Stephanie Grant Excerpt

From Home Equity, a novel

They took separate cars to couple's counseling. It was not that they were indifferent to environmental concerns—Elise never let the car idle—or to the expense—Jane knew which pumps in the Pioneer Valley offered the lowest prices on which days—it was that the weekly sessions were so excruciating, so full of furious disappointment, they had decided it was best to return home separately. Each, then, had a half hour's drive to reorganize—the therapist's word, as if coherency were an effort, which it was—before seeing the kids.

On the way home, Elise usually stopped for an ice cream. The first time she'd done this, she'd stopped at Cook's Farm, a nearby creamery, where actual cows staggered around in the pasture out back. But now it was winter, and the small stands closed at sunset, so Elise had resigned herself to Friendly's.  She didn't mind: the sullen girl was always there, always thrillingly sullen. Once, Jane had switched their couple's night to a Thursday because of a work thing, and Elise had become anxious without even realizing it, but the girl was there, same as Wednesdays, grimacing at the customers and tugging at the stiff collar of her stiff and soiled polyester uniform, signaling a kind of physical discomfort that Elise recognized immediately.

Elise wanted to avoid obviousness—it was the year 2007—in her life and in her every expression—she was a writer—obviousness of any kind. Describing a girl was perilous territory; describing an object of, well, if not desire, then fancy. The sullen girl's discomfort seemed a combination of disdain and animal energy, like she might shrug herself out of the uniform at any moment, might shrug and shrug until she'd shed her own imperfect skin.