The Third Child Read Online Free
Author: Marge Piercy
stopped when she was ten and began to sprout breasts, way ahead of the girls in her class. All of a sudden he wouldn’t hug her anymore. Rosemary never did.
The wedding, she decided, was really an advantage, because it kept Rosemary off her back. Up until age twelve or thirteen, Melissa would have done anything for a larger share of Rosemary’s time and affection. Then she had plotted to capture her mother by all-A report cards, by making gifts in arts and crafts for Rosemary’s birthday—bowls and scarves and pins that promptly disappeared—by writing supposedly brilliant essays, by attempting to paint or sculpt or make something out of clay she could bring home and show off, anything that would make her mother say, Why, Melissa, I never knew how talented you are! But something always went wrong. Her pot was crooked. Her essay did not follow what her mother considered the best line, her report card was marred by one B. Even when she got 1460 on her SATs, Rosemary remarked that those tests were dumbed down. Now Melissa just hoped to creep along under Rosemary’s radar. If she did well in college, maybe her father would appreciate her.
Rosemary, Dick and Joe were using the diningroom table to spread out résumés. Rosemary was saying, “But what does Babezi know about farms?”
Joe smirked. “He eats vegetables, doesn’t he?”
Dick nodded. “We’ll put him in for farm service agency director. Now the U.S. marshal…” They were making appointments again, the patronage Dick controlled as Senator. He complained it was much less than he’d had at his command as governor, but Rosemary always soothed him.
Melissa felt stunted in her family. Outside, she would blossom, she would grow into someone different from anybody in her family, someone admirable, someone strong and good and loved by others. She would meet people who would judge her not as the inferior child of superior parents, but as herself—alone, separate and visible. Finally she would stand out so powerfully that her mother would see how wrong she had been. We never knew, Rosemary would say, we never guessed. Melissa would do something important or write a wonderful book or make a discovery. It was only a matter of getting away from them finally, so she could show them and the world who she really was.
• CHAPTER TWO •
M elissa felt superfluous, nothing new. Personally, if she ever did get married, she would just sneak off with the guy and do it on the sly. Quiet and personal was tasteful. This was like an awards ceremony. Rich had been sleeping with Laura since he graduated from Harvard Business School, so why couldn’t they just say, Hey, we’re a couple. Give us a toaster and call it even. But no, Rosemary and Laura’s mother, Mrs. Potts, had been planning this event for a year. Now it was hot as a Frialator in Washington and they all had to continuously change their clothes and run around dolled up like idiots. Every five minutes, there was a crisis about whether some senator or cabinet official or under-secretary of waste management or presidential advisor on office supplies was going to come. It was sickening! As if any of them liked each other. It was just head counting. How many advisors and undersecretaries can you cram into a church on a Saturday in June?
It was lucky Laura’s parents had money, because this was an incredible potlatch of the stuff. Laura’s father was a relatively new backer of Dick’s—had kicked in for his campaign for a second term as governor of Pennsylvania. Mr. Potts owned an interstate trucking firm, a corporation specializing in highway construction, a string of ice cream parlors and several steak and brew restaurants. Mr. Potts had the habit of talking as if over a windstorm, to make himself heard by the very deaf. Perhaps he was deaf himself, for he never seemed to hear half of what people said. He had been calling her Melinda and Marissa and Melody. She noticed he never got Merilee’s name
The wedding, she decided, was really an advantage, because it kept Rosemary off her back. Up until age twelve or thirteen, Melissa would have done anything for a larger share of Rosemary’s time and affection. Then she had plotted to capture her mother by all-A report cards, by making gifts in arts and crafts for Rosemary’s birthday—bowls and scarves and pins that promptly disappeared—by writing supposedly brilliant essays, by attempting to paint or sculpt or make something out of clay she could bring home and show off, anything that would make her mother say, Why, Melissa, I never knew how talented you are! But something always went wrong. Her pot was crooked. Her essay did not follow what her mother considered the best line, her report card was marred by one B. Even when she got 1460 on her SATs, Rosemary remarked that those tests were dumbed down. Now Melissa just hoped to creep along under Rosemary’s radar. If she did well in college, maybe her father would appreciate her.
Rosemary, Dick and Joe were using the diningroom table to spread out résumés. Rosemary was saying, “But what does Babezi know about farms?”
Joe smirked. “He eats vegetables, doesn’t he?”
Dick nodded. “We’ll put him in for farm service agency director. Now the U.S. marshal…” They were making appointments again, the patronage Dick controlled as Senator. He complained it was much less than he’d had at his command as governor, but Rosemary always soothed him.
Melissa felt stunted in her family. Outside, she would blossom, she would grow into someone different from anybody in her family, someone admirable, someone strong and good and loved by others. She would meet people who would judge her not as the inferior child of superior parents, but as herself—alone, separate and visible. Finally she would stand out so powerfully that her mother would see how wrong she had been. We never knew, Rosemary would say, we never guessed. Melissa would do something important or write a wonderful book or make a discovery. It was only a matter of getting away from them finally, so she could show them and the world who she really was.
• CHAPTER TWO •
M elissa felt superfluous, nothing new. Personally, if she ever did get married, she would just sneak off with the guy and do it on the sly. Quiet and personal was tasteful. This was like an awards ceremony. Rich had been sleeping with Laura since he graduated from Harvard Business School, so why couldn’t they just say, Hey, we’re a couple. Give us a toaster and call it even. But no, Rosemary and Laura’s mother, Mrs. Potts, had been planning this event for a year. Now it was hot as a Frialator in Washington and they all had to continuously change their clothes and run around dolled up like idiots. Every five minutes, there was a crisis about whether some senator or cabinet official or under-secretary of waste management or presidential advisor on office supplies was going to come. It was sickening! As if any of them liked each other. It was just head counting. How many advisors and undersecretaries can you cram into a church on a Saturday in June?
It was lucky Laura’s parents had money, because this was an incredible potlatch of the stuff. Laura’s father was a relatively new backer of Dick’s—had kicked in for his campaign for a second term as governor of Pennsylvania. Mr. Potts owned an interstate trucking firm, a corporation specializing in highway construction, a string of ice cream parlors and several steak and brew restaurants. Mr. Potts had the habit of talking as if over a windstorm, to make himself heard by the very deaf. Perhaps he was deaf himself, for he never seemed to hear half of what people said. He had been calling her Melinda and Marissa and Melody. She noticed he never got Merilee’s name
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