They gathered in a room by the sea with
sweatshirts on. There was a black-and-white television, a centerpiece set on a
shelf above the food. The men were barbecuing and watching a Yankees game. The women were silent, conspiring.
Somebody's girlfriend marched up and changed
the channel. Here was a beauty contest, women in beehive hair parading in knee-length
dresses down a catwalk. It was eerily silent, the calm before a storm, and then
somebody, one of the men, marched up and dialed noisily back to the baseball game.
The young woman charged back up and, slap, the crew cut boyfriend had had
enough, and the television was never touched again as the Yankees rounded the
bases and innings.
Mother gave Will a camera she had in her
large purse, full of keys, papers, food -- a Kodak instamatic that was wound on
manually.
“Go make her feel better, Will.”
Will took the camera and went around the
corner. The brown haired lady was lying in a bedroom, face to the wall,
convulsing in sad tears.
"Smile,"
he said. He was afraid she wouldn't hear.
No comments:
Post a Comment