Braided Lives
“Exhausted, she lies in bed. I tell the other inhabitants of the co-op that she has a summer cold. No one is markedly curious. It is the end of August and some of the women like Donna and me will be here in the fall, some like Alberta are just finishing up and ready to leave Ann Arbor and some are only taking summer courses. The house has a loose disjointed feel, so that no one pays as close attention to others’ welfare as in the winter. Her bruises and weeping are invisible.Monday evening after supper while Donna is napping, a teacher here for the summer calls up the stairwell, “Donna Stuart, Donna Stuart, you have a visitor.”Peter? Grimly, making myself smile ferociously at the treads, I march down. The guy standing in the hall is not familiar to me. Then he is. I know exactly who he is, about five nine and big-boned, his hair in a blond ducktail. For a moment he reminds me of Matt, but Matt soft in the waist and slope-shouldered. Awkward in the hall. “You get the hell out of here,”
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