Chapters 6-9

6

The day after Christmas was boxing day. This was when all the decorations from the holidays were boxed up and stored away for next year. To me it seemed sad to whisk it all away after such a short time, but things were done with order and design at Aunt Marion's house, and a proper putting-away was just as important as an efficient getting-out.

Always, right after Thanksgiving, Mama and Aunt Marion were single minded about one thing, getting Christmas out. Getting Christmas out for Mama meant putting the pine cone candle holders, with new green candles, on the coffee table. She hung five silver bells in the kitchen above the sink, changed the salt and pepper grinders to the ceramic Christmas tree shakers, and traded her Amish quilted apron for the red and green one with an appliqued snowman on the front. But for Aunt Marion the transformation took days. I loved being there for the getting-out. It was a day of memories and responsibilities. As soon as breakfast was over Uncle Virg would start bringing boxes down from the attic. The boxes were labeled in numerical order: 1 of 12, 2 of 12, 3 of 12, and so on. The Nativity set was always 1 of 12 and from the time I was four, setting up the Nativity was my responsibility. I always hid Jesus up on the mantle until Christmas day because he wasn't born yet and that would be sacrilegious. And anyway, the cows and sheep needed to eat out of the manger until it was needed for The Baby.

But, on boxing day it all went back. Everything was categorized, labeled, wrapped, and hauled back up to the attic for next November. This was always a gloomy day for me. Maybe it was the actual work involved, or maybe it was the feeling that it was all over and it didn't turn out quite the way I thought it would.

That year, on Boxing Day, I woke up knowing that I would be expected to wrap Baby Jesus back up in the blue tissue paper, the wise men in the white tissue paper, and Joseph and Mary, the sheep, and the Angel of the Lord, back in the pink silky fabric that used to be Aunt Marion's honeymoon nighty. I knew we would have waffles. I knew we would take a nap in the afternoon. I knew we would eat cold turkey sandwiches for lunch and hot turkey gravy over mashed potatoes for dinner . But I didn't know where my father was.

***

That evening, Uncle Virg drove us home. When we pulled up to the house, it looked abandoned with no lights making the windows glow a pretty yellow to welcome us home. Mama rummaged around in the bottom of her purse for her key and searched for the right way to unlock the door. I think this may have been the first time Mama had ever had to unlock the door at night for us. Father usually took the lead, opened the door, flipped on the light and said, "Home again, home again jiggidy- jig!" Mama flipped the light on this time and as she did, a bright flash and popping noise startled us. Uncle Virg stopped short when he met us at the dark doorway.

"Kitchen light must have burned out. Stay right here. "He squeezed past us, found his way through the kitchen, and flipped on the switch in the hallway. The light was sufficient for us to make our way through the kitchen and the hall, where all the rest of the lights seemed to be just fine. We dropped our bags and packages on Mama's bed, I laid Jesse on my bed, and Uncle Virg set the boxed-up leftovers on the kitchen table.

"Do you have another light bulb Virginia?"

"Under the kitchen sink. Thanks Virg!" she answered from the bedroom.

I raced to the kitchen and found the light bulb before Uncle Virg had a chance. He pulled the kitchen chair over to the middle of the room, hoisted himself up, and removed the globe from the fixture and handed it to me.

"Here Peach, rinse the bugs out and wipe it with a towel, would ya?" he said on his way out to the car to get some more stuff.

I pushed my stool up to the kitchen sink and filled the globe up like a swimming pool full of bugs. Some of the bugs were cooked to the inside of the globe and I had to scratch them off with my finger nail. A big moth, with eyes on her wings, floated out with the water and got lost down the drain. I was carefully drying the globe, when Mama came into the kitchen, already wearing her bathrobe and slippers. She lifted the globe out of my hands, warning me that it was breakable and for me to let her help. Uncle Virg wheeled my buggy into the kitchen as she was taking the globe from my hands.

"Good job Peach, would you like to replace the bulb?" he said.

"Becher-life," I chanted, and saw Uncle Virg wink at Mama and smile.

He parked the buggy, lifted me onto his shoulders and positioned me under the ceiling fixture. He held one hand under mine to catch the bulb if I dropped it, which I didn't, and we were in business again. He walked over to the light switch with me still on his shoulders, bent down so I could reach it from my perch on his tall frame, and I flipped on the light.

"Whoo-Hoo! You did it!" He spun around with me on his shoulders.

Mama was on the chair now, replacing the globe. She held the it with her left hand and was twisting the little screw in with the other.

"You need help?" Virgil asked.

