Read Online Call Me Jane by Anthea Carson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anthea Carson
Ads: Link
Glinda’s so long she said she was starting to call Mrs. Sinclair Ma. On the way home, she told me a story about Glinda.
“They did this thing in class when we were in 6grade,” she said. She lived at least twenty minutes out of town, so we had time for a lot of stories. “Where they were trying to make a point about abortion. They told us a story about a woman who’d already had like thirteen miscarriages, right? And that if she had another miscarriage, she would most likely die. Then they asked us would we vote for an abortion? Yes, the class voted. ‘Well,’ the teach said, ‘you just killed Beethoven!’ The next day Glinda asked permission to address the class,” Gay continued, and at this part of the story she really began to light up, “the teacher said yes, and Glinda got up and told the class about a woman who’d had thirteen miscarriages. With the next one she will surely die. What do you vote for: an abortion, or force her to carry it to term? ‘Force her!’ they shouted. ‘Well,’ Glinda said, ‘you all just saved Hitler!’”
“That’s genius!” I said. Then she gave me directions to Lake Street, which was right off Bowen, which turned into Highway 45 at the edge of town.
“You like Paul, don’t you?” Gay asked.
Gay didn’t smoke. But she asked me for a cigarette, and I gave her one and lit it for her because, of course, since she didn’t smoke, she would probably not be carrying a lighter, and she never carried a purse. And the lighter lit up her face, which, for all the world, should have been a boy’s.
“You want him, don’t you? Turn here,” she said, and managed somehow to point with her stream of smoke.
I turned right toward the lake, in the middle of a sentence in which I floundered around for an answer.
“Fuck Lucy,” she said. “Do what you want to do.”
The road wound around to the left and became narrower and narrower. Trees hung over us on each side, scraping the windshield and nearly making the road into a tunnel. We had the windows open. The branches came into the windows and scraped the sides of our cheeks. We could hear every sound from the lake and the thick woods around us, around the tiny cabins and houses. Some of them were okay, but many of them looked like hers. Like neglected shacks overgrown with weeds and moss and wild, out-of-control bushes that covered up windows so that if anyone lived there, they couldn’t see out, and we couldn’t see in. Then we began to hear the croaking. And worse. Something much worse. It was thick, it was everywhere. It was so loud we slowed down and looked at each other. Her eyes were a question.
“You’ve never heard this before?” I asked.
“No!”
I turned on the brights so I could see them. Hundreds of them. That explained the sounds we were hearing under the wheels. It was the sound of bodies being smashed and popped and spurting their liquids all over the road. It was the sound of slippery frog blood under the tires. So thick and viscous it could have caused my car to spin out just like the ice would in the winter when I was speeding.
They jumped onto the windshield and slid down. I watched the body of one slide right in front of my face. It was ghastly.
“Roll up the windows,” I said, quickly turning to Gay, who stared with her mouth open at the horror show. I wasn’t driving fast, yet they were still being squished against the glass.
It was too late to stop them from hopping into the car. I don’t know how many made it inside, but one was enough to have us panicking and screaming, “Get them off me! Get them off me!”
I skidded to a stop, nearly hitting a tree. I started to open the door, to leave the car, to force them out of my car. Gay waved her arms and flung some out the window, shouting, “Don’t open the door! You’ll let more of them in!”
As we both rolled up our windows as fast as we could, the inevitable happened.
“Oh God, that’s so gross!”
A part of the frog’s leg
“They did this thing in class when we were in 6grade,” she said. She lived at least twenty minutes out of town, so we had time for a lot of stories. “Where they were trying to make a point about abortion. They told us a story about a woman who’d already had like thirteen miscarriages, right? And that if she had another miscarriage, she would most likely die. Then they asked us would we vote for an abortion? Yes, the class voted. ‘Well,’ the teach said, ‘you just killed Beethoven!’ The next day Glinda asked permission to address the class,” Gay continued, and at this part of the story she really began to light up, “the teacher said yes, and Glinda got up and told the class about a woman who’d had thirteen miscarriages. With the next one she will surely die. What do you vote for: an abortion, or force her to carry it to term? ‘Force her!’ they shouted. ‘Well,’ Glinda said, ‘you all just saved Hitler!’”
“That’s genius!” I said. Then she gave me directions to Lake Street, which was right off Bowen, which turned into Highway 45 at the edge of town.
“You like Paul, don’t you?” Gay asked.
Gay didn’t smoke. But she asked me for a cigarette, and I gave her one and lit it for her because, of course, since she didn’t smoke, she would probably not be carrying a lighter, and she never carried a purse. And the lighter lit up her face, which, for all the world, should have been a boy’s.
“You want him, don’t you? Turn here,” she said, and managed somehow to point with her stream of smoke.
I turned right toward the lake, in the middle of a sentence in which I floundered around for an answer.
“Fuck Lucy,” she said. “Do what you want to do.”
The road wound around to the left and became narrower and narrower. Trees hung over us on each side, scraping the windshield and nearly making the road into a tunnel. We had the windows open. The branches came into the windows and scraped the sides of our cheeks. We could hear every sound from the lake and the thick woods around us, around the tiny cabins and houses. Some of them were okay, but many of them looked like hers. Like neglected shacks overgrown with weeds and moss and wild, out-of-control bushes that covered up windows so that if anyone lived there, they couldn’t see out, and we couldn’t see in. Then we began to hear the croaking. And worse. Something much worse. It was thick, it was everywhere. It was so loud we slowed down and looked at each other. Her eyes were a question.
“You’ve never heard this before?” I asked.
“No!”
I turned on the brights so I could see them. Hundreds of them. That explained the sounds we were hearing under the wheels. It was the sound of bodies being smashed and popped and spurting their liquids all over the road. It was the sound of slippery frog blood under the tires. So thick and viscous it could have caused my car to spin out just like the ice would in the winter when I was speeding.
They jumped onto the windshield and slid down. I watched the body of one slide right in front of my face. It was ghastly.
“Roll up the windows,” I said, quickly turning to Gay, who stared with her mouth open at the horror show. I wasn’t driving fast, yet they were still being squished against the glass.
It was too late to stop them from hopping into the car. I don’t know how many made it inside, but one was enough to have us panicking and screaming, “Get them off me! Get them off me!”
I skidded to a stop, nearly hitting a tree. I started to open the door, to leave the car, to force them out of my car. Gay waved her arms and flung some out the window, shouting, “Don’t open the door! You’ll let more of them in!”
As we both rolled up our windows as fast as we could, the inevitable happened.
“Oh God, that’s so gross!”
A part of the frog’s leg
Similar Books
