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Show Motherlunge a novel 134 Above the tops of the buildings, the sky was orange though not as in a Western; it was a dirty taffy color. To match, the air was sweet and unhealthy, pre-breathed by the tunnels and manholes and vents, by the point-five million other residents of the city. I put X. in the stroller, unlocked the wheels, and started off down the street. It occurred to me that I could go down the block, see who was playing at the Arrow that night. Maybe later, after X. was in bed and Pavia was back, I'd go to a show. I could stand directly in front of the speakers, blast the self-pitying thoughts from my head. I could go home drunk and with my ears ringing, sleep heavily and dream-if at all-non-whimsically. As I pushed the stroller I didn't think about Pavia. Instead I fixed my thoughts on my uniqueness. I was certainly the only person that Eli Greathouse had expressed an express desire not to see that day. And if I had known then what I would know later that evening, I would have hated myself even more acutely and specifically for several other reasons besides. "Later," my sister had said to me as the door was swinging shut, and in reply I hadn't said a thing. Walter had been renting his little yellow house for the last decade, ever since the day that Dorothy had thrown his clothes out onto the lawn. He needed, she had insisted that spring day, to See And Honor The Goddess In Her. And When He Had Done So, she had declared, standing on the concrete steps wearing a batik halter-top sundress-inside |
