The Translator
“On the back of her closet door was a mirror, a full-length one; by swinging open the door fast and wide she was able to take from the closet what she wanted without seeing herself in it, and close the door again before it caught her. She thought for a mad moment of calling down to her mother, asking her how it actually happened, this that was going to happen to her, for she knew it was going to happen, all of it or some part of it.
You’ve got to grow up, he’d said, everybody does.
“Do you want ...an egg?” Her mother called. “It’s what I’m having. I didn’t expect you.”
“No, Mom, it’s okay.”
She took from her drawer a panty girdle; she had two, worn so far only once each, a Little Godiva by Warners and a Magic Lady by Exquisite Form. When she had got into the one she chose and felt its grip around her, she picked a cashmere skirt to go over it, soft over strong. She thought: This isn’t so hard.
She drew on pale stockings. Once in a poem she had compared her mother’s peeled-off nylons to rags of sunburned skin.MoreLess
You’ve got to grow up, he’d said, everybody does.
“Do you want ...an egg?” Her mother called. “It’s what I’m having. I didn’t expect you.”
“No, Mom, it’s okay.”
She took from her drawer a panty girdle; she had two, worn so far only once each, a Little Godiva by Warners and a Magic Lady by Exquisite Form. When she had got into the one she chose and felt its grip around her, she picked a cashmere skirt to go over it, soft over strong. She thought: This isn’t so hard.
She drew on pale stockings. Once in a poem she had compared her mother’s peeled-off nylons to rags of sunburned skin.MoreLess
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