Читать книгу Forgiveness Parade - Jeffrey McDaniel - Страница 9

HOSTILE PROCTOR

The only thing I remember about my mother

and the third grade is the afternoon she wasn’t there

when I got off the train. After a thousand shoes

shuffled by, I asked a pair of penny loafers

for a dime and punched out the number. The phone

rang and rang like a slapped cheek. A hundred

briefcases swung past. I tightened my face

and sailed the thirteen city blocks without her.

I pressed the doorbell, like gum into a bastard’s

skull. She appeared, clutching a wine glass

like a passport, a tiny black suitcase under each eye.

I peppered that pathetic pink nightgown

with curse words, until she chased me up the stairs,

swinging a wire hairbrush. Later, I called Dad

at the office to complain, but no punishment came,

and after that, I walked home alone every day.