The Good Fortune of Minerva Green Anjanette Delgado (bio) who is not desperate at sunset?dawn is so much easier than dusk. andrei codrescu, from the poem, "moving on we all must" If there was one thing Minerva Green had always believed, it was that one made one's own good fortune. It was something her mother had repeated often as she grew up, and nothing had given her a reason to doubt it until, newly married and secretly pregnant, they decided to use Eli's army veteran's voucher to buy a house nearer to his mechanical engineering job in Holmes County, Florida. The new house was hours from home, in a brand-new subdivision called Meadows of White Oak, and she'd known it from the day they moved in. That she'd really gone and done it now. That "one makes one's own good fortune" was only true some of the time. That sometimes places and people could change things. Could change you. It was while sitting with Eli on the hood of their maroon Pontiac, waiting for a moving truck that was hopelessly lost, that Minerva had decided to replace her good fortune belief with a new one: there is nothing more terrifying than dusk in the suburbs. Minerva had known it then and known it since, and nobody was going to change her mind now. All that suburban sameness? Everything and everyone hypnotized to be a certain way, like a cult? And what about the way dusk turned into darkness there the minute all that sameness could have begun to feel comforting instead of stifling? Wasn't that just petty? You'd better believe she'd wanted to move back. For years, she'd railed against all of it: the middle class she didn't believe really existed, the subdivisions, the dusk, routine and its moron cousin, tedium. But no one [End Page 110] listened, or maybe it was just Eli who didn't, and now, of course, after all these years, her illness was back. What a joke. That it was back so much stronger, like a younger version of itself, despite the surgery, the boring poison sessions, and the intricate jigsaw puzzles Dr. Taylor referred to as her "customized meds combo." Minerva knew a raw deal when she saw one and, for this one, she blamed dusk. It was so clear to her now: how that rat of darkness and its daily preview had played a role in all of it. It's true she'd been a rebel. Wearing her orange miniskirt to protest with the older, married women at the mall. Eloping with Eli the year before graduating from college. Taking up smoking the moment they left the neighborhood. Two packs a week for thirty-four years even though Eli thought they had agreed: one a day, max. Instead, out she'd walk at the first sign of sundown, a single cigarette balanced between her right hand's middle and index fingers, her left hand curled around the tinfoil origami holding the others. In her pocket: two breath mints, a neon-colored drugstore lighter, and a ziplock sandwich bag for catching ashes and quickly hiding them along with forbidden butts, should Eli come home early. Back then, she thought she walked and smoked to relax from the uneasiness of not belonging. Her restlessness and desire to contribute something more, she channeled into pacing her front lawn, breathing in the sweet smoke, allowing every cigarette to merge into a single one in her head, watching the sun take its time calling it a day, life around her turning into black dust. Eli didn't see the big deal. He'd taken to the new neighborhood quickly, and Minerva wondered if he really didn't notice what was so obvious to her: people in Meadows of White Oak were simply not used to seeing this much color so close to their homes. Not that anybody was openly mean. But Minerva felt it. Sometimes in the wives, walking their dogs around the block one last time before supper, returning her wave-and-a-smile with the strangest expressions on their faces, something between...
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