tweaky spring cleaning. Hellohello, they say, always twice
with two head nods, then continue on their way. The man
sometimes has a boa constrictor wrapped around his neck,
though the snake is never acknowledged, by me or him. In
addition to these regulars, a goodly amount of single
women straggle through, usually with bruises. Some seem
embarrassed, others horribly sad.
One moved in yesterday, a blond girl, very young, with
brown eyes and a split lip. She sat on her front porch – the
cabin next to mine – smoking a cigarette, and when we
caught each other’s eye, she sat up straight, proud, her chin
jutted out. No apology in her. I thought:
I need to be like her.
I will make a study of her: She is who I can be for a bit –
the abused tough girl hiding out until the storm passes
over
.
After a few hours of morning TV – scanning for any news on
the Amy Elliott Dunne case – I slip into my clammy bikini. I’ll
go to the pool. Float a bit, take a vacation from my harpy
brain. The pregnancy news was gratifying, but there is still
so much I don’t know. I planned so hard, but there are
things beyond my control, spoiling my vision of how this
should go. Andie hasn’t done her part. The diary may need
some help being found. The police haven’t made a move to
arrest Nick. I don’t know what all they’ve discovered, and I
don’t like it. I’m tempted to make a call, a tip-line call, to
nudge them in the right direction. I’ll wait a few more days. I
have a calendar on my wall, and I mark three days from now
with the words
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