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LOOKING REAL GOOD Barbara Ponse
Rachel felt like a fly on the wall of her own life. She watched herself watch Marion sitting on the couch opposite her. Except for the crackle of the fire, the room was quiet. Marion had stopped talking and was gazing into the fireplace. Rachel observed herself as she slid the International Herald Tribune off the coffee table and pretended to read. A soft rasping sound made her to look up. It was Marion, filing her nails, her eyes squinted to avoid smoke from the cigarette held in the corner of her mouth. The scrape of the file stopped. Rachel heard a small mewling noise, like the cry of a cat. She glanced up. There was no cat. She attempted to read, but the strain of monitoring herself as well staying attuned to Marion, rendered her unable to take in the words on the page. The mewling grew louder. It turned out to be the sound of Marion breathing, each exhalation punctuated with a little cry. Marion was watching her, almost beseeching her with her eyes. Rachel swallowed a sigh, folded the paper and put it down on the table. With an upward motion of her head, she asked, "What is it?" "Look, I’m crying now." Marion’s eyelids almost obscured her eyes. Rachel pressed her lips together, leaned over the coffee table toward Marion, nodding her head in sympathy. She saw no tears, but she knew Marion was trying. Marion lit a cigarette, balanced the spent wooden match on the cigarette butts filling the ashtray, then leaned back on the dog-stained tarp covering the sofa and exhaled a cloud of smoke. Her belly rose and fell over her thighs. She was mourning her husband who’d died a year ago. Rachel struggled to come up with genuine sympathy but the stubborn image of Marion smoking throughout her husband’s long illness and death thwarted her good intentions. She forced herself to remember that it was she who had volunteered for the role of friend of the widow. Marion didn’t want to be at home on the first anniversary of Alan’s death. This was the reason the two of them had come to France. If Rachel now felt trapped, she’d better make the best of it, she admonished herself. Rachel was settling back into the couch when she caught sight of the overflowing ashtray, the coffee cups and the stains on the coffee table. She rose to her feet, grabbed the ashtray, pushed an empty one in front of Marion and went to the kitchen to get a sponge. "Oh, you don’t have to!" Marion said, following Rachel with her eyes. Rachel, her back to Marion, hissed through clenched teeth. "Yes, I do." She came back armed with a sponge, and began clearing away newspapers, eyeglasses, and cups that littered the table. She tossed empty cigarette packs into the fireplace and started to wipe off the table. "What are you, the cleaning lady?" Rachel didn’t answer or look up, afraid Marion would read her murderous thoughts. She kept her head down and scrubbed at a spot until she saw that it was part of the table’s surface. "My blood sugar is dropping! I have to eat!" Marion announced. "I thought I’d make the cauliflower sauce with pasta. I bought cauliflower at the market this morning." "The doctor said I shouldn’t eat pasta. I’m on a diet! Can’t you leave off the pasta?" Marion’s voice grew louder. From the corner of her eye, Rachel saw that the fire needed more logs. Cold ashes had drifted onto the floor that was already littered with chips of wood. She straightened up, walked over to fire place and, with great force, threw a log on the fire sending up showers of sparks and ashes then marched toward the kitchen again, for a broom and dustpan. "Well, I’m not sure there’s enough…" Rachel bit her lip to suppress a bitter laugh. She remembered the cheese slathered brioche Marion had eaten for breakfast; her sopping up drippings of duck and pork with clumps of French bread the night before, the potatoes dipped in olive oil and salt she’d had as a little snack. She pictured the puff pastry, rife with butter and truffles that Marion had inhaled at lunch. "Never mind, I’ll just make the cauliflower, and a salad." "Don’t put salt in the salad." "Okay." The clinking of bells and a chorus of barking sounded at the door. The three dogs and their mistress, Ava, were back from their walk. A Dalmatian, a Weimeraner and an enormous arthritic collie pushed passed Ava and bounded into the room. "So, what are you two up to?" Ava approached Marion on the couch. Ava was Marion’s friend; this was her house. Ava was also a widow. She’d lost her husband two years before. "I was just going to make something to eat. Marion needs to eat." "That Italian dish, the pasta with the cauliflower?" "That was the plan, but Marion can’t eat pasta." "No, no it’s okay, make the pasta if Ava wants it," said Marion.
