talks to herself all day long. She has quite a bit to say.
“Mister,” I once heard her say, starting a conversation that she continued for the entire eight-hour shift. She played both sides of a conversation. The first role was her, the second role was a very mean man. I couldn’t figure him out—he sounded like God or a doctor or a police officer with a sadistic streak. She said, “There’s a lawn furniture set at Zayre’s.”
“And how much is the set?” she, as the man, in a deep voice answered.
“Well I was hoping you could do something about that because its more than I’ve got.”
And then, “Woman!” from the mister’s side of her conversation, “What’d you spend all your money on?”
And then back to her, “Well I never actually got any money to spend.”
Then him, “Why don’t you get a husband first then a patio set.”
“I can’t. I’m fifty-five years old. I’m past fresh.”
“Woman! Trying to take all my money!”
She stuffed her tin. “No better than the slithery snake that got us here,” she said as the mister. And I thought about what was in my apron, the Jude/sardine. I ground it against me and I thought that he, she was right. Those are the choices for women who live here. Dirty. Domesticated. Deaf. Deformed. Slithery. Siren. Psychotic. Silent.
OST OVE
My mother is upstairs looking for something. She is starting to spit words. “Damn. Damn. Where the—” Her search will continue in this vein for a while until she gives up, exhausted. Rarely does she find what she is looking for. The house is just too full to be able to find anything.
My grandfather is working on his dictionary. Often he has to mix and match fonts and sometimes he leaves words out if too many letters are missing. He’s talking to himself but I hear him say, “What’s lost or love without any Ls?” Ost ove I think. He tries to work for a bit without any Ls but then he calls out to me. “I think I have a drawer of Palatino in the attic. Would you, dear?”
“Please no,” I say.
“Come on.”
“It’s scary up there,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says and grunts which means, Will you do it anyway? And then he keeps his chin tucked and rolls his eyeballs up to me, showing the white undersides, looking more like a slow reptile, a turtle whose shell has been crushed by teenage hooligans. He looks like that so I’ll feel sorry for him. It always works.
I take the attic stairs slowly, lifting both feet to each stair before advancing to the next in order to give any scary thing living in our attic fair warning that I’m coming and that it should clear out. There is a row of hanging garment bags and behind them a dark area in the eaves that is blocked by the bags. Anyone or anything could live up here.
Along the shore when I was young my mother, father, and I used to comb through the debris that storms would deposit on the beach. The sand and seaweed coated everything and made each log and shell and forgotten beach towel look the same. The sand hid the valuable things, baseball caps, old photos, canvas bags of money, in with the driftwood. It required a slow and discerning eye to separate the worthwhile from the junk. My father had such an eye. “There’s a work glove,” he said once to me and eyeballed it up ahead. I ran to grab it and clutched it quite close for a minute until I realized that the strange weight inside the glove was not sand that had accumulated there but was rather the part of the glove’s original owner that belonged inside the glove, namely, the hand. I screamed and ran back to my parents. “It’s not a glove. It’s a hand. A HAND!” So my mother and I turned back to run in the opposite direction, away from the hand, screaming. But my father had to see it for himself. That’s the sort of person he is. He walked slowly to where I’d dropped the hand on the beach and he grabbed it as though he were shaking it, saying, “Pleased to meet you.” He felt around on
“Mister,” I once heard her say, starting a conversation that she continued for the entire eight-hour shift. She played both sides of a conversation. The first role was her, the second role was a very mean man. I couldn’t figure him out—he sounded like God or a doctor or a police officer with a sadistic streak. She said, “There’s a lawn furniture set at Zayre’s.”
“And how much is the set?” she, as the man, in a deep voice answered.
“Well I was hoping you could do something about that because its more than I’ve got.”
And then, “Woman!” from the mister’s side of her conversation, “What’d you spend all your money on?”
And then back to her, “Well I never actually got any money to spend.”
Then him, “Why don’t you get a husband first then a patio set.”
“I can’t. I’m fifty-five years old. I’m past fresh.”
“Woman! Trying to take all my money!”
She stuffed her tin. “No better than the slithery snake that got us here,” she said as the mister. And I thought about what was in my apron, the Jude/sardine. I ground it against me and I thought that he, she was right. Those are the choices for women who live here. Dirty. Domesticated. Deaf. Deformed. Slithery. Siren. Psychotic. Silent.
OST OVE
My mother is upstairs looking for something. She is starting to spit words. “Damn. Damn. Where the—” Her search will continue in this vein for a while until she gives up, exhausted. Rarely does she find what she is looking for. The house is just too full to be able to find anything.
My grandfather is working on his dictionary. Often he has to mix and match fonts and sometimes he leaves words out if too many letters are missing. He’s talking to himself but I hear him say, “What’s lost or love without any Ls?” Ost ove I think. He tries to work for a bit without any Ls but then he calls out to me. “I think I have a drawer of Palatino in the attic. Would you, dear?”
“Please no,” I say.
“Come on.”
“It’s scary up there,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says and grunts which means, Will you do it anyway? And then he keeps his chin tucked and rolls his eyeballs up to me, showing the white undersides, looking more like a slow reptile, a turtle whose shell has been crushed by teenage hooligans. He looks like that so I’ll feel sorry for him. It always works.
I take the attic stairs slowly, lifting both feet to each stair before advancing to the next in order to give any scary thing living in our attic fair warning that I’m coming and that it should clear out. There is a row of hanging garment bags and behind them a dark area in the eaves that is blocked by the bags. Anyone or anything could live up here.
Along the shore when I was young my mother, father, and I used to comb through the debris that storms would deposit on the beach. The sand and seaweed coated everything and made each log and shell and forgotten beach towel look the same. The sand hid the valuable things, baseball caps, old photos, canvas bags of money, in with the driftwood. It required a slow and discerning eye to separate the worthwhile from the junk. My father had such an eye. “There’s a work glove,” he said once to me and eyeballed it up ahead. I ran to grab it and clutched it quite close for a minute until I realized that the strange weight inside the glove was not sand that had accumulated there but was rather the part of the glove’s original owner that belonged inside the glove, namely, the hand. I screamed and ran back to my parents. “It’s not a glove. It’s a hand. A HAND!” So my mother and I turned back to run in the opposite direction, away from the hand, screaming. But my father had to see it for himself. That’s the sort of person he is. He walked slowly to where I’d dropped the hand on the beach and he grabbed it as though he were shaking it, saying, “Pleased to meet you.” He felt around on
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