The Beautiful American Read Online Free PDF

always is.
    “He’s a womanizer,” my father said one day when my mother, over our supper of potatoes and ham, had sighed over the stylishness of Mrs. Miller’s wardrobe and the threadbare quality of her own.
    “He’s a womanizer of great repute and no conscience. You should hear them talk down at the barbershop,” Father insisted, pushing his plate away. “Mr. Miller is very free and open in his private life, and his pretty Canadian wife has to accept it. Do you want that under your roof?”
    “Hush,” Momma said. “Not in front of the child.”
    •   •   •
    F or two years, Li Li and I played together every week. But one day when I was seven and dressing myself for the day to come, Momma came into my room and said, “No. Today you’re not going. Not ever again.”
    “Why?” It was a warm, sunny day, good for running through the orchard, climbing trees, splashing in puddles left from the storm of two days before.
    “She will go!” my father shouted from downstairs.
    “What if she catches it?” Momma shouted back. Father thundered up the narrow stairs and burst into the room. It was Saturday and his suspenders hung from the waist of his trousers; his shirttails were untucked.
    “You foolish woman. It can’t be caught. Not that way.”
    “That’s not what I heard.” She defied him, hands on her hips.
    “You heard wrong. Do you want me to lose my position? If you insult them in this way, they’ll soon find another gardener. Is that what you want?”
    Momma sat down on the bed, defeated. That was the best way to win any argument with Momma: mention money.
    So, I went, totally confused and eager to find out what it was I might catch. I hoped it might be a pony, though their voices had told me it wouldn’t be something fun.
    One of my earliest memories: a little girl, blue-eyed, blond, dressed in white from top to toe—white bow in hair, white dress, white socks and shoes—stands inside her opened front door, hesitating. Mr. Miller’s driver has picked me up once again to play with the daughter of the house, but this time, instead of waiting in the car, my mother gets out and stands next to me, her hand heavy on my shoulder.
    Li Li hovers warily in the doorway, looking as if she intends to run back into the house. The scent of mud and lilacs fills the air. There’s something else, something acrid, medicinal, a nasty smell coming from that front porch, but I don’t know its name yet. Menthol. Eucalyptus. Salt of mercury. Hospital smells.
    Momma bends down a little and hisses into my ear, “That little girl is ruined.” Momma is holding my hand too tightly. I don’t know what she means. Li Li doesn’t look at all ruined to me. She looks pretty as ever, though she’s holding back in a strange way.
    Mrs. Miller gives her daughter a gentle push forward. “Go ahead, Li Li. Go play. Don’t be afraid,” she repeats.
    Li Li afraid? Since when? But it’s true. She doesn’t want to leave her mother’s side, to go through that doorway.
    That settles it. I run from my mother and step onto the porch,one step, two. I’m directly in front of Elizabeth, who is half hiding behind her mother’s skirt. I reach out my hand.
    “Come on,” I say. I take her hand in mine and pull her, hard. She pulls back like a dog that doesn’t want to be crated, and I pull again, even harder. She stumbles forward with a little gasp and gives me a whack on the head. Not hard, not meant to harm, just in protest.
    Better. I whack her back and we both laugh.
    “Your dad will bring you home,” my mother calls. “Don’t get your dress dirty. It’s just been washed and ironed. And don’t play rough!”
    Our favorite game was to climb the highest tree in the yard, to see who could get closest to the top before the fear of falling made us clamber back to solid ground. She always made it to the top, some forty feet up. I never made it more than halfway.
    But that day, Elizabeth did not play rough. She hardly played