pleasure, and is better suited to stimulating the female sexual anatomy to orgasm . This model Introduction: Confessions. Read She's Come Undone PDF File. In this extraordinary coming-of-age odyssey , Wally Lamb invites us to hitch a wild ride on a journey of love, pain, and. She's Come Undone by Wally Lamb - The paperback edition of the beloved, bestselling novel about Dolores Price and her heartbreakingly comical.
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She's come undone. byLamb, Wally. Publication date Topics Self- perception For print-disabled users. Borrow this book to access EPUB and PDF files. External-identifierurn:asin urn:oclc:record Identifier shescomeundoneno00lamb_0. Identifier-arkark://. She's come undone by Wally Lamb, , Washington Square Press edition, in English.
Telephone calls, too. Over and over, I sang the jingles he liked best. Used by Permission. As the novel was nearing completion, I began to have fantasies that it might be published, but I was in the dark about how the publishing industry worked. We stand watching as the two delivery men do things to the set.
Camera Canon 5D.
City New York. Donor alibris. Edition 1. Washington Square Press paperback printing. External-identifier urn: Extramarc University of Alberta Libraries. Identifier shescomeundone00lamb. Identifier-ark ark: Isbn Page-progression lr. Pages Ppi Related-external-id urn: Scandate Scanner scribe9. Scanningcenter sfdowntown. Worldcat source edition See also WorldCat this item.
There are no reviews yet. Her breasts appeared and disappeared at the surface of the soapy water. Her nipples looked like Tootsie Rolls. Sloshing, she strapped her arms around herself and became, again, my proper mother. What are you talking about? On the best Saturdays, after Mrs. He liked the way television watching had made me a mimic. Over and over, I sang the jingles he liked best. I sat in the backseat of the car, a sort of junior Mrs.
Masicotte, and commanded my father to speed. Here we go! We could be sitting in our living room. I bought this showboat from the old lady. The Saturday errands ended each week at the top of the long driveway on Jefferson Drive, where Mrs. We entered through the dark, cool cement garage, the Cadillac doors slamming louder than any before or since. We walked up the stairs and opened the door without knocking.
On the other side was Mrs.
Masicotte to be finished with the weekly business, two rooms away. Though Mrs. Masicotte seemed as indifferent to me as her renters were, she provided richly for me while I waited. On hand were plates of bakery cookies, thick picture books with shiny pages, punch-out paper dolls. My companion during these vigils was Zahra, Mrs.
Masicotte and my father laughed and talked loud during their meetings and sometimes played the radio. Our radio at home was a plastic box; Mrs. I wanted my father to be at home laughing with Ma on Saturday afternoons, instead of with Mrs. My father called Mrs. Sometimes, when the meetings dragged on unreasonably or when they laughed too loud in there, I sat and dared myself to do naughty things, then did them.
One time I scribbled on all the faces in the expensive storybooks. Regularly, I tantalized the dog with the cookies I made sure stayed just out of her reach. I had long hair the year I was in second grade. Mornings before school, my mother combed the snarls out of my ponytail and dosed me with a half teaspoon of Maalox to calm my nervous stomach. My teacher, Mrs. Nelkin, was a screamer. I spent most of the school year trying to be obedient—filling in every blank on every worksheet correctly, silently sliding oaktag word builders across my desktop, talking to no one.
When I asked my parents how the baby got inside Ma, they both laughed, and then Daddy told me they had made it with their bodies. I pictured them fully clothed, rubbing furiously against each other, like two sticks making fire.
All fall and winter long, I coaxed bottles toward the mouth of my Baby Dawn doll and scrubbed her rubber skin in lukewarm water in the bathroom sink. I wanted a girl and Daddy wanted a boy. I imagined her lying on a hospital bed, calm and smiling, her huge stomach splitting down the middle like pants. The valentine party turned out to be a fifteen-minute disappointment at the end of the long school day.
As it drew to a close and we pulled on our boots and coats and stocking hats, Mrs. Nelkin approached me. I sat in the silence of the empty classroom with my hat and coat on and a stack of valentines in my lap. With the other kids gone, you could hear the scraping sound of the clock hands. Horvak, the janitor, muttered and swept up the crumbs our party had made and Mrs. Nelkin corrected papers without looking up. She and Mrs. Nelkin whispered together at the front of the room in a way that made me wonder if they knew each other.