"Nope, got it. Time to learn to do some of this stuff on my own."

As soon as she got down off the chair and moved back to asses our handiwork, the globe fell from the ceiling, and crashed to the floor.

I instinctively brought my hands up to my eyes, blindly anticipating what would happen next. When I peeled my palms from my face, I saw that Mama also had her hands over her face. She didn't move. I felt nervous. Maybe I would have done a better job putting the globe up. Maybe Uncle Virg should have done it. But Mama, who usually did most things well, did it, and now it was broken and she was sad again. I hated this kitchen with the broken glass all over the floor all the time.

"I need a minute," Mama said from inside her hands.

Uncle Virg lifted me down from his shoulders into his big arms, and walked across the crunchy floor past Mama. He carried me to my bed, turned on the bedside lamp, and pulled the chair between the beds. I got out of my bed and crawled up into Mama's.

"Would you like a story?" He asked.

"Shouldn't we help Mama?"

"No, she'll be fine."

I picked out The Birds' Christmas Carol of course. We had just started the second chapter when Mama came in and laid down with me. I fell asleep even before Carol Bird had the idea of inviting all the Ruggles' over for Christmas dinner.

That night I dreamed about swimming deep down in the ocean, in a great blue hole that was thickly populated with every color and size of fish. Their slippery bodies touched me as they swam. There was a prickly seahorse floating around that looked like a plastic toy. He looked mean, so I didn't touch him and he kept a safe distance away from me too it seemed. An eel slithered on the sandy floor making dust with its tail. Tiny pink and orange fish danced around like a troop of ballerinas, going first one way, then with no warning whatsoever, they'd all turn in unison and glide off in another direction. The water was warm, and unlike in real life, I was a good swimmer. I could propel myself by pointing my toes, and little bubbles came out of my feet. I was alone, except for the fish, but I was not afraid until I ran out of breath and tried to make my way to the surface and realized it was very far away. When I paddled my feet and moved my arms, I slowed down, but if I just pointed my toes I went faster. I became impatient knowing I was completely unable to do anything to hurry myself along except point my toes. I panicked. I was out of air and still very deep in the sea, with the surface nowhere in sight. Finally, when I could hold my breath no longer, I gave up. I pointed my toes as straight as I could, lowered my arms to my sides, and took a full breath of water into my lungs. I expected to drown, but I didn't. Nor did I cough or choke or faint. I was breathing underwater.

***

In the morning when I woke up, Mama was laying next to me on her back, purring. I wondered if we had eggs, because I did not want oatmeal. I carefully climbed over Mama so I wouldn't wake her. I had a plan, and her waking up would ruin it. I successfully crawled out of the bed and got a pair of socks out of the top dresser drawer. This took some time because the drawer was not easy to pull out and sometimes made a squeaking noise. If I pulled the drawer out in tiny tugs, it didn't make a noise

My plan was to make breakfast for Mama, and serve it to her in bed. I knew she would want coffee first, so I went about making it. I put two heaping spoonfuls of sugar into her favorite mug, and then filled it partway up with milk. I pulled the percolator to the front of the counter and filled it to the six line, and put four tablespoons of coffee in the metal basket. I had watched Mama do this seven thousand times, and had helped her probably twenty-five times, so I knew this was right and it would be just how she liked it. Then I went to the refrigerator to get the eggs, but stopped to feel the letters on the front of the freezer door. They were raised metal letters that read: P-H-I-LC-O. Since I was a baby, Mama had held me up on her hip and helped me recite these letters. It was my first spelling word. Philco. I knew all of these letters, plus the letters to my own name, long before I went to school. I am sure my teacher was impressed that my mother had done so much educational preparation at home, but the truth is, we just did it for fun. Most everything we did seemed to be just for fun, and if it ended up teaching me how to spell, or make coffee, or fold a perfect hospital corner with a sheet, so be it.

I went about the preparations for breakfast. I scrambled three eggs in a bowl, one for each person plus one. Then I put them in a pan with butter and a splash of water, and put the flame on 5 and put two pieces of bread in the toaster. Mama always kept soft butter in the cupboard above the toaster, so I got that down, using my stool, and was all ready for when the bread popped up. The eggs were getting bubbly, which made me wonder why the percolator wasn't bubbling. I pushed my stool over to check the coffee. The water was cold. it needed plugging in, so I did. I buttered the toast and turned the eggs down to 1 to keep them warm and poured two glasses of orange juice. I put everything on a big tray and took inventory like I had heard Mama do whenever she was setting the table: "Bread n' butter, salt n' pepper, cream n' sugar, linen-cutlery-candles. I put two cloth napkins on the tray, decided against candles, drank half of my juice, and re-filled it. Breakfast was ready but the coffee wasn't, so Mama would have to have coffee after breakfast today. I made it all the way to the bedroom without spilling and put the tray on the watermelon crate, climbed up on the bed and woke Mama with a butterfly kiss. She didn't open her eyes, but she smiled and said, "I smell something yummy, did you make breakfast?"

