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Show house/ 447 hey had seen the stone tablets, but never the burning bush. And I, an upstart woman, was the flaw, the crack in the ;lass tabernacle, the signature of human frailty, I who longed 'or burning bushes, for warmth and light and words of my own ;o.live on. I would have my own testimony or none at all. ind I would act on my own testimony - not someone else's. ; had received my father's testimony of my own character and Lt had nearly ruined my life. It had made me an exile in ill but the crags of my own consciousness. Such loneliness ;annot be endured and is not the purpose of life. Gerda's I whirled. Aunt ^ Kevin was tapping me on the shoulder, his eyes round behind thick glasses as he smiled with a neat half of his face. He was inviting Brian and me to hear his record collection at his mother's house across the valley. It would be on our way to the apartment, so Brian and I agreed. I glanced impatiently at my father who had engaged in a verbal contest with an older son who is no match for him. I realized that he had not even spoken to Brian. He had not given me away. I wondered briefly if I dared to let it matter. But I could not give up so easily - that sort of self-denial had been my mother's placid way, her private sin. There was still so much inside me: years of unspoken words, unmeted touches, unshed tears belonging to my father and no one else. He had no right to utterly deny them. Nor did I. I grabbed Brian by the hand. As we neared my father, he started and fell back, suddenly awkward before the older man, |
