Free Inside Madeleine by Paula Bomer Page B

lived in Allston, a short walk down Harvard Avenue and then a fewblocks into a tree-lined side street. Larissa’s face was expertly powdered a dull white and her lips were painted red. She carried a vintage silver purse that shone in the summer night. She smoked a joint as they walked.
    Besides smoking cigarettes, Larissa had begun smoking pot at night, which Mary found alarming, but fascinating as well.
    “Want some?” Larissa held the joint out to her.
    “No, thanks.”
    “You know, I’m thinking of switching to a film major next year.”
    “Really? Why? Why would you do that?”
    “Because I want to make movies. I want to make
art
.”
    “Oh.” Mary hunched her shoulders down, feeling terribly disappointed. “What about understanding the world? Understanding human nature? Or helping people?”
    “I never wanted to help people,” Larissa said, as they turned toward Darrell and Clay’s. “That’s your thing. And I think I can better understand the world through art, through movies.”
    The party was big and loud. Music blared—The Cure, The Cult, Siouxsie and the Banshees, The Smiths, Meat Beat Manifesto. Outside of Pittsburgh, where Mary grew up, people listened to Foreigner or Van Halen. To rock music. Just being in the room with these people, the music playing, made her feel sophisticated. The room was filled with smoke and Mary kept going back to the keg.
    “My father loves me so much, he offered to buy me a car tocome home. I said, no way. I’m staying in Boston,” she said to three or four people at different times.
    “Why does my mother hate me? Why? I never did anything to her, I didn’t,” she said to Darrell, at around two in the morning. They were sitting on the couch and she was leaning into his shoulder, feeling very emotional. It felt good, to be so full of feeling. Such tragic feeling! The party was over. Only she and Larissa remained. And Larissa had disappeared into a bedroom with Clay.
    Darrell looked down at her. He was taller than her. This fact alone made her heart surge with a sort of love for him. He tried to say something, but he was too drunk and his mouth just hung open for a while.
    “I think my father would sleep with me if he could. I think he loves me that much,” the words came out, dirty and awful. The next morning, waking on the very same couch at Darrell and Clay’s house, she would remember saying those words, and her head throbbed viciously with shame.
    Monday at work, Brigid said, “Why don’t you take Bill out for some coffee? Try to make it decaf, okay? But be back in time for the staff group meeting at one.” She handed Mary three dollars.
    Bill was standing in the TV room, watching the television with the sound off. He stood back in the corner, wringing his hands. He was an exceptionally thin man, tall with gray hair. His head lolled to the side and he wore very thick glasses. He was the sort of person that by looking at him, you could see thatsomething was wrong with him. Not all the clients were like that, but many were, if not most. Some looked normal and even acted semi-normal. Bill looked wrong.
    “Bill, would you like to go out and get some coffee?” Mary asked.
    He turned his head to her. “Sure,” he said. His voice was thick and slow, ruined by cigarettes and medication.
    It was a lovely day, warm and clear. They crossed the wide expanse of Commonwealth Avenue and turned down to Brighton Avenue where there was a pizza shop. Inside, Mary ordered two coffees, both decaf. She felt embarrassed to be here in public with this man; she felt like the young men behind the counter were looking at her strangely. They sat down together at a booth and Bill lit a cigarette.
    “They know me here. I come here a lot,” he whispered.
    “Oh? That’s nice,” Mary said.
    “Sometimes, they give me the evil eye.”
    “Excuse me?”
    Bill scrunched his forehead and leaned over the table toward Mary. His eyes looked exactly the same behind his thick glasses.