"I made eggs and toast all by myself," I said, then climbed over her onto the other side of the bed.

She opened her eyes and looked at me, still smiling, but looking away quickly. She was probably picturing me in the kitchen, using the stove all by myself, and feeling panicked and trying not to show it. She sat up, looked around, and found the breakfast to her left.

"Wowee. Look at you. You did this all by yourself?" she beamed.

"Yep!"

"What a treat."

"Wait right there," I said, and scrambled down to go and check the coffee.

"Check the burners and unplug the toaster!" she hollered down the hall.

"Don't tell me how to cook in my own kitchen!" I hollered back, quoting my Aunt.

"Oh, Okay Marion!" there was a smile in her voice.

When I got back with the coffee Mama was sitting up with the pillows stacked in back of her. She'd made a similar nest next to her for me. She reached down and took the coffee, smelled it as she cradled it in her palms, and gave an appreciative moan of pleasure. She blew the steam off the surface and took a sip, "Perfect," she said. My mind made a permanent place for this memory. Perfect.

Mama drank her coffee, and I ate most of the breakfast while I told her about my dream.

"Huh," she said, "that sounds like fun."

"It was, and it felt really real," I said.

"Maybe that dream means something," she said, "maybe it means that you are good at acclimating to your environment."

"What does that mean?"

"You can grow wherever you're planted. You trust God to carry you where you need to go, and you do whatever it takes to get there. I want to be like that."

"Me too."

Mama put the plates on the watermelon crate and I laid my head on her lap. She combed her fingers through my hair and finished her coffee.

"Mama?"

"Well."

"How many days till I go back to school?" I asked.

"Four," she answered, Why?"

"How about we just lay here for four days and we can read books and eat eggs and listen to the radio and paint our toe nails."

"Alright then," she said.

But as soon as she said it, there was a frantic pounding on the door.

7

The house we lived in was divided into three apartments. We lived in the basement, Lena and Leonard Harrison lived in the apartment above us, and Mrs. Nigren lived in the top with her two teenaged sons, Mitchell and Michael.

We knew before we got to the door that it was Lena out there because she was hollering and and pounding and wriggling the doorknob to get in. Mrs. Nigren was with her and both women were panting and red-faced. Mama undid the latch and the two women came barreling through the door.

"Mitchell has a piece of apple lodged in his throat and he can't breathe!" hollered Lena. She pulled Mama out the door and up the two flights of stairs to the Nigren's apartment.

Mrs. Nigren followed them in her mint-green bathrobe, so I didn't hesitate to follow suit in my flannel night gown. As we passed the Harrison's landing, Leonard was standing in the open doorway, poking his head through a white t-shirt. He followed behind me. All three women bolted through the Nigren's door and headed straight for the kitchen where it appeared Michael was trying to beat the apple out of his brother. Mitchell was prostrate on the floor and Michael was trying to dislodge the apple by pounding his brother on the back. Mama pulled him off and rolled Mitchell onto his back. She placed her hands just under his ribs, and thrust so hard that her feet came off the floor. Her head was right above his when the apple and everything else he had eaten for breakfast came hurling out of his blue face and covered Mama with a chunky gray mess. I was sure it was oatmeal. She rolled him onto his side and he coughed and puked and coughed some more until he could take a breath. Everyone was clapping and hooting and praising God, slipping through the slime just to come over and welcome him back to the living. Mrs. Nigren went to the sink to get Mama a towel to wipe off, but she had already wiped her face with her sleeve and was using a quiet voice to speak encouraging direction to Mitchell, while her left hand was on his wrist, feeling for his pulse.

"He's pinking right up," she assured us over her shoulder. "Think you can get up?" she asked Mitchell.

He nodded his head, took several shallow breaths, and slowly sat up.

"Thanks Mrs. Carlson." His voice was raspy and shallow.

"You'll be fine," said Mama.

"Yeah," Mitchell nodded, then smiled a thin smile of embarrassed gratefulness.

Mama got up and looked down at her front. The smell and the sight put a sour face on everyone in the room. Her nighty was plastered with Mitchell's breakfast. She gagged a little and pulled the slimy mess away from her torso, then made a b-line for the door, and didn't stop until she reached our bathtub and turned on the shower. She got right in, not even bothering to take off her night gown.

