From behind a limp curtain the elderly girl detective sees through a row of windows: a hand petting a cobra, a woman’s shadowy profile, a small stuffed .alligator. on. a. velvet. cushion. Clues to what?. The secret of life and death is. only the clock. Down a long linoleum corridor of tarnished numbers,. a door. clicks shut. .Evening light,. slanted, yellow.. She keeps her deductions private, a silence filled up with land sakes, imaginary pie in the. cold oven. .Ghost. granny,. in. worn print.dress,. in. favorite chair. Who is in charge.
At some point, the stars stop looking at us. For them, life is a costume ball, but we attend wearing nothing but our real faces. And our debt. We have our tea and naps. Our struggles to be kind to the jackboots. There is infinite hope, but not for us. The stars have plans about opening a boutique that wouldn’t allow them inside. They want nothing to be left of them but their names and stylized drawings of their eyes. Before they got famous, they spent their evenings looking at portraits of the backs of their own heads. We can barely afford cable. Every door, every eye on the street could belong to tomorrow for them. They say light won’t make you happy, but they’ve never drowned in the dark.…
I remember the night I met God. She was living in a rent-stabilized apartment on 76th Street just east of Amsterdam. I was delivering a DVD for the last store in Manhattan that still rented the damn things. It wasn’t much of a job, with crappy pay to be honest, and no benefits, but I was back in school and you did get to meet all sorts of interesting people in the city. You don’t know what melting pot really means until you deliver a box set of Tarantino to some downtown dive at three in the morning. I suppose I could have delivered pizzas just as easily, and at a more normal time of day, but then I never would have gotten to meet God.…
My son called to say they had set a date for the wedding. Then, he told me it would be held in south-central Pennsylvania. Wedding costs being what they are in the metro New York/New Jersey area, my future daughter-in-law scouted out venues that were more in line with their casual, non-city style and more close to being a smidgeon sane in price. It didn’t hurt that the venue was only an hour or so away from where her family lives. My son and his then fiancé were happy with the venue she found. So, I was, too.
As a mom, I want to support my children. I cheer them on. I confirm their excitement. And so I did exactly that when he told me we’d be heading for Wrightsville, Pennsylvania.…
It’s a bitter moment when you realize the best and sweetest parts of you are gone. My hollow eyes in the rearview mirror are a firm reminder of that. Have I ever been happy? Maybe when I was a kid. So, I put my sad eyes back where they belong, on the empty road ahead.
In the midst of feeling sorry for myself, I think I missed the turn. Whatever.
The navigator says the highway entrance is zero-point-five miles away. But the on-ramp is a thick red string attached to a blinking light that reads: accident.
“Guess I’m gonna be late for the party,” I mumble to myself.
The navigator blinks: Alternate route found, and I press to proceed. Cortège Rd next Right.
