Free Lucy: A Novel by Jamaica Kincaid

that did not seem to be influenced by the tilt of the earth at all; it had only one season—sunny, drought-ridden. And what was the effect on me of growing up in such a place? I did not have a sunny disposition, and, as for actual happiness, I had been experiencing a long drought.
    From where I stood at the window, I could see into the apartment across the way. A man and a woman and some children lived there. I had observed them before at various times. I had seen them in bathrobes, in evening clothes, and in ordinary, everyday wear. I had never seen these people do anything interesting—not exchange a kiss, not have what looked like a quarrel. They were always just passing through this room, as if it were a way station. Now it was empty of people. I could see a sofa, two chairs, and a wall of books. How luxurious, I thought, to have an empty room in your house, a room that nobody really needed. And isn’t that what everyone in the world should have—more than was needed, one more room than you really need in your house? Not a question I would put to Mariah, for she felt just the opposite. She had too much of everything, and so she longed to have less; less, she was sure, would bring her happiness. To me it was a laugh and a relief to observe the unhappiness that too much can bring; I had been so used to observing the results of too little. This reminded me that lately I had been having the same dream over and over: There was a present for me wrapped up in one of my mother’s beautiful madras head-kerchiefs. I did not know what the present itself was, but it was something that would make me exceedingly happy; the only trouble was that it lay at the bottom of a deep, murky pool, and no matter how much water I bailed out I always woke up before I got to the bottom.
    It was a Sunday, and I was alone in the apartment. Mariah and Lewis had taken their children somewhere in the country to pick apples. The way they looked as they were leaving—if I had not known, I would have said, “What a happy family!” The children were well dressed, their stomachs filled with a delicious breakfast of muffins that Mariah had made from specially purchased ingredients, and bacon and eggs from what could only have been specially cared-for pigs and hens. As they waited for the elevator to come, they were laughing. Lewis was in the role of the amusing and adorable father today, and so he had put on a lion’s mask and then said and done things not expected of a lion. The children, in response, shrieked and laughed and fell down on top of each other with pleasure. When the elevator came, it was hard for them to just calmly go into it, and Mariah gathered up their coats and gloves and hats and “shoo-shooed” them, mocking the gesture of a farm wife to a brood of chicks. All of them, mother and father and four children, looked healthy, robust—everything about them solid, authentic; but I was looking at ruins, and I knew it right then. The actual fall of this Rome I hoped not to be around to see, but just in case I could not make my own quick exit I planned to avert my eyes.
    I was waiting for a call from Peggy. Since it was a Sunday, she had gone to church with her mother and then to visit an old relative who insisted on living alone. Peggy was going to call to let me know what time we should meet in the park. It was our custom on Sunday afternoons to go for a walk in the park and look around, then pick out the men we imagined we would like to sleep with. We would pay careful attention to their bottoms, their legs, their shoulders, and their faces, especially their mouths. If all passed muster, though, Peggy would put a stop to our making an approach. She would look closely at their hands and say that though everything else seemed acceptable, their hands were too small. She had said to me—with such sincerity I almost thought it something taught to her in catechism class—that if a man had small hands, it meant he had a small penis to