I was right on her heels, "Are you alright, Mama?"

"Yes honey, are you?"

"Yeah, I think." I thought about it for a minute.

"Shut the door, it's cold," she said.

"Can I get in with you?" I asked.

"Wait till I rinse off this mess," she threw her twisted nightgown over the shower curtain a gave a big sigh. "Okay, I think it's safe now, come on in."

I shed my night gown and found the opening of the shower curtain and climbed into the big claw-foot tub. I sat down and let the water rain on me with my face down so it wouldn't go up my nose.

"Mrs. Nigren said you are her hero Mama," I said.

"Hero huh?" She smiled down at me. "You're my hero." Then she rinsed her hair and got out of the tub. I shut the water off and rubbed soap up the back of the slanted part of the tub so I could slide down. I did this until I was too cold, then rinsed off and got out and grabbed the towel that Mama had hung to warm near the radiator.

When I came out , Mama was already dressed and looked as if she was ready for an outing. She was in the living room, sorting through a stack of Christmas cards. The Christmas tree was still there, but the ornaments were off and the boxes were stacked up like they were waiting to be stored away. Newspaper shreds and packing materials littered the floor.

"So much for laying in bed all day and painting our toe nails. Shall we go check on Mitchell," she said.

I went and got dressed. No scratchy skirt this time. We walked hand in hand up the two flights of stairs and sang "Johnny works with one hammer" on the way.

The Nigren's kitchen smelled of disinfectant. Mrs. Nigren was putting a whole chicken in a big kettle of steaming water on the stove, explaining that the whole apple episode never would have happened if Mitchell wasn't always in such a hurry. He was too eager to get back out to the garage and work on that deathtrap of his. As far as Mrs. Nigren was concerned, if the apple didn't kill him, the motorcycle would. She started in about how she had a dead husband and didn't need a dead son to top off her grief.

"The people around me don't take into account how their actions are going to effect anyone else," she fretted as she cut a carrot into thin medallions. I just can't bear another tragedy in my life and..."

"Mom! Knock it off. I'm fine. I choked. Stop pounding nails into my coffin!" erupted Mitch, as he walked through the kitchen with his tool box in his grip. He passed Mama and me in the doorway. "Skuze me Mrs. Carlson."

Mrs. Nigren stood speechless, her chin pulled back into her neck and her hurt feelings puddling up in her eyes.

"Christine, sit down and gather yourself. Goodness sakes you've had a morning," said Mama.

Mama knew that there were specific times to make coffee and others to boil water for tea. She filled the kettle and lit the stove, found the tea and cups, then put her hand on the handle of the tea kettle as if pressing it down on the stove would make it boil faster. She said nothing for awhile, then suggested that I go in and play the piano, if that was alright with Mrs. Nigren. Mrs Nigren said that would be fine, then repeated what she always said when I played her piano.

"Carol is gifted, Virginia. That child can play by ear. When a child starts to read is the pivotal time to introduce formal music training. You may miss her window of opportunity." Mrs. Nigren's head bobbled when she said "window of opportunity."

Mrs. Nigren was a piano teacher. That is how she'd made a living since her husband died three years before. I hadn't taken lessons from her because it was too expensive for us, but every once in a while she let me play, and I always liked just finding familiar tunes in my head, and plunking them out. So I went in and started fiddling around on the black keys, because that sounded like the mood that was fogging us in.

A few minutes later, Lena came upstairs and joined Mama and Mrs. Nigren. All three women chatted, smoked, and drank tea. In between my made-up piano songs, I listened to them talk.

"Thanks for saving my son's life Virginia. Don't see any signs of brain damage as of yet, he's still sassy as ever," Mrs. Nigren lamented. "Do you know what he did as soon as you left? Well, first he took a shower, but then he marched right out here to the kitchen and ate an apple. The very fruit that almost killed him. He just bit right into another one like nothing ever happened."

"Guess it's good to get right back on the bike and try again. No sense avoiding apples if the Lord has planned for a streetcar to kill you," Mama said.

"Just as easy to drown in a teacup of water as it is in a lake, Stu used to say. He let those boys run wild as foxes. He's the one taught them not to take any mind for the danger of a thing. Just have fun, be young while you're young, he'd say. Well, I say be careful while you're young or you'll likely never see thirty."

"Why's that bad?" said Lena. "I'd rather have fun and live a short life than sit and be bored to death till I'm ninety."

