| Meredith was becoming anxious. On the wall the clock read 3:49 P.M.—basketball practice had begun at 3:30 P.M. Younger than sixteen she’d become anxious about being late. Urgently Mr. Schneider was saying, as if he’d read her thoughts, “You’re sixteen, Meredith—are you? In five years, you’ll be twenty-one. I am twenty-nine and in five years I will be thirty-four. The difference is not so profound. In some cultures, it is non-existent.” Twenty-nine! Meredith would have guessed that Hans Schneider was ten years older. Numbly she stared at the floor. Her ears were ringing. She could not be certain she’d heard what she had heard. “You’re not a shallow girl, Meredith. You’re not a pretty girl—not vain, childish. You did not live a child’s life. Beyond these others, you are mature. You—like me—” In Hans Schneider’s face there was the defiant look of one who has spent a lifetime constructing an elaborate structure out of some flimsy material like paper and now, with a reckless gesture, he was intent upon destroying it. His dull-striped tie was loose at his neck as if he’d been tugging at it. His fingers were cloudy with chalk dust and there were chalk-smudges on his face. In a quavering voice he said: “You could wait for me. There won’t be other men—boys—not many—who would pursue you. The ‘physical life’ will not be easy for you—you can be sure. We—you and I—could have |
legs. The air in the kitchen was warm, close, humid. On the gas-burner stove were many pots and pans. On another table were fresh-baked muffins, whole grain bread, pies. These were pies with thick crusts and sugary-gluey insides. Apple pies, cherry pies. A bottle of beer. Bottles of beer. A hand lifted the bottle, poured the foaming dark liquid into a glass. M.R. drank. So thirsty! So hungry! Her eyes welled with tears of childish gratitude. The heavyset woman served her. The heavyset woman had enormous breasts to her waist. The heavyset woman had a coarse flushed skin and sympathetic eyes. Her crown of braids made her appear regal yet you knew—you could not coerce this woman. When others—men, boys—tried to push into the kitchen to peer at M.R. in her rumpled and mud-stained clothes, the heavyset woman shooed them away. Laughing saying, Yall go away get the hell out noner your business here. M.R. was eating so greedily, soup spilled onto the front of her jacket. Her hands shook. Beer in her nostrils making her cough, choke. She’d had too much to drink, and to eat. Too quickly. Laughing became coughing and coughing became choking and the heavyset woman thumped her between the shoulder blades with a fist. It was the TV—or, a jukebox—loud percussive music. She could not hear the music, so loud. Something was entering her—lights? like glinting blades. She wasn’t drunk but a wild drunken elation swept |
