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Youthexpand_moreWhen and why had I begun to think about Ingrid Stoltz? She was a bitch.
We pushed through the doors, back into the audition, among the lithe adults.
The mortician who painted our girl was not a somber-suited officiant.
“Are all the girls really beautiful? Is it true you make out in the showers?”
Papa’s link to that pond was a matter of blood. And the delicious carp.
Lindy knew what happens in the dark behind shut doors: girls tell stories.
“Stop looking at women’s magazines and call me in the morning.”
“I wish my father was alive to see how lazy I could really be.”
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I stepped down painfully on my cracked ankle and nearly fell.
“Leaving for war, Hayes wept. He didn’t just cry; he wept...”
Within two weeks, his parents found out and forbade him to belong.
Betsy recoiled, understanding instinctively what was to come.
I stood there, wishing the ground would open up and swallow me.
Saint Clark, halo and all, patron of wildlife shows and the cigarette tax.
I wanted to forget my parents’ slow dying together in Ohio.
I would chase it to the shores of the lake where the killer waited.
We are teachers so maybe we can help something change, tap into something.
I have already begun the life-long work of hating my father.
The coyotes are making a kill. Their voices rise through the darkness.
I pass my hands over my eyes, mired by the miti-
gation of routine.