"Oh you two just don't understand, you two live a charmed life with husbands and money and hope on the horizon. These two boys is all I have," said Mrs. Nigren, noticeably rattled.

"I don't have money!" said Lena. "Leonard's been laid off for two weeks, and if they need him back for next month it will only be thirty hours a week. We're broke."

"And I'm shy one husband and left without a pot to piss in," Mama said.

"Lands," said Mrs. Nigren. "We do have trouble. Seems like the devil himself has got his eye on our little piece of pie."

"I'm no visionary, but seems like trouble comes in three's." Mama re-filled her tea cup and lit another cigarette. Then she went on, "Maybe with all of us having such a tough time of it, we can lop all of these circumstances together and be done with it. You know, the devil only wants to meddle with the ones that make him mad. Maybe God's letting him have his way with us for awhile and we're all in for a huge blessing if we persevere. Hmm. Remember Job?"

Mrs. Nigren got up to check her chicken. "Well, I've had my share and I'm counting on a better new year. The boys have jobs at the new Texaco service station. Money shouldn't be such an issue anymore. Lands, I need a new bra."

"Speaking of streetcars," Lena said, "I saw Virgil stop and pick you up on Christmas morning, then you all came back around and picked up Gust from Anderson's Market. Sounds like I'm spying on you, but I was just sitting by the window and happened to see. What's going on with Gust?"

"Speaking of streetcars?" Mama started laughing. Mrs. Nigren had just taken a substantial sip of tea and most of it came out her nose. Lena had followed her own train of thought perfectly, and found nothing funny about it.

"How do streetcars have anything to do with it?" Mama was laughing so hard she was hardly coming up for air.

"I don't know why it made me think of it, but it did," Lena said, giggling along with Mama. I don't know why any of them found this funny, but they were all three laughing now and Mama was blowing her nose 'cuz it always ran when she laughed hard.

I left my piano and went to investigate the hilarity.

Lena good-naturedly punched Mama in the arm and in the process, spilled her tea. It splashed all over Mama, and a little on Lena. Lena gave a surprised snort and that instigated another full minute of laughter. Mrs. Nigren went to the cupboard to get more tea, and came back with an empty tin. She turned it upside down and a few tiny crumbs wafted to the floor.

"Speaking of hitting bottom," said Mrs. Nigren said.

Well, that sent both Mama and Lena over the top with laughter and Mrs. Nigren thought she was being very clever indeed. All three women laughed until they cried. It was good to see Mama laughing instead of crying.

When the hilarity died down Mama said, "Oh, I needed that," wiping her eyes and blowing her nose. "You know, they say laughing and crying give similar relief. I was ready to bawl my head off, but that was way more fun."

Lena gathered herself and re-visited her original question, what about "So, what about Gust?

"Yeah, I guess we have to talk about Gust, "Mama said, still recovering. "Well...the successful businessman that I married turned out to be a bootlegger. He didn't even drink at that point, just ran rum as fast as he could get it. I thought he was delivering automobile parts, but I figured it out as soon as prohibition was over and the money ran out and, well...then he got a job as a carpenter, he's actually a very good carpenter, but for some reason, he took to drinking on the job and that got him fired lickety-split. So he started working at a bank, I don't know how on earth he landed that job, but when you pay more attention to the bank manager's daughter, than to the length of your lunch hour... It's all turned out to be a terrible mess. The bank manager called me and wanted to know why Gust was needed at home so often. I wasn't about to lie for him so I told him the truth, Gust never came home for lunch, I packed him one. So, his manager followed him one afternoon, straight to his own home, and well, Bob's your uncle."

"Good Lord!" Mrs. Nigren looked dumbfounded. "Why, you don't mean to say..."

"What I mean to say, and do say, is that I am suing Gust for divorce. He's gone already, though I'm not sure where, and can't say as I care. I'm rid of him, and his lies and frankly, I'm relieved."

"You're relieved?" said Lena, "you don't look relieved. Sorry, but you look tired, and like you've lost about ten pounds that you didn't need to loose."

"I guess I'm just relieved to stop living in limbo. I avoided the truth for so long, that when I heard him say it, I felt relieved. The truth is hard to hear, but it's easier to live with. I finally asked him if he wanted me or her. He said her. I would have tried anything if he was game, but he wasn't. So I'm on to plan B."

"I'm so sorry Virginia," Lena said.

"Alcohol," said Mrs. Nigren, "It will rip a family apart sooner than quick. An affinity for liquor will take an otherwise perfectly adequate man and pickle him into a cheating, stinky, lazy ol' sloth!"

