My Pregnancy and His Existentialism

We hit the railroad tracks goin’ too fast and damn near hot boxed. The muffler was draggin’—shootin’ sparks. I was in the back with Alice and Ann. I was thinkin’ about George. “Vel, ver ees he today?” mom asked sarcastically, not sayin’ his name. I didn’t answer. I knew he was at his mom and dad’s, layin’ around in his bedroom, smokin’ a Camel cigarette, thinkin’ about existentialism. Reading stupid books! I looked out the window. We were gettin’ into town. People on the sidewalk turned to look at us . . . white trash in a beat-up old rusted out ‘57 Plymouth Savoy. I wondered if he would call me. I wondered if his mom had made his favorite pie. I wondered if I would see him that weekend. I wondered why he didn’t want to hold my hand anymore. Dad pulled up in front of our shack. My sisters ran off to play. I went inside to wait by the phone. He lived across town in a big house. They had an upstairs, a nice yard, a new car, wall to wall carpeting and top sheets on the bed. But he still liked me anyway—he loved me. Well . . . before I got pg, before I started wearing the same dress everyday, before he started checking out all those books by a guy named Nietzsche. I tried to comprehend the “uselessness,” the “absurdity,” the “nothing matters philosophy” he began to subscribe to as his calls to me became less frequent. Finally, I just dialed his number . . . “Hello George, Happy Thanksgiving,” I said. “I’m busy, I’m reading,” he yelled. “Oh . . . ok . . . well, call me,” I said. “Yeah,” he replied and hung up. I went outside and sat down and tried to stop my tears. Mom walked out on the porch and stood there. “Landa, are you pregnant?” she barked. I wiped my face, looked at her and said, “No mom . . . are you?” She walked back in and let the screen door slam.