Giant Men and Violent Women

I'm Sold

PRESLEY ANN

"Bett!" I hear Nona say in a singsong voice as I lie in bed. "Care to join me for yoga?"

"No!" screams back the seventy-five-year-old Bett. "And don't ever ask me that again!"

One would think that Nona asked Bett for a monetary loan that exceeded all rationality.

"Ladies..." I hear the correctional officer say.

"Come on, Nona," I hear Boxer say. "I'll join you."

Boxer, the former reggae-folk dive owner, will be practicing yoga this morning. I hear footsteps on the stairs.

"I intend on asking her the same thing tomorrow morning," Nona says conspiratorially to someone, who I assume is Boxer.

"Don't," Boxer suggests.

"Pardon?" Bett wonders aloud.

"Ladies..." the correctional officer says.

Such is my life. I give a good, long stretch.

I smell duck liver. I hear dishes clatter, the arguing of prisoners, and the distant sounds of reggae-folk. Without opening my eyes, I know that I'm home. Back in bed, in Darling.

Am I thrilled to be here? No. I'd rather be back with my mother's people. I honestly feel that I was supposed to move away from Boston and to New Hampshire but not for Darling. Darling is home to somebody else's people. These people in Darling are the new people of my mom and my sister-in-law. They love their new tribe. But there are reasons my dad, brother, and I don't fit in. The former two have their own reasons, and I also have mine. Simply put, these are not my people.

For three months, I've been living with my mother's people in a cabin next door to my grandparents in the tiny village of Wild Hare, New Hampshire. The cabin is small, but it's custom-made, and it's mine. It's a lot like my heart. I would never have considered that thought before-too romantic. But, now, I know that hearts have little to do with romance and everything to do with memories. Your heart holds the memories of your pleasures and your hurts, and those memories alter the course of your day, your month, your life. Never let just anyone into your heart. There's no telling which kind of memories they'll plant. And weeds are practically impossible to destroy.

I hear that I've become a scandal around Boston. Serves me right. The ducks told the chickens that I had a nervous breakdown. The pressure of being my mother's child, of being separated from my father's family, of having to leave Date, of being left by Ashley, of living with the Apocrypha Catholics, and all of their talking ghosts and visiting goblins were apparently the baking soda in my cup of emotions. Too much dropped on me at one time caused my nerves to fizzle and bubble over. Funny thing is, the ducks are right.

Swanee, who has been so focused on her upcoming marriage and impending status as the wife of, surprisingly, asked me out for drinks recently...with Hyacinth. Those two are friendly, of course, and when we're together at the same art show, we laugh ourselves to a tizzy over sangrias. But for those two to be out together alone, without me, their common denominator? Strange indeed.

I would soon find out that they were hosting an intervention. Or, should I say, Swanee was. Hyacinth surprisingly was rather quiet, seeming to study me, as Swanee grilled me with questions. Yes, Swanee has been busy these days, she told me, but she wasn't going to sit by and hear of me not straightening my hair. So, she wanted answers.

Right, Hyacinth?

Hyacinth and I caught eyes. My best friend turned sister-in-law was reading me in a way that my former best friend was not. But Hyacinth still nodded in affirmation to Swanee, though she said nothing.