The Blondes by Emily Schultz Read Free Book Online Page B

won’t, for your sake. I offered to go into town and get the newspaper or ask someone what’s happening in the world—maybe buy us some milk other than Carnation canned, fresh bread instead of frozen, restock the eggs—but Grace just shook her head. “And take my car?” she’d asked haughtily, begging for argument.
    She told me to take some of her vitamins in the medicine cabinet “for the baby.” I guess it was big of her to share them, all things considered. I have to take two a day for you to get everything you need, though I didn’t tell Grace that. The contents don’t have the amount of folic acid required, according to thepamphlets I got from Nurse Ben, forever ago now. To be on the safe side, I pop one vitamin every morning with dry cereal and one at night with supper, which tonight will be canned green beans and maybe a hot dog from the freezer. I am in the heartburn stage of the pregnancy, but you need the protein.
    You want to go outside, my little goiter? Have a look at that satellite dish? If we could get the TV signal back, I’d feel so much better—maybe the panic would stop. Maybe someone on that illuminated screen would say something smart for once, about what is causing the Blonde Fury and what is being done to contain it, and everything would click into place.
    Too high. But I think there’s a ladder in the shed.
    Rickety thing. This would be great, just great, if I fall off this stepladder in the snow and hit my head. That’d be a crazy way to go out after everything we’ve been through.
    I shouldn’t have done that. The satellite dish was icy and I tried to chip away at some of it with an old broom handle, but I didn’t think about what it means to stand on a ladder and work above your head while carrying a giant kettle on your front that weighs an extra twenty-five pounds. Yes, I’m talking to you. You’re like a little pasta pot. Fuck, I don’t believe this. Still no signal.
    Well, I guess there’s nothing to do but continue telling you my story. Our story. Lucky you.
    All the New York dailies carried articles about the subway attack. The news was up on their sites only hours after theincident had happened. In some cases it was the lead. This shouldn’t have surprised me, and I guess it didn’t really, but still. It made me feel numb.
    The papers said that by the time the police arrived at the station, the worst had already occurred. They said that a seemingly unprovoked attack had left Eugenia Gilongos, seventeen, dead. Eugenia. That was her name. It is a beautiful name. But for the reasons I’ve already noted, it won’t be yours.
    Eugenia’s photograph seemed to spring from my computer, taking up half the screen. It was eerie, a two-dimensional school picture—eerie to have seen the real girl, grasped her hand. She was younger in the photo, and her hair was different. She was wearing a band behind her bangs and her hair was curled. She had on an Oxford shirt, maybe the same kind as she was wearing that day, her school uniform. She wore a small pendant, a heart or a cross or something. She was smiling, a shy smile. I could already imagine the tribute page in the high school yearbook. I scrolled down my computer screen to avoid looking any longer.
    The woman who attacked Eugenia had not yet been identified, but the articles included her photo. It’s funny how a photo stays with you. Sontag said, “Images transfix. Images anesthetize.” Aesthetology would agree. And there, as evidence, was the grainy surveillance image of the attacker: a smear of pixels, a tight mouth and chin, waves of hair. Police were urging the public to come forward to identify her.
    The first report I read confirmed that Eugenia and her attacker had perished beneath the oncoming train. Police saidthe girl died instantly. Those of us who had tried to help were referenced as “strangers”—“Strangers attempted to pull the teenager to safety.”
    The man I’d taken for a businessman was quoted. He