been glorious: lit up from within, glowing like a Japanese lantern in her purple silk nightie, which is what the coroner said she was wearing when the flames consumed her. Then the fire blossomed. She split and it came gushing out. Imagine light blooming in her belly, exploding in twin gouts rushing from the holes where her eyes had been, flame shooting out of her belly and her open mouth in a celebration of light.
What was she, anyway. What did she do that brought this down on her?
Was she excited? Scared? Was she in pain?
There are no words for what I was.
4
Nenna Henderson McCall
I walked home from the office last week. It took all afternoon, minus the times I sat down to think. It’s six miles from Coral Shores to our house, and I had on the wrong shoes!
I was writing speeches to Davis that I wanted to give when Davis finally came in from work. Everybody said don’t marry him, you want somebody local, like Bobby, but Bobby was in love with Lucy at the time. I did want Bobby, but there was nothing I could do. They said, northerners just don’t
do
like we do and that is true. Davis taught at Junior College, he had the tweed jacket with the suede elbow patches, he was cute and now I’m stuck with him – except I’m not, because it turns out Davis is a rat.
I was at the office when I found out. It was the dead, still hour after lunch. The smartass kid realtors were all kicked back, romancing would-be clients on the phone, heavy-breathing over bayfront condos, square footage and with waterfront views and I was opening my mail, everything the same.
Then it wasn’t. It was the bill. The English Department secretary sends it to me because Davis is notoriously cheap. He calls long distance on the office phone. Usually I hold my nose and pay, but,
Fifty calls to Toluca Lake!
I must have yelled; when I looked up with my bare face hanging out like a wet girdle on the shower rail, seven kid realtors were texting madly, with flying thumbs and sly, snarky grins.
It’s cousin Gayle. His first cousin, what kind of a failure of the imagination is that? Scrawny Gayle Carson, that Davis grew up with, it’s incestuous, plus! Could he not have had the grace to call her on his cell? ‘Gayle’s invited us to California,’ he said last Christmas, all innocence. ‘Steffy’s never been!’ What was he thinking, using our daughter like that? ‘I can’t wait to see it through her eyes.’ Oh, Davis. I should have known that misty smile was not for me. I didn’t want to know.
I booked the trip, pretending not to know. Leaving that woman’s house after the awful week we spent there, I thought,
Out of sight, out of mind
. I thought,
Got to do something about that, just not now
, when I really meant,
Not yet. Please God, just not this year
. I’d been keeping us going, things as they are, but you can’t, not with everybody watching proof positive smack you in the face. All those kid realtors in their tight little outfits sitting there, just waiting for me to cry. I forgot everything and ran. By the time I realized I’d left my bag, my phone – my keys! – it was too late to go back.
Now I’m not a walker like my friends. They’re mostly free to look pretty and sign up for Jazzercize and waterobics if they want to, or dress up for board meetings followed by long lunches at the club, translation: unemployed. But, frankly, we couldn’t live on what Davis makes, not in this showcase at Far Acres. I wanted to live on Coral Shores with all my friends, but Davis insisted. There’s a world’s worth of difference between here and there; it’s just too far, and last week I went the whole distance. I walked every step of the way.
It was four blocks before I felt my shoes. Mocha slides from Nine West, sand kept coming in the toes but I just went on walking, like walking was the most important thing, which in a way, it was. No. It was the only thing.
I was too upset to wait for the light, even though Harrison Rivard got hit by
What was she, anyway. What did she do that brought this down on her?
Was she excited? Scared? Was she in pain?
There are no words for what I was.
4
Nenna Henderson McCall
I walked home from the office last week. It took all afternoon, minus the times I sat down to think. It’s six miles from Coral Shores to our house, and I had on the wrong shoes!
I was writing speeches to Davis that I wanted to give when Davis finally came in from work. Everybody said don’t marry him, you want somebody local, like Bobby, but Bobby was in love with Lucy at the time. I did want Bobby, but there was nothing I could do. They said, northerners just don’t
do
like we do and that is true. Davis taught at Junior College, he had the tweed jacket with the suede elbow patches, he was cute and now I’m stuck with him – except I’m not, because it turns out Davis is a rat.
I was at the office when I found out. It was the dead, still hour after lunch. The smartass kid realtors were all kicked back, romancing would-be clients on the phone, heavy-breathing over bayfront condos, square footage and with waterfront views and I was opening my mail, everything the same.
Then it wasn’t. It was the bill. The English Department secretary sends it to me because Davis is notoriously cheap. He calls long distance on the office phone. Usually I hold my nose and pay, but,
Fifty calls to Toluca Lake!
I must have yelled; when I looked up with my bare face hanging out like a wet girdle on the shower rail, seven kid realtors were texting madly, with flying thumbs and sly, snarky grins.
It’s cousin Gayle. His first cousin, what kind of a failure of the imagination is that? Scrawny Gayle Carson, that Davis grew up with, it’s incestuous, plus! Could he not have had the grace to call her on his cell? ‘Gayle’s invited us to California,’ he said last Christmas, all innocence. ‘Steffy’s never been!’ What was he thinking, using our daughter like that? ‘I can’t wait to see it through her eyes.’ Oh, Davis. I should have known that misty smile was not for me. I didn’t want to know.
I booked the trip, pretending not to know. Leaving that woman’s house after the awful week we spent there, I thought,
Out of sight, out of mind
. I thought,
Got to do something about that, just not now
, when I really meant,
Not yet. Please God, just not this year
. I’d been keeping us going, things as they are, but you can’t, not with everybody watching proof positive smack you in the face. All those kid realtors in their tight little outfits sitting there, just waiting for me to cry. I forgot everything and ran. By the time I realized I’d left my bag, my phone – my keys! – it was too late to go back.
Now I’m not a walker like my friends. They’re mostly free to look pretty and sign up for Jazzercize and waterobics if they want to, or dress up for board meetings followed by long lunches at the club, translation: unemployed. But, frankly, we couldn’t live on what Davis makes, not in this showcase at Far Acres. I wanted to live on Coral Shores with all my friends, but Davis insisted. There’s a world’s worth of difference between here and there; it’s just too far, and last week I went the whole distance. I walked every step of the way.
It was four blocks before I felt my shoes. Mocha slides from Nine West, sand kept coming in the toes but I just went on walking, like walking was the most important thing, which in a way, it was. No. It was the only thing.
I was too upset to wait for the light, even though Harrison Rivard got hit by
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