"Well Christine, I'm sure he was drunk when he was sneaking around with his boss' daughter. One needs some sort of pickling to live inside a jar full of lies."

"Oh," Lena brought her hand to her chest. "This is terrible."

"Well, maybe not. One man's folly might be another man's gain," said Mama.

"What in the green world does that mean?" Mrs. Nigren rolled her eyes.

"Just that my misfortune might be just the thing to get at least some of us back on our feet," Mama said.

"What are you getting at?" said Lena. Her voice had taken on a sweet quality of mourning, with all the loss and tragedy that had caught up to her.

"How much do you need to make?" Mama asked Lena.

"I don't understand what you mean?" said Lena.

"Well, how much do you need, to make up for Leonard's lost wages?"

Lena's teaspoon tinkled on the sides of her cup while she made some mental calculations. "I don't know, at least twenty dollars a month."

"What if I paid you to look after Carol?" suggested Mama. "I need to go back to work."

"I'm not sure. I was an only child myself and, well, Leonard and I, you know, Leonard wants children, and I'm sure I do too, eventually, but it just hasn't worked out that way and..."

"Think about it Lena, you'd be perfect with Carol--both only children and all." Then her countenance softened, for just a moment, "It would mean the world to me Lena, I don't know what else I'd do."

"I'll talk to Leonard, but really Virginia, I know next to nothing about raising kids."

Mama called to me that it was time to go home. "Thanks for the tea Christine, when I get my new job I'll buy you a new tin. Glad Mitchell's feeling better." She took my hand and we started out the door. Before she closed it, she leaned her head back in and whispered so I wouldn't hear, but I did, "she's six years old Lena, half raised already." Then we went down the steps, no singing this time.

8

That night I couldn't sleep. The pains were back. I called them the death pains because it felt like something terrible was going to happen, like someone might die. My stomach felt tight, and my chest was heavy with a deep sense of impending doom. Things were changing faster than I could keep track, and it didn't seem I had much to say about it. My mother had just given me away to be "watched," whatever that meant, and I was learning things about my father that I didn't want to know. Lena couldn't raise me, nothing against Lena, she just wasn't my mom. Yes, she was fun, and pretty, but I wasn't sure about her. Lena said herself that she didn't know anything about raising children. I wasn't sure what she knew much about. A certain naivete' went along with her sweet disposition.

"Mama?" I called from my bed.

The creaking of the floorboards announced her approach, "Well?" Her silhouette filled the doorway.

"Can I have a drink?"

"Ye-es, she said in a sing song voice. She was tired, I could tell, and wasn't really in the mood for this ritual. But I only liked kitchen water, not bathroom water, and I liked it poured under my tongue out of a glass measuring cup while I was still laying down. Mama went to the kitchen and came back with the water.

"Open your mouth and lift your tongue," she said as she had a hundred times before, surrendering a smile. She poured a thin stream of water very slowly under my tongue so I wouldn't choke. She paused to let me swallow, then repeated the process until all the water was gone. "Better?"

I nodded. "I have the death pains."

"Oh Peach. I'm sorry." She knew what I meant. "Turn over and I'll rub your back."

"It feels like something bad's gonna happen, like someone is gonna die."

"Nothing bad is going to happen Carol. Whatever happens is because it is supposed to, Peach. Besides, how can you ever tell if what happens is really bad?"

"Father leaving is bad."

"How do you know that?" she took a deep breath.

I didn't answer. I didn't know how I knew it, it just felt bad.

"And the death pains, maybe they aren't death pains at all. Maybe they are the pains of life," she said.

"It feels like my heart is stretching," I said.

"It is Peach."

"I don't want Lena to watch me. I want to be with you," I cried.

"I know Carol. This is going to be hard for both of us, but we have to figure something out to make this work. If I work nights, which is probably where I'll have to start, you can't stay by yourself. You're too little. And I don't want to ship you off with Uncle Virg or Grandpa because they're too far away. I want to be able to see you every day."

Mama rubbed my ear lobe and kissed my cheek. I rolled over as she was leaving the room, "Does Lena know how to make French toast?

"Yes, I'm sure Lena knows how to make French toast."

"What if it's soggy in the middle?" I stalled.

"Then you'll have to show her how it's done,"she sniffed, "Night-night, I love you."

"I love you Mama."

9

Monday morning came to fast, and as much as I wished it weren't, Christmas vacation was over. I knew Mama was going to the hospital to see about a job today, but we didn't talk about it. I met Paul, Beanie, and Lydia on the sidewalk. They lived in the alley around the corner from our house and we walked to school together. Beanie, who was in my class and also six, asked me what I got for Christmas.

