The Delphi Room by Melia McClure Read Free Book Online Page A

footfalls of my mother approaching the door, the clink of ice in her glass. I imagined myself standing outside my childhood bedroom door in clown pajamas (Given Paddington Bear and his band of merry stuffed animals, I’m surprised I wasn’t provided with a set, complete with a matching security blanket.) waiting for her to come back from a date, green shag carpeting sprouting through my toes.

6
    INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—BACKYARD—AFTERNOON
    Velvet is a young girl. She sits cross-legged in the grass. The sun ripples everything with fever. Velvet holds a pencil and a notebook. On it she writes Roman numerals. Velvet’s mother comes stumbling out of the house, drunk, wearing a full, crimson Spanish skirt and armfuls of heavy, jangling gold bangles.
    MOTHER
    (slurring)
    Whatcha doin’?
    VELVET
    I’m counting sounds. Bird sounds.
    MOTHER
    How many?
    VELVET
    Fifteen.
    MOTHER
    Noisy fuckers.
    VELVET
    They like to sing.
    MOTHER
    (singing at the top of her lungs)
    “It’s my party, and I’ll cry if I want to
    Cry if I want to . . .”
    VELVET
    Ssshhh! You’ll scare them off!
    MOTHER
    Fine. Party pooper.
    All is quiet for a moment. Velvet stares into space, pen poised to record another birdcall. Her mother picks at a loose thread on the hem of her skirt. Then: pounce! Like a cat on yarn, Velvet’s mother is on her, pulling at her hair and smothering her with kisses.
    VELVET
    (shoving her)
    Get off me!
    Her mother yanks a handful of grass and throws it at her daughter, pouting.
    MOTHER
    You’re just like your father.
    Velvet holds out her arms.
    VELVET
    I’m sorry, Mom, I’m sorry. Cuddle me.
    MOTHER
    No. I don’t want to anymore.
    INT. BRINKLEY’S HELL—MIRROR—
VELVET’S CHILDHOOD HOME—KITCHEN—EVENING
    Velvet’s mother stands at the stove, stir-frying meat and vegetables. An open bottle of gin sits on the counter, and every once in a while she takes a swig and then pours some into her wok. She wears a tight, sky-blue dress cut from a T-shirt type material, a get-up that announces her lack of undergarments to the world, and ultra-high heels.
    On the kitchen floor sits Velvet, a bottle of crimson nail polish in hand, and she waves the brush through the air as though painting it: Sally Hansen-cum-Picasso. Her feet are ornamented with nail polish flowers, each with distinctive impeccable petals: chemical-scented, hothouse blooms. She begins to bestow an ankle with like adornment.
    MOTHER
    What the hell are you doing to yourself?
    VELVET
    Nail polish tattoos.

    MOTHER
    (laughs)
    What’s possessed you?
    VELVET
    That home and garden show. They showed those flower decals that you put in the shower so you don’t slip and kill yourself.
    MOTHER
    Oh. Well, you’ve got the flowers on the wrong side of your feet if you’re worried about slipping and killing yourself.
    VELVET
    What time’s he coming?
    MOTHER
    Twenty minutes. Put some socks on.
    VELVET
    I can’t. Polish’s still wet. And what’s the point of decorating your feet if you’re going to wear socks?
    MOTHER
    Oh for fuck’s sake.
    (pause)
    How do I look? Look at my new shoes. I blew the bank. Italian leather. Like buttah!
    VELVET
    You want my honest opinion?
    MOTHER
    No. Yes. Not really.
    VELVET
    (sizing her up)
    You look good. You always look good. The picture of sweetness and light.
    MOTHER
    Oh you’re an angel! Why don’t you make yourself a tinfoil halo? Sweetness and light! Ha ha! Lie to me some more.
    (pause)
    So, you really think I look all right?
    VELVET
    You look like Mae West. Well, your face does, anyway. Maybe you should dye your hair blonde.
    MOTHER
    I’ve thought about it. Hmmm . . . shit, I should’ve made a drugstore run for Clairol. Ha! Mae West, you say. Well, I do all my best work in bed.
    She takes a long drink from the gin bottle.

    MOTHER
    Shit, I’m nervous. I’m a nervous wreck. I’m a wrecked bundle of nerves. Okay. You remember what I told you?
    VELVET
    When the doorbell rings,