The Things We Do to Make It Home Paperback - 2000

Excerpt

1973

1. WHERE WE WERE

We were in bed

We were sauced

We were plastered

We were stoned

We were drumming floors

We were bathed in TV light

We were alive

We were together

We were back in the world.

And she's still not used to the noises he makes in other rooms. She hears him pacing the floor and snapping his fingers as if he can't contain the ideas popping into his head.

Dropping the green cotton skirt over her silky green blouse, she thinks it's crazy, dressing up this way to watch TV, but Rooster will twirl her around, three times at least, like she was the main show and he won't let it end. Before him, men were so ordinary, so predictable. He surprises her breath away, driving them into Manhattan at 3:00 a.m., the tall glass buildings filled with blue light and no people, his arm wrapping her waist. He never lets her stray from his side. Back home, they sneak upstairs, not waking her sister or Nick, hiding in bed till noon, their bodies tight together. It worries her the way he can go on with no sleep, expecting her to do the same, although when she can't he leaves her be, takes off by himself. Once they're married he'll settle down. He's just excited, the way she is, about everything.

Yesterday she missed her morning classes and arrived in a daze at the afternoon workshops, where the teacher was shagging hair. In the evening she found the time to perm the wig on her mannequin, which used to reside on the kitchen table until Rooster covered it and moved it to the window ledge. The eye sockets gave him the creeps. Soon she'll graduate and look for a full-time job. Rooster too. Then they can rent a place, their own, maybe buy it someday, and he can listen to music all night if he wants to.

She weaves the last strands of her hair into a French braid, and with arms faintly aching, slips the end into a barrette. Listen up, men, he'll say, Millie and I are getting married. She opens the closet door, studies the shoe rack. They agree, today is perfect for the announcement. They'll all be together. He'd better remember. She searches out her beige, high-heeled pumps.

He counts twenty-two steps from the bedroom door to the end of the living room. If he walks across the couch, it's only nineteen. He glances out the window. Looks like an afternoon storm that could last minutes, or days. No use trying to keep dry. The heavens are tricky. The key is not to care.

He switches on a lamp in the rapidly darkening room. Listens for the drumbeat of Millie's heels. She doesn't like him barging in while she's dressing. She says that he's got to give her some privacy. Soon there'll be thunder, lightning. He begins snapping his fingers. Twenty-two steps. He turns, fixes his eyes on the door. Twenty-two steps. Hey, baby, anchors need to be close to their boats.

He switches on another lamp, drops into a chair. A thunderclap rumbles deep in his chest. This vessel's ready to steer out of here. He stands up. Twenty-two steps. He looks for a magazine. None in sight.

He glances out at the yellow house across the street. A patch of grass black as the sky.

He flicks on the TV. Nothing. Goddamn box. Not even plugged in. Jesus. He can't be prowling around looking for a socket. Shit. Twenty-two steps. He opens the bedroom door. "Hey, baby."

She's slipping on her shoes. He wraps his arms around her, nuzzles his face into her clean-smelling hair. Make love, he thinks, so deep inside he'll hear nothing but the feathery sounds that come off her breath.

"Don't mess me."

He unzips her skirt. "You can't be messed, baby."

"They'll be here soon."

"They'll be late. They're always late." He sits her on his lap. "Pretty bird, why should we ever leave this room?" He slips off the barrette, begins unbraiding her silky, orange-red hair that's like a morning sun, a 'Nam moon. He traces the line of freckles marching down her neck. "We need to count these." He peers into her green saucer eyes scattered with infinite black and yellow specks. "Tiger eyes."

"Ever see one?"

"Heh, heh. They saw me." He lifts her blouse over her head.

"Don't undress me anymore." She shakes her shoulders.

"Why not?" He lays her on the bed, sliding up beside her.

"Don't you want to go the party, Rooster?"

His name, that name, still so strange from her lips. "We will. I'll dress you." "Let's not be late. They'll all be there, except Lucy and Nick."

Filled with the after-sweet tiredness of loving her, he might be able to sit still for the car ride. "Right. Can't expect him to leave the bubble till the bluebird flies through Manhattan."

Media reviews

"Stunning . . . Lean and supple, completely persuasive, full of nuanced turns, dead on about how people try to bind and repel each other at the same time."
--The New York Times Book Review

"EVOCATIVE . . . [A] POWERFUL TALE . . . THE CHARACTERS STICK WITH YOU."
--USA Today

"HAUNTING . . . A NOVEL BRIMMING WITH BURNING EMOTION . . . The story is the strengths and silences of the women, beauticians and waitresses, who raise their children and watch the men go down their own hallucinogenic road, followed by demons."
--Booklist