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Show Motherlunge a novel 27 6. Your Child Is An Arrow With General at her side, Pavia led me up the steps to her townhouse and unlocked the door. "Two locks?" I said. 'A deadbolt?" "Big city," Pavia said. We entered a tall, narrow hall and pushed our way forward, scraping the walls with my suitcase and duffel bags. "And you'll also notice very little sign of Jack." "He's gone? Already?" I found this news annoying and deflating; I'd come all this way while developing a bad headache, and the trouble was already over? The muscles in the back of my neck-the trapezius, the splenius capitis-felt tight, plucked, old-time and banjo-annoying. Yet my sister: even her crises were tastefully accomplished mostly off-stage. We had entered a large kitchen. The cabinets were black, the floor was wood, the gleaming refrigerator was bare of photos, schedules, or post-its with handwritten scrawls of positive self-talk-I CAN OWN MY FEELINGS, for example-and the sink had no dishes in it. The counters were bare except for an electric mixer with a bowl, a food processor, and a coffee machine, which I examined closely. "Shazam," I remarked as Pavia put my bags on the floor next to General's huge stainless steel water bowl. "You have an expresso machine?" |
