Naked Read Free Page A

each and every song was about me. I might have to listen two or three hundred times to the same song,
     but sooner or later its private message would reveal itself. Because it was pleasant and relaxing, my rocking was bound to
     be tripped up, most often by my brain, which refused to allow me more than ten consecutive minutes of happiness. At the opening
     chords of my current favorite song, a voice would whisper,
Shouldn’t you be upstairs making sure there are really one hundred and fourteen peppercorns left in that small ceramic jar?
     And, hey, while you’re up there, you might want to check the iron and make sure it’s not setting fire to the baby’s bedroom.
The list of demands would grow by the moment.
What about that television antenna? Is it still set into that perfect
V
, or has one of your sisters destroyed its integrity. You know, I was just wondering how tightly the lid is screwed onto that
     mayonnaise jar. Let’s have a look, shall we?
    I would be just on the edge of truly enjoying myself, this close to breaking the song’s complex code, when my thoughts would
     get in the way. The trick was to bide my time until the record was no longer my favorite, to wait until it had slipped from
     its number-one position on the charts and fool my mind into believing I no longer cared.
    I was coming to terms with “The Shadow of Your Smile” when Miss Chestnut arrived. She rang the bell, and I cracked open my
     bedroom door, watching as my mother invited her in.
    “You’ll have to forgive me for these boxes.” My mother flicked her cigarette out the door and into the littered yard. “They’re
     filled with crap, every last one of them, but God forbid we throw anything away. Oh no, we can’t do that! My husband’s saved
     it all: every last Green Stamp and coupon, every outgrown bathing suit and scrap of linoleum, it’s all right here along with
     the rocks and knotted sticks he swears look just like his old department head or associate district manager or some goddamned
     thing.” She mopped at her forehead with a wadded paper towel. “Anyway, to hell with it. You look like I need a drink, scotch
     all right?”
    Miss Chestnut’s eyes brightened. “I really shouldn’t but, oh, why not?” She followed my mother up the stairs. “Just a drop
     with ice, no water.”
    I tried rocking in bed, but the sound of laughter drew me to the top of the landing, where from my vantage point behind an
     oversized wardrobe box, I watched the two women discuss my behavior.
    “Oh, you mean the touching,” my mother said. She studied the ashtray that sat before her on the table, narrowing her eyes
     much like a cat catching sight of a squirrel. Her look of fixed concentration suggested that nothing else mattered. Time had
     stopped, and she was deaf to the sounds of the rattling fan and my sisters’ squabbling out in the driveway. She opened her
     mouth just slightly, running her tongue over her upper lip, and then she inched forward, her index finger prodding the ashtray
     as though it were a sleeping thing she was trying to wake. I had never seen myself in action, but a sharp, stinging sense
     of recognition told me that my mother’s impersonation had been accurate.
    “Priceless!” Miss Chestnut laughed, clasping her hands in delight. “Oh, that’s very good, you’ve captured him perfectly. Bravo,
     I give you an A-plus.”
    “God only knows where he gets it from,” my mother said. “He’s probably down in his room right this minute, counting his eyelashes
     or gnawing at the pulls on his dresser. One, two o’clock in the morning and he’ll still be at it, rattling around the house
     to poke the laundry hamper or press his face against the refrigerator door. The kid’s wound too tight, but he’ll come out
     of it. So, what do you say, another scotch, Katherine?”
    Now she was Katherine. Another few drinks and she’d probably be joining us for our summer vacation. How easy it was for adults
     to bond