into his eager face as he goes on and on about some complicated story and want to yell, “Stop!
Stop being so happy!”
Instead I smile my fake waitressing smile and make little cooing sounds of approval.
Then I warm up some bread. It’s my favorite thing after work, thick, sturdy wedges of brown bread so dense I have to rip pieces
with my teeth. Jay-Jay munches the crust while I work my way through the middle sections. It’s satisfying to eat this way,
no plates or silverware, only our mouths chewing. On Fridays, I spread open the paper to the entertainment section and daydream
of myself as Talented Artist, my hips swaying under a long silk skirt as I give an interview to the snotty arts reviewer from
the local paper.
“I know what it’s like at the bottom,” I say as he eyes my breasts (in this fantasy, I have hefty and enviable cleavage).
“I lived in a trailer park for years, and the shading from this period was influenced by Kmart blue-light specials.”
These little fantasies calm me down enough so that by suppertime, Jay-Jay and I are able to enjoy a nice meal out in the living
room, eating on TV trays while we watch Vanna applaud as contestants spin the big wheel.
“She’s pretty old, huh, Mom?” Jay-Jay says. “She’s been on forever .”
“Yes, honey, she has,” I reply. And I stare at the screen, the wedges on the wheel going round and round, my stomach full
and gurgling, the dog lying on my feet, and the TV gives off a tint that makes everything around us, from the mangy carpet
to the cracks in the wall, look homey and warm and inviting.
It isn’t, of course. But it’s a nice illusion.
Letter #1
Ms. Carla Richards
202 W. Hillcrest Drive #22
Anchorage, AK 99503
Dear Ms. Carla Richards:
We regret to inform you that your application for a Platinum Alaska Bank Visa Card has been declined.
After reviewing your rather entertaining credit history, we feel it is in our best interest to keep you securely focused on
your current plan.
As always, thank you for choosing Alaska Bank Visa Card.
Sincerely,
Douglas R. Winnington
Junior Account Supervisor
P.S. Did your August payment get lost in the mail again?
Chapter 2
Friday, Sept. 23
SHHH! I’M CROUCHED IN THE CLOSET , hiding from my sister, Laurel, who this very minute is pouring herself a glass of my generic orange juice. I can see her
through the cracks along the door hinges.
“Yoo-hoo, Carla,” she yells. “I’ve got wonderful news.”
I hold my breath and pray for her to go away. No such luck. She sits down at the kitchen table and shuffles through a magazine.
“Carla, listen,” she shouts toward the closed bathroom door; she must think I’m in there. “I sold the McPherson place, can
you believe it? On the market for almost a year and I sell it in two weeks. Isn’t that amazing?”
She walks down the hall, her heels click-clack-click ing on the linoleum, and knocks on the bathroom door. “I’ve got to go, Carla. I’m meeting someone for breakfast.” A nervous
cough, followed by a giggle. “No one special, you know. Just a…this client.”
She lets herself out and I wait a moment to make sure the coast is clear, then slip out of the closet and hunker down at the
table to finish this entry.
I know it sounds a bit mad, hiding from my very own sister. But if you saw Laurel, you’d know what I mean. Two years older,
Laurel is perfect, or at least she likes to think she is. Smart, talented, beautiful—that’s how Mother used to explain it
to me. Laurel was the favorite. The shining star in an otherwise mediocre family. My brother and I (poor Gene, working as
a manager for a Chickin’ Lickin’ back home in Dowser) were pushed to the background, half-hidden, like those relatives they
used to keep in attics.
Now Laurel lives up on the Hillside in a perfect house with an immaculate lawn, expensive art dangling from the walls. Her
husband, Junior, is a flat, white wall: no
Stop being so happy!”
Instead I smile my fake waitressing smile and make little cooing sounds of approval.
Then I warm up some bread. It’s my favorite thing after work, thick, sturdy wedges of brown bread so dense I have to rip pieces
with my teeth. Jay-Jay munches the crust while I work my way through the middle sections. It’s satisfying to eat this way,
no plates or silverware, only our mouths chewing. On Fridays, I spread open the paper to the entertainment section and daydream
of myself as Talented Artist, my hips swaying under a long silk skirt as I give an interview to the snotty arts reviewer from
the local paper.
“I know what it’s like at the bottom,” I say as he eyes my breasts (in this fantasy, I have hefty and enviable cleavage).
“I lived in a trailer park for years, and the shading from this period was influenced by Kmart blue-light specials.”
These little fantasies calm me down enough so that by suppertime, Jay-Jay and I are able to enjoy a nice meal out in the living
room, eating on TV trays while we watch Vanna applaud as contestants spin the big wheel.
“She’s pretty old, huh, Mom?” Jay-Jay says. “She’s been on forever .”
“Yes, honey, she has,” I reply. And I stare at the screen, the wedges on the wheel going round and round, my stomach full
and gurgling, the dog lying on my feet, and the TV gives off a tint that makes everything around us, from the mangy carpet
to the cracks in the wall, look homey and warm and inviting.
It isn’t, of course. But it’s a nice illusion.
Letter #1
Ms. Carla Richards
202 W. Hillcrest Drive #22
Anchorage, AK 99503
Dear Ms. Carla Richards:
We regret to inform you that your application for a Platinum Alaska Bank Visa Card has been declined.
After reviewing your rather entertaining credit history, we feel it is in our best interest to keep you securely focused on
your current plan.
As always, thank you for choosing Alaska Bank Visa Card.
Sincerely,
Douglas R. Winnington
Junior Account Supervisor
P.S. Did your August payment get lost in the mail again?
Chapter 2
Friday, Sept. 23
SHHH! I’M CROUCHED IN THE CLOSET , hiding from my sister, Laurel, who this very minute is pouring herself a glass of my generic orange juice. I can see her
through the cracks along the door hinges.
“Yoo-hoo, Carla,” she yells. “I’ve got wonderful news.”
I hold my breath and pray for her to go away. No such luck. She sits down at the kitchen table and shuffles through a magazine.
“Carla, listen,” she shouts toward the closed bathroom door; she must think I’m in there. “I sold the McPherson place, can
you believe it? On the market for almost a year and I sell it in two weeks. Isn’t that amazing?”
She walks down the hall, her heels click-clack-click ing on the linoleum, and knocks on the bathroom door. “I’ve got to go, Carla. I’m meeting someone for breakfast.” A nervous
cough, followed by a giggle. “No one special, you know. Just a…this client.”
She lets herself out and I wait a moment to make sure the coast is clear, then slip out of the closet and hunker down at the
table to finish this entry.
I know it sounds a bit mad, hiding from my very own sister. But if you saw Laurel, you’d know what I mean. Two years older,
Laurel is perfect, or at least she likes to think she is. Smart, talented, beautiful—that’s how Mother used to explain it
to me. Laurel was the favorite. The shining star in an otherwise mediocre family. My brother and I (poor Gene, working as
a manager for a Chickin’ Lickin’ back home in Dowser) were pushed to the background, half-hidden, like those relatives they
used to keep in attics.
Now Laurel lives up on the Hillside in a perfect house with an immaculate lawn, expensive art dangling from the walls. Her
husband, Junior, is a flat, white wall: no
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