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She is luminous and on the television
tonight, not just a killer but a vitrioleuse, a woman who throws
acid on another. We check the weather stripping on the windows and pretend
not to be concerned. No, she's not loose, not raging down the road
in her Chevy Caprice, shotgunning up road signs or reducing them to slag
with her chemical breath. She is being arraigned and the snow is in motion
outside the house so the two of us are cleaning up after dinner and we
used to know her, knew her when her brother drowned, his death mask on
the news—always one step ahead of her, a running premonition—she
was in your class so I have to ask: was she soft-spoken, angry, pretty,
face like a just-flushed hamster? Did she slide down the banisters in
the school that they had to put metal knobs on to discourage just that
sort of thing? Was she the one who lobbed her typewriter out the fourth-floor
keyboarding class window? Was she pregnant? By whom? What news, what new
news, is what I want to know. Because she's on the screen. Whom
did she kill—we haven't been told this—and, more important,
why? I can imagine reasons why a woman would douse a man—or another
woman—in hydrochloric acid; we played with it in graduated cylinders
and pipettes in Chemistry knowing its clarity meant a sort of power, not
the sort that most of us could handle or even understand, but that it
was like a rock—could split a head, take the paint off a windowsill,
change color and react with other chemicals—or it could be gold,
a door itself, a way out, some retribution for some old and violent crime
that never came to light. All of us here have our reasons. Some of them
ring true and some of them just ring. |
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