The Pull of the Moon_ A Novel - By Elizabeth Berg Page 0,33

lives, we

Well, maybe I am a little angry. But it’s not at you. It’s more of a class action suit type thing.

Anyway, I stayed in that store for the longest time, walking up and down the aisles, thinking, Well what? I actually got pissed off at myself, you’ll probably be happy to know. Finally I went over to the meat counter and bought the biggest turkey they had. And then I got all I needed for mashed potatoes and green-bean casserole and cranberry sauce and stuffing and pumpkin pie and my spirits started to lift. There was a radio in the cabin, and I was thinking, I’ll find a good station, turn it on low, and I’ll cook with utensils that are all new to me. And when the turkey is in the oven, I’ll sit on the little sofa with my feet up and read Family Circle and Woman’s Day. Maybe I’ll make one of the crafts they show. I was feeling so happy about my plans, kind of excited.

But when I got home I found that the oven was too small to hold the turkey I’d bought, so I threw everything away and then I sat on the little bed with my hands in my lap feeling guilty and sorry for myself and then I went to a McDonald’s and got a quarter pounder with cheese and the large-size fries and a vanilla shake and an apple pie and it tasted wonderful and it occurred to me that that’s what I’d wanted in the first place, I was just too shy to tell myself, and so the universe had to sigh and shake its head and help me out, which it always will do provided we let it. This is something I have such a hard time remembering to believe.

While I ate, I chatted a little with a woman who was sitting across from me with three small, well-behaved children—a pleasure to see, in these times of overcompensating parents and children given reins so big to hold it makes them perpetually cranky. She was pregnant with a fourth, and she was wearing a faded blue maternity top with one of those silly bows at the neck. But on her it looked kind of good. She was a serene woman, very plain looking but also pretty, her hair held back with a brown barrette so simple and inexpensive and true it made me want to go home with her and be her child, too, I knew she’d do a good job bringing me up. There was an old couple there, out for dinner just like the commercial, remember that commercial I used to cry over where they go out for dinner at McDonald’s?

I’m a little drunk now, Martin. I bought a bottle of wine and I see that I have finished a good two-thirds of it. It’s rather an odd feeling, being drunk all alone. I don’t believe I’ve ever done it. No, I haven’t. I feel a little weird, which I don’t like, but I also feel like I couldn’t possibly be scared by anything right now, and I like that very much.

I just reread this letter and it seems I’m not making complete sense. However I will mail it anyway. You’ve certainly seen me worse. Haven’t you.

Love,

Nan

Last night I read a magazine article about how girls get gypped in school. I am so happy this kind of thing is finally being recognized. They also talked about twelve being the age when things start to change for girls, the time when they start to lose their power, and I think they’re right.

I remember coming home from seventh grade at the beginning of the year and having a certain routine. I’d get six Oreo cookies and a tall glass of milk. I’d go to my room and ask not to be disturbed, say I was doing my homework. I didn’t do homework though, not right then. I’d lie on my bed eating the cookies dunked precisely to the pre-fall-apart stage and reading Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. I allowed myself one story a day, and I made the last cookie and the story end together, and to this day I have never found a more pleasant ritual, including sex. After I finished reading, I would lie on the bed and think, I am going to be a writer. I am going to live in a fancy penthouse in Manhattan and have a martini served to me on a silver tray every