Richard’s Not Such a Die-Hard Christian After All

^{Los Angeles, 1936}

He calls me his little lamb, and I wonder  
about sacrifices to come. For now, it’s Sunday 
dinner with Mother where she fixes 
a browned beef roast with Yorkshire pudding 
and honey-glazed carrots. He brings 
an enormous pecan pie from Dupars, 
picked up Mid-Wilshire where he pumps gas, 
sells Lucky Strikes, Ginger Ale, gum. 
I won’t be there much longer, Joanie, he says
and proudly plunks three slices 
onto Mother’s Limoges plates 
with the lakeside scenes in cobalt blue. 

I adore those dishes since the day 
we spent at Lake Arrowhead, up 
in the San Bernardino Mountains. 
He’s trying to get on Mother’s 
good side. Last week she sat me 
on her loveseat with the embroidered 
butterfly pillows under a great oak’s arm 
of gathered branches. I want to talk 
about Richard. I wasn’t sure why 
but I could guess. Two mating Monarchs 
flitted along a stretch of orange 
and amber milkweed. Mother kept squeezing 

my hand, her gaze rising and falling 
from my eyes. I wouldn’t tell how
Richard and I stayed on that blanket 
watching the lake sky shift from lemon 
to coral to blood rust, me slipping bits
of buttery snickerdoodles between his lips 
while his palm found its way under 
my pleated skirt and drifted north toward
my panties, fingertips scampering along 
my thigh like the bunnies we watched  
duck in and out of Pineapple Sage 

around us. Remembering now, I sense
a warm gush between my legs 
and worry I’ll give it away, leave 
a tell-tale stain when I stand up. 
Richard spoons mounds of cream
onto our slices, tells Mother about
the new job he got, his voice loud
as a horn. They talk wages and hours 
while I slide a napkin between my skirt
and the seat cushion, down where
the wetness is beginning to sprout wings.