Astrid Magnussen (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
white_oleander) wrote2019-10-18 03:25 pm
white_oleander) wrote2019-10-18 03:25 pm
Hollywood, California, 1993. Friday [10/18].
Ron and Claire were fighting again in their room. Astrid could hear it as she lay in her bed, the rabbit crouching on her wall, his ears erect and trembling. Claire wanted Ron to quit his job, find something to do that didn’t involve cattle mutilations or witchcraft in the Pueblos.
“What do you want me to do, wash dishes?” It was rare to hear Ron raise his voice. But he was tired, just back from Russia, he hadn’t expected a fight. Usually it was a home-cooked meal and kisses and clean sheets. “I'm earning a living. It’s just a job, Claire. Jesus, sometimes I just don’t know what goes on in your head.”
But it was a lie. What Ron did was peddle fear. There was quite a market, it seemed. Everywhere, people were frightened. Threatening shapes lurked at the edges of vision, in the next car, at the ATM, maybe waiting for them in the hall with a .38. There was poison in supermarket toothpaste. Ebola, hepatitis C. Husbands disappeared on the way to the liquor store. Children showed up dead in ditches without their hands. The picture was pulled away from the frame, the outlines were gone. People wanted monsters and ghosts and voices from beyond the grave. Something foreign, intentional, not senseless and familiar as a kid getting shot for his leather jacket.
That’s what Ron supplied. Fear in a frame. Aliens are always preferable to confused, violent acts. It was a career steeped in cynicism, pumped through with hypocrisy. And entirely, wholly bizarre for Astrid, who'd known aliens, who'd known monsters, who'd known whole other worlds beyond this one, where such things were distractions, not reality.
Her voice in reply was like bending sheet metal.
But Astrid could understand him word for word. “What, you think I come off a fourteen-hour day, jetlagged, at some spoonbending convention in Yakutsk, ready to party? Hey, wow, bring on the bimbos! Maybe you should try getting some work, and remember what it’s like to be wiped out at the end of a day.”
Astrid felt his words burn Claire's flesh like a lash. She tried to hear what Claire was saying, but her voice faded to a murmur. She couldn’t defend herself, she curled up like a leaf under a glass.
“Astrid doesn’t need you waiting with the milk and the cookies. Jesus, Claire! She’s a young woman. I think she’d like spending a few hours by herself. Maybe make some friends of her own if you’d give her a chance.”
But Astrid did need her, Ron. Nobody ever waited for her when she got home from school—and never milk. He didn’t even know that much. Astrid mattered to Claire. Couldn’t he understand what that meant to her, and to Claire? If he cared, he would never say such things to her. How dare he pretend that he loved her. Astrid cracked open her door to see if she could hear her, but she must have been whispering.
“Of course they stopped calling. Gloria said she called and called and you never picked up. Of course they gave up.”
Now all Astrid could hear was her crying. Claire cried the way children do, sobbing, hiccupping, nose running. And the soothing tones of his voice.
Astrid could picture him, taking her in his arms, rocking her against his chest, stroking her hair, and she’d let him, that was the worst part of it. And they’d make love, and she’d fall asleep, thinking he was so kind, after all, he must love her. It would be all better. That was how he did it. Hurt her, and then made it all better. Astrid hated him. He came home, upset her, when he was just going to leave her again.
[[ NFB, obvs, but open, as always, for poking. More of these little moments that are slowly building up to the next big thing. Cribbed from Chapter 18 of White Oleander by Janet Fitch, with some slight alterations for context ]]
“What do you want me to do, wash dishes?” It was rare to hear Ron raise his voice. But he was tired, just back from Russia, he hadn’t expected a fight. Usually it was a home-cooked meal and kisses and clean sheets. “I'm earning a living. It’s just a job, Claire. Jesus, sometimes I just don’t know what goes on in your head.”
But it was a lie. What Ron did was peddle fear. There was quite a market, it seemed. Everywhere, people were frightened. Threatening shapes lurked at the edges of vision, in the next car, at the ATM, maybe waiting for them in the hall with a .38. There was poison in supermarket toothpaste. Ebola, hepatitis C. Husbands disappeared on the way to the liquor store. Children showed up dead in ditches without their hands. The picture was pulled away from the frame, the outlines were gone. People wanted monsters and ghosts and voices from beyond the grave. Something foreign, intentional, not senseless and familiar as a kid getting shot for his leather jacket.
That’s what Ron supplied. Fear in a frame. Aliens are always preferable to confused, violent acts. It was a career steeped in cynicism, pumped through with hypocrisy. And entirely, wholly bizarre for Astrid, who'd known aliens, who'd known monsters, who'd known whole other worlds beyond this one, where such things were distractions, not reality.
Her voice in reply was like bending sheet metal.
But Astrid could understand him word for word. “What, you think I come off a fourteen-hour day, jetlagged, at some spoonbending convention in Yakutsk, ready to party? Hey, wow, bring on the bimbos! Maybe you should try getting some work, and remember what it’s like to be wiped out at the end of a day.”
Astrid felt his words burn Claire's flesh like a lash. She tried to hear what Claire was saying, but her voice faded to a murmur. She couldn’t defend herself, she curled up like a leaf under a glass.
“Astrid doesn’t need you waiting with the milk and the cookies. Jesus, Claire! She’s a young woman. I think she’d like spending a few hours by herself. Maybe make some friends of her own if you’d give her a chance.”
But Astrid did need her, Ron. Nobody ever waited for her when she got home from school—and never milk. He didn’t even know that much. Astrid mattered to Claire. Couldn’t he understand what that meant to her, and to Claire? If he cared, he would never say such things to her. How dare he pretend that he loved her. Astrid cracked open her door to see if she could hear her, but she must have been whispering.
“Of course they stopped calling. Gloria said she called and called and you never picked up. Of course they gave up.”
Now all Astrid could hear was her crying. Claire cried the way children do, sobbing, hiccupping, nose running. And the soothing tones of his voice.
Astrid could picture him, taking her in his arms, rocking her against his chest, stroking her hair, and she’d let him, that was the worst part of it. And they’d make love, and she’d fall asleep, thinking he was so kind, after all, he must love her. It would be all better. That was how he did it. Hurt her, and then made it all better. Astrid hated him. He came home, upset her, when he was just going to leave her again.
[[ NFB, obvs, but open, as always, for poking. More of these little moments that are slowly building up to the next big thing. Cribbed from Chapter 18 of White Oleander by Janet Fitch, with some slight alterations for context ]]