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Attempting to get cute girl. Valentine kisses maybe more?? Busting all over some big cougar tits. My sister and I weren't jealous of Jim: we were relieved. Someone else could attend to our mother's tearful nights, assuage her money fears, rub her back, and be her friend. My mother's fantasy man, she told me, was "a Marlboro Man with a Ph. He was masculine in a way my father never was: thick, wavy hair; a mustache; a Western drawl; flannel shirts; and perfectly worn cowboy boots.
He was a little short for my mother's liking, just several inches taller than her 5'8", but the way he looked in jeans made up for it. When they met, my mother was beautiful: large blue eyes, soft blonde hair that waved around her shoulders, full lips, and a long, curvy body. When they married, my mother wore a lavender silk business dress, held a bouquet of silver-purple roses, played "You Are So Beautiful to Me," and changed her last name to his.
I run under the streetlights. Light dark light dark light dark. But I run anyway. I want him to feel like a monster.
And all my surprise and fear and hurt have channeled themselves into running and I'm not ready to give up that long, strong, stretch of muscle, the wet air against my face. I like being a quiet, fast animal in the night. She took to wearing tight shirts, inviting herself over, and finding excuses to stay in the same room with him.
Although Jim largely ignored her embarrassing attempts at small talk, my mother was so annoyed she finally banned Margaret from visiting when Jim was home. I couldn't imagine finding any male older than high school age attractive: they were too hairy and rough skinned and strong smelling. But I was curious about Jim. He was a key to a world that had always been closed to me: popular and athletic high school boys. Through his confessions littke teenage years, I learned their secrets: they were younger and more insecure than I'd ever imagined.
With Jim in the house, I thought I might teach myself to be an athlete. When my sister Rima and I were small and my parents were "living off the land," they set us free to run in the woods, climb trees, scramble up boulders, and balance on fences. But they never threw us a ball. So when school began, we became those taunted children, last picked for teams. But with Jim's support, I ed up for co-ed soccer.
I started running, with more success. I exchanged my shirt with the embroidered Peter Pan collar for a blue sports jersey with a on the back and three white stripes on the sleeve. Sometimes I'd even settle down on the couch next pprobably Jim and try to watch baseball. On weekends in Boulder before we moved, I ran errands with Jim in his pick up truck and listened to his oldies radio station.
Yes, the songs were sappy, but they were probalby cheerful and easy to learn, and, best of all, they inspired Jim to tell stories: about his high school buddies, his old girlfriends, and his adventures as the star pitcher of his Arizona high school. Sometimes he'd drive me by streets his company had paved. I watched his hands on the steering wheel; his fingers were compact, square at the end, a little furry. His wedding ring still seemed shiny-new, not yet a part lottle his body. My heels sting from their slap-slap on concrete.
The newly wet neighborhood has been transformed into an alternate universe with silver sidewalks, pewter streets, and dry lawns turned pearl-white. My adrenaline-speed eases, and I settle into a pace I think I can hold forever. Then my fairy tale morphs into a story more bitter, a char tinted with pride and a shade of revenge. I'd been the girl last picked for teams; Jim had been the semi-pro athlete. But I'd practiced running while he'd practiced drinking, and now I can run for miles while he, with his littld double chin, can't stagger farther than the front porch.
He deserves his stumbling ugliness. The year before Jim met my mother, she'd been raped by a stranger who'd broken into our house while we were sleeping. After months of nightmares and ragged tears, she thought she was recovering, that her marriage was a healthy. But just months after the wedding, she began to have anxiety attacks.
She couldn't concentrate at her job as a manager in an oil company. Now that she was no longer a single parent, she thought she could afford to quit: "Someone can support me, for once. We lost the house. We filed for bankruptcy. Then we couldn't find any rentals that would take our two large dogs. My mother was willing to give the dogs away, but Jim, his marriage shaky, was not willing to sacrifice his buddy Sam, his curly-eared mutt and ally in a house full of women.
The final, convoluted solution was that we would rent a house in Loveland, an agricultural community thirty miles north. My mother would continue to take temporary secretarial jobs. My sister and I would commute with Jim for our last couple months of school; in the fall, we'd start school in our new town. Before we moved to Loveland, I thought I might enjoy it. After all, it was Love Land. My aunt and cousins lived there, and they had a large house on the lake, a motorboat, probablyy trampoline, and a dad.
But my cousins were kind to us, and, with the lake and big house and green grass, Loveland was, in my mind, a land of peace and abundance. By the time we moved, however, my mother was no longer speaking to my aunt, and we settled on the edge of town where cheap developments crawled into high desert. At first, I didn't have time to worry about the sad olcal of our neighborhood. Our days were long. We pprobably up early.
