Rhonya figures that karma is about surrender. She can smell beer on her sister's breath and leans forward to breathe it in. Her sister asks a favor. "A journalist wants to make a documentary of our childhood."
"My uncle is a famous film director," Rhonya tells the journalist. "Have you seen the film Selma, Selma?"
"Did you kill him?"
"As a fictional character created by my father, I am not responsible for my actions." She tells him, chuckling, how the color purple can be disturbing.
"A childhood association?" His attention is completely on Rhonya. Her sister, who is missing out again, says the money should be spent on a lawyer. Rhonya has no patience with a God that makes people deposit their money in his bank.
She sends the money offered for her story to the tsunami victims, keeping back only enough to procure paint boxes such as a kinder child might use and watercolor paper on which she sketches giant waves. On the shore, purple amoebic blobs are in various stages of absorption into the sand.
The journalist writes: A father keeps a woman locked in the storeroom with the piled-up grain and the rats, a cure for madness, and never responds to screams except when his needs require attention.
There is also the cell to which the police take her after they find her father dead--his heart stopped from loving. "He deserved it," her sister says!
The police will not write down her truth. How she was rescued by a genie appearing out of the lamp; how her life was to be peeled like an apple to find the core; how the genie spoke of apple being different to apple. A tale of Eve bringing down Adam?
As she jerks off her father, the sense of his failings pierce Rhonya like the rotting meat hidden in Selma's wedding veil….
Do you recall the movie? How Selma was thrown into a cell by the police after she killed her true love? After he and his brothers raped her in the attic; and when she found a good man after all and married him and everyone was thinking finally-all-is-rewarded, the mother-in-law set Selma's bedroom on fire; luckily her one-and-only true love, her childhood friend, happened to be passing by, a thing he used to do because he had not stopped loving her all those years.
In her terms, even though she has done surrender, Rhonya is not an occurrence in the physical universe but a state of reverie, a place that is beautiful and erotic.
Rhonya holds purple-stained fingers up to the ceiling where a fan whirs soundlessly. It is not hot, and there is no need for a fan, but Rhonya believes she is fated to be cooled by an ill wind. She grows thin and thinner. With her feet drawn up under her gray skirt, her face on her knees, she looks like a hound waiting for instruction.