| OCR Text |
Show Woodworth/172 bush part noiselessly, and she creeps to the window without hesitation. Her mother is not in the middle of the floor. It doesn't make sense. The props have been stolen, the play isn't going right. Everything wheels, cyclones. She is vortex. The crickets scream; the hum of the motor,.intensifies, the fan grumbles close to her ear. Ruth must be upstairs. She could have killed herself in a hundred different ways, in a thousand different places. Marty may spend all night looking. It will be too late. And then she hears a long, one-note whistle. The tea pot. She's so convinced that it's Ned in the kitchen that she has another shock when Ruth comes unsteadily into the living room in her rumpled green cotton robe, carrying a cup of coffee. Marty watches as her mother sits down in her chair, lifts a paperback book from the floor, and begins to turn the pages slowly as she sips her coffee, blowing steam off the top. She watches. Then she runs. Through the dark, stumbling on the rough clumps of grass in the Held she runs, heavily, panting loudly, scaring the predators, resouing the pret, to the pond. Collapses under the willow tree. For a second, she feels like laughing. Then a great, dark wave rises from her groin, spilling inself on her guts, her tongue, her teeth, carrying with it fragments torn from houses, stores, stories, dreams, memories. "Ooooh Fuuucck," she whispers, riding the crest of the wave, denying its force. "Ooooohh, Fuck," and this time it is more of a wail. The taste of toothpaste, improperly rinsed, the feel of the receiver, held tight against her ear, the sound of Megan's |
