Open House Read Online Free PDF

child says softly.
    “Just a minute, baby. Hold on.” Then, to me, “What’s your deal anyway? I take the bracelet, you shoot me in the back, is that it?”
    “Mommy, I have to
pee,
” the little girl says.
    “I know, I’m going to take you, we going home in just a minute.” The woman stares at me through narrowed eyes, considering. She has a lovely face, a missing tooth near the front of her mouth. She is wearing a burgundy sweatshirt, yellow corduroy pants, a dirty jean jacket with half its buttons missing. The little girl wears newer sneakers and blue jeans, a down jacket zipped to her chin, though the October evening is mild.
    “I just bought this,” I say. “But I . . . don’t want it. I want to give it to you.”
    “
Shit
. For real?”
    “Yes.”
    The woman shrugs, takes the bracelet, and quickly shoves it into her pocket.
    The little girl, who had been hiding behind her mother’s leg, peeks out. “My name is Tiffany.”
    “Is that right?” There you are, this was meant to be.
    The woman reaches out to touch my arm. “God bless you,” she says, her eyes full of tears.
    I can think of nothing to say. I watch the woman and her daughter walk away, then call out, “Did you need a ride?”
    The woman turns around, keeps walking backward. “No, ma’am. We almost there. But thank you. God bless you, now.”
    I get back into my car, pull out into the traffic.
    I don’t know, I feel good. I don’t know why I bought that bracelet. In my jewelry box are a fair number of velvet cases holding necklaces and bracelets that David gave me for my birthday, for Christmas. But I don’t like fancy jewelry; I never have. The fancy things I like are sheets. Pots and pans. And the things I
really
like aren’t fancy at all: old aprons and hankies. Butter wrappers from the one-pound blocks. Peony bushes, hardback books of poetry. And I like things
less
than that; the sticky remains at the bottom of the apple-crisp dish. The way cats sometimes run sideways. The presence of rainbows in a puddle of oil. Mayonnaise jars. Pussy willows. Wash on a line. The
tick-tock
of clocks, the blue of the neon sign at the local movie house. The fact that there
is
a local movie house.
    I turn off the radio, listen to the quiet. Which has its own, rich sound. Which I knew, but had forgotten. And it is good to remember.

4
    I AM SITTING IN THE FAMILY ROOM IN D AVID ’ S RECLINER looking at the
Martha by Mail
catalogue and remembering a time when I had a long-lasting flu and David came home with a handmade quilt that he’d bought for me. He covered me with it, then lay down beside me and read me a story from a collection I’d just bought. And then he made spaghetti for him and Travis, and soup for me. That was Before. When did After start? I don’t remember it starting. I only remember it having arrived. Things were bad for such a long time before he left. But I miss him. I can feel loneliness in me like circulation; as constant and as irrefutable.
    I see that Martha has some very lovely hors d’oeuvres accessories. Paper leaves on which to serve cunning canapés that take about a month to make. I don’t really believe that Martha herself does any of this. People say she does, but I just don’t think it’s true. I’ll bet she lies in the bathtub and weeps and her staff does everything. I flip through pages of matelassé bedding, egg-shaped soaps, ribbon mirrors. I’ll bet she’s lonely as hell and no one knows. They think she’s rich and happy and they don’t understand how blank her slate is.
    I’ll bet no one even calls her, except for business. I heard she lives in Connecticut, was it Fairfield? I pick up the phone, call information, hear the automated voice ask, “What city?” “Fairfield, Connecticut,” I say. “What listing?” the voice asks, and I say, “Martha Stewart.” “Please hold,” a real voice says, and I hang up.
    The phone rings immediately and I let the machine get it, then hear Rita say, “Are