"I’ll just make the vegetable and the salad." Rachel interrupted "Make the pasta! Make the pasta!" Marion shouted. Turning to Ava, "What do you mean you’re not eating? You look like you came out of the camps! You’ve been sick! You’ve lost so much weight! You’ve got to eat!" Ava leaned into to Marion’s face. "MARION! I’M NOT HUNGRY!" Rachel went toward the door. "I need to go to my room," she muttered. No one was listening. Outside the front door, Rachel stood for a moment, holding her breath. She tiptoed through the mud beside the now-empty pool to the stepping-stones leading to her room in the guesthouse. She looked up at the ridge above the road bordering Ava’s property. Naked trees stretched their spidery arms into the winter sky. In the morning, there’ll be hunters up there with their dogs and guns. Rachel shivered at the thought. Ava’s dogs wore bells around their necks so the hunters wouldn’t mistake them for game and shoot. No one could possibly hear her, but she waited until she neared the safety of her room before she began to talk aloud to herself. She opened the door to her room. Her pantyhose still hung on the knob of the window where she’d left them the night before. She felt the stocking legs; they were dry. She folded them into a ball and put them in the small cabinet on the other side of the room. Mud smudged the tiles in front of the cabinet and streaked through the doorway to the bathroom. She thought she’d cleaned the floor before she’d gone to bed. She shrugged, walked to the small kitchen area to get a rag from under the sink. She took off her shoes. The tiles were cold under her feet. She wet the rag and went back to clean up the mud. Walking hunched over, she scanned the floor for spots and dust balls and wiped them away. She washed her hands, rinsed out the kitchen sink, then tip-toed into the bathroom. She studied her face in the mirror for a moment, rubbed a little eye shadow on her eyelids, then carefully drew a pencil line along the base of her upper lashes. She held her lips in an O, applied fresh lipstick and ran a brush through her hair. When she’d finished making up, she went over to the bed, turned, smoothed the quilt under her and sat down. Resting her elbows on her knees, she held her face in her hands and wept without making a sound. She patted a tissue under her eyes, careful not to smear her eye makeup. When she glanced at her watch she saw twenty minutes had passed. She had better go make the damned supper before there was any more debate about it. She put her shoes back on and let out a great sigh. Composing her expression, she turned on the light to illuminate her path and crossed the yard to the big house. She shivered in the chill of the twilight. Approaching the house, she heard the dogs begin to bark. They crowded around the door when she opened it. Patting each one of them in turn, she whispered, "Now, now girls, it’s only me. Shush! Shush! Come on baby girls! Quiet!" Marion and Ava sat facing one another on the two sofas in front of the fireplace, smoking. Ava’s voice came through a cloud of smoke. "You two’ll have to eat in the kitchen, the dining room table is broken." "Okay." "Tomorrow will be better," Rachel thought. Tomorrow was the day she and Marion would start their journey around Provence. The winter sun began its descent around four-thirty in the afternoon, so Rachel had set the alarm for eight in the morning to get an early start. She slipped out of bed, got dressed, put on her boots and made her way to the big house to get Marion. She opened the door. Marion, still in her nightgown, was on the phone, pacing as she talked; the three dogs followed in her tracks. Smoke enveloped her like a morning fog. Rachel chewed on the inside of her cheek. Marion obviously wasn’t ready to go. She’s probably talking to her daughter, Rachel guessed. She poured herself a cup of coffee, buttered a slice of bread and sat down at the table. "Oh, it’s great! I’m hanging out here with Ava. Yeah, just what I wanted. (pause) No, she’s still upstairs. We’re taking the dogs to the vet. (pause) Oh, she’s off, always on the run. To San Tropez, she just came in. I’ll tell her. Okay, honey, I’ll call you later." Marion hung up the phone and came into the kitchen to feed the dogs. Rachel glared at Marion, waiting for her to say something; something about not coming with her, something about staying with Ava, something about changing the plans. Marion was oblivious to Rachel’s dark look, busying herself with portioning out the dog food, muttering, "one big cup of dry, half a cup wet. C’mon my little pushky, minushkies! Tanta Marion made your breakfast!" Marion’s nonchalance was disconcerting. Rachel almost choked. A piece of bread stuck in her throat. She coughed to dislodge it, bringing tears to her eyes, her hand hard against her mouth. She clenched her other hand into a fist. She remembered two days before that she’d overheard Marion saying she’d come to France to visit Ava. She’d heard it, but denied to herself the conclusion that Marion had come only to see Ava. She’d brushed off Marion’s making plans with Ava, in front of her but not including her, as Marion’s habitual thoughtlessness. She now had to face the fact: she was a third wheel. Her being there didn’t matter. She was an artifact of a forgotten plan. Marion proceeded to feed the dogs. In their enthusiasm, they crashed the metal bowls against the kitchen cabinets. When they’d devoured their food, they came over to the table where Rachel sat in stunned silence, looking for more food. Marion poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down "After you went to bed, Ava and I talked for a long time." "Here it comes," thought Rachel, "now she’ll tell me some story about how she can’t come." She crushed the bit of bread she held in her hand into a wad. "She asked me why I had tried to commit suicide so many times when I was in my twenties" Marion continued. "Oh, by the way, Susie says to tell you hello." Rachel nodded mechanically as she watched Marion’s mouth work as she talked, watched spittle form in the corner of her mouth, noticed that her lower eyelids were pulled away from her eyes by the fleshy pouches beneath them. As Marion droned on, her voice sounded farther and farther away. Rachel felt hollow; she could hear her blood pounding in her ears. Marion’s voice came at her as if she were hearing it from the end of a tunnel; talking about her attempted suicides, her commitment to the hospital, her escape from the hospital, stories Rachel had heard innumerable times before. She burned with a hatred so intense, she didn’t dare meet Marion’s gaze. She felt light headed and forced herself to look down at the floor. Digging her fingernails into her palms, she shifted in her chair; straining to hide the violence she felt. Finally able to get the words out, she asked, "And what did you say?" "I don’t know. Twenty years of analysis and we could never figure it out." Marion looked helpless; she shrugged her shoulders "Oh." Against her will, Rachel felt herself feeling sorry for the figure in front of her. She cursed the empathy that rose like a tide in her. She slumped in the chair, impotent in the face of Marion’s imperturbable self-absorption. What would be the point of trying to convince Marion to do what she didn’t want to do? Marion was doing exactly what she wanted to do; the creature of her instincts, she lived in a gulag of her impulses. The plans the two of them had were gone from her mind as if they had never existed. Nothing but resentment would be gained by reminding her. Helplessness and frustration threatened to explode in Rachel’s chest. She sprang to her feet so quickly, her chair almost fell over. She headed toward the door. "Marion, I think I should hit the road, I want to have some daylight hours." She felt strangled with suppressed emotion. But Marion didn’t notice. "Yeah. Have a good time." Rachel almost ran across the dead lawn. Blind with rage, she got into the car, and slammed the door so hard the window rattled. Gunning the car in reverse, she wheeled around and headed away from the house. A web of dirt roads led out to the paved street. Rachel found herself muddled about which road to take. Two fierce dogs lunged at the fence along the road. She remembered seeing them before but suddenly the car lurched on the deeply rutted road. This isn’t right, this isn’t the road to the highway, she thought. Somewhere, she’d made a wrong turn. The branches of twisted, naked trees on the dirt cliff seemed sinister, as if they had a will of their own, as if they could come forth and entangle her. The ravine on the other side of the dirt threatened to compel the car over its edge to crash into the river below. Rachel gripped the steering wheel and clung to the center of the dirt road. She slowly inched the car forward, pleading silently for something familiar. She made another turn; another wrong move, but at least the ravine that seemed ready to swallow her was further away. Drenched with sweat, she pulled over to the side of the narrow road and turned off the motor. She sat for a long time, her face in her hands and sobbed like a lost child, unable to go forward or back, suspended in an awful now. She caught a glimpse of herself in the rear view mirror when she raised her head to search for a tissue. She saw a disheveled middle-aged woman, with a runny nose, swollen face, eyes like slits from so much crying, lost in the woods. The wretched sight made her cry even more. She tore at her hair and berated herself, questioning over and over what she had done to bring about her current situation. What didn’t she see that she ought to have seen? She had wanted to be a good friend to Marion, someone who could be counted on, a friend in deed, she protested aloud to the uncaring trees. She had only wanted the simple pleasures of acknowledgement, of appreciation in return. Instead, she was filled with hateful feelings, hurt and rage. Not only was she not acknowledged, she’d been discarded, like an appliance that is no longer needed. She had never been so invisible. Finally, she stopped crying. She blew her nose then wiped away her tears. Calmer now, she sat staring dully into the cold sunlight that filtered through the black branches. Had she been a victim? She asked herself, but the very question brought on a spasm of humiliation that left her hot and weak. She shook her head slowly. "No," she said to herself, "Not at this point in my life. There must have been something I could have seen, something." But hard as she tried, she could not figure out what she could have done differently. She had to acknowledge to herself that despite her efforts, thus far the trip had not been in her control. She drew in a deep breath, somehow the recognition of her own