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Show Motherlunge a novel 65 Through the archway, we could see Joseph asleep on the couch, mouth open, hands in his lap. "Thea," she whispered close to my face. "Thea, he's such a good friend to me. You know? I haven't had that for a long time." Framed by the dark hallway, we were two profiles facing each other like souvenir silhouettes. I didn't want to hear about friendship or time. I didn't want to smell her breath with its faint hint of rhinovirus. "Uh huh," I said. "With Joseph, it's unconditional. He accepts me for who I am. Where I am. There's no judgment. You know?" "Uh huh." It occurred to me that my recent history of moderate-to-heavy drinking had had the unexpected benefit of training me to keep my mouth shut when I was drunk. Or perhaps it was living with Pavia that had given me this surprising new discretion. I was still the kind of kid who knew the answer-knew it urgently and absolutely, better than anyone-but I no longer felt compelled to raise my hand. I didn't really want to be called on anymore, it seemed. In the big city, was I was growing up at last? "And did he tell you?" Dorothy said, peering at me in the dim light. "He's Native American!" "Right on," I said. Dorothy followed me into the front room, where I shook Joseph awake with the heel of my hand. He and Dorothy stood off to the side while I pulled the bed out of the couch. As I dropped the folding legs down and tucked the sheet around the padding, General gave a little low bark. He was standing by the front door, wanting out. |