Pearl Buck has a house just one block away from Agnes. I'm so jealous I could spit. Spit on Angelo, I mean, for being too poor to move away from Christian Street. After nearly ten years of marriage, we're still living in my parents' house. True, we did have our own apartment until Angelo lost his job back in '30, but that was seven years ago. He tells me every time I ask, he's saving enough money for us to buy a house, but it hasn't happened yet. When it does, I doubt it'll be to Rittenhouse Square. My favorite neighborhood in all of Philadelphia, with the square, fountains, forty foot oak trees, and lots of birds trilling in the park. Mothers and babies, too, like Agnes, who walks with Grace around the perimeter with Baby Harold in his stroller.
Last night I was reading "The Good Earth" in bed, Angelo snoring beside me. Goodness, I wish he'd wear some clothes to bed. We're not teenagers anymore, you know. Instead of every day, we now do it maybe once a week. Having the two boys'll do that to your you-know-what life. But there he is, sawing away, naked as the day he was born, his hairy chest and legs rubbing up against my arms. I have to admit, it feels good. Yes, he still does it for me, but must I be distracted when I'm trying to read Pearl Buck's masterpiece? It's enough that the boys distract me right until they fall asleep. Always a hard chore.
I nodded off last night to the strangest of dreams -- Norman came back to me, told me Agnes had run off with his mother to become a Chinese missionary. Norman said, Cristina, let's elope now, while we still have the chance, case Agnes comes home. We'll go live in San Francisco, Las Vegas, or maybe even Pocatello, Idaho. Always wanted to live in Pocatello, says Norman in my dream. And all of a sudden, Norman and I are running through a waterfall. But then I wake up, and I've got this terrible post-nasal drip running down my throat.
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