Act Natural, and: Aurelia Plath Confesses, and: The Last Resort, and: Stood Up, and: Woman in the Moon

Act Natural

you said behind those cat-eye sunglassesyou wore, that night with hot pink shorts,and me in Capri pants and a blousetied at the midriff Jean Seberg–styleand weren't you breathless when I stuck outmy thumb and the testosteronefueled,cream-and-green Impala slowed to offer us a lift?

Where were we headed, the townies askedand we didn't know, but you said smoothly"Wherever we can get a beer." Big laughs.I'd never tasted it, and I was two years older.Years later you told me you were sneaking drinksbefore school, a 15-year-old lush.

The Chicken Box was everything Main StreetNantucket wasn't. We were never cardedand when the riot broke out, you found usa ride with a sailor on a Harley. We got luckyand knew it, so it was back to Omar Sharifand Paul Newman at the buck-a-night Dreamland,always on the lookout for the cream-and-greenImpala on the sandy bike trips home.

Aurelia Plath Confesses

After we lost her, I wanted her back—beforeher refusal to be born kept us in suspenseat Mass Memorial. Was she ever ready?

Warren heard a groan while the policewere out looking. We found her eating dirt,my child eating her way to China.

Otto never held her though she had eyesfor no one else, sneaking into his library, hidingbeneath his desk, a mole tunneling its way

among the festschrifts, boxes of manuscriptmy hands had typed. Pinwheel, spin, somersault—anything to get attention.

The last time I saw her at Court Green I coulddo nothing right, say nothing right, her Devon farmprimed and ready for the pages of Mademoiselle.

I returned to Wellesley, to Tupperware and moonshots,Lawrence Welk's bubble machine, but I fumed:How can she disown me? Was I ever her mother?

That was before I became "the mother," a witchwho's baked into gingerbread.I wanted a different ending: I want her back.

The Last Resort

Long before Mr. Sammi's arson claimed the clapboardcabins, Mi Casa was Club Med with field mice.Leggy paralegals with the souls of nuns, ex-halfbacksin broker training, someone's sister with fake id pouredfrom the "bozo buses" into a nimbus of party lightsdraped on white pine branches. They shed their city skinsin eucalyptus-scented Jacuzzis with beakersof Boone's Farm or in the pond where algae hidthe poppers. Jack Daniels laid to rest among the minnows.

Some tented on Blackberry Hill and wokewhen horned owls called; some danced all nightto "Don't Go Breaking My Heart," the air staticwith imploding lust. In the tall grass, bobcats sulkedyellow-eyed and dreamed of snowfields. By Sundayscorch marks left guests longing for the tediumof their o≈ces, a pastrami sandwich, a hot shower.

Weekday bed linens hung to dry, the cleaning crewsipped dregs of the bacchanal. Now the charred beamsfeed on nightshade. Garter snakes sun on the outcropsin a mindless glaze, stray cats nurse their litters in cracksof the stone foundation. Sometimes a former hedonistreturns for a glimpse of '70s folly, stardust meltedto a vitreous pool, gazes at the cratered tennis court,the pit-holed barbeque, and leaves with muddy shoes.

Stood Up

as the bride slips outof the silk organza with lace sleevesshe will insist her dazed motherdonate to Goodwill,so I trade the black beadsthat match the heels,the ring, garnet earringssatin blouse and dress slacksfor a frayed terry cloth robeand slippers. The cell phoneI've been staring at for an hourretains its hermetic void.I switch it off and the nightis perhaps not lostbut found. I stroke the leavesof a new book as ifI've just discovered print.

Woman in the Moon

They say your mouth is a grieving...