Free Evening Snow Will Bring Such Peace by David Adams Richards Page A

That’s where they come from, Ralphie – just the gutter. People like to always talk about those people as being from here. People even write dirty books about them. So when we go anywhere, it’s always those people who’ve given us a terrible reputation – poachers and murderers and criminals – so we have to lock our doors at night. But you like them – like those people – I see. And I’ve seen them before, greasy-looking people, you know, with big muscles, always going out of their way to kill somebody. I thought you belonged to the Kinsmen.”
    Yet underneath he could see that she was glad Adele was involved because it gave her an excuse to be upset. It was in these perverse double standards she was most at home.

    For Adele, it wasn’t Thelma’s abhorrence of sexuality that came through, but a particular type of sexuality.Not the nice discussed sexuality of those who pretended they weren’t prudes. And were of course “concerned” about “children.” That type of sexuality, the embalmed learned response to the last twenty years, would go right past Adele. But it was the immoral sexuality of a person like Cindi, that brown-headed sexually epileptic, and, worse, of Adele herself that distressed Thelma.
    “All having babies and on welfare too – and our taxes supporting the lot of them.”
    This was one reason why Adele refused to see her child, why she hated most children, and why she believed that Ralphie had betrayed her, because they still lived with his mother.
    Whenever Olive and the little girl came, Adele would look out the window, sniff so loud her nose closed completely, and say, “Hum – sure has her dressed funny – gonna look like some little faggoty ballerina.” Then she would go up to her room and sit in the corner. Every time she heard the little girl laugh or screech or cry, she would turn up the radio.
    “Hey baby baybby-bayyybyyy baby I love you,” the music ironically would yelp, drowning out everyone downstairs.
    On occasion she would have to see Olive, who dropped in after work. Adele would sit there very politely for about a minute. She knew Olive didn’t like her, but she could also tell that Olive knew she was the outcast in the family and no one paid attention to her.
    Adele would sit there broodingly quiet and unhappy, scratching a mosquito bite on her foot, or, in defiance, blowing a larger than usual bubble and having it explode over her nose. Then, trying to peel the gum away, she would say, “Hey you?”
    “My name’s Olive, Adele.”
    “Right – got any dental floss – or what?”
    Olive’s face was smooth except for some white hair that sprouted from her chin. And she was a good enough person, Adele supposed, at least that is what she was always telling herself: “Oh, she’s a good enough person, I suppose.” But in reality every nice thing Olive said only intensified Adele’s feeling that she was being left out.
    One day Olive made the mistake of mentioning children to Adele. Adele said, “Don’t mention them – don’t want to know them – hope never to see them. Hope I never have to take care of them. We should abort them all!”
    “Is that what you think about Cindi?”
    “I don’t think nothing about Cindi – I never think about Cindi. Why should I think anything about her?”
    Olive looked at her and then looked through her purse for a Kleenex.
    “’Cept it seems to me everyone else wants to decide for Cindi – who should be allowed to decide for herself.”
    “Well,” Olive said, “it’s just that Cindi is running about now with this cousin of Ruby’s from Montreal, and Ruby is worried about her – she’s worried that Ivan is going to blow up again.”
    Adele sniffed and said nothing.
    Adele had taken her sneakers off and had rested her feet on the tops of them. Both her feet had black rims about the ankles and both ankles had little red marks on them. She rubbed her feet back and forth to scratch