limits, brought with it a certain comfort, a sort of resigned equilibrium. She felt her body relax against the car seat. Her breathing became even, her gaze quiet. The world around her now seemed manageable. the surreal look of things had dissipated. She could now see that she was on the upper road instead of the lower one she usually took and that if she continued along the way she was headed, she would eventually reach the highway. She turned on the motor, her mouth set in a determined line. She‘d made up her mind that even if everything had been out of her control before, she now would take charge of the situation in which she found herself. And so she began her travels alone, driving to small villages, getting lost, going for walks, shopping, looking, eating. At first she did not venture far, limiting herself to day trips and returning home in the evening. Ava and Marion were always in the same place, sitting and smoking in front of the fire, in a universe of their own. In France, the siesta lasts from midday till three or four in the afternoon, a practice Rachel considered charming for the French but a nuisance for her. She had nowhere to go during the long break in the day. Towns virtually shut down. Winter days were short, many places were shuttered up for the season; making her excursions brief and frustrating. The radio in the car didn’t work, so she drove in silence unless she talked aloud to herself. The narrow roads wound around the hills like snakes, sometimes becoming a single lane before or after a blind curve. Rachel felt she was no match for the French who careened around the country roads at great speed, indifferent to lanes, signals or any other boundaries. They would come up close behind her and ride her tail till she could find a place to pull over to let them pass. Her back and the backs of her legs were in spasm as she navigated the treacherous roads. She became aware that she was holding her breath for long sections of road; she often had to force her shoulders down from up around her ears. One day, she decided to drive to Marseilles to buy caftans. The drive took about two hours on the "Payage" or highway. She entered the city and was making her way to the Arab quarter, when, from the left, a kid on a motorbike suddenly pulled out in front of her. She hit him. She slammed on the brake, laid her head against the steering wheel and jabbered, "Oh, god! Oh god! I hit someone! In a foreign country! Oh Jesus! Oh god, oh fuck, what have I done! Ooh no no no!" She was nearly crazed as she forced herself, surrounded now by traffic, to pull over to the side of the street to check on the kid. Her French, limited to a few phrases in the best of circumstances, deserted her completely. She shouted in English at the young man who, thank god, was standing with the bike on the sidewalk. "Why did you pull in front of me? Why did you pull in front of me?" He shook his head, murmured something to the young man standing next to him. Was he speaking French, or was it Arabic? (Now she feared she was deaf as well as dumb.) He looked uncomprehending. He did not understand her. She imagined for a moment that they saw her as a rich white ugly American. Maybe they’d sue her, maybe kill her! Who would know? Who’d find the body? Her brain froze. Then, she suddenly got excited when it occurred to her that they might be Moroccans! She felt reassured. She liked Morocco! Morocco had been a Spanish colony! Maybe they spoke Spanish! "Habla espanol?" she asked. The victim and his companion shook their heads. Now she could see through her panic. The two young guys regarded her with some concern. She suddenly caught an idea of how she must appear to them, gesticulating, wild-eyed, yelling in a language they couldn’t understand. Christ! How do you say in French are you okay? Are you hurt? She demanded something in French from her memory, anything. She tried: "vous etes malade?" "Non, non. C’est ne pas grave." The boy, holding on to the handlebar of his motorbike, shook his head. "Pas grave! Pas grave!" She nearly shouted for joy. She understood! He was not "grave," not seriously hurt.
Rachel came closer, challenging herself to look. There was a small mark on the bike where she had bumped it. She examined the bumper of the rented car. Only a small red smear betrayed her recent contact with the bike. Relieved, she turned again toward the young man and his friend. "Mais pour quoi vous etes d’avant de moi?" She gestured with her hands indicating the space in front of her. She still couldn’t understand why he had pulled in front of her. "Fait rouge, madame." He pointed above her head, with a gloved hand at the signal light She heard the bike start up as she got back into her car. Her eyes filled with tears before her body hit the seat. She could not remember even seeing the signal light before he had pointed it out. That scared her, scared her almost as much as having hit the kid. She could not trust herself. She was suddenly very tired. Driving to the nearest parking lot, she parked the car. Somehow, she had managed to end up in the Arab quarter where she wanted to be. She wandered up and down the streets for hours, seeking help from shop keepers