Coldclimate, Middleyear, Girl. Chronologically Reversed.
Lives in attic of Aunt’s house with father and curtain separation. Hides sweets under her bed in a tin Grandma sent. Comes downstairs to: clean, take care of sixyear kid, make dinner sometimes. Picks from hair remnant of muffins thrown at head on middle school playground. Has two Sarah friends who also have no other friends. Misses her mother. With found glass on tennis courts cuts palm of hands, in hope of free afternoon.
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On walk home from church Grandfather explains it, until she understands. The theory, relativity. Night awake in her room she wonders why anyone would fly so fast, to make the people she knew all disappear.
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They leave by early morning secret for reasons of unaffordable custody hearing, put bags in car. Go on hiding vacation. Not the first secret leaving, but the first she can remember.
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Her grandmother drives, year after her parents divorce, I know your mother had an affair. As though she had also known it. But your father may have had an affair too. A wide field of empty stars rush at them, but melt on the windshield.
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Goddamn your grandmother, and I didn’t by the way.
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Wire mouth dentist chair for hours, she emerges to room where father had waited, now empty. Escorted mother and mothergun from ‘SmileCare!’ waitroom to nearby hospitalization for suicidals. Waits awhile emptyroom, toothgrin posters stare, then walks home. Shrugs intermittently.
•
Three smalls about one big.
One.
Over breakfast he ties it up in a pretty bow, the local college shootings, what they mean: Fifteen-minute fame, probably, any kind will do these days, posthumous if need be. Simple.
She sips at her coffee, unwraps the bow: People are in pain, alone maybe, there’s future shock, the deal is I think to just try to cause as much pain as possible on the way out, and there you are, not alone anymore. Everybody can feel what you feel. The waiter clicks across the linoleum and set the plates in front of them.
You know what, it’s embarrassing, she says, but I was more surprised, more hurt by the overdose of that talented young actor.
He salts his plate, looks at her and nods meaningfully. No, you’re right. It’s the New American Dream, I mean if that guy’s not happy, what are the rest of us working for? She forks up the eggs, eager for their warmth.
After they’ve paid the check, he drops her in front of her apartment. Inside she changes the sheets as she runs the water, lets water drizzle in the Sunday way over her body, and drives the hour out to pick her husband up from the airport.
Two.
She sits this one out. Lights a cigarette to click of balls on table and his laugh louder than others. Picks up his phone, scrolls the numbers, just to see. Heart Pause. End of his winning streak, she presses send and crosses to replace his cue with the evidence. His lie does not stammer, but brings the first hot sting of her hand to his face. The second earns a barroom silence against jukebox noise, and twenty loud quick steps to the door.
Three.
I’m going to have a baby, he says to his wife, folds his shirt. He kisses all three children, suitcase in hand. Then takes the commuter train just like any weekday, though it’s the weekend, to where she lives.
