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Show Motherlunge a novel 214 Thus we continued, unprotected in our love, and like every Anonymous who ever wrote to Penthouse Letters, incredulously. Dorothy rolled over in bed and looked at the red letters on the clock radio. 11:37 AM. Still in her clothes from the day before, one half of her hairdo pushed up, she sighed and twisted up to a sitting position. She sat there for a moment above her folded legs like that crippled girl Christina, the one in Wyeth's famous painting, the one left out on the prairie to get some air, presumably. Dorothy looked through the open door of the bedroom down the hall. She was listening for my knock at the front door, which she kept locked. Dorothy slowly stretched her legs straight and got herself out of bed. She padded down the hall. Drawings that Pavia and I had done were taped askew along both sides, above the bluish smears left by our hands. Dorothy stood for a moment at the end of the hallway and looked in the kitchen. Our bowls from breakfast were still on the table, the milk yellow with dissolved cereal, thick. The counters were stacked with dishes. The curtain was drawn over the sliding glass door that led to the backyard. _ Dorothy turned away, toward the living room and the front entrance. The curtains were drawn there, too, over the picture windows at the front of the house, but there was a gap in the middle. Dorothy went forward and stood in the gap, looking out into the street. |