Read Inside Madeleine for Free Online Page A

would tie dental floss around the tooth and saw, saw away. Back and forth, saliva, then blood, and still the tooth wouldn’t come out. Her mother would say, “It’s barely loose! Wait until it’s looser before you pull it out.” But Polly couldn’t wait. She tried tying the string to a door and slamming it, but that didn’t work. She always moved toward the door inadvertently. So she’d sit back down on the couch, sawing away, cartoons on in front of her that she barely watched because she was so intent on her sawing. And when it came out! Shooting across the room, smacking the TV dead on. The relief of it! The tooth was long and strange looking, because the root was still on it. Blood poured into her mouth, dripping down her chin onto the rug. She could feel her mother’s anger. Looking into the mirror, she’d see the gaping, throbbing hole and it gave her a sort of satisfaction, but it was never long lived.
    Over the Christmas break Polly’s mother announced she was taking her bra shopping. They drove out to the mall to the Hudson’s Department Store. The lingerie section was pink-walled and brightly lit. Everywhere stood racks of enormous, stiff bras and panties that were so huge she could have easily stuck both her legs through one of the leg holes. What the hellwas she doing here? Her mother hated shopping. It made her sweat, she said, and also dizzy. But here they were.
    “Excuse me,” her mother said to a gray-haired saleslady, “I’m looking for a training bra for my daughter.”
    “Oh, yes.” The lady smiled at Polly. “Right over here.”
    The training bras were white little things with triangle shaped cups on a rack that had a big picture of a girl smiling her ass off. Polly went into the dressing room and put it on. Her pale bubble-gum-sized nipples didn’t come close to filling out the training bra. She understood that wasn’t the point, the point was to hide her shame. Just the name of the bra confounded her. Training for what? Olympic boobs?
    “Come out and show us!” the saleslady said.
    “No,” said Polly. She heard them whisper, then giggle.
    On the car ride home, she asked her mom, “Is Dad a fag?”
    “What? Jesus Christ! Where’d you get that?”
    “I’m just asking.”
    “Your father is not a fag. For God’s sake.”
    “Mike Turley says he’s a fag.”
    “Mike Turley! That family has no class. All those kids and they’re all wild and stupid. A woman shouldn’t have more kids than she can take care of.” Polly’s mother’s face was red now.
    “Well then how come he doesn’t have a job?”
    They were at a red light. Her mother turned to her. “Your father is mentally ill. He’s not a fag.”
    “Mentally ill?”
    “Remember that time we visited him in the hospital? And he was making belts and little stools with stenciled paintings on them?”
    Polly remembered. Her father making crafts, like a boy in shop class. She liked the stuff he made. It was nice. But that had been years ago, around the time of her chicken pox. She remembered he seemed quiet, but he was always quiet.
    “You said he was sick. He was in the hospital.”
    “He was sick. Mentally sick. They gave him electroshock in the hospital, a hospital for mentally ill people.”
    The way her mother said mentally ill made Polly angry.
    “He’s crazy. Dad’s crazy.”
    “Mentally ill!” Her mother screamed. Then the light changed.
    When school started up Polly wore her training bra. She put little cotton balls in it to fill it out. But gym class was a problem. What was she going to do? Take off her training bra and let the cotton balls fall out? There she was, in the fluorescent glare of the locker room, stiff with terror. She had to get naked and get in the shower. She had no choice. The raging, lesbian gym teacher who sported a crew cut and weighed a solid two hundred pounds was yelling at everyone, herding them in and out of the cold hard spray of water with a fierce delight noticed by all. The bra