Chapter 3:- Chapter 3
She paces at the window. There are children out there on the street and this makes her nervous. She is silent, as always.



David enters the room as if he is entering a stage play, his arms out to mime whatever he is saying into existence.



“How was work today?” David asks. David is very naïve and thinks she still works at the IGA on Broad Street. She vaguely recalls that she used to be in love with David, a long time ago.



“Work was … normal,” she replies. She is not sure what normal is, but she figures it is things like David, low cap on his head, wool coat, mittens where his hands should be.



David is now dancing around the room, singing pop tunes, acting like she is a statue or a ghost. She knows he is trying to get a rise out of her, but she remains silent and still.



“I saw your father today, in the supermarket,” he says. “He looked like Hell.”



She is surprised by this. Her father left home years ago, but occasionally returns when he needs money for beer or rent.



“He looked real … Shit City,” he says, using the term they used as kids, giggling when they heard their hometown called that on the radio, because of the smell from the wastewater treatment plant. David smiles at her, at his joke, and she smiles in return, the way things are supposed to be: smiley.



When her father left, she was left as well, no mother or father at the age of eleven. She hid in the house for an entire year before a representative from CPS showed up at the door, drew in her breath at the smell of the little house, and took her by the hand. For the next nine years, she was shuttled from house to house, put in places where the parents want to love the child, but can’t because the child will never be theirs.



One constant in her life was David. David wrote her letters, showed up at the doors of these strange houses and introduced himself as her cousin in order to see her. David, shaved head and snarls from age thirteen to eighteen. David, one year spent as a Neo-nazi. David, writing her letters at a oak table at his parents house while his parents continued to love each other, inexplicably, for years.



“My father always said to give up on bitches like you,” she tells him when she is fourteen. She laughs at little at the curse word. They are sitting at Mrs. Darlingson’s front stoop, barely touching at the knees. When she says, “give up on,” she means “stop being in love with,” but David doesn’t know that. David is picking at his shoelaces. Lately, there are little scratches on his arms and she wants to know why, but she also knows why already. Delilah, David’s newest girlfriend.



David asks her if Mrs. Darlingson treats her OK. Connie tells him, “OK. Yes, OK,” because what else can she say? Mrs. Darlingson feeds her and tells her not to touch her China elephants and asks her politely to clean up her room. Mrs. Darlingson gets her hair done on Saturdays and tells her to “make herself at home, but no shoes on the couch,” as if she is a visitor.



At eighteen years old, she runs away, finds her old house boarded up and moves back in. She cleans up a little, but lives like a rat. David brings her food, little bits of Chinese dinners and spaghetti from his mother and does not ask her what she is doing and what is wrong. At eighteen years old, she begins crying a lot. David does not ask her what is wrong. This entire year, he never asks her what is wrong, but begins carrying a gun in his pants. He looks furtive and deadly whenever he comes over. But like him, Connie never asks what is wrong.



A few years after that, she buys the house from the state and begins cleaning as if cleaning could change things. As if a little paint is going to do something. New curtains. A new bedspread. She has been working at the supermarket since she was sixteen, saved every penny, relied on food from David and clothes, men’s clothes to ugly and big for her, from David. She buys the house and makes everything seem new, brand new, untouched.



David is still barely touching her at the knees. He tells her about Melody, some new girl he must be sleeping with, and describes her hair as “a halo.”



Suddenly, there is shouting from across the street and two girls are yelling at them, dirty and strange things. David giggles, sounding a little like the slaughtered pig on the Dateline story last night. Slaughterhouses were the topic, and they followed one little pig from birth – Darby, until death as soon as he was fat enough from force feeding and lack of exercise.



“The one on the right looks like Macaulay Culkin,” she says. David makes a sound like, “psssshh,” through his top teeth and she is unsure whether he is remarking on how amazingly attractive they are or whether he thinks she is being ridiculous.



He gets up. Their knees touch a little more as he is rising and he does not say goodbye, see you tomorrow. He just touches her lightly on the shoulder.