ARR 1988 - Flipbook - Page 15
Mary B. Loves Ophelia-Joy
Mary B. woke early with a slight headache from the six-pack of beer
she'd drunk the night before. She pulled her patchwork quilt to her chin and
wondered why it was that she had awakened before noon. Something must
be special about this day; something must have happened last night that she
needed to take care of, but for the life of her she couldn't remember what it
was. She turned her head toward the window where pale light was
struggling to get in the alley, past the hulk of a building just a few feet away.
Then she saw it.
ยท In a black plastic pot on the windowsill stood the plant she had rescued
last night from an alley trash can. She lay a while studying it, wondering
why she had brought it home. A tall, scraggly geranium with a few yellowed
leaves clinging to its ugly stalks, it looked like a weed. She spoke to the plant
from the edge of the bed. "I don't even like plants," she said. "Even ifI did,
I wouldn't want one as homely as you."
She rose unsteadily and shuffled to her tiny portable fridge, poked
around inside until she discovered that last night's beer had been consumed.
Every last drop. She spoke to herself in disgust. "Now why'd I go and drink
it all up. Couldn't save a one for this morning. I never think of anything but
right now."
Grumbling, she washed a glass and took several pills from an assortment of vitamins next to the sink, poured them into her hand, and spread
some sugar over it all while she sang to herselfin a high-pitched voice. "Just
a spoonful of sugar makes the medicine go down ..." She washed it down
with a glass of water. "That takes care of breakfast. Now what?"
It was after twelve, time to get ready for the day and figure out
something to do with the long hours before dark. In the bathroom mirror she
made faces at herself the way that young woman on the exercise show had
done, promising that, with regular sessions of facial contortions, the
wrinkles would never get any worse. "Who's she kidding?" Mary B. said.
"Seventy-two is seventy-two." She made a few more faces and turned away.
The noon broadcaster's voice filled the room as soon as she flipped on
the television. "Morning, darlin'," she called as he continued his breathless
commentary on the brush fire that was raging in the San Fernando Valley.
She clucked in sympathy as clouds of dark smoke and racing tongues of fire
filled the tiny screen.
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