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The Burning Winds of Truth

The Burning Winds of Truth FICTION Jeanne Bryner THE RAWLINGS' KITCHEN IS CANDY-APPLE PINK, and its curtains are red gingham tiebacks. I remember Marlene Rawlings, radiant, on her wooden ladder, humming Patsy Cline's Sweet Dreams of You as she spread the lush color back and forth with her roller. She was happy the way Liz Taylor was before Mike Todd was killed in that awful plane crash. She was pretty the way mothers are pretty in turquoise pedal pushers and striped blouses tied at their waist. Even with her black hair in bobby pins under a bandana, she could turn a sweeper salesman's head. Most women lose their waistlines after six kids, but not Marlene. When everybody in the projects had a yellow kitchen, she wanted a pink one. She said in West Virginia, near her high school, she'd worked the counter at a drug store soda fountain. A river of root beer foamed over vanilla ice cream, and boys whistled when she bent over the cooler. Here, in Ohio, her kitchen was small and crowded with necessary things: a gray table, and four red vinyl chairs (duct tape covered the pushed-out stuffing). Years of metal shavings pitted the green linoleum. The steel http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

The Burning Winds of Truth

Bryner, Jeanne
Appalachian Review , Volume 29 (3) – Jan 8, 2001
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081
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Abstract

FICTION Jeanne Bryner THE RAWLINGS' KITCHEN IS CANDY-APPLE PINK, and its curtains are red gingham tiebacks. I remember Marlene Rawlings, radiant, on her wooden ladder, humming Patsy Cline's Sweet Dreams of You as she spread the lush color back and forth with her roller. She was happy the way Liz Taylor was before Mike Todd was killed in that awful plane crash. She was pretty the way mothers are pretty in turquoise pedal pushers and striped blouses tied at their waist. Even with her black hair in bobby pins under a bandana, she could turn a sweeper salesman's head. Most women lose their waistlines after six kids, but not Marlene. When everybody in the projects had a yellow kitchen, she wanted a pink one. She said in West Virginia, near her high school, she'd worked the counter at a drug store soda fountain. A river of root beer foamed over vanilla ice cream, and boys whistled when she bent over the cooler. Here, in Ohio, her kitchen was small and crowded with necessary things: a gray table, and four red vinyl chairs (duct tape covered the pushed-out stuffing). Years of metal shavings pitted the green linoleum. The steel

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Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2001

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