Durable Goods: A Novel by Elizabeth Berg

Author:Elizabeth Berg
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: Grief, Military bases - Texas, Teenage girls, Katie (Fictitious character), Children of military personnel, Bereavement, Fiction, Fathers and daughters, Family & Relationships, Death, Military bases, Nash, General, Domestic fiction, Texas
ISBN: 9780812968149
Publisher: Random House Trade Paperbacks
Published: 2003-05-13T06:14:56+00:00

By the time we arrive home, I am sober again. It is seven in the evening. Dickie and Diane let me off, then drive away. I regret their going, though I knew, of course, it would come to this. I stand by the side of the road, sighing. The sun is low in the sky, deep red.

“Katie!” I hear Cherylanne calling me from her bedroom window. “Hey, Katie!” Then, as I get closer, “Where have you been?”

I go into her house, climb the stairs slowly. She is waiting in her bedroom, dressed in a flowered bathrobe and her pink fuzzy slippers. She has silver clips on either side of her head, to make spit curls. There is a thin layer of cold cream on her face, making her appear slightly ill.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Where have you been?” she answers.

I lie down on her bed, stretch out luxuriously. “Drinking with Dickie and Diane. Drinking beer.”

She stands still, then offers, as though offended, “I doubt it.”

I shrug. “Doubt it. That’s where I’ve been. I had Lone Star beer. I bet you can smell it on my breath.”

She steps closer, leans in, sniffs delicately. “All I smell is onions. You’d better eat some parsley right away.” That tip she got from watching Miss America, I know.

“I don’t care if I smell like onions,” I say. “I like onions.”

Cherylanne sits on her dresser stool, regards me carefully. “Did you really drink beer?”

“Sure did.” I hold my arm up in the air, let my wrist flop, my fingers fall. Say I had some rings and bracelets on; I’d look like Cleopatra herself.

“Huh. Well, I wouldn’t be so proud and mighty if I were you. It’s a dent in your character. It’s something, once you’ve done, there’s no going back.”

“What do you mean?”

She turns to her mirror, fiddles with her clips. “You just can’t go back. Now you have gone and drunk alcohol.”

“Well, la de dah.” I make a scared face. “I guess I’m going to hell now.”

She stands up. “Since you are in such a bad mood, you can just leave. I had plenty to tell you. But now you can just forget it. Why don’t you just go drink some more?”

I rise, languidly. “I think I will. I think I’ll have a big, fat whiskey.”

Cherylanne is painting her toenails. Hard. She is trying to act like I’m not there. And here is some blessed and new strong thing: I don’t care.

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