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Show Motherlunge a novel 95 "She's pretty. People just like her. Whatever she says, they think, 'I'll have what she's having.'" Our eyes met, and we shook our heads a little like a pair of those toy dogs on a dashboard, ever so slightly incredulous. "I mean, she doesn't have to do anything, you know?" I continued. "She's always getting job offers from other companies, and raises, and...stuff." "Stuff," Walter grunted. "Goddamn. Nobody else in the family can make money for shit." "I know. Maybe she's our ration of it. She can just show up in her nice clothes, and her success is already decided. She can't fail if she tries." I looked at my father, probably somewhat avidly. Walter took a sip of his coffee. He picked up the newspaper and folded it back so the crossword was on top. He didn't look up as he spoke. "Is that what she's trying to do, then? Fail?" I hadn't thought of that, actually. I watched Walter push the heel of his hand across the newspaper fold one last time, and pick up his pen. I watched him begin to fill in the squares of the puzzle. "I guess," I said slowly, apoxically. Besides feeling stupid I was struggling to imagine what if must feel like to have to try to be imperfect. Snow falling upward as a writer once wrote. "Yeah. You mean maybe Pavia's just sick of doing everything right." "Fuck up your marriage for no reason, have a kid by yourself. That's a start." I thought about telling him more about Pavia-her going to the airport to ask the Reeds for money, her recent odd reactions and decisions. Her refusal to talk about any of it. But I didn't think Walter wanted to hear it. In any case, I didn't know how to describe |
