As I have mentioned before
and will mention again because of its sheer absurdity,
I, congenial Jenny,
happen to owe $60K in student loans.
Because the likelihood of my ever paying them off
is only slightly higher than the likelihood of my popping Pomeranian puppies out of my privates,
and converting them into Pomeranian-shaped bricks of gold bullion,
with a hairdryer hanging from a helicopter,
while the Pope peers upon the pups and gives his blessing,
I must laugh.
In hindsight,
which I am now tempted to refer to as
ass-sight,
this was not a brilliant life maneuver. I paid $60K for an MFA in Acting and Playwriting.
[pause]
That was to give you a chance to settle down. No?
[pause, long beat, playwrights are good at finding 27 ways to say there is quiet]
There. Yes. Funny funny! Take a sip of water.
Of course, had I not paid $60K to a fancy-schmancy institution—
whoopsie-doodle!
Can’t say institution anymore without thinking of
art, group, open bathrobes, locks, no glass in the picture frames!
If I had not paid the frightful sum for an MFA,
to a certain Seven Sisterly college,
there would have been no always-beloved husband-or-not-husband,
the one, at least,
without whom there would be no
Sophie or Hannah.
*****
At bedtime,
Hannah howls. To settle her
I tell her of my dream.
I dreamed of riding a white wooden horse
that got loose from its track and soared skyward.
“Was it a good dream?” she wants to know.
“Yes,” I finally say. “Because I didn’t get hurt.
I didn’t win the race, but I landed, and
it was kind of exciting.”
“I wish I could fly,” she sighs.
“I wish I could fly too,” I say.
“What else do you wish?” she asks me.
I think. Thinking is hard. Wishing is hard.
“I wish I could be kind. I wish
I could help people.”
“What kind of people?” she wants to know.
“Sick people. Angry people. Maybe even
people who are having babies. Maybe
people who are dying.”
Hannah Belle turns to face me, amazed.
“HOW could YOU help people who are DYING?
Like, if I was a little girl who was dying?”
I say, “Go ahead. Die.”
She understands. I put my hand
on her head,
her cheek.
“How are you doing, sweetie?” I ask.
“I’d like to see my father,” she says, weakly, impressively.
“No problem, honey, hold on, I’ll get him for you,”
is what I say.
She nods. We are impressed with each other.
“You want to help people,” she says.
“Yes, I really think I do, but I don’t know
exactly how.”
She smiles and tells me
to use my imagination.
Because, she says,
you can see that way
and sometimes
there is even pixie dust.
*****
Next, I cross the hall.
I lie with Sophie under her pink butterflies.
She finishes her homework, with its
page of penmanship practice.
Xio expects xylophones.
“Xio?”
“Yes,” she sighs.
“Wow. They must have been really desperate,” I say.
“Yeah. They could have gone with Xavier.”
For a half hour, I am not allowed to leave
her bed, her side,
until she runs out of X words.
Over and over, she tells me
what Xio must expect
and I include these things
in our X tale.
“Xio expects his cousin Xavier to do his homework,”
I say.
“Xio expects X-rays of his homework, done by his cousin Xavier,
who has come to town on
some animal starting in
an X, which plays xylophone,
in the Xircus.”
Finally, I kiss her goodnight.
She smiles, satisfied, and says,
“You do a great Mexican accent. Can you do French?”
I ask her who else did what or expected whom
in the other week’s homework.
“Cica cuts candy,” she recites, then waits.
“Ehhhh, Cee-caaa, she, eh, how do you zay eet een zeese Eengleesh?
Cee-ca, she likes zo much to cutteenk zee bon-bons.”
Sophie’s laugh, Hattie’s pixie-dust insight:
worth sixty-grand.
Minimum.
No.
Sixty-grand is not even close.
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