Wednesday (post 2)
She had come home in the middle of the afternoon from school and her stepfather was waiting for her in the kitchen with a Pabst in his hand. (Bubbles)
“Budweiser gives me a headache.”, he liked to say.
There were three glossy Playboys on the table. “Take a look at those and tell me what you think.” She put down her books next to a blonde woman bent over at the waist, smiling. She looked out the kitchen window. He crushed his can and set it on the counter, opened the fridge and took another. She watched for cars on the road and waited for the pop and scrape, the sound of the bubbles. She opened one of the other magazines in the middle to a brunette wearing a boa and sucking her index finger. She started flipping, not reading, glancing at girls by pools, girls bending over cars in mechanic’s overalls unzipped to the stomach, girls with their tongues at their lips, legs spread wider than she could imagine with their hands on their breasts. She thought that he probably didn’t notice that his work boots were leaving clods of dirt on the floor. His footsteps were closing in a tightening semicircle, as if a man working with a scythe were getting tired, and shortening his swings.
"What 'cha think about that, Chubs, huhn?"
He put his big hands on her breasts and squeezed them, moving them together and apart, cupping them, then sliding his fingers forward. He pinched her nipples and she saw his thumbs grow foggy out of the bottom of her eyes. Miss August spread herself wet on both pages; two humps of paper over her Mother’s tablecloth. Beige and white checks with a tiny flowered pitcher in the middle of every square.
“Zat feel good, huh? You gettin horny looking at those?”
He turned her around and stuck his big tongue down her throat. He must hardly ever swallow, she thought, because his mouth was always wet like he was saving little sips of beer and spit to throw into her mouth, to choke her.
Her lips were slack. She was waiting for him to be finished. He stuffed his hand between her legs and pushed so hard that she came up onto the toes of her new school sneakers. When they had gone into Flint at the end of summer to buy them at Penny’s her Mother had gotten this style against her own better judgement. Kelly said, “This is what everybody likes and I want them.” So her Mother had bought them but said, “I’ll get them if you take care of them. You’re not wearing them to do the chores.” Since she was beginning to realize that certain things were worth preserving, she always changed into her black riding boots before she went to the barn to shuck corn for the pigs.
“Listen Chubs, I’m just showing you what it’s like. That’s what Dads do. Families take care of each other and teach each other things.”
Most every time he did this, she drank Kool-Aid before her Mother came home from work, so that the smell of beer would be off her breath.
“Budweiser gives me a headache.”, he liked to say.
There were three glossy Playboys on the table. “Take a look at those and tell me what you think.” She put down her books next to a blonde woman bent over at the waist, smiling. She looked out the kitchen window. He crushed his can and set it on the counter, opened the fridge and took another. She watched for cars on the road and waited for the pop and scrape, the sound of the bubbles. She opened one of the other magazines in the middle to a brunette wearing a boa and sucking her index finger. She started flipping, not reading, glancing at girls by pools, girls bending over cars in mechanic’s overalls unzipped to the stomach, girls with their tongues at their lips, legs spread wider than she could imagine with their hands on their breasts. She thought that he probably didn’t notice that his work boots were leaving clods of dirt on the floor. His footsteps were closing in a tightening semicircle, as if a man working with a scythe were getting tired, and shortening his swings.
"What 'cha think about that, Chubs, huhn?"
He put his big hands on her breasts and squeezed them, moving them together and apart, cupping them, then sliding his fingers forward. He pinched her nipples and she saw his thumbs grow foggy out of the bottom of her eyes. Miss August spread herself wet on both pages; two humps of paper over her Mother’s tablecloth. Beige and white checks with a tiny flowered pitcher in the middle of every square.
“Zat feel good, huh? You gettin horny looking at those?”
He turned her around and stuck his big tongue down her throat. He must hardly ever swallow, she thought, because his mouth was always wet like he was saving little sips of beer and spit to throw into her mouth, to choke her.
Her lips were slack. She was waiting for him to be finished. He stuffed his hand between her legs and pushed so hard that she came up onto the toes of her new school sneakers. When they had gone into Flint at the end of summer to buy them at Penny’s her Mother had gotten this style against her own better judgement. Kelly said, “This is what everybody likes and I want them.” So her Mother had bought them but said, “I’ll get them if you take care of them. You’re not wearing them to do the chores.” Since she was beginning to realize that certain things were worth preserving, she always changed into her black riding boots before she went to the barn to shuck corn for the pigs.
“Listen Chubs, I’m just showing you what it’s like. That’s what Dads do. Families take care of each other and teach each other things.”
Most every time he did this, she drank Kool-Aid before her Mother came home from work, so that the smell of beer would be off her breath.