Pick-a-Rib Barbecue Pit on Melrose. I’d gone with her to a bar in Malibu because she said they served great silver fizzes there, that’s a drink made with egg whites; I couldn’t have choked one down on a bet but she drank three then we drove on up the Coast Highway to Point Dume. It’s a finger of land sticking out in the ocean where Santa Monica Bay ends. We got out of the car and walked around. It was windy and the water was blue and there weren’t any clouds. A couple of hundred feet from shore a sea lion was sunning itself on a big rock. You could look up the coast and see the rest of California disappearing into the distance, and you could imagine disappearing into that distance too, not looking back, just traveling forever.
Point Dume was where Darla told me all about Darla.
She grew up in a speck-like town on the prairie called Nebraska City, Nebraska. Her father was the postmaster. One winter when she was twelve there was a terrible blizzard and no one could get out of the house for days. Her father just sat there drinking moonshine out of a mason jar and getting more and more worried because he couldn’t get the mail out to people and he felt like he was letting everybody down. Darla said she and her father were sitting at the kitchen table and her mother was standing at the stove cooking breakfast and her mother told her father to quit feeling sorry for himself. Her father didn’t say a word, just got up and started walking toward her mother and then Darla saw a gun in his hand and he shot her mother in the back of the head. Then he turned and looked at Darla.
The wind was howling outside and snow was blowing past the windows and she could see in her father’s eyes that he was about to kill her. She jumped up and ran in the bathroom and locked the door. He started beating on the door then throwing his weight up against it, and she tried to get the window open but it was jammed shut then he burst into the room.
She got in the bathtub like it was some kind of protection and tried to squeeze herself up into a little ball as he walked over and looked down at her. “No, Daddy, don’t!” she said, and he smiled at her and said: “Aw, honey, I wouldn’t never hurt you, I’m your daddy,” and then he shot himself in the side of the head.
She was sent to live with her uncle Gideon. He lived on a farm out in the middle of nothing. He and his wife didn’t have any children. She was an invalid and seldom left their bedroom.
Darla had to do all the cooking and cleaning like the stepchild in a fairy tale. She had to bring in water from the well and feed the chickens and once she even had to help Uncle Gideon slaughter a hog; she held on tight to the hog’s hind legs so it wouldn’t run off while Gideon beat it in the head with a sledge hammer.
One day Darla was sitting in the outhouse when she became aware that Gideon was spying on her through a crack in the door.
As the weeks went on it seemed like every time she looked around she’d find her uncle’s eyes on her. She was only twelve but she’d developed early and she looked sixteen, and she knew enough about the facts of life to know what was on Gideon’s mind.
She was out in the barn gathering eggs on a day in early spring when Gideon came in. He came up behind her and put his hand on her bottom and started rubbing and squeezing it. She told him to stop and he said: “I’m just giving you what you been wanting, you little whoremongering bitch.”
She tried to get away but he chased her around the barn, giggling all the while like they were two kids playing tag. She started taking eggs out of her basket and throwing them at him, and he dodged and giggled till one hit him in the forehead. Then his face turned dark with anger as he wiped off the dripping mess, and she made a break for the ladder that led up to the hay loft. She nearly made it all the way up but then he grabbed her by the ankle and pulled her down, then, still holding on to the
Point Dume was where Darla told me all about Darla.
She grew up in a speck-like town on the prairie called Nebraska City, Nebraska. Her father was the postmaster. One winter when she was twelve there was a terrible blizzard and no one could get out of the house for days. Her father just sat there drinking moonshine out of a mason jar and getting more and more worried because he couldn’t get the mail out to people and he felt like he was letting everybody down. Darla said she and her father were sitting at the kitchen table and her mother was standing at the stove cooking breakfast and her mother told her father to quit feeling sorry for himself. Her father didn’t say a word, just got up and started walking toward her mother and then Darla saw a gun in his hand and he shot her mother in the back of the head. Then he turned and looked at Darla.
The wind was howling outside and snow was blowing past the windows and she could see in her father’s eyes that he was about to kill her. She jumped up and ran in the bathroom and locked the door. He started beating on the door then throwing his weight up against it, and she tried to get the window open but it was jammed shut then he burst into the room.
She got in the bathtub like it was some kind of protection and tried to squeeze herself up into a little ball as he walked over and looked down at her. “No, Daddy, don’t!” she said, and he smiled at her and said: “Aw, honey, I wouldn’t never hurt you, I’m your daddy,” and then he shot himself in the side of the head.
She was sent to live with her uncle Gideon. He lived on a farm out in the middle of nothing. He and his wife didn’t have any children. She was an invalid and seldom left their bedroom.
Darla had to do all the cooking and cleaning like the stepchild in a fairy tale. She had to bring in water from the well and feed the chickens and once she even had to help Uncle Gideon slaughter a hog; she held on tight to the hog’s hind legs so it wouldn’t run off while Gideon beat it in the head with a sledge hammer.
One day Darla was sitting in the outhouse when she became aware that Gideon was spying on her through a crack in the door.
As the weeks went on it seemed like every time she looked around she’d find her uncle’s eyes on her. She was only twelve but she’d developed early and she looked sixteen, and she knew enough about the facts of life to know what was on Gideon’s mind.
She was out in the barn gathering eggs on a day in early spring when Gideon came in. He came up behind her and put his hand on her bottom and started rubbing and squeezing it. She told him to stop and he said: “I’m just giving you what you been wanting, you little whoremongering bitch.”
She tried to get away but he chased her around the barn, giggling all the while like they were two kids playing tag. She started taking eggs out of her basket and throwing them at him, and he dodged and giggled till one hit him in the forehead. Then his face turned dark with anger as he wiped off the dripping mess, and she made a break for the ladder that led up to the hay loft. She nearly made it all the way up but then he grabbed her by the ankle and pulled her down, then, still holding on to the
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