The Ditchdigger's Daughters by Thornton Dr. Yvonne S. & Coudert Jo

Author:Thornton, Dr. Yvonne S. & Coudert, Jo [Thornton, Dr. Yvonne S.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Dafina/Kensington
Published: 2010-07-28T04:00:00+00:00

10

P&S

I MIGHT BE FROM MONMOUTH COLLEGE, not Radcliffe or Wellesley or Bryn Mawr, but I didn’t intend to arrive at medical school looking like a yokel, like I couldn’t hold my own in the big time. Mommy and I went shopping and I bought the snappiest outfits in the stores, everything matching, color-coordinated—miniskirts, frilly blouses, high heels, the right purse for each ensemble. I was going to be the best turned-out person ever to walk through the portals of P & S, right down to my eye makeup, which, on account of being in the band, I used a lot of. I really felt good about myself, ready to take on Columbia, New York City, the world.

Mommy and Daddy drove me to the city and to Bard Hall where I was to room. “Yvonne,” Daddy said, which marked it as a solemn occasion since he seldom called me anything but Cookie, “this is as far as your mother and I go. We can only take you to the door, hon. From now on, you’re on your own.” I was twenty-one, going on twenty-two, an adult, and I was finally getting away from home, which is what I thought I wanted, but all of a sudden tears were tumbling down my cheeks.

Daddy reached in his pocket and brought out a glass ashtray. “Just in case someone tries to get in your room,” he said, pressing it into my hand. “This is New York. You gotta be careful.”

“What am I supposed to do with an ashtray, Daddy?”

“You put it on top of your door, and then when somebody opens the door, it falls down, which wakes you up and you can grab something to hit him over the head with. Okay?”

“Okay.” I never put it on top of the door because I knew perfectly well that I’d forget it was there, go rushing out, and I’d be the one to get hit on the head, but I still have that ashtray.

I hugged my parents, kissed them goodbye, watched them drive away, and went up to my room to stare through swimming eyes at the George Washington Bridge as though it were my last link with home. For the first time in my life I was alone: no mother, no father, no sisters; just me. I felt as though an elevator cable had snapped and I was in free fall—all but my stomach, which I had left several stories behind. I cried off and on for the next three days.

In the dining room that first evening, the main course was fried chicken. I was reaching for the leg on my plate when I noticed the person across from me pick up his knife and fork. I swerved my hand and closed it around a glass of water, and while I sat back pretending to take a long drink, I watched the other diners over the rim of my glass. They were actually cutting their chicken with a knife and fork. It struck me

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