along the way, relentless in her search for the right caftans. Her persistence paid off late in the day. In a covered market, very much like a souk, she found exactly what she wanted. Caftans made of pure cotton, with embroidered plackets at the neck, just like in Morocco. The young Syrian man who waited on her insisted on accompanying her to the bank for cash. "Many bad men! Many bad boys." He warned her pointing to his eye. "I watch for you." He stood guard at a respectful distance from the ATM while she secured the cash. There were many men on the street. She could see they were poor and she was a lone, middle-aged Americanwoman in the midst of all of them. She forgot to be afraid, suddenly struck with the illusion that she was safer with strangers than she was with people she thought she knew. She wrapped her sense of safety, however unfounded, around her like a protective shawl and walked back to the shop with the young man. She wanted to get back to the car park before dark. The young man and his boss loaded her arms with bags filled with caftans. She began her trek down the many hills to the plaza below where she’d left the car. Suddenly very hungry, she remembered seeing a Moroccan restaurant across the street from the car park. She went inside and sat at a table. She was the only customer. She ate some mediocre chicken tajine, drank some excrable coffee, paid the bill and left. Finding change in her purse, she inserted it in the machine to pay for parking, and went to the car and threw all her bags into the back seat. It was twilight. She realized she’d be driving most of the way back in the dark. She swore to herself in disgust as she switched on the headlights and headed towards the village where Ava lived. As she drove along the darkening highway, she was painfully aware that she didn’t want to go back. She didn’t want to stay in her room in the back house and read, nor sit around and smoke with them, nor clean up after them, didn’t want to be an audience to their pointless, repetitive conversations. She gripped the steering wheel and negatively contemplated her options. She didn’t want to search for a hotel in Marseilles or anywhere else in France. She’d her fill of wandering around by herself. She’d had her fill of "making the best of it". The idea hit her like a revelation. She’d go home! Her mood brightened, she could feel herself lighten. She would change her reservations! Why not? She thought. She would go home and read in her own damn bed! That settles it. She suddenly felt exhalted, ennobled even, by her self-sacrificing goodness, her ability to triumph over the vicissitudes of fate! She was inspired to tell Marion and Ava just exactly what she thought of them, about the waste of her time, her money, her friendship, her kindness. She bore down on the gas pedal. The faster she drove, the faster she compiled her evidence. With increasing fervor, she enumerated Marion’s sins of omission and commission, her character defects, her personality problems, her narcissism, her primitiveness, her boorishness, even her table manners came under scrutiny. It was not a difficult case to make. Marion’s faults were legion, her sins, too numerous to count. Rachel had history with Marion and she could chronicle Marion’s deficiencies, her various pathologies, her bad behavior over the course of three decades! She could call witnesses to the stand, many of them! She resolved she would tell Marion how nervy and inconsiderate she was to have invited her on a trip only to ditch her. Ava’s house was supposed to be a base of operation for them. How could Marion imagine that it was okay for Rachel to spend her vacation alone? She should take off three weeks of work to do that? Rachel yelled in outrage. Did she think Rachel needed more experience of being alone! She was alone, plenty, thank you! And she could live alone well, thank you very much! Most of the time she enjoyed being alone! BUT DRIVING AROUND IN FRANCE.WHERE SHE DID NOT SPEAK THE LANGUAGE, IN THE WINTER AND THE COLD AND THE DARK AND KNOWING NO ONE! Her voice rose in protest of the injustice of it all. ONE DAY, OKAY! OKAY! She hit the steering wheel for emphasis. TWO DAYS, MAYBE! A warning note sounded in her voice. BUT THREE FUCKING WEEKS, FORGET IT! Rachel was going full throttle, speeding and crying aloud with great feeling. She was sitting upright in her seat, breathing like a bellows. Momentarily concerned that passing drivers might hear her raving, she began to whisper her imprecations, but soon soared to another crescendo of wounded pride and self-pity. She vowed she would tell them off, she would skewer them with the truth. She would make them suffer! She would! Rachel suddenly wilted, deflated. The fight went out of her. She eased up on the gas. She could not make them suffer, but they could make her suffer. If she managed to make them feel guilty, they would get angry, defensive. They would claim the primacy of widowhood. She would be the insensitive one. But why was everything in life about someone else, about their feelings, their needs? Why didn’t she count? Apart from Marion and Ava, apart from her injured feelings, apart from the loneliness, expense