WINTER ' FOURTEEN
“You don’t believe me.” She patted me on the arm. “You’re too young to be cynical, sweetheart.”
We turned onto Franklin Street, instead of Fifth. Houses were lit up, the light reflecting on freshly
fallen patches of snow. Silhouettes bobbed back and forth in the windows. A woman smoked a cigarette. A
man carried cocktails. Television screens flickered on and off.
“Have you ever had pot?” Sylvia said. “I have. I’ll bet you didn’t know that.”
I felt there was something different in her voice, something that disturbed me, even though I didn’t
know what. It wasn’t the pot, which I’d seen her smoking when she thought I was asleep. I’d grown accustomed
to that.
She flung the front passenger side door open. She wore her green wool winter coat and pillbox hat,
stretching a hand outward, like a housewife dictating to a servant.
“What do you want the most out of life, Mattie? What’s the one thing you have to have?”
“I’d like to live long enough to experiment,” I said. “I don’t want to be alone.”
She gave me a long look and sighed. She was