Read Online Inside Madeleine by Paula Bomer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paula Bomer
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miserable. Everything was exactly the same, but more so. Her mother’s face shoved angrily in a newspaper. Her father bouncing around, trying to think of fun things to do, his hands in the air, saying, “Let’s go to the mall!” For some reason, she’d assumed her absence would change things, would make things better. It hadn’t. She ended up returning to Boston early. She had been nearly the only person in her dorm for two days, but she was just happy to be back.
The apartment was a small two-bedroom in an ugly gray building on the corner of Commonwealth and Harvard Avenues inthe very center of the neighborhood of Allston. The first week, Mary would leap up the two flights of creaking, slightly malodorous stairs to their apartment, overcome with excitement. Her bedroom faced Harvard Avenue; it was noisy. Larissa got the back bedroom, equally small and dingy, but quiet at night. Larissa explained she got this room because she had found the apartment, which was true.
Larissa furnished the apartment within a week. There was a shiny red and silver 1950s table with matching chairs, vintage rock posters lovingly stuck on the walls with blue gum so as not to damage them, and a groovy purple velvet couch that barely fit in the tiny space that passed for a living room. No matter, it was all cheap, all second-hand and all fabulous. She had already found a job at a trendy record store on Newbury Street.
The night they both moved in, Larissa sat on the purple couch, stroking it with one hand. In her other hand, she held a cigarette. She had picked up smoking to lose weight and it was working. “Have you found a job yet?”
Mary let out a ragged breath. “I have an interview tomorrow. At a halfway house for formerly institutionalized mental patients.”
“Really? That’s fascinating.” Larissa blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling
“I want a job in my field,” Mary said.
The next day, bright and early, Mary put on her only nice skirt and a collared white blouse. She brushed her hair too much,ripping the brush through it over and over so it ended up staticky and wild, swirling upward and tickling her ears. She tried to barrette it down with some success. Then she took the T out to Cleveland Circle. It took about twenty minutes and was above ground the whole way. The sun shone brilliantly, trees swayed their green leaves in the light wind. It was June in New England, she was interviewing for a job in her field. Her body vibrated with the beauty of it, the possibility of it all.
She got off after the T had climbed a long, sloping hill that seemed to be the end of Boston and the beginning of the suburbs. The house was right there. Right in front of her. She was forty minutes early for her interview and beginning to sweat. It had suddenly gotten muggy. She hadn’t noticed it in the cool air-conditioning of the T. The house was a large, old Victorian, with an enormous porch and two huge elm trees in the sloping front yard. While she stood there staring at the house, a man came out and sat in a chair on the porch and lit a cigarette. She ducked her head and began walking and continued to walk around until she was only fifteen minutes early for her interview, at which time she walked up the wooden steps onto the porch. At this point, she was damp with sweat and there were three men and one woman out on the porch, smoking. One man stood nervously. He said something to her, but she couldn’t understand him.
“Hi, I’m here for an interview,” she said. No one said anything. Perhaps she shouldn’t have said anything. The woman got up and went to the door just as Mary was going to.
“Brigid!” she screamed loudly. “Brigid!”
“Oh, excuse me,” Mary said, trying to get past the screaming woman. “I’ll just go in and find her.”
Brigid came through a hall and it was suddenly clear that here was the woman she would meet and talk to, here was someone who worked here—indeed, here was the woman she spoke with on
The apartment was a small two-bedroom in an ugly gray building on the corner of Commonwealth and Harvard Avenues inthe very center of the neighborhood of Allston. The first week, Mary would leap up the two flights of creaking, slightly malodorous stairs to their apartment, overcome with excitement. Her bedroom faced Harvard Avenue; it was noisy. Larissa got the back bedroom, equally small and dingy, but quiet at night. Larissa explained she got this room because she had found the apartment, which was true.
Larissa furnished the apartment within a week. There was a shiny red and silver 1950s table with matching chairs, vintage rock posters lovingly stuck on the walls with blue gum so as not to damage them, and a groovy purple velvet couch that barely fit in the tiny space that passed for a living room. No matter, it was all cheap, all second-hand and all fabulous. She had already found a job at a trendy record store on Newbury Street.
The night they both moved in, Larissa sat on the purple couch, stroking it with one hand. In her other hand, she held a cigarette. She had picked up smoking to lose weight and it was working. “Have you found a job yet?”
Mary let out a ragged breath. “I have an interview tomorrow. At a halfway house for formerly institutionalized mental patients.”
“Really? That’s fascinating.” Larissa blew a smoke ring toward the ceiling
“I want a job in my field,” Mary said.
The next day, bright and early, Mary put on her only nice skirt and a collared white blouse. She brushed her hair too much,ripping the brush through it over and over so it ended up staticky and wild, swirling upward and tickling her ears. She tried to barrette it down with some success. Then she took the T out to Cleveland Circle. It took about twenty minutes and was above ground the whole way. The sun shone brilliantly, trees swayed their green leaves in the light wind. It was June in New England, she was interviewing for a job in her field. Her body vibrated with the beauty of it, the possibility of it all.
She got off after the T had climbed a long, sloping hill that seemed to be the end of Boston and the beginning of the suburbs. The house was right there. Right in front of her. She was forty minutes early for her interview and beginning to sweat. It had suddenly gotten muggy. She hadn’t noticed it in the cool air-conditioning of the T. The house was a large, old Victorian, with an enormous porch and two huge elm trees in the sloping front yard. While she stood there staring at the house, a man came out and sat in a chair on the porch and lit a cigarette. She ducked her head and began walking and continued to walk around until she was only fifteen minutes early for her interview, at which time she walked up the wooden steps onto the porch. At this point, she was damp with sweat and there were three men and one woman out on the porch, smoking. One man stood nervously. He said something to her, but she couldn’t understand him.
“Hi, I’m here for an interview,” she said. No one said anything. Perhaps she shouldn’t have said anything. The woman got up and went to the door just as Mary was going to.
“Brigid!” she screamed loudly. “Brigid!”
“Oh, excuse me,” Mary said, trying to get past the screaming woman. “I’ll just go in and find her.”
Brigid came through a hall and it was suddenly clear that here was the woman she would meet and talk to, here was someone who worked here—indeed, here was the woman she spoke with on
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