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Show Motherlunge a novel 14 "Put her on," Alva said. Walter could hear his mother-in-law winddexing something in the background, a high nervous squeak. "Aren't you supposed to be at work?" "I just came in the door. I think Dorothy's asleep." "I've been ringing all day and no one's picking up." The windexing stopped; my grandmother was waiting. "Dorothy's here. She's fine," Walter said. The phone had a long cord, and he had pulled it behind him as he stepped into the bedroom. He turned the light on and watched Dorothy roll over in their bed and look up at him. The room smelled like the back of the dairy aisle at work, where spilled milk and lint from the refrigerator grills made a sour I felt on the floor. Dorothy mouthed the question to Walter: "My mother?" Her face wrinkled up as if she'd been pinched; she shook her head-"No!"-as she sat up and reached for the baby. "Alva? She's nursing the baby now, okay? She'll call you later." Walter walked back to hang up the phone on the little table by the front door, then returned to lean against the frame of the bedroom door. He watched Dorothy open up her robe and lean forward. One blue-veined breast swung free over the baby like a dirigible emerging from low cloud cover. Oh the humanity! The baby, my sister Pavia of course, began a raspy, burning scream. "When did she last have a bottle?" Walter asked. |