"A doll buggy," I mumbled from under my hood.

"A DOGGY?" hollered Beanie.

"NO, A DOLL BUGGY!" I yelled as loud as I could, leaning toward her. I didn't feel like talking about Christmas.

"YOU DON'T HAVE TO YELL. Gosh!" Beanie dropped back to walk with her older sister Lydia.

I was glad to be walking alone and in silence. A new foot of snow had fallen in the night and it muffled the morning sounds and made things feel simple and clean. I was feeling very fortunate that I didn't have any sisters or brothers continually asking me stupid questions. I was also feeling very sorry for myself. I wondered where my dad was and when I would see him again. I couldn't imagine what it was going to be like not living with my mother and father. Now I knew what Father meant when he said he had a lot on his mind.

Beanie caught back up to me when we arrived at Willard Elementary School. Neither of us said anything, but Beanie took my hand and we walked up the steps, down the hall, and turned into our classroom. There were first and second-graders together in the class. Our teacher's name was Mrs. Carlson, same as my last name. When she called roll on the first day, Mrs. Carlson remarked on our common surname. I felt a kindred attachment to her and immediately felt she was going to be my advocate. She had wavy brown hair that was swept up into a loose wispy knot on the back of her head. Her lips were pink, usually smiling, and sometimes got caught on a snaggle tooth that stuck out from her top lip. Her voice was calm and gentle, but if she raised it very much it rattled in her throat and sounded old and jittery. When this happened I always felt like I was in trouble, even though it was never me that caused her to raise her voice or clap her hands for our attention. I so badly wanted everyone to sit and listen, not giggle, not write on their desk, and keep their chairs on all four feet. It made me nervous when Mrs. Carlson had to be strict.

As soon as the bell rang I was seated at my desk in my wooden chair, with both feet on the floor. I was ready to "be a good listener," Mrs. Carlson's most sought-after classroom skill. Alan, a second grader who spent most of his recess time cleaning erasers, sat in the seat next to mine. I stole a glance his way, mostly to make sure he was ready to be a good listener too, and saw that he had his hand over his mouth, holding back what was most certainly, an outburst. I immediately got nervous. He took his hand down long enough to elbow Sven in the ribs. Sven got mad and looked like he was about to retaliate but Alan quickly pointed to Mrs. Carlson at the blackboard. She had written three of our five spelling words on the dusty board and was just finishing the word m-a-t when I looked up and saw that the skirt of her dress was somehow tucked into her garter belt. Her entire left leg, and the hook holding up her stocking, were exposed for all the world to see. I gasped out loud. The rest of the class caught on, and the result was a mixture of muffled cajoling from the boys, and embarrassed giggles from the girls. Mrs. Carlson turned around. I froze. What happened next was humbling. I wish it had been me, but it wasn't. It was Beanie who walked right up to the front of the class, stood between us and Mrs. Carlson, and with one graceful tug, undid the problem of the exposed thigh. Mrs. Carlson understood immediately what had happened, as she felt the skirt of her dress float down. She smoothed the fabric self-consciously.

"Why, thank you Beanie," said Mrs. Carlson. "How kind of you."

Beanie said nothing, but nodded at our teacher, not quite looking at her eyes, and returned to her seat. Sven had slipped way down in his chair with his arms folded across his chest. He was looking out the window, biting his top lip, red in the face. His eyes were watering and his shoulders bobbed from breathy laughter.

"Sven, please come to the board and write our last spelling word for the week," said Mrs. Carlson, not in her shaky mad voice, but in a gentle voice, carrying the weight of unwavering authority.

Sven rose from his best intentions of hiding. He stood at the chalk board and waited for her to instruct him on what to write.

"The word is rude, r-u-d-e, Rude." She delivered the word like a spelling bee champion. When he had finished writing, she asked, "Can you use this word in a sentence?"

More snickers and giggles arose from the children. Sven stood expressionless. He put the chalk on the metal chalk holder at the bottom of the board and ran his finger along in the dust. He looked at Mrs. Carlson. She looked at him. She looked at the board. Up to this point, Alan had been able to keep his laughter suppressed, but now there were tears running down his face and he snorted, ruining all efforts to emit an air of innocence. He was pointing at the word that Sven had written. Sven looked at the board. It read; r-u-b-e. Sven rubbed the belly of the "b" off with his finger, picked up the chalk again, and added it back on the left side of the line. His face was red with anger. He seemed to be surveying the class for someone to blame for his poor spelling. Sven looked at Alan. Alan bit the skin from the side of his thumb and spit it off of the tip of his tongue and onto the floor.

