Why Two Electric Hair Clippers Appeared on the Dance Floor at Our Reception
“My mother is trying to manage the day so nobody has to look at what is happening,” Mason said, his tires splashing through a puddle.
“Well, she is anxious,” I said. “But she should not be making those decisions without asking us.”
“She thinks she is protecting the family’s image,” Mason said. “But she is really just protecting herself from having to feel anything.”
Our small kitchen on Locust Street was quiet, save for the hum of the refrigerator. I went into the bathroom to wash the street grime from my hands, using the lavender soap Maribel had given us for our housewarming. On the metal ring by the sink hung the peach bathroom towel we had bought at the local department store for twelve dollars. I wiped my hands on the thick cotton, my mind still racing with Mr. Vance’s words.
In the hallway, the gold-framed mirror with the faint water spots in the corner reflected Mason as he carried a heavy cardboard storage box from the bedroom. He set the box down on our kitchen table, the cardboard scraping against the yellow laminate.
