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Show Motherlunge a novel 13 desert tent-chosen to bear the chosen child? Ah, Abraham! So when Walter reflexively proposed marriage, squeezing her fingers together painfully as they walked through the campus quadrangle one night, she accepted right away. And when Walter began to cry, Dorothy pulled his head to what she thought of as her bosom. This was the time before breasts were individualized, and her bosom therefore was a singular characteristic, a fatty integrant over her heart, which was beating evenly. "It's fine," she told him, rubbing her cheek on the gristle of his crewcut. "It's fine. You'll be fine." This, it turned out and in fulfillment of the cliche, was just the hormones talking. Once Dorothy and Walter were married (a Christmas wedding, Methodist) and the baby arrived (weeks early, a furry four-pound girl, Pavia), it gradually became clear that things were not fine. Walter was still in school, working part-time stocking shelves at a grocery store, drinking a 6-pack on his walk home to the apartment every night. Dorothy stayed in bed with the baby all day and night. The phone would ring and ring and she wouldn't pick it up. Most of the time it would be Dorothy's mother, Alva, on the line. Thus, for example, it was midnight and the phone was ringing. Walter let himself in the locked door of the apartment, suppressing an elastic, malty burp as he picked up the phone. "Hello?" |