Read Online Riding In Cars With Boys by Beverly Donofrio - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Beverly Donofrio
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miracle shit is a bunch of propaganda. I’ll never, no matter what, have another one as long as I live. And Jason? He’s all right. I love him, but it’s not what you imagine. It’s more like you’d love an abandoned puppy you found on the street.”
With my friends around, I liked to make fun of Jason. I took off his clothes, strapped him to his changing table, then imitated Diana Ross in my “Love Child” routine. “Started his life in old cold run-down tenement slum … love child, always second best, love child, different from the rest.” I swung my hips, spun around, and pointed at him to the beat.
If we laughed too loud, Raymond called from the living room for us to keep it down.
By winter, Ray was working four to twelve and leaving me alone every night. And just about every night, Virginia came by to keep me company after she’d finished her homework. She gave me all her books to read as soon as she’d finished them, like The Ego and the Id , from Psychology 101, and some Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Ford Madox Ford books from a course called “The Jazz Age.” I joined the Literary Guild and got four more books by Hemingway, four by Steinbeck, and four by Faulkner, which I read whenever Jase went down for a nap or I could get him to shut up in his playpen for a while. I was trying to make myself smart to make up for not going to college.
The thing V and I liked to do best, besides talk about her classes, was to play with the Ouija board. Usually, we asked it questions like if I’d ever get divorced; when Raymond would die; if Jason would go to college; when Bobby and Virginia would marry; how many children they’d have; and if Bobby would make it home from Vietnam in one piece. Then one night we contacted a spirit. Her name was Nancy and she told us her history: she’d died at the age of eighteen, had three brothers still alive and one sister dead, lived somewhere in Michigan, and was a B student in high school. We carried on a dialogue with Nancy for a couple of nights before she turned nasty.
It was early spring and one of those moonless nights when little puffs of wind pushed the shades away from the window, leaving a black gap where someone could peek in. We were a little scared to begin with, but then when the magic indicator started jerking around the board spelling out profanities, I thought my heart would beat a hole through my chest. “Nancy, is that you?” I said.
Fuck, bitch, bastard, asshole.
“Why are you swearing?” Virginia asked.
Dirty twat, scum, cunt.
Then we heard a crash behind us. We jerked our hands off the magic indicator. The utensil rack was swinging from one screw in the wall and the utensils were strewn all over the floor.
We walked over to the wall to get a good look. Here’s the thing. The rack was made in such a way that you had to squeeze it together to pull the round holes over the screws. The only way it could be swinging there would be if the other screw had fallen out of the wall or if someone had squeezed the rack together, then pulled it off. Both screws were still in the wall.
V and I looked at each other, screamed, ran up the stairs, and locked ourselves in the bathroom. We sat on the floor with our backs pressed against the door. “What about Jason?” V said.
“Oh God,” I said. “We have to get him.” We ran across the hall on our toes, went into his room, locked the door, and peeked in his crib. He was lying on his back. His eyes were wide open with only the whites showing.
We ran back into the bathroom. “He’s possessed,” I said.
“Oh, Mary, Mother of God.” V was my only religious friend. She went to mass every morning—she said it was for the peace and quiet, but I knew she probably prayed for Bobby. Just then we heard banging at the front door. We stopped breathing. Then we heard banging at the back door, next the cellar hatchway being pulled open, then footfalls on the stairs. By the time the door opened from the cellar to the
With my friends around, I liked to make fun of Jason. I took off his clothes, strapped him to his changing table, then imitated Diana Ross in my “Love Child” routine. “Started his life in old cold run-down tenement slum … love child, always second best, love child, different from the rest.” I swung my hips, spun around, and pointed at him to the beat.
If we laughed too loud, Raymond called from the living room for us to keep it down.
By winter, Ray was working four to twelve and leaving me alone every night. And just about every night, Virginia came by to keep me company after she’d finished her homework. She gave me all her books to read as soon as she’d finished them, like The Ego and the Id , from Psychology 101, and some Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Ford Madox Ford books from a course called “The Jazz Age.” I joined the Literary Guild and got four more books by Hemingway, four by Steinbeck, and four by Faulkner, which I read whenever Jase went down for a nap or I could get him to shut up in his playpen for a while. I was trying to make myself smart to make up for not going to college.
The thing V and I liked to do best, besides talk about her classes, was to play with the Ouija board. Usually, we asked it questions like if I’d ever get divorced; when Raymond would die; if Jason would go to college; when Bobby and Virginia would marry; how many children they’d have; and if Bobby would make it home from Vietnam in one piece. Then one night we contacted a spirit. Her name was Nancy and she told us her history: she’d died at the age of eighteen, had three brothers still alive and one sister dead, lived somewhere in Michigan, and was a B student in high school. We carried on a dialogue with Nancy for a couple of nights before she turned nasty.
It was early spring and one of those moonless nights when little puffs of wind pushed the shades away from the window, leaving a black gap where someone could peek in. We were a little scared to begin with, but then when the magic indicator started jerking around the board spelling out profanities, I thought my heart would beat a hole through my chest. “Nancy, is that you?” I said.
Fuck, bitch, bastard, asshole.
“Why are you swearing?” Virginia asked.
Dirty twat, scum, cunt.
Then we heard a crash behind us. We jerked our hands off the magic indicator. The utensil rack was swinging from one screw in the wall and the utensils were strewn all over the floor.
We walked over to the wall to get a good look. Here’s the thing. The rack was made in such a way that you had to squeeze it together to pull the round holes over the screws. The only way it could be swinging there would be if the other screw had fallen out of the wall or if someone had squeezed the rack together, then pulled it off. Both screws were still in the wall.
V and I looked at each other, screamed, ran up the stairs, and locked ourselves in the bathroom. We sat on the floor with our backs pressed against the door. “What about Jason?” V said.
“Oh God,” I said. “We have to get him.” We ran across the hall on our toes, went into his room, locked the door, and peeked in his crib. He was lying on his back. His eyes were wide open with only the whites showing.
We ran back into the bathroom. “He’s possessed,” I said.
“Oh, Mary, Mother of God.” V was my only religious friend. She went to mass every morning—she said it was for the peace and quiet, but I knew she probably prayed for Bobby. Just then we heard banging at the front door. We stopped breathing. Then we heard banging at the back door, next the cellar hatchway being pulled open, then footfalls on the stairs. By the time the door opened from the cellar to the
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