3/19/2024 0 Comments The pink house brooklynBut because I resembled my parents physically-my father’s eyebrows, my mother’s round face, their pink skin-I knew I was not adopted. Like many people, I suppose, I fantasized that I’d discover I was adopted, and had ‘real’ parents somewhere far away who were intelligent, well-read, sophisticated, and cared about improving the world. As a kid, I wished I felt a sense of kinship with my parents, but I never did. My mother was a housewife who believed that all non-Catholics and women who had premarital sex would burn in agonizing flames forever after death. My father always told me that if I accepted any assistance from him after he’d paid for college I’d be a loser. They were typical New England parents they showed my sister and me little affection, and we showed them little back. The apartment was a two-bedroom for four hundred and thirty-five dollars a month how could I go wrong? Several others had lived there before him, and had also broken the lease she didn’t know why. She demurred, but called back the next day: a student was vacating an apartment. “When time came to secure housing, I was too broke to make the trip to Syracuse, so I called the program secretary and asked if she knew of any apartments. When I was accepted to a Master of Fine Arts program in Syracuse, I was thrilled, even though I was rejected from the fiction track and accepted only for poetry, and even though the city was a frigid, depressed backwater, because the program offered me a fellowship with a stipend. I had three dollars a day for food every day I bought a bagel and a small carton of milk to go in my oatmeal. The students’ parents paid the company exorbitant sums, but my checks were so small I barely made rent. Most days, I taught at the test-prep center others I travelled to Riverdale or White Plains to sit in grand dining rooms with people my own age and show them how to combine tricky if-then statements so as to improve their scores on the law- and business-school entrance exams. But no journal responded to the stories I mailed them-I knew myself they were no good-and I spent all my time tutoring and proctoring exams for a test-prep company. “The year I met this man, I was twenty-five and lived in New York City, where I’d moved to become a writer. “You think you ruined a man’s life,” the novelist said. The novelist opened a bottle of wine and poured it into glasses. A ghost story about a man’s life getting ruined seemed better. They’d heard about the boot steps on the stairs of the old Virginia fort, and the Northern California gold-rush-era hotel where female guests woke with hand-shaped bruises around their necks. The guests were full, tipsy, and reluctant to go out into the rain. Over dinner, they’d discussed politics and failed relationships, then moved on to ghost stories. Three of the group were divorced four never married. The woman had agreed to host a dinner, because her bungalow was the largest. None of them knew who’d selected them for the residency, or why. They were all unsuccessful, middle-aged, and hard up for cash. None of the seven people around the table knew one another well they’d all been flown to this mountain town on the Mexican border by a foundation that was putting them up and paying them to practice their respective arts for six weeks. Her guests were a Korean-American crime-noir novelist, a Lebanese fantasy writer, a Thai journalist, and three Brazilian painters. The woman had served jumbo shrimp sautéed in garlic butter chicken quesadillas with goat Cheddar cheese refried black beans, sautéed onions and peppers a pear-and-bitter-greens salad and flourless chocolate cake with raspberry-vodka sauce. Then thin straws of lightning appeared beyond the dark windows, and hail fell on the tin roof. The rain had begun halfway through dinner. Rain smashed sideways against the bungalow’s steel siding. It was the first time she had that evening. I was too lazy to move, or else sick in the head.” “I didn’t realize the truth about the house until too late, and then I stayed.
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