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Show Woodworth/75 a year, Marty?" Her mother re-fills her wine glass. Marty stares down at her plate, at the ridges of steak grease that she missed with her fork. Her mother continues, conversationally, "Do you know that last night, your father couldn't even..." "Ruth, please don't talk..." "Don't you interrupt me," Ruth screams, suddenly. "Tell me about you, Marty. And tell Ned. Tell your father what you kids are up to. Tell him, Marty." Both her parents are looking at her. The silence burns, and she wishes she were young enough to run from the table, run from the house, burst into tears. But she is surrounded. There is no escape. Only their kitchen, their living room, their house, their furniture, their beds and walls and words. "Anyone want coffee?" Ned asks, standing. No one answers. Ruth continues to watch Marty. Marty sits, her hands folded in her lap. The phone rings. "Hullo?" Ned asks. "Hold on. Marts, for you." Marty stands up, carefully folds her napkin, and places it next to her plate. She walks slowly from the room. Right foot, left foot. The living room extension. Not enought time to get upstairs. Hoping it is Rachael, that Rachael's car works so that she will come pick her up, and get her out of here. "Hello? Yes. Oh. Hi." She had thought she would recognize his voice. But it sounds different, deeper. And he pronounces her name differently, emphasizing the last syllable. She remembers how her name sounded when he said it in the bar, and how she felt. Wrong that he should call her now. She can't pay attention to what he is saying. He asks her questions: How is she? What has she been doing? She answers in one word, |
