Safety of Objects : Stories (9781101590416) by Homes A. M

Author:Homes, A. M.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin USA
Published: 2013-01-12T16:00:00+00:00

Yours Truly

I’m hiding in the linen closet writing letters to myself. This is the place where no one knows I am, where I can think without thinking about what anyone else would think or at least it’s quiet. I don’t want to scare anyone, but things can’t go on like this.

Until today I could still go into the living room and talk to my mother’s Saturday morning Fat Club. I could say, “Hi, how are you. That’s a very nice dress. Magenta’s such a good color, it hides the hips. Nice shoes too. I would never have thought of bringing pink and green together like that.” I could pretend to be okay, but that’s part of the problem.

In here, pressed up against the towels, the sheets, the heating pad, it’s clear that everything is not hunky-dory. I’ve got one of those Itty Bitty Book Lights and I’m making notes.

Today is Odessa’s day. At any minute she might turn the knob and let the world, disguised as daylight, come flooding in. She might do that and never know what she’s done. She’ll open the door and her eyes will get wide. She’ll look at me and say, “Lord.” She’ll say, “You could have given me a heart attack.” And I’ll think, Yes, I could have, but I’m having one myself and there isn’t room for two in the same place at the same time. She’ll look at my face and I’ll have to look at the floor. She won’t know that having someone look directly at me, having someone expect me to look at her, causes a sharp pain that begins in my eyes, ricochets off my skull, and in the end makes my entire skeleton shake. She won’t know that I can’t look at anything except the towels without being overcome with emotion. She won’t know that at the sight of another person I weep, I wish to embrace and be embraced, and then to kill. She won’t get that I’m dangerous.

Odessa will open the door and see me standing with this tiny light, clipped to the middle shelf, with the pad of paper on top of some extra blankets, with two extra pencils sticking out of the space between the bath sheets and the Turkish towels. She’ll see all this and ask, “Are you all right?” I won’t be able to answer. I can’t tell her why I’m standing in a closet filled with enough towels to take a small town to the beach. I won’t say, I’m not all right. God help me, I’m not. I will simply stand here, resting my arm over my notepad like a child taking a test, trying to make it difficult for cheaters to get their work done.

Odessa will do the talking. She’ll say, “Well, if you could excuse me, I need clean sheets for the beds.” I’ll move over a little bit. I’ll twist to the left so she can get to the twin and queen sizes. I’m willing to move for Odessa.

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