and frustration of the whole experience, a question continued to nag at Rachel: What was her own part in all this? She swallowed hard, and leaned forward as if she could find an answer on the shimmering windshield. She continued to ponder as she turned off the highway to the village road. The mauve and sage meadows bordering the road were now shrouded in black, the stone mill at the side of the road, a dark hulk looming ahead. Rachel turned on the bright headlights to illuminate the ribbon of road. She knew she could continue to gather evidence about Marion and even condemn her with it. But what was the use of that? It still left unanswered the question of what she, herself was doing here? Why had she come on this trip? She well knew who Marion was. Although she could not have predicted the precise outcome of this trip, she was no virgin. She had taken other trips with Marion and the trips had not been pleasant. So what was her reason for saying that she would go anywhere Marion wanted to go, do anything Marion wanted to do? All of Rachel’s previous high-minded ideas about why she’d come on the trip seemed empty. The road became a series of hairpin turns going up a hill. Rachel slowed way down to navigate the curves, praying that no one would come up behind her. Had she come on the trip because of Alan? She asked herself. Was it because he died? No, Rachel had had to mourn Alan alone. Marion excluded Rachel when Alan got so sick. Marion would not even permit her to visit Alan in the hospital, though Rachel knew many others who had. She pictured Alan in her mind, his curly mop of hair, his gap-toothed smile and his wise and warm brown eyes. He had been a dear, dear friend to her. She felt a sharp stab in her chest. She missed him. She thought of an old Lord Buckley story Alan used to tell. She could even hear his voice saying the words and smiled to herself. "A black man looked up to heaven one day and said: ‘God, why did you make my legs so long and skinny, why did you make my skin so black and why did you give me this kinky hair?’ And God answered. ‘My son, I made your legs long and graceful so that you could outrun your pursuers. I made your skin dark as night so you could elude your captors. I made your hair cling close to your head, so it would not catch in the brambles as you ran.’ The black man paused for a moment and looked down at the ground. Then he looked up again at his Creator. ‘Oh yeah?’ he said, ‘then what the fuck am I doin’ in Chicago!’" Rachel added to herself: "And what the fuck am I doin’ in France." She winced a little, ashamed, embarrassed. She knew. It was not about Alan, and it was not about Marion. Not really. It was about her. It was in pursuit of a need that was almost as old as she was. She wanted to be good, to prove she was good. And she had wanted Marion, to see her goodness. In fact, like a child she really wanted everybody, EVERYBODY, EVERYWHERE to see what a good little girl she was. If she could, she would have it written by a sky-writer in the sky: RACHEL IS A VERY GOOD GIRL. And she had just paid again, a very big price for her pitiful grand wish. She pulled into the parking place behind the guest house and turned off the motor and the headlights. She sat for a long time in the dark, her hands crossed over her heart, thinking her own thoughts. She could see now that she had mounted a one-woman show; a drama in which she was the star, the writer, the director, the producer, and, she realized she was the only one in the theatre, the lone member of the audience. She shook her head slowly, wondering at what a child she still was. Her heart almost breaking with the realization that everything else and everyone else were mere props in her own play, foils subsumed to the contours of her own story. The plot line lay in the unanswerable dreams of long ago. She pressed the door handle and got out of the car. The moon overhead was full and pale, floating in black space encircled by a bright corona. The sky was white. She hugged herself against the cold night as she walked slowly toward the house. She opened the door and quietly closed the door behind her. The air in the room was warm and close, filled with the acrid incense of cigarettes. Marion and Ava, sat haloed with wreathes of smoke. Rachel stood by the door and watched them. They reminded her of Indian widows who cast themselves on the funeral pyres of their spouses, yearning to unite again with the men they’d lost. And for the moment, she felt pity for them. Then she bit her lips as a sour taste of envy invaded her mouth. She fell back softly against the door, her eyes open wide. She envied them their grief, she envied their being so completely given over to their own experience, they scarcely seemed aware of her arrival. She envied their not being outside their own lives as she often felt herself to be. She envied them having someone to mourn. Forcing herself away from the safety of the door, she made herself begin to walk toward them, breathing deeply against the tears that welled up from within her. When she was finally able to speak, her voice was quiet, free from blame and sorrow.
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