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Yes, I knew what was in store for me, the middle child, the one parents didn’t care about. I’d be forgotten; there’d be no more Friday gifts. Daddy would think only of Momma, of Christopher, and those hateful babies that would displace me.
She lived next door, and was always saying Momma and Daddy looked more like brother and sister than husband and wife.
so this shit doesn't run but sprints in the family huh?
We did search. And we did find rope in an old trunk that held all sorts of junk. It was very apparent the Foxworths didn’t throw anything away—they stored their trash in the attic.
ouch
Of course, we’d never finish decorating all of the attic, it was so tremendous—and any day the grandfather could die, and then we’d leave, never to return again.
oh summer child
We wouldn’t want to leave anything living, and loving of sunshine, in this attic.”
orly??
He’s much too short for me. I couldn’t marry a man who couldn’t pick me up and carry me over the threshold. I could pick him up—he’s only five feet two.”
short kings can't get respect 😭
Why was it I never realized when I was able to run wild and free that I was experiencing happiness? Why did I think back then, that happiness was always just ahead in the future, when I would be an adult, able to make my own decisions, go my own way, be my own person? Why had it seemed that being a child was never enough? Why had I thought that happiness reserved itself for those grown to full size?
That’s the way he said it, dead flat, and dead serious. He would never let anyone force him to do anything that didn’t fit his image of himself, and in a way I liked him for being what he was, strong, resolute, determined to be his own person, even if his kind of person had long ago gone out of style.
to take away the harm she’d done. Kiss, kiss, kiss, finger his hair, stroke his cheek, draw his head against her soft, swelling breasts, and let him drown in the sensuality of being cuddled close to that creamy flesh that must excite even a youth of his tender years.
😶🤢
That winter, the TV set took over our lives. Like others—invalids, sick people, old people—we ate, bathed, and dressed, so we could sit down to watch other people living fake lives.
The TV shaped us, molded us, taught us how to spell and pronounce difficult words. We learned how important it was to be clean, odorless, and never let wax accumulate on your kitchen floor;
“Swing low, sweet chariot, comin’ for t’ carry me home . . .” was the tune I hummed as I made the beds, and waited for the news to come that our grandfather was on his way to heaven if his gold counted, and to hell if the Devil couldn’t be bribed.
“Chris,” I said, sitting up to brush my hair, “in your opinion, what percentage of teen-aged girls in the world have gone to bed with clean, shining hair and awakened a tar baby?”
We haven’t remained idle, twiddling our thumbs while you were off having a good time. Through books Cathy and I have lived a zillion lives . . . our vicarious way to feel alive.”
God wouldn’t see. He’d closed his eyes to everything the day Jesus was put on the cross.
Death wasn’t the only thing that took away someone you loved and needed;
If it did, in no way did she indicate that she saw us as less than perfectly normal, though I took pains to name our small illnesses: the way we threw up so often now, and how our heads ached from time to time, and we had stomach cramps, and sometimes very little energy.
poison
“There is no way but to steal it from Momma, her husband, and the grandmother.” He said this so pronounced, exactly as if thieving were an old and honored profession. And in dire need, perhaps it was, and still is.
“How do you look?” he began in a sarcastic way. “Let me tell you precisely. You look like a streetwalker—that’s how!” He turned away in disgust, as if unable to bear the sight of me. “An adolescent whore—that’s what! Now go wash your face, and put back all that stuff where you found it, and clean up the dressing table!”
damn, bro
Chris and I had to make up tales like this or else he’d eat nothing but the doughnuts.
don’t make me hate her more!” “Hate . . . you haven’t begun to know what hate is yet.