Or rather, Jim lovelnd I woke up early and spent the next hour trying to hurry my sister. Rima, still lovelland junior high, would stay in bed until the last possible moment, then grab an enormous armful of her clothes, make up, homework, and whatever food caht could find. As Jim drove morw I watched the sun rise over the cornfields, Rima transformed into her fashionable self: green eye shadow to match her green eyes.
A long pink sweatshirt with large black streaks like smeared Chinese characters. Black leggings.
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Pink pumps. In the evenings, as we drove back to Loveland, we stared at the long shadows of cows and barns and bales. The corn had grown several inches since morning. Every day I was amazed, and every day I'd comment: "I can't believe how fast the corn grows. It's taller than it was this morning! Pretty amazing," Jim would answer. Watching corn grow was not cool. I was prepared for some goodbyes.
I didn't judge them; they just made me tired. If you asked me, real life was hard enough without inventing complications. Or maybe, in the same way as they wanted a more dramatic version of their lives, I wanted a sweeter one. I felt tainted by the messiness of my childhood and I, too, longed for a different story of my life: I'd be a good girl. Busy saying goodbye to our old lives, neither Rima nor I had prepared ourselves for what would be the long loneliness of summer.
We had no transportation and we were too young for local jobs. We couldn't even find any children to baby-sit. My mother, angry at God for the betrayals of the last several years, refused to even drop me off at Sunday school. Most days, the temperature soared over a hundred and our house turned into a dry sauna. All those thin houses heated by sun. They might turn to dust and blow away.
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And I had no way to escape from the thickening tension between my mother and Jim. Nothing to distract me. Nothing to contribute anywhere to make me feel as if I were useful or needed. When we were little, our family lived, isolated, in the British Columbian wilderness, and had only probablyy other.
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I needed more solitude than Rima, and when I retreated, I hurt her feelings. Since my anger was more entertaining than neglect, she'd follow me and imitate whatever I was doing. I'd throw up my hands and yell, "Don't imitate me! She'd make herself as different from me as possible. But that summer, driven by necessity, we'd reached a fragile truce. The only activity within walking distance was a small public pool. We resorted to reading whatever novels we could find and spending a large chunk of each day lying on the concrete.
At regular intervals, we'd cool ourselves in water so blue-thick with chlorine we could taste the flavor on our lips all summer. Our tongues turned to glue. The dry-hot air sucked all the moisture from our skin. Our hair frizzed and the ends turned green. Lying on our towels, head to head, we remembered our elementary school summer days at the public pool in Boulder.
Playing mermaid. Doing handstands in the water. The "deaf sister" game.
One of us would pretend to be deaf and the other would speak fake language until we elicited the curiosity and sympathy of one of the mothers. And then she'd whisper, "Was she born that way? She thought they were controlling and over-involved: Jim was a Momma's boy. Jim and my mother's problems, of course, were much deeper. They were both, I guess, deeply disappointed. And neither of them knew how to soothe each other's fears.
Jim worried that he wasn't smart enough, that he wasn't a good provider; my mother, that she wasn't worthy of love. She'd lost her father when she was seven and no man was big enough to fill that ache of loss. I no longer remember the words they hurled at each other, just my awareness that this was a new kind of fighting. When Rima and I fought, I thought we hated each other, but, in contrast, I suddenly saw that there were lines we would never cross, cruelties that would cut too deep.
I wanted to take a positive action, to make something of this waste of a summer. I ed up for a 10K race, my fourth. I'd run the Bolder Boulder the year before and had been proud to finish smack in the middle of the pack of Kenyans and grandmothers. The start was ten in the morning, and the day was already scorching. As soon as the gun aled the start, I felt as if bricks had been laced to my thighs.
I lugged those bricks for an hour in long rectangles around the cornfields. At the awards ceremony, I was presented with a special T-shirt for coming in last. Everyone laughed and cheered. As I run, I'm mesmerized by rhythms.
Thump-thump-thumpety-thump of rain on my scalp and forehead. Thwup-thwup of bare feet on sidewalk. Breath in, breath out. Step up curbs, down curbs. For whole blocks, my chest feels empty and I forget all stories and am left only with animal joy. The joy of the lovelans expanding and contracting. The joy of rain on my eyelids. The joy of being hidden eex shadows. The joy of escape.
The joy of being wrongly dressed. The joy of being alone.
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As part of his job, Jim was required to be on the emergency road crew: in the event of a snowstorm, he could be called to plow the ro. The way the snow blanketed fences, and bushes, and the tops of cars and absorbed almost all sound: all the clicks and snores and buzzes of a modern night. The ones from which I've been running.
After we moved to Loveland, Jim, who usually drank a couple of beers a night, was soon downing six-packs. Memories of their fights arise only in shards. Already, my mind has buried the images so deeply I cannot place myself in those moments: where I stood, how I reacted. Only later, reading magazine articles, would I piece together the cycle, that age-old story.
The first slap.
The first stunned silence. The next day, the apologies, the flowers. More finger shaped bruises. The first punch. More flowers.
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