Page 20 - Vol. VII #1

Thirst (continued from preceding page)
did in that old black-and-white film clip in the jail, the one where he wears a stripy t-shirt and his hair looks like a round ceiling brush dipped in black pomade. She imagined the diner inside, the black board with the white crooked lettering announcing the day’s spe- cials, perhaps tuna melt with swiss on rye and a fancy smoothie with a fancy name like Elvis with a Twist, and her mouth watered.
Behind her, as if resigned, Brian slowly pushed him- self out of the car, while Lidia stood next to the Chevy, staring at the flat tire intently. Marion went to her mother, not minding how the heat was like fire ants stinging her skin; and they stood there next to each other, mother and daughter. Marion didn’t know then that Lidia wasn’t going to have that baby, that she wasn’t going to get better, that she would die soon
in the bathroom of a parking garage the same hour Marion won her first age group state championship in Fresno. She only knew that Lidia’s shoulders in that
upright and willowy against the western sky, and she looked at Marion, then Brian, and finally a single pine tree resting at the side of the road since time eternal, its branches savaged but still holding.
“Let’s go and see Venice Beach.” ~
Just before they got to Los Angeles, Brian said he had to meet a man and they pulled into a parking lot. A hoary old man came to greet Brian, emerg-
ing from a seafoam green vintage Pontiac, the car appearing new and spotless, its rims blinding in
the sunlight. The man had rotten brown teeth and a gaunt body, which he moved through space slowly, his eyes never leaving Brian. He seemed reluctant
to part with the beautiful green car and stopped abruptly, letting Brian reach him. When Brian got to the Pontiac, he thrust his chin forward and pulled the corners of his mouth upward, which Marion recognized as Brian’s smile; he said something, hands in his pockets, jittery, shifting his weight from left to right and right to left again. Brian’s words transformed the old man’s face from crumpled to smooth as cat’s hair and as he reached back and pet the hood of his car, years fell away from him. Marion wondered what it must be like, to have nothing bet- ter to love but a green Pontiac, and she took Lidia’s hand, suddenly aware of the softness of the eastern wind on her face, of how nice the weight of Lidia’s body felt next to her, frail as it was; and she felt un- speakably lucky, gloriously loved.
~
When they went to sleep that night, finally in Los Angeles but far from Venice Beach, in a sweat-stained motel room—Brian having left with all their cash as a boat fare—Marion curled up with Lidia on the single bed, the mattress lumpy and gray like coal, and she thought she had learned something she could not put then into words, not for many years: that the reality of Lidia, next to her on the boat and in front of her
in the car and underneath the flat tire, was infinitely better than any imaginary Lidia, no matter how perfect Marion could make her and no matter how thirsty she was for her mother’s perfection, as long
as they held each other like this.
Hunyadi was born and raised in Budapest, Hungary. Her poems
and short stories have been published in the Little Patuxent Review, Funicular Magazine, the Raw Art Review, The Duck Lake Journal, and elsewhere, and her novel-in-progress was nominated for the Kirkwood Prize. Marcella is currently an MFA student at Hollins University and lives in Roanoke, VA.
“W
to her to confirm that the calm, assured voice really belonged to her mother.”
moment glowed wide and godlike in the midday Cali- fornia sun and that something marvelous was hap- pening with the world in which suddenly everything was possible.
When Lidia spoke, Marion had to turn to her to con- firm that the calm, assured voice really belonged to her mother.
“I can fix it.”
And before Brian could so much as close his mouth, Lidia opened the trunk, pried off the wheel cover, pulled out the spare tire, loosened the lug nuts, and raising the Chevy about six inches from the ground with a jack, she replaced the damaged tire, tighten- ing at the end the lug nuts by hand. Brian watched Lidia working with bored serenity, accepting reflec- tively the failure which he seemed certain would be the result of Lidia’s efforts, while Marion couldn’t stop grinning, her cheeks hurting, her eyes glued to her mother’s hands on the wheel, the jack, the lug nuts. When Lidia was done, she stood up, her shape
hen Lidia spoke,
Marion had to turn
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