Read Online If a Stranger Approaches You: Stories by Laura Kasischke - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Laura Kasischke
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the neighing turn to screaming—some kind of whining followed by a shout, and then what sounded like a chant, a few girls chanting a nursery rhyme in a chorus. Throughthe window over the kitchen sink he could only see the sun on their hair. Shining and whipped about, the flash of a rope, light bouncing off something rubbery and white that must have been the sole of a little girl’s shoe tossed into the air.
And children!
What fools they’d been to think that they should have one, and in this way! That their child would blossom and bring them joy if they raised her in this place. Mall rats and sitcom watchers. They should have moved to Greece, had a baby there, lived near the sea. Or bought a little farm. Home-schooled her. Shoot Your Television was a bumper sticker Tony actually loved. He should have shot their television. If he bought a gun, he still could.
“I don’t think this is a good time to talk,” Melody said.
“When would be a good time to talk?” Tony asked.
When he’d called a few weeks ago and told her he needed to talk to her she said she didn’t want to talk on the phone. He’d hung up and immediately gone to the west corner of his apartment living room and ripped a large strip of the wall-to-wall carpeting up. Under that carpet, there were just ugly plywood boards, sawdust, loose tacks.
“When would be a good time to talk?” he repeated.
“I don’t know,” Melody said. She threw the silverware she’d been scraping into the little basket in the dishwasher and stood up, facing him.
Jesus. She was a hundred times more beautiful than she’d been when she was younger. Back then, he’d have had to admit, there was something a bit blank, slightly asexual, about her face. Unformed, unopinionated, a fresh slate. He could still see her sipping that chocolate shake or whatever she’d had in that lidded paper cup at Pizza Bob’s, that sweet-seeming thing she was sucking up when he’d met her, and the first glimpse he’d had of her childhood bedroom when she’d brought him home to meet her parents. That narrow white shelf on the wall lined with paperbacks— Go Ask Alice, Love Story, Jaws, The Bell Jar, Jonathan Livingston Seagull. And a banner tacked to the flowered wallpaper. THE CLASS OF SEVENTY-NINE.
Tony had known instantly that, had they gone to the same high school, he would have despised her, that she was precisely the kind of girl he would have despised. He’d been editor of the newspaper, constantly on the verge of being expelled for something he’d published or written. He’d played drums in a jazz band. Hated music you could hear on the radio. The girls he’d liked had smoked cigarettes and written angry poetry, listened to Patti Smith. It’s why he’d been attracted to that other girl, the history major with her sleepy eyes, radiating dissatisfaction. She could have been a novelist’s wife. Either that or she’d have knocked the stupid notion of writing a novel out of his head in one biting remark, and he could have gotten on with his life.
But somehow, and wonderfully, over the years, Melody had become that history major. Now, sure, there were lines around her eyes, some kind of tugging going on there, and she looked her age, but she also looked like a woman who knew things about the world, things she’d rather not divulge, but could divulge, if push came to shove. There was something, too, he supposed, about mothers. All that potential ferocity. Touch my baby, and I’ll rip your throat out.
And her body. Completely familiar, every curve and freckle, the smell and the taste of it. He could have made his way blindfolded through a stadium full of naked women and found his way to her. She had been one part of what he’d wanted, back then, and now she’d become the other part as well. It was incredible, really. He put his hand on the side of her face, and it surprised him that she didn’t flinch away. “Please,” was all she said, shaking her head, sending those
And children!
What fools they’d been to think that they should have one, and in this way! That their child would blossom and bring them joy if they raised her in this place. Mall rats and sitcom watchers. They should have moved to Greece, had a baby there, lived near the sea. Or bought a little farm. Home-schooled her. Shoot Your Television was a bumper sticker Tony actually loved. He should have shot their television. If he bought a gun, he still could.
“I don’t think this is a good time to talk,” Melody said.
“When would be a good time to talk?” Tony asked.
When he’d called a few weeks ago and told her he needed to talk to her she said she didn’t want to talk on the phone. He’d hung up and immediately gone to the west corner of his apartment living room and ripped a large strip of the wall-to-wall carpeting up. Under that carpet, there were just ugly plywood boards, sawdust, loose tacks.
“When would be a good time to talk?” he repeated.
“I don’t know,” Melody said. She threw the silverware she’d been scraping into the little basket in the dishwasher and stood up, facing him.
Jesus. She was a hundred times more beautiful than she’d been when she was younger. Back then, he’d have had to admit, there was something a bit blank, slightly asexual, about her face. Unformed, unopinionated, a fresh slate. He could still see her sipping that chocolate shake or whatever she’d had in that lidded paper cup at Pizza Bob’s, that sweet-seeming thing she was sucking up when he’d met her, and the first glimpse he’d had of her childhood bedroom when she’d brought him home to meet her parents. That narrow white shelf on the wall lined with paperbacks— Go Ask Alice, Love Story, Jaws, The Bell Jar, Jonathan Livingston Seagull. And a banner tacked to the flowered wallpaper. THE CLASS OF SEVENTY-NINE.
Tony had known instantly that, had they gone to the same high school, he would have despised her, that she was precisely the kind of girl he would have despised. He’d been editor of the newspaper, constantly on the verge of being expelled for something he’d published or written. He’d played drums in a jazz band. Hated music you could hear on the radio. The girls he’d liked had smoked cigarettes and written angry poetry, listened to Patti Smith. It’s why he’d been attracted to that other girl, the history major with her sleepy eyes, radiating dissatisfaction. She could have been a novelist’s wife. Either that or she’d have knocked the stupid notion of writing a novel out of his head in one biting remark, and he could have gotten on with his life.
But somehow, and wonderfully, over the years, Melody had become that history major. Now, sure, there were lines around her eyes, some kind of tugging going on there, and she looked her age, but she also looked like a woman who knew things about the world, things she’d rather not divulge, but could divulge, if push came to shove. There was something, too, he supposed, about mothers. All that potential ferocity. Touch my baby, and I’ll rip your throat out.
And her body. Completely familiar, every curve and freckle, the smell and the taste of it. He could have made his way blindfolded through a stadium full of naked women and found his way to her. She had been one part of what he’d wanted, back then, and now she’d become the other part as well. It was incredible, really. He put his hand on the side of her face, and it surprised him that she didn’t flinch away. “Please,” was all she said, shaking her head, sending those
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