Then, in a sweeter voice than I was used to, Mrs. Nelkin told me I could go home. Grandma led me down the two flights of school stairs and out into a taxicab, which took us to St. Ma would be gone for at least two weeks and she, Grandma, would take care of me.
We were having creamed dried beef for supper.
The candles we lit sat in maroon cups that reminded me of our juice glasses from Mrs. My job was to drop the coins into the metal box, two dimes for two candles, clink clink. When Daddy came home that night, he lay in my bed with me and read my valentines. He looked up at the ceiling when he talked about Ma. Somehow, he said, she had grown a cord in her stomach along with the baby.
I pictured the backseat cord in Mrs. Just as the baby was coming out, it wrapped the cord around its neck and strangled itself. A boy—Anthony Jr. As my father talked, tears dripped down the side of his face like candle wax. The sight shocked me; until that moment, I had assumed men were as incapable of crying as they were of having babies. She slept on a cot in my room and boiled all our suppers. It was unsanitary, she said, the way Daddy drank right out of the water bottle and then put it back in the Frigidaire.
It was shameful that her only granddaughter had reached the age of seven without having been taught to pray. She was sick, she said, of the same old question: She was trying her best. Grandma crocheted as she watched TV, frowning alternately at what was on the screen and what was in her lap. She liked different programs than us. I memorized for her the Ten Commandments and a prayer called Hail Holy Queen, about people gnashing their teeth in a scary place called the Valley of Tears.
Wide-eyed, Grandma promised she would see to it that I made my first Holy Communion so that I could wear a beautiful white dress and veil and eat the body of Christ. Every morning she dismissed my fears, arguing that little girls my age were too young to have Maalox and then sending me off unprotected to Mrs.
The day before my mother was due at last to come home from the hospital, Daddy gave me permission to miss school. He and I loaded Anthony Jr.
On the way there he told me our job was to cheer Ma up and not even mention the baby. This struck me as reasonable. Daddy flung the new mint-green furniture onto a pile of old mattresses and empty paint cans and got back into the truck, breathing hard. He drove fast over the rutty dump road and I bounced against the seat and door. Seagulls flew out of our way; people stood up from their garbage to watch us.
I looked back at Anthony Jr. He parked at the vacant boat launch. We walked out onto a rickety dock and stood, side by side. The cold spring breeze snapped his nylon windbreaker. He pointed to the ripply gray water of Long Island Sound. It was headed south and got confused. Stuck in the shallow water. Swam around for a couple of hours with everybody looking at it. Then, at high tide, a few of the bigger boats drove in and nudged it back to sea.
I wanted badly to cheer him up but singing commercials seemed the wrong thing to do. Nelkin led each day.
Then he told me it was too cold to be out there, to get in the goddamned truck. My mother arrived home, puffy-eyed, her stomach empty under the maternity blouse. The whole house filled up with the smell of carnations from Mrs.
What Ma wanted most, she said, was to be left alone. She stayed in her pajamas past spring vacation, smiling absentmindedly at my stories and puppet shows, my television jingles and complaints.
One day at school, Howard Hancin, my seatmate, raised his hand. She chews them every single day. I was about to deny it when I looked down and realized it was absolutely true: There was, as well, a word builder stuck to the inside of my cheek, even as Mrs. Nelkin approached. I was guilty as sin. She scarcely raised her voice as she addressed Howard and, by extension, the others in the class and me. Nelkin walked back up our row, heels clicking against the waxed wooden floor. She picked up a stick of chalk.
The loose skin under her arm rocked back and forth as she wrote. He was goddamned fed up with this sob-sister business.
Enough was enough. The television was on; a man in a suit was talking about World War II.
I flopped down on the sofa, too exhausted to change the channel. On the screen, skeleton men wearing diapers were trudging up a hill. I wanted to turn off the TV, but was afraid even to go near it. I waited for the commercial, then locked the bathroom door and sipped Maalox out of the bottle. That night I woke up screaming from a dream in which Mrs. Nelkin took me on a picnic, then calmly and matter-of-factly informed me the sandwiches we were eating contained the flesh of my dead baby brother.
Daddy was the first one into my room—wild-haired and stumbling, wearing his underpants right in front of Grandma.