and got work, first cleaning and scrubbing, then as a saleslady in a
department store, her mother bought a new dress, wore lipstick,
bought a hat. after a few years, her bed-sitting-room had plastic
flowers and a sofa, a table for eating, an old television set. this is a
better life, she seemed to say, quiet and neat, but still her mother
would not look her in the eye.
she had killed her father for her mothers sake, he had been sick for
so long, his lungs weak and scarred, his digestion wrecked, for over a
year he had lain on that bed vomiting, shitting, drinking, always
drinking, look how hes suffering, her mother would say.
the doctor would come once a week, hes got to stop drinking, the
doctor would say. her mother would say nothing, just look at the
man on the bed in a stony silence, give him these pills, the doctor
would say.
after the doctor left, this man who was too weak to rise from his
bed to shit would suddenly bolt up and stumble out the door,
whiskey, he was strong enough for whiskey.
she thought that her mother agreed, she put the pills in his
whiskey, drink this, dad, she said, here, drink this, he had fallen
asleep and then he had died, mercy killing they called it. mercy for
the living.
her mothers expression did not change, did not soften, did not
harden, there was no grief, there was no relief, there was nothing, except that her mother would not look her in the eye.
for a while the fetching and carrying continued, nothing had
changed, the pot cooked all day long over the small flame, the laundry soaked in the tub. her mother scrubbed and scrubbed, as if there was some sense in that.
she left finally, after a few weeks or months, soon after, her mother
left too, went to the city and found work.
first she had gone to London.
there were men there who would pay her way, she was sure of that,
she had a look that they liked, like broken glass, she thought, a
frame filled with broken glass, it made her hard and soft at once,
shiny and dense, easy and dangerous.
she wanted to be an actress, she thought that would be best, to pretend, to pretend to be someone else, to look a certain way, this way or that, to be powerful yet hidden, someone but not herself.
she knew about men. she had seen her mother please her father,
anticipate his every wish, his every intention, her mother had done it
gracelessly, stupidly, never getting anything in return, a cold, hard
life full of senseless work, she had other ambitions, not to be her
mother, that was her ambition, never to be her mother.
she was in London, a warrior on a mission, never to be her mother. -
she watched other women, she saw how they dressed and how they
talked and how they kept silent, she watched them advance and
retreat, like dancers with measured, predetermined steps, this was
her first acting exercise, how to be this one or that one.
she watched men, what they liked, what pleased them, how they
smiled, what made them smile, how they drank, how they danced,
how their arms moved to claim a womans whole life, every breath
