sink.
“Lavar?!” she calls out, loud and testy, as she makes for the couch. “What about these dishes?”
Cedric stomps out of his room, takes off his gray wool polo shirt, torn at the elbow, and bellies up to the sink in his white undershirt.
He thrusts his arms into the wet dishes and muck. Barbara sees him from the corner of her eye. She knows there’s nothing worse than doing dishes when you’re hungry.
“This is completely disgusting,” he mumbles, and looks toward the couch. She heard him but looks straight ahead at the TV, deciding she’s not going to respond.
She feels herself start to simmer. She would have gotten a beating for saying that to her father, much less her mother. A bad beating. A switch seems to flip in her gut, starting a familiar internal monologue: she’s been working like a slave her whole damn life and
she
never complains …. She’s been killing herself, her lifeblood channeled through scriptural pieties and long-shot hopes for Cedric’s future, leaving her own urges untended and volatile.
“I hate doing these damn dishes,” he says, this time too loud to ignore.
She jumps up, thumping across the room, fast, right up into his face. “I pay the rent here. I support you. I give everything to you. You don’t want to do your part? You don’t like it? When you complain it makes me want to kill you! You hear me?”
He’s stunned and begins to cry. His hands, full of grease and congealed fat, stay plunged in the water.
The switch now flips back, the fury gone, and she looks away, ashamed. An apology rises toward her lips, but she bites it off. No, no. Can’t apologize. She goes back to the couch.
Cedric gathers himself, silently finishes the dishes, and then gets the bucket and Ajax under the sink to scrub the bathroom.
Barbara Jennings will lie out here tonight, like every night (her double bed long ago buried under a mountain of clothes),
Similar Books
