I share a room with Nancy. Six years older than me. Nancy, my face close next to hers when we sleep in the big double bed. Her breath and skin smell like a plastic scrubbed clean, her pink nightgown body like a wood spirit, caressed by the long brown hair she brushes 100 times a night. Nancy who is in jr. high school, listens to KIMN radio top 40 under her pillow at night, We had joy we had fun we had seasons in the sun. Nancy, rubs a lemon half on her face trying to lighten the soft brown freckles splashing her face. Does palming exersizes for her eyes so she won’t have to wear glasses one day.
Nancy, who takes me by the hand at the Boulder Public Library, past the smelly, bearded people who are always sleeping in the red and orange chairs, up the big steps to the metal stacks of books while Mom is off foraging through the free magazine pile. Nancy takes me to the homemaker section, books on how to change a baby’s diaper, like she used to change mine, how to square corners on sheets when making the bed. What kinds of appliances to stock in your kitchen, the hand mixer, the deep fryer, a flour sifter. Books to dream on top of our bed together, a dream house. Clean, orderly. Me the baby, Nancy the mother.
Nancy, who I sit with her in front of the black and white TV and bid on the washing machines on The Price is Right. “I won!” She cries, and she’s off to win the trip to Europe and the Broyhill living room set. Nancy, who I watch American Bandstand and Happy Days with and dream of kissing Fonzie, and Nancy tells me that the secret to a driving a guy wild with a kiss is to suck the roof of his mouth with your tongue. Nancy who looks in the mirror and combs her brown curly hair and says, “I hate my hair,” and I look in the mirror and I say, “I hate mine too.” And I do. I hate my hair forever and ever.
Nancy, who opens her yellow, plastic knickknack box. I watch the toy contents, won from gumball machines, spill open. Rat Fink, a little black smiling rat; a tiny book you look through holding up to the light that reads, “love thy neighbor;” a heart-shaped locket with a rose on it; a miniature magnifying glass; a teeny, tiny newspaper. Little things Nancy keeps in her box. Or she tells me stories and sings to me, does hand games.
Oh playmate, come out and play with me
And bring your dollies three,
Climb up my apple tree
Slide down my rain barrel
Into my cellar door
And we’ll be jolly friends
For ever more, more, more more more.
Oh enemy, come out and fight with me
And bring your soldiers three
Climb up my ivy tree
Slide down my gun barrel
Into my trap door
And we’ll be enemies
For ever more, more more more more
Nancy. I watch her play with Barbie and Midge and Ken and Skipper and G.I. Joe. Or she teaches me to write poetry or make God’s eyes out of two chopsticks and colored yarn, or decorate tin cans with string and glued macaroni elbows, or play tennis against the garage door leaving little round marks, or play with her pink clackers that bruise our wrists, or draw house plans together and dream where our bedroom will be and our husband who he will be and our children. How many children will we have? Opening the door to the Mystery Date game. Spinning the knob on the game of LIFE, spinning it so hard because you want to land on TWIN BOYS! So hard that it flies up off the game board like a flying saucer.
“KNANCY!” mom yells, standing in our bedroom doorway. She says K’Nancy
because her false teeth don’t fit her right and she can only say her name as “K’Nancy!” “Come and sweep this floor, Damn it. It’s filthy! Albert! Where is Albert? Take out the garbage.”
Nancy snickers to me, “Knancy! Knancy!”
“Shit! You dirty little bitch. How dare you make fun of me!” Mom’s face is hard like a fist, red, like a wild dog, her teeth thrashing, spitting. Sloshing her false teeth around in her mouth. “Dirty little bitch! You get in there and clean up that kitchen. Damn you!” With each word Nancy’s chest caves in, her startled eyes flash downward in a silent daze. I am frozen too. Clubbed into concrete by Mom’s words. My heart sinks, for Nancy. I want to run away with her, to rest in Nancy’s lap, for her to show me more Teen magazines, to grow more avocado plants from a pit just like the ad in Teen for Isadora and her avocado plant. To write more in our diaries about the boys at school, or to pluck our eyebrows thin, thinner than a pencil line, thin and arched like fishhooks. Or make collages of magazine cut-outs of couples kissing, of couples in love, of babies smiling, smiling in our dream families, with their dream mother, with their dream appliances and dream hair dryers.
