mother’s boyfriend as he dropped her off—a dark mass of lust and need who kissed her in the car and drove away. Don’t bring me down, I pray. My mother came in wearing a pantsuit that was too short for her high heels. Her eyes looked like her leaping voice, and
she walked like she was trying to go three ways at once. Here was the jealous, furious one: She was wearing big earrings and lipstick, and when she hugged us, sex came off her like a smell. Her jacket flapped open, showed hide with brisdes on it, then flapped back: Here was the one who lay where she fell, moaning like a cow.
But then she sat down and crisply opened the plastic menu, and here was the true one: Mom, boss of food and treats. Our minds went blank and our bodies remembered when we were little: She was the one who bought us our first milk shakes. She carried them out to the car, holding all four huge shakes squeezed together in her hands. The four of us sat drinking the shakes in deep silence, until we had to get the last bit up from the bottom; then we all slurped together. The warm, close air of the car on our skin, cold sweetness in the mouth: It was a wonderful reversal of warm breast milk and cool air, and this was a breast we could all experience together. Just seeing her open the menu brought that feeling back without us knowing it. You’re just too good to be true. A slim white arm stirred the gold pudding. We went into a trance, staring at the things on the menu.
But then there were the three directions and the bristling hide. As soon as we got our food, she started talking about how hard she knew it was. How hard it had been for her not knowing whether I was alive or dead for weeks on end and getting no support from our father. She ate her rhubarb pie. She had tried her best to understand that things were different now, and she hoped we would, too.
“Do you want a divorce or not?” asked Daphne.
Inside our mother’s eyes, an expression opened like a mouth and then snapped shut while her normal mouth prissily ate the pie. “It takes time to know something like that,” she said. “A relationship of so many years is complicated.” She ate with her prissy mouth. The bristling hide swelled out.
“It’s not fair,” said Daphne.
She sat up. Under the earrings and lipstick, she was a plain woman, and she knew the dignity of plainness. “Do you judge me?” she asked quiedy.
Yes, said Daphne’s face. I judge you and I hate you.
In my mind, I looked over my shoulder and pouted at a camera while the song played. Can't take my eyes off you. Invisible eyes on me were like an endless ribbon of sweet music. I don’t know what my face said.
“No,” said Daphne. “But I want to know if this is permanent, and so does Daddy.”
“So do I,” said our mother. “So do I.” And she looked sad. Her entire body looked sad. Daphne could do nothing against this except be sad herself.
The waitress came by with a sound of rasping and rubbing underclothes. She left the check on the table and disappeared through a swinging door. I glimpsed a busding kitchen of steel tables and orderly movement, sandwiches and dishes laid out. A sharp-eyed litde man in an apron suspiciously returned my look. What would it be like to work there?
Our mother opened her frayed wallet and wondered aloud how I’d make a living while I was writing poems.
“I could work in a restaurant. Or maybe I could be a model.”
“Right.” She sighed, got her wallet out and counted the bills carefully, figuring the tip on her fingers. “That sounds like a beautiful life.”
Inside Daphne, I felt something tremble like it would break, then hold steady.
Then came routine. My father drove Daphne and Sara to school on his way to work. I slept until noon, then got up and drank tea for hours. It was late November and light moved from room to
room with the active silence of a live thing. The cat lifted her head and blinked the deep black slits, the active green of her eyes.
she walked like she was trying to go three ways at once. Here was the jealous, furious one: She was wearing big earrings and lipstick, and when she hugged us, sex came off her like a smell. Her jacket flapped open, showed hide with brisdes on it, then flapped back: Here was the one who lay where she fell, moaning like a cow.
But then she sat down and crisply opened the plastic menu, and here was the true one: Mom, boss of food and treats. Our minds went blank and our bodies remembered when we were little: She was the one who bought us our first milk shakes. She carried them out to the car, holding all four huge shakes squeezed together in her hands. The four of us sat drinking the shakes in deep silence, until we had to get the last bit up from the bottom; then we all slurped together. The warm, close air of the car on our skin, cold sweetness in the mouth: It was a wonderful reversal of warm breast milk and cool air, and this was a breast we could all experience together. Just seeing her open the menu brought that feeling back without us knowing it. You’re just too good to be true. A slim white arm stirred the gold pudding. We went into a trance, staring at the things on the menu.
But then there were the three directions and the bristling hide. As soon as we got our food, she started talking about how hard she knew it was. How hard it had been for her not knowing whether I was alive or dead for weeks on end and getting no support from our father. She ate her rhubarb pie. She had tried her best to understand that things were different now, and she hoped we would, too.
“Do you want a divorce or not?” asked Daphne.
Inside our mother’s eyes, an expression opened like a mouth and then snapped shut while her normal mouth prissily ate the pie. “It takes time to know something like that,” she said. “A relationship of so many years is complicated.” She ate with her prissy mouth. The bristling hide swelled out.
“It’s not fair,” said Daphne.
She sat up. Under the earrings and lipstick, she was a plain woman, and she knew the dignity of plainness. “Do you judge me?” she asked quiedy.
Yes, said Daphne’s face. I judge you and I hate you.
In my mind, I looked over my shoulder and pouted at a camera while the song played. Can't take my eyes off you. Invisible eyes on me were like an endless ribbon of sweet music. I don’t know what my face said.
“No,” said Daphne. “But I want to know if this is permanent, and so does Daddy.”
“So do I,” said our mother. “So do I.” And she looked sad. Her entire body looked sad. Daphne could do nothing against this except be sad herself.
The waitress came by with a sound of rasping and rubbing underclothes. She left the check on the table and disappeared through a swinging door. I glimpsed a busding kitchen of steel tables and orderly movement, sandwiches and dishes laid out. A sharp-eyed litde man in an apron suspiciously returned my look. What would it be like to work there?
Our mother opened her frayed wallet and wondered aloud how I’d make a living while I was writing poems.
“I could work in a restaurant. Or maybe I could be a model.”
“Right.” She sighed, got her wallet out and counted the bills carefully, figuring the tip on her fingers. “That sounds like a beautiful life.”
Inside Daphne, I felt something tremble like it would break, then hold steady.
Then came routine. My father drove Daphne and Sara to school on his way to work. I slept until noon, then got up and drank tea for hours. It was late November and light moved from room to
room with the active silence of a live thing. The cat lifted her head and blinked the deep black slits, the active green of her eyes.
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