Diane Williams - Vicky Swanky Is a Beauty

“What would I have done?” she said. “I would have had to go way over there and around, but I just can’t!”

“Don’t let go of her leash!” I said, and turned away.

After a pause, I looked into the world, but I never found them.

The Almighty doesn’t spoil everything — for I saw sky-high things — a tan bag, paper. I woke up dizzy. Mrs. Billyboy said the room was going around. Took her to the doctor. She got examined and is OK now.

It is my business to comfort the lady.

Chasteness, more pampering, I must get married. I changed her sheets.

But this is not a lamentation. In this way, her story is handed on to you.

She had a good day; had dental done. Dinner is chicken winglets, pea loaf, and Peppermint Pattie.

Spring is. Summer is.

Madam used hibiscus, as a girl, to make her lips red, the soot of the candlewick to shadow her eyes, candle wax for her brows.

Her winter coat waves all its arms at us! Her camel duffle makes the sound of matchsticks being struck — if that helps.

It might seem to me that Chuck and I have a very happy marriage, which I cannot, I cannot believe I believe that.

I had gone out to look at what Chuck calls the dot plants — things out of proportion with the ground for which they are intended.

They’re a focal feature to form the centerpiece among the many plants that are not valued. In the house, he has his cascade bonsai tree on a high stand.

I could not get between him and what he was in front of and I found myself waiting on some joyous occasion.

By the close of the day, I had no idea how to be practical. I’d lost control of my life.

Chuck tapped me, saying, “Who is that woman? What did she want?”

It had been our neighbor. I wish she had been thinking highly of me, while her husband looked on, forlorn in the car. “Your quack grass!” she had cried. “Why don’t you just let me kill it for you?”

They have a rock garden, steppingstones, a perennial border, and then I could see that our weeds were menacing those.

The suspense in that moment had drawn me in and I was fascinated to hear my answer to her that was delivered in a weepy form.

In addition to the quack grass, we also have plantain, chickweed, thyme-leaved speedwell — curiously green and brown.

I understand. Hunks and slabs of weeds are not enjoyable to view.

Pressing the heel of my hand against my trowel, with a quick motion of the wrist and forearm, I repeat the motion. I am jabbing side to side. The tissues attached to the stem are softened enough for the root to be slipped out, so that I may remove my muscle section.

I was ready during the reunion back at his house in April and I had a feeling he was present.

Most curiously he had asked us to call him Uncle Chew and I’d been fond of him.

The elderberry lemonade reminded me of when we were young inductees to the religious world and we sat around here. I was very impressed by the box lunch.

They handed out sheets with the lyrics to the song we’d written as a farewell for Uncle Chew. A part was missing.

When we arrived at this reunion it was chilly. The next day warmer. The next day chilly. The day after, I had a speech to make. We had hiked a certain distance past the church doorway, the hearth, the courtyard, along the village lane, the rough brick wall. I saw the same backdrop more than once so that I got my bearings. I was a woman in a fur collar and false hair, reminiscing.

They handed out lunch-box sandwiches as I came slowly down the length of my time, which I have become very attached to, and my memories and my remarks — hurt my pride.

I don’t like them or my brother. My children don’t like me.

I count the affronts, mindful not to give up all my views. I’d rather contort my guts. Conditions are somewhat unfavorable, despite strengths. I’d feel so much better if Brucie influenced me.

There is a side to me they have not been exposed to. I mention this. They take up their tasks. In short, my daughter told me to wait a minute, that she’d join me.

I said, “No!”

She put her head back and closed her coat at the neck. “I wonder if you realize…” she said. It took me a moment to.

Everyone else was hurrying. We stood. She was leaning against the mantelpiece. “Why are you so unpleasant?”

I answered, “I don’t wish you well.”

I threw my gloves on the floor and my hat. I had been wearing my dark blue coat. Drops of moisture were on our windows, and fog. We are a family. There’s a point to it and to the dimmer switch in the foyer. The next thing — my daughter was stepping along the corridor and out the door. I seriously did not think I was in the state I describe as reserved for me.

She made assurances that satisfied her ambitions — saw the body interred, spent the rest of the week asking questions, suggesting action. She visited with her family and reminisced.

Getting routine matters out of the way, she headed home after buying a grounding plug and ankle wrist weights.

She fed the dog and put the boys to bed. Allen didn’t go to work.

She received a call from a woman whose sister had died.

She made some of those unequaled assurances, was escorted with the family to the grave. People seem to respond to her. She talked with them, gave a woman a played-out peck on the cheek.

Getting routine matters out of the way, she attained riches, social position, power, studied for an hour or so, cleaned up, took the family to a movie, after which she forecasted her own death with a lively narration that gave her gooseflesh.

She felt raw, pink and so fresh!

“I am going to cough,” I said. “Cough, cough.”

I left Mary, my mother, to experience that by herself and went to get the dish — a lion couchant — with a slew of nuts in it, and I served us wine, and I coughed.

Mary put her hand on the top of her head, as if she could not rightly rest it there.

“Mary, how are you, Mary?” I said. “Now, Mary.”

“Not so good,” she replied. “I’ve just been lying around.”

Then she changed into the shape she pleased — an upright, independent person.

My father, her husband — we were surprised — walked in, buttoning himself to depart. I had thought he was dead. His bad foot had killed him.

My mother and my dead father provide strength for me. They recklessly challenge their competency.

It is senseless to prevent them.

It isn’t until a Bengal cat comes by — the Sheepshanks’ cat Andy — that I can see my way in the dark so to speak.

This flame design decorates almost all of his body and the brilliancy demonstrates exceptional technique.

When I pet the cat, I rough up too much of the detail, and the cat is yelling at me.

I went to the sex shop after. I know the saleswoman there very well.

And yet Brenda said, “I have never seen you before in my whole life!”

This must be on account of the harsh light.

At the cinema I watched closely the camels, the horses, the young actor taking his stance for the sexual act.

He started up with a pretty girl we had a general view of.

I felt the girl’s pallor stick into me.

Another girl, in pink swirls alternating with yellow swirls, intruded.

The girls were like the women who will one day have to have round-the-clock duty at weddings, at birthdays, at days for the feasts.