me soon. She still thinks that sometimes, but she must, in any case, be in good shape when he returns for her. She has to show him how well she’s doing. She will start watching the help-wanted ads today.
And meanwhile she’ll have a wonderful garden so that in August she can invite Rupert to drive down for a picnic. She’ll wear her long antique dress with her blue-and-white-checked apron. She’ll have a basket full of flowers over her arm, and there will be a table set up in the middle of the field, with a vase full of zinnias and the blue enamel plates, and soup with squash blossoms floating in it.
Maybe she’ll invite a Fresh Air child to come stay for the summer. A little girl, six years old, would be good. Estrella. Corazon. Juanita. Some name like that.
She will be very small, very thin, when she gets off the bus. She will be carrying an A & P shopping bag, wearing plastic shoes. Her hair is black and straight, long bangs over large eyes. She will hesitate on the bottom step of the bus for a second, scanning the crowd. Ann comes forward, takes her hand. They will drive home very slowly because the little girl feels carsick from all those hours on the bus.
She has never seen cows. They pull over at the side of the road to look. Then at a produce stand for some fresh-picked strawberries. She says is it O.K. to swallow the seeds?
Ann shows her the waterfall. The little girl gasps, says this is how it looks in heaven. I’ll buy you a bathing suit, says Ann. I’ll teach you how to swim.
They get up at sunrise every morning. Ann makes pancakes, and there is always fresh fruit on the table. A checkered cloth, maple syrup heated on the stove.
Then they go down to the garden, hoe up weeds. The little girl says what if birds go to the bathroom on the lettuce? What if I eat a worm? Ann explains everything.
They ride bikes. They hike up Mount Monadnock. I wish I lived here all the time, says the little girl. She’s not so skinny anymore. Ribs filled in.
Every afternoon they jump in the falls. Dinner is salad from the garden, cheese, fruit, cookies they make together. The little girl tells about her mother at home, who beats her. I will protect you, says Ann (tucking a patchwork quilt under her chin, plugging in the night light). You’re safe now.
What if she’s gone in the morning? And she has taken a pair of pierced earrings, all the best animals from Ann’s Steiff collection, smashed every Fiesta plate in the pantry. Trampled the beans, slashed the corn with a machete. There’s spray paint on the rosebud wallpaper. Ann doesn’t know Spanish, but she can guess what it says.
Jill is lying in bed trying to decide if she can make it to the bathroom without throwing up in the hall. She can hear her father outside in the yard, whistling “California, Here I Come.” Her mother’s watching Phil Donahue. “I don’t want you to misconstrue my question,” Donahue says, “but doesn’t your wife think it’s even a little bit kinky when you put on her brassiere?” The house stinks of bacon.
“What your viewers have got to understand, Phil,” says a husky voice coming from the den, “is that we should all relate to one another as people, not men or women or husbands or wives. My wife views me as an individual who happens to enjoy dressing in women’s clothing.”
She’s going to puke, it’s just a question of where. There’s a bowl of jelly beans on the dresser. If she empties them out, she could take the bowl into the closet and do it there.
“You up, Jill?” Doris calls. Because it’s a school vacation week, she has been letting her daughter sleep until ten-thirty. Later than that she can’t abide. She herself grew up on a farm, and she was milking cows by five o’clock. “I’ve got bacon and eggs ready.”
“Coming, Mom,” says Jill. She’ll clean up later.
“Virgil brought you home at a respectable hour for once, I noticed.” (If she had come home five minutes sooner, Jill would have
And meanwhile she’ll have a wonderful garden so that in August she can invite Rupert to drive down for a picnic. She’ll wear her long antique dress with her blue-and-white-checked apron. She’ll have a basket full of flowers over her arm, and there will be a table set up in the middle of the field, with a vase full of zinnias and the blue enamel plates, and soup with squash blossoms floating in it.
Maybe she’ll invite a Fresh Air child to come stay for the summer. A little girl, six years old, would be good. Estrella. Corazon. Juanita. Some name like that.
She will be very small, very thin, when she gets off the bus. She will be carrying an A & P shopping bag, wearing plastic shoes. Her hair is black and straight, long bangs over large eyes. She will hesitate on the bottom step of the bus for a second, scanning the crowd. Ann comes forward, takes her hand. They will drive home very slowly because the little girl feels carsick from all those hours on the bus.
She has never seen cows. They pull over at the side of the road to look. Then at a produce stand for some fresh-picked strawberries. She says is it O.K. to swallow the seeds?
Ann shows her the waterfall. The little girl gasps, says this is how it looks in heaven. I’ll buy you a bathing suit, says Ann. I’ll teach you how to swim.
They get up at sunrise every morning. Ann makes pancakes, and there is always fresh fruit on the table. A checkered cloth, maple syrup heated on the stove.
Then they go down to the garden, hoe up weeds. The little girl says what if birds go to the bathroom on the lettuce? What if I eat a worm? Ann explains everything.
They ride bikes. They hike up Mount Monadnock. I wish I lived here all the time, says the little girl. She’s not so skinny anymore. Ribs filled in.
Every afternoon they jump in the falls. Dinner is salad from the garden, cheese, fruit, cookies they make together. The little girl tells about her mother at home, who beats her. I will protect you, says Ann (tucking a patchwork quilt under her chin, plugging in the night light). You’re safe now.
What if she’s gone in the morning? And she has taken a pair of pierced earrings, all the best animals from Ann’s Steiff collection, smashed every Fiesta plate in the pantry. Trampled the beans, slashed the corn with a machete. There’s spray paint on the rosebud wallpaper. Ann doesn’t know Spanish, but she can guess what it says.
Jill is lying in bed trying to decide if she can make it to the bathroom without throwing up in the hall. She can hear her father outside in the yard, whistling “California, Here I Come.” Her mother’s watching Phil Donahue. “I don’t want you to misconstrue my question,” Donahue says, “but doesn’t your wife think it’s even a little bit kinky when you put on her brassiere?” The house stinks of bacon.
“What your viewers have got to understand, Phil,” says a husky voice coming from the den, “is that we should all relate to one another as people, not men or women or husbands or wives. My wife views me as an individual who happens to enjoy dressing in women’s clothing.”
She’s going to puke, it’s just a question of where. There’s a bowl of jelly beans on the dresser. If she empties them out, she could take the bowl into the closet and do it there.
“You up, Jill?” Doris calls. Because it’s a school vacation week, she has been letting her daughter sleep until ten-thirty. Later than that she can’t abide. She herself grew up on a farm, and she was milking cows by five o’clock. “I’ve got bacon and eggs ready.”
“Coming, Mom,” says Jill. She’ll clean up later.
“Virgil brought you home at a respectable hour for once, I noticed.” (If she had come home five minutes sooner, Jill would have
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