“Albert! Where the hell is Albert? Did he run away to the Campbell boys again? He’s got to help too. Shit, dog house. Dog tricks,” Mom says leading Nancy away to the kitchen. And I am alone. Alone in the universe.
“Nancy, Nancy,” my heart calls.
Nancy, who takes me by the hand at the Boulder Public Library, past the smelly, bearded people who are always sleeping in the red and orange chairs, up the big steps to the metal stacks of books while Mom is off foraging through the free magazine pile. Nancy takes me to the homemaker section, books on how to change a baby’s diaper, like she used to change mine, how to square corners on sheets when making the bed. What kinds of appliances to stock in your kitchen, the hand mixer, the deep fryer, a flour sifter. Books to dream on top of our bed together, a dream house. Clean, orderly. Me the baby, Nancy the mother.
Nancy, who I sit with her in front of the black and white TV and bid on the washing machines on The Price is Right. “I won!” She cries, and she’s off to win the trip to Europe and the Broyhill living room set. Nancy, who I watch American Bandstand and Happy Days with and dream of kissing Fonzie, and Nancy tells me that the secret to a driving a guy wild with a kiss is to suck the roof of his mouth with your tongue. Nancy who looks in the mirror and combs her brown curly hair and says, “I hate my hair,” and I look in the mirror and I say, “I hate mine too.” And I do. I hate my hair forever and ever.
Nancy, who opens her yellow, plastic knickknack box. I watch the toy contents, won from gumball machines, spill open. Rat Fink, a little black smiling rat; a tiny book you look through holding up to the light that reads, “love thy neighbor;” a heart-shaped locket with a rose on it; a miniature magnifying glass; a teeny, tiny newspaper. Little things Nancy keeps in her box. Or she tells me stories and sings to me, does hand games.
Oh playmate, come out and play with me
And bring your dollies three,
Climb up my apple tree
Slide down my rain barrel
Into my cellar door
And we’ll be jolly friends
For ever more, more, more more more.
Oh enemy, come out and fight with me
And bring your soldiers three
Climb up my ivy tree
Slide down my gun barrel
Into my trap door
And we’ll be enemies
For ever more, more more more more
Nancy. I watch her play with Barbie and Midge and Ken and Skipper and G.I. Joe. Or she teaches me to write poetry or make God’s eyes out of two chopsticks and colored yarn, or decorate tin cans with string and glued macaroni elbows, or play tennis against the garage door leaving little round marks, or play with her pink clackers that bruise our wrists, or draw house plans together and dream where our bedroom will be and our husband who he will be and our children. How many children will we have? Opening the door to the Mystery Date game. Spinning the knob on the game of LIFE, spinning it so hard because you want to land on TWIN BOYS! So hard that it flies up off the game board like a flying saucer.
“KNANCY!” mom yells, standing in our bedroom doorway. She says K’Nancy
because her false teeth don’t fit her right and she can only say her name as “K’Nancy!” “Come and sweep this floor, Damn it. It’s filthy! Albert! Where is Albert? Take out the garbage.”
Nancy snickers to me, “Knancy! Knancy!”
“Shit! You dirty little bitch. How dare you make fun of me!” Mom’s face is hard like a fist, red, like a wild dog, her teeth thrashing, spitting. Sloshing her false teeth around in her mouth. “Dirty little bitch! You get in there and clean up that kitchen. Damn you!” With each word Nancy’s chest caves in, her startled eyes flash downward in a silent daze. I am frozen too. Clubbed into concrete by Mom’s words. My heart sinks, for Nancy. I want to run away with her, to rest in Nancy’s lap, for her to show me more Teen magazines, to grow more avocado plants from a pit just like the ad in Teen for Isadora and her avocado plant. To write more in our diaries about the boys at school, or to pluck our eyebrows thin, thinner than a pencil line, thin and arched like fishhooks. Or make collages of magazine cut-outs of couples kissing, of couples in love, of babies smiling, smiling in our dream families, with their dream mother, with their dream appliances and dream hair dryers.
“Albert! Where the hell is Albert? Did he run away to the Campbell boys again? He’s got to help too. Shit, dog house. Dog tricks,” Mom says leading Nancy away to the kitchen. And I am alone. Alone in the universe.
“Nancy, Nancy,” my heart calls.
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