A Room on Lorelei Street - Page 42

Frozen fragments.

And more.

Grandma is wrong.

She remembers more.

It has come to her piece by sleepy piece—through fog and time.

She remembers. Daddy. Naked. Hovering over her. Stumbling from the bathroom, blind with vodka, through a door. The wrong door.

Her door.

He never touched her. But she thinks, maybe he didn’t know that. Mama’s screaming shocked him from his stupor. Mama shoving him through the door. Shoving him to the porch. Beating him. Throwing clothes out on the lawn and screaming to never come back. Never.

He didn’t.

Mama saving her and hating her at the same time for everything that happened. Daddy hating himself for what might have happened. What could have happened.

Was it more than he could live with that night?

Or just an accident like the coroner said?

The wondering is the worst. The wondering that eats. Never full, never satisfied, just eating away, a finger, a toe, an eyeball, until maybe it reaches your soul and there is nothing left.

Secrets upon secrets. Secrets that would never be revealed, because Daddy took all the answers with him. Secrets all revolving around her in a distant, untouchable way.

Yes, Grandma.

I remember.

I remember it all.

Thirty-Seven

She swerves into the parking lot of the Rocket Gourmet. Tips at Murray’s alone won’t cut it now. Not by a long shot. One hundred fifty rent due on Friday and she has thirty-one dollars and a can of pennies. Sunday night is not prime time to be looking for work, but she doesn’t have the luxury of time.

“Table for one?” the hostess asks.

“No. Just looking for work. You hiring?”

“Not right now. Not even taking applications, but maybe in a month or—”

“Nothing? Not even busing tables?”

The hostess shak

es her head. “Sorry.”

“Thanks anyway,” Zoe says, and leaves.

She drives to Angelino’s Deli, the Buffet Basket in Cooper Springs, and even the greasy truck stop off the interstate, but all that comes of it is an empty gas tank. She conserves her bills and empties out all her spare change onto the counter at Thrifty Gas. The clerk rolls his eyes and begins counting.

“One dollar and forty-seven cents,” he says. “That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

She pumps out the gas and then stoops to pick up a dirty penny near her tire—for luck or survival, she isn’t sure. But what she would have ignored yesterday she brushes off and slides into her pocket today. She leaves, and when she’s halfway down Main she glances at the gas tank needle. It is only just this side of empty.

Tags: Mary E. Pearson
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