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Show in my father's house/ 184 pounding where my wrist rested against the dry, scratchy edge of the newspapers. Once past the whirl of the door I stopped. The place, so enormous I felt I would disappear into the red paisley print of the carpet, swelled noisily around me. The smell of hamburgers Lingered on the surface, but underneath was the sharp sting of liquor mixed with a hard, tongue-nettling smell of money: Coins clattered into slot machines and sweaty, crumpled piles of green bills lay like mown grass on felt tables. People milled all about me,fingering the money in their hands or wallets, casting about for the next place to spend it. There was an electric tinge to the air. I followed the food smells to the cafe and went up to a black-suited back. A red-lipped lady, her hair black and piled high, sat next to it. She was turned, leaning from the side to speak in an ear of the bent head, her voice low and rumbling. "Paper, sir?" I whispered through dry lips. The head swiveled around like a bird's. "Naw." He turned red-rimmed eyes back to his coffee cup. "C'mon, Jim." The red-lipped lady picked up a quarter from the counter. "Here, honey. Keep the paper." "But...don't you want it?" I suddenly felt ashamed. But the woman turned away and whispered against the stubbled cheek, "ter spider-legged lashes flapped and her red lips rubbed against ier white teeth, leaving tiny red veins. I wanted to whirl back through the revolving door and tell >anny to take me home, but then I though of the dull, empty feeling it home. And I thought maybe Aunt Helga would see my quarter - |
