You

ou walk along hoping nobody notices you but there's always somebody . . . "Hey, Liz, you goin'?"

It's Mary, wearing a dress made out of cotton and kind of dirty. She walks along. You walk faster, but she keeps up.

"Tough on the old man, ain't it?"

(You give her a side-look, and you remember how she once swung her hips at you and how you took one look at her mouth and paid no more attention). You keep walking, trying not to talk.

"Was it right-what they said about her?"

"She was a good kid!" (It somehow don't sound right.)

"Why'd she do it?" You don't answer. "Wasn't she engaged? Are they gonna give her a funeral, the Church?" You try walking faster, but that's no good. "I hear her old man's spent a lot on having everything done right." She stops, mad because you don't talk. "Well, Hell, Liz, you oughta know!"

You turn all of a sudden and give her a slow look.

"I didn't mean no harm, Liz."

You see her back away, and you know she won't be coming to the funeral. Now you're alone on the street. But you're not alone. Everyone's watching you. Everyone knows about you. There's no way you can hide! So you keep heading towards the parlor, feeling like you're naked out on the street, with no clothes to put on.

You're passing the church, and you think maybe there you can go in and hide. You can maybe go to Confession. But you can't. You can't go there and talk to a priest, because she went there a lot, and you don't want him to know about her.

Now there's only the parlor left to go to, and you don't want to go inside, though you're naked in the street-but you can't help going in—because you see the coffin, and you know she's inside (she looks so nice, not like she was when you saw her not like she was when she twisted all over and stared at the ceiling; when she grabbed your shirt and held on till it tore!)

And you're glad no one heard what she said to you.

There's a hand on your shoulder. It's her old man. He looks tired and worn out, like he don't believe it all. His eyes don't look at you. You know what he's thinking.

("What's wrong, Liz? What'd she do it for? For twenty years I work hard. I dig ditches for the Mayor. I sell fruit. I get up early so I can drive the truck to the market. My wife dies to have a daughter. She's a good girl. I bring her up good. I give her everything. I make her engaged to the rich baker across the street. I am proud of her! For twenty years I am proud of her! Then-for nothing-she takes rat poison! For nothing!")

His hands go up to his face now, and he starts crying.

"Why? Why canna she no have a Church funeral? Why? She love God. You see for yourself, how every day she go to Him-always fixed up so nice. She says the rosary every night. Every week she goes to Confession! What's she got to confess? She don't do nothing wrong! Why? Why canna she no have a Church funeral? Why did she have to go kill herself for? She had no reason. Madonna Mia, she had no reason!"

(You put your hand to his shoulder and you feel him shaking under it, and you wonder how come he don't see it-how come he don't know-how come he don't notice how today you're not wearing slacks!)

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