Lawrence tells you about his place in the world, flat grassland as wide as an ocean and animals with huge shoulders called bison that he says are bigger than any bull or water buffalo that you can imagine. At least you never have to worry with him whether he wants you. In private, he submits, treats you like an empress.
When the war comes to an uneasy truce, he asks you to leave with him. The country is split in two, mirroring the way you feel. Where you lived, now a madman leads and you know you’ll never return. You get married wearing your sister-in-law’s dress.
You end up in a place called Montana that is like living on the moon. There are no people about, just sky and thousands of animals your new husband raises and sells. You eat so much meat you get fat. You have three children, two girls and a boy. None look like you or your husband. They are a new breed for a new world. Two leave for the city when they can; the oldest stays behind, takes over the ranch. You get good at birthing horses and people send for you when they have difficult cases, mares too frightened and in pain to calm down, to do what is good for them.
You whisper the same nonsense you told Suyon: that they are beautiful and perfect and doing everything just right. Everyone, everything in the world loves them. If it is an especially difficult birth, you sing “Arirang.” It doesn’t matter who hears the sorrowful song, human or animal; it soothes.
King of the Gipsies
There’s always a shortcut from Point A to Point B. That’s what my dad says. We never go the same way twice. Why? Because there’s always a shorter route. When my dad’s not around, my mother tries to keep me from thinking like him. So what if there’s a shorter route? she says. Go the way you know. Go the way you’re sure will get you there.
I’m always supposed to be getting somewhere. You too?
Anyway, I try to do the best with the information I get. There’s a shortcut from St. Mary’s that cuts across the train tracks, and that’s the way I go every day. You’ve probably heard of St. Mary’s—it’s an all-girls prison. When you leave, you get a certificate certifying your skill in Killing Without Weapons. Ever hear of a game called Three Seconds? But I bet I can make you cry in less. What’s your hang-up? Fat, weak, ugly, poor? Breath stink? Thighs dimpling? Are you boring? Do you wish your parents had more money? Do you hate them? Do you hate yourself? Find the weak spot. It’s murder.
I’ve gotten pretty good at it. Today I told Janelle her breathcould curl onions. Kind of corny but still effective in a crowd. Should I have said cure onions? But who would have gotten that? Michele Hicks maybe. She’s the senior-class nerd and has got the acne to prove it. You feel kind of bad for her, but then she laughs in class whenever you get the wrong answer.
You know what it is to kill or be killed.
Where am I?
I’m walking along the train tracks behind Justis Street where the fence kind of bends down to the ground and there are crumbly sausage-shaped turds every few feet. Angela Giampa. I’d like to squash her face there. Angela Giampa, inventor of a game called Five Reasons You Should Be Dead and All-Time World-Class Bitch Champion. Last week she asked me if I owned more than one uniform. Like I’d want to own more than one ugly black-and-yellow plaid wool skirt, I said to her. But now I’m afraid she’ll tell everybody.
Forget it. You know what I think is weird is the Shroud of Turin. Only a blast of radiation could have made that kind of impression. It’s like a photograph, really. But of what? The radiation of resurrection?
I’m just waiting for something to happen.
Sometimes I see nervous stray dogs weaving down the tracks, not looking at me except out of the corners of their eyes. Skinny, patchy-colored things. Sometimes we stop and look at each other at a distance from a distance across a distance of ten feet. . . .
Hey! Hey, you!
I look up. A guy’s coming toward me wearing a heavy coat in eighty-degree weather. You know who it is. It’s some crazy bum. Doesn’t he see it’s June sunshine in New Hampshire, here in the leave-me-alone state? One of his feet turns in funny and makes him bounce up and down, up and down.
We meet at tie seventy-three.
I been looking for you, he says, opening his arms out wide.
Huh?
I been looking for you, he says again. He reminds me of another homeless guy I used to know named Joel. His face is dark brown with dirt but you can tell he’s white.
He looks up and down my uniform. Sweet sorority girl, he says, you made it jest in time.
Huh? I say, looking around. I’m not a sorority girl.
He gives me a disappointed look and sits down. He starts to unlace his boots. I’m the King of the Gipsies! he says, looking at me fiercely.
For a second, I listen hard but I don’t hear anything except some stupid birds chirping.
You mean Gypsies? I say.
He shakes his head. Gipsies. He says Gipsies like give or gone.
Okay, whatever, I say. Where’s your tribe, then? I ask him.
He pulls painfully on his boot to get it off, and when he does, half a dirty white sock comes out with it. Here, he says, holding up his boots to me.
What?
Here, take it. He starts to nod emphatically.
I don’t want your boots, I say. See? I point
