Read Online Suicide Blonde by Darcey Steinke - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Darcey Steinke
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tall cherry bedpost, highlighting the empty gilded frame over the bed. Pig was never willing to tell me what had been in the frame or why she had taken it out.
“It was horrible,” she said. “I fell, tried a few times to rise, but then gave up and just lay there in the dark . . . Every now and then I'd hear a dog bark or a plane fly overhead. It was like I was a freighter ship going down and my earlier girl-self was on deck waving a yellow scarf.”
I got her to lean up so I could peel off her rancid robe. Pig's body gave off the yeasty smell of bread dough. It was strange to see her; now that I suspected she wasn't a mother, her swollen body seemed even more embarrassing. I went down the hall to the bathroom and wet a towel with warm water. No matter how vulnerable people are, how fragile the delusional structure of their lives, they go on living. People die from liver failure, heart attacks and gunshots but not from loneliness, vanity or confusion—it was this obvious insight that startled me and seemed suddenly amazing. The water had gotten so hot it steamed up the mirror and made my hands numb. I wrung the towel out at its cooler edges and carried it down the hall. Pig's eyes had teared with relief and I let her wipe her face first, before I took the heavy towel and gently rubbed the hollow of her armpit. The hair was long and matted like winter grass. “You know, I was thinking of you and Bell last night,” Pig said, settling down. “I remembered a man I knew who had homosexual tendencies, but went straight. His name was Neal. He worked as a cook, breakfast shift, then spent the afternoon picking up men on the beach.” Pig paused, savoring the picture of nude men entangled on the back dunes. “Suddenly he became religious, decided he needed a wife, one with a couple kids—boys, I think.” Pig's face animated as the details became vivid in her memory: smells, textures, shades of color. I knew how a memory could spiral off like loose yarn.
“The strange part was that when Neal married, his former boyfriend moved in with Neal's mother. He did things for her like grow tomatoes and fix her screen door. Last I heard he was nursing her because she had cancer or leukemia or something like that.”
Her thighs were stained with wine. I opened the towel to the warmer middle. Her dry skin absorbed the wetness gratefully. Pig asked me to bring the robe hanging by the closet. It was a silky thing with a pattern of dogwoods and pink butterflies. She sniffed, leaning up for me to put it over her shoulders.
“I remember too, another time, when I was with my mother's friend. My father was gone for good by then, so I'm sure it was her boyfriend, but people didn't talk like that back then. He took me to a lake to swim and I sprained my ankle, but I didn't tell him. For some reason I felt embarrassed about it. When we got back, he walked ahead, but I had to go slowly, holding onto the car. Why was I so ashamed?” Pig asked me. “Don't you think it's strange?”
“Maybe something else happened that you can't remember?”
“No,” Pig said. “It had to do with hurting myself. I think if someone had hit me or if I'd fallen it might not have been that way.”
I nodded. Self-inflicted pain never gets much sympathy. You keep it to yourself. She grabbed my hand into her own sweaty one. I felt her quick pulse beat against my palm.
“Do you think the opposite of death is love or sex?” Pig asked.
“My father would say it's religion.”
“Oh,” Pig said, not particularly interested. “I always think of that story when Jesus turned water into wine.”
The towel had cooled and I walked down the hall and put it in the hamper and got Pig some water from the bathroom tap. She took the glass gratefully.
“I had a vision, Jesse, but I shouldn't tell you because you'll just think I'm crazy.” She hesitated for a second, long enough for me to notice the dramatic way she tipped her head and how her delivery took a
“It was horrible,” she said. “I fell, tried a few times to rise, but then gave up and just lay there in the dark . . . Every now and then I'd hear a dog bark or a plane fly overhead. It was like I was a freighter ship going down and my earlier girl-self was on deck waving a yellow scarf.”
I got her to lean up so I could peel off her rancid robe. Pig's body gave off the yeasty smell of bread dough. It was strange to see her; now that I suspected she wasn't a mother, her swollen body seemed even more embarrassing. I went down the hall to the bathroom and wet a towel with warm water. No matter how vulnerable people are, how fragile the delusional structure of their lives, they go on living. People die from liver failure, heart attacks and gunshots but not from loneliness, vanity or confusion—it was this obvious insight that startled me and seemed suddenly amazing. The water had gotten so hot it steamed up the mirror and made my hands numb. I wrung the towel out at its cooler edges and carried it down the hall. Pig's eyes had teared with relief and I let her wipe her face first, before I took the heavy towel and gently rubbed the hollow of her armpit. The hair was long and matted like winter grass. “You know, I was thinking of you and Bell last night,” Pig said, settling down. “I remembered a man I knew who had homosexual tendencies, but went straight. His name was Neal. He worked as a cook, breakfast shift, then spent the afternoon picking up men on the beach.” Pig paused, savoring the picture of nude men entangled on the back dunes. “Suddenly he became religious, decided he needed a wife, one with a couple kids—boys, I think.” Pig's face animated as the details became vivid in her memory: smells, textures, shades of color. I knew how a memory could spiral off like loose yarn.
“The strange part was that when Neal married, his former boyfriend moved in with Neal's mother. He did things for her like grow tomatoes and fix her screen door. Last I heard he was nursing her because she had cancer or leukemia or something like that.”
Her thighs were stained with wine. I opened the towel to the warmer middle. Her dry skin absorbed the wetness gratefully. Pig asked me to bring the robe hanging by the closet. It was a silky thing with a pattern of dogwoods and pink butterflies. She sniffed, leaning up for me to put it over her shoulders.
“I remember too, another time, when I was with my mother's friend. My father was gone for good by then, so I'm sure it was her boyfriend, but people didn't talk like that back then. He took me to a lake to swim and I sprained my ankle, but I didn't tell him. For some reason I felt embarrassed about it. When we got back, he walked ahead, but I had to go slowly, holding onto the car. Why was I so ashamed?” Pig asked me. “Don't you think it's strange?”
“Maybe something else happened that you can't remember?”
“No,” Pig said. “It had to do with hurting myself. I think if someone had hit me or if I'd fallen it might not have been that way.”
I nodded. Self-inflicted pain never gets much sympathy. You keep it to yourself. She grabbed my hand into her own sweaty one. I felt her quick pulse beat against my palm.
“Do you think the opposite of death is love or sex?” Pig asked.
“My father would say it's religion.”
“Oh,” Pig said, not particularly interested. “I always think of that story when Jesus turned water into wine.”
The towel had cooled and I walked down the hall and put it in the hamper and got Pig some water from the bathroom tap. She took the glass gratefully.
“I had a vision, Jesse, but I shouldn't tell you because you'll just think I'm crazy.” She hesitated for a second, long enough for me to notice the dramatic way she tipped her head and how her delivery took a
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