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Authors: James Scott Bell
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for you. And you’re my friend. You got me through a rough time. Maybe I can do something for you.”
Lindy leaned back and looked at the ceiling. She’d never talked about it, not with anyone.
“So I had a lousy father,” Lindy said. “It’s not like I’m the only one.”
“Come on.”
“What’s the big deal? He drank, he beat my mom up, he beat—”
Lindy stopped suddenly, an unwelcome memory unfurling in her mind. She closed her eyes, fighting it back. “Forget it.”
“Hey, girl, I’m sorry I—”
“Forget it, I said.” Lindy, embarrassed, wiped the wetness in her eyes with the back of her hand.
A long, penetrating silence passed. In that silence, ideas fell and shifted inside Lindy’s mind, a rearrangement of mental furniture. Her assumptions changed, and she regarded the changes and knew what she had to do.
“I’m taking the case,” she said. “Let’s get to work.”
FIVE
1.
“Please try to talk.”
Mona shook her head. It felt empty, like her heart.
“I don’t mean to push you,” Brad said.
But he did, and Mona knew it. She also knew this was hurting him. She didn’t want to hurt him. She loved him. They’d had one child, Matthew, born after two miscarriages.
She loved him but she was not ready to talk about it.
“We are going to get through this,” Brad said. He reached across the table—the dining room table she had found at a garage sale early in their marriage and had restored herself, a table set with a banquet of fond memories. She did not reach halfway.
“Brad, I’m sorry. I just need more time.”
“I know. We both do.”
In the silence Mona heard the clock ticking on top of the refrigerator. She’d picked that up at the same garage sale. For fifty cents. Strange how clearly she could remember that.
“Let’s just talk about something,” Brad said. “Anything.”
Mona took a sip of coffee. It was lukewarm.
Brad picked up the front page of the Daily News. “Did you see this? There’s a group up in Santa Cruz, wants to bring a lawsuit on behalf of overweight pets. Going after owners, the pet food industry, even—”
Mona closed her eyes.
“—the pounds. Hey, that’s kind of a joke, isn’t it? Overweight. Pounds.”
Mona rubbed her temples.
“You know who I think is behind it? The Atkins people. Wouldn’t that be a great conspiracy theory?”
Nodding her head, Mona tried to smile for him. But she couldn’t.
The mirror was not doing her any favors. She could hardly stand to look at herself. Where once her copper-colored eyes had reflected light, they now seemed muddy, like the streets of a southern town after a flood. Had she cried enough tears to wash the light from them?
And where once she had a face that people said looked younger than her thirty-eight years (“You could have been an actress or a model,” Brad used to tell her), she now fought every wrinkle. The scar near the corner of her mouth was where a precancerous growth had been cut out by her HMO surgeon two years ago. The scar had always looked like a dimple to her, but that was when she was looking through eyes that could still see hope. Now they saw every flaw on her face and the gray strands showing up in her auburn hair.
She was able to go through the motions of humanity—to walk, to speak, to give the impression of rational thought. But behind the movement she wandered, dazed, lost in her own illusion, the inhabitant of permanent nightmare. And when she paused to reflect, she threatened to topple into a bottomless, empty pit.
And God would not save her from falling. He was not above; he was not present. If anything, he was below the pit and silent.
She remembered reading about some theologians’ concept of God as being powerless to intervene in life. Things happened that were bad, and God grieved along with the rest of us.
At the time she’d shaken her head and even said something to Brad about how loony some people were, even people who taught at the
Lindy leaned back and looked at the ceiling. She’d never talked about it, not with anyone.
“So I had a lousy father,” Lindy said. “It’s not like I’m the only one.”
“Come on.”
“What’s the big deal? He drank, he beat my mom up, he beat—”
Lindy stopped suddenly, an unwelcome memory unfurling in her mind. She closed her eyes, fighting it back. “Forget it.”
“Hey, girl, I’m sorry I—”
“Forget it, I said.” Lindy, embarrassed, wiped the wetness in her eyes with the back of her hand.
A long, penetrating silence passed. In that silence, ideas fell and shifted inside Lindy’s mind, a rearrangement of mental furniture. Her assumptions changed, and she regarded the changes and knew what she had to do.
“I’m taking the case,” she said. “Let’s get to work.”
FIVE
1.
“Please try to talk.”
Mona shook her head. It felt empty, like her heart.
“I don’t mean to push you,” Brad said.
But he did, and Mona knew it. She also knew this was hurting him. She didn’t want to hurt him. She loved him. They’d had one child, Matthew, born after two miscarriages.
She loved him but she was not ready to talk about it.
“We are going to get through this,” Brad said. He reached across the table—the dining room table she had found at a garage sale early in their marriage and had restored herself, a table set with a banquet of fond memories. She did not reach halfway.
“Brad, I’m sorry. I just need more time.”
“I know. We both do.”
In the silence Mona heard the clock ticking on top of the refrigerator. She’d picked that up at the same garage sale. For fifty cents. Strange how clearly she could remember that.
“Let’s just talk about something,” Brad said. “Anything.”
Mona took a sip of coffee. It was lukewarm.
Brad picked up the front page of the Daily News. “Did you see this? There’s a group up in Santa Cruz, wants to bring a lawsuit on behalf of overweight pets. Going after owners, the pet food industry, even—”
Mona closed her eyes.
“—the pounds. Hey, that’s kind of a joke, isn’t it? Overweight. Pounds.”
Mona rubbed her temples.
“You know who I think is behind it? The Atkins people. Wouldn’t that be a great conspiracy theory?”
Nodding her head, Mona tried to smile for him. But she couldn’t.
The mirror was not doing her any favors. She could hardly stand to look at herself. Where once her copper-colored eyes had reflected light, they now seemed muddy, like the streets of a southern town after a flood. Had she cried enough tears to wash the light from them?
And where once she had a face that people said looked younger than her thirty-eight years (“You could have been an actress or a model,” Brad used to tell her), she now fought every wrinkle. The scar near the corner of her mouth was where a precancerous growth had been cut out by her HMO surgeon two years ago. The scar had always looked like a dimple to her, but that was when she was looking through eyes that could still see hope. Now they saw every flaw on her face and the gray strands showing up in her auburn hair.
She was able to go through the motions of humanity—to walk, to speak, to give the impression of rational thought. But behind the movement she wandered, dazed, lost in her own illusion, the inhabitant of permanent nightmare. And when she paused to reflect, she threatened to topple into a bottomless, empty pit.
And God would not save her from falling. He was not above; he was not present. If anything, he was below the pit and silent.
She remembered reading about some theologians’ concept of God as being powerless to intervene in life. Things happened that were bad, and God grieved along with the rest of us.
At the time she’d shaken her head and even said something to Brad about how loony some people were, even people who taught at the
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