At night he could hear her rustling the curtain. He would whisper his questions to her.
There’s an our kind and a their kind.
I was Indiana Jones, hanging from a rope above a pit of snakes, my moves skilled and sure. My recorder was below, begging to be rescued like whatever unrealistic female heroine Jones would fall in love with and then totally forget about by the sequel.
She took in another breath, reminding herself of the hours she would have to spend today making forced smiles to cover her nerves, laughing anxiously to prevent herself from saying something she didn’t mean, and breathing in and out to steady her heartbeat.
I know what Venita does. I'm not stupid. She doesn't know I know, the fragrances of her leaving and the taste of her returning.
There are two honors for women here. One is that you marry well; your husband doesn’t beat you and will hold you close at night. Two: you become a crab girl in the crab factory.
Did he think about telling me that summer, when there was nothing but us and the truck and the highway for miles? Maybe not, didn't want to ruin it all.
Out here, she knew, was his sanctuary, away from his daughter’s problems. Here, only these more easily governed fruits of his labor existed.
You keep the bones. I learned this as a girl, cleaning after a chicken dinner.
I was just taking some time off, I told myself. From college. But more and more it felt like from life.