"Spitting is rude," recited Sven in a robotic voice.

"Thank you Sven. You may take your seat."

Sven came back and sat between me and Alan. As soon as Mrs. Carlson turned her back, Sven elbowed Alan in the ribs again, hard this time. It looked like Alan's tears turned to tears of pain, but he didn't let on.

Mrs. Carlson went on with the spelling lesson. I mentally willed that everyone would behave and that we could avoid any more embarrassing mishaps. Alan and Sven were still making jokes behind Mrs. Carlson's back. In lieu of being pegged a goody-two-shoes, I opted to appear stupid instead. So at one point, I leaned over to Alan and asked him a pointless question about our spelling words, just to help him focus. It worked. Alan just wanted to be noticed, I supposed, even by a skinny do-gooder-nobody like me. But how come he had to act up so. And how come I cared. How come I was getting stomach aches from worrying if Sydney did his math page right, or if everyone would remember their permission slip for the field trip to the Fire Station.

I had watched Mrs. Carlson, and taken particular notice how she never got mad or nervous about what other people did. She didn't fuss over missed homework. She didn't seem to mentally follow a misbehaving student to the principal's office. She just went on with undivided attention to the lesson at hand, and assumed the rest of us were just as interested in silent E's as she was. Alan straightened desks during recess that day and Beanie got to take the classroom bunny home for the weekend. I promised myself to be the one to go to her aid the next time her underwear caused a ruckus. And that was all we ever heard about that from Mrs. Carlson.

On the way home from school winter got a second wind. Snow fell like powdered sugar and put a fresh frosting on all of Jamestown. Beanie and I took our time walking home. A light gust sent the billions of flakes aswirl sticking to everything they touched. When we arrived home at my house the whole front yard was covered with a thick, snowy blanket. Lydia ran up behind us and walked right onto the grass, ruining the spotless white carpet. She dropped her book bag on the porch steps, lay down on her back, and slid her arms and legs out and in on the snowy grass. When she got up, she made a circle in the snow above the indentation of her head, making a snow angel. Beanie and I proceeded to cover the rest of the grass with angels, but the shapes disappeared quickly from the constant sifting of snowflakes from the sky. Lena called us from the front door and gave us little glass bowls and told us to pack them with snow, then she drizzled them with raspberry syrup. Maybe she did know something about raising kids.

Mama was still at the hospital, so we all trapesed into Lena's house, warm with a fire in the wood stove. We huddled around the radio and listened to Little Orphan Annie and devoured our icy treats. We all felt disappointed when Annie and Joe still hadn't figured out who the lady in the black hat was, but we agreed to meet at my house the next day after school to hear the outcome of the story. I wanted to relive that day over and over, but it never happened quite that way again-- so spontaneously and naturally. My days were soon to become much more regimented and less carefree.

Chapters 4-5

4

Uncle Virg had a 1931 Ford Model A, Tudor Sedan. He bought it brand new and paid four hundred ninety-five dollars for it, but treated it like it was worth a million bucks. It was two-tone green and spotlessly clean, inside and out. The wood on the dash board shone like finely polished furniture. The car rugs were as clean as the carpets in the house. Uncle Virg kept a whisk broom under the passenger seat and rarely put the car away for the night without giving it a good sweeping out.

The minute Uncle Virg arrived, I let him know about the matter of the buggy. He made sure that the buggy, Jessie, and I fit in the back seat with no problem. The handle of the carriage came up over my legs, and of course I held Jesse while we sat up on the back seat all by ourselves.

"You know Carol, your first car ride was in this car, coming home from the hospital. It was only eleven days old, and so were you," Virgil remembered out loud.

Mama got in the front seat and we were off. We turned right out of our driveway and headed up Tower Street passing the market next door. Mama was applying the finishing touches on her lipstick in her compact mirror and I was looking out the window at the market, dark for Christmas day. I was surprised to see my father sitting on a crate under an awning on the far side of the store as we drove past. He had a brown paper bag between his legs and his hat hung off one knee. My chest leaped and I wanted to holler out, but something stopped me. My father winked at me and held up his curved pinky finger when he saw my face in the car window. That was our secret hand shake-- pinky swear. I watched him for as long as I could see him, then slowly turned my head to the front. Uncle Virg directed the rear view mirror so I could see his eyes. They spoke volumes, but he didn't say a word. His knowing expression said something like, "It's going to be alright Peach. Let him go. And whatever you do, don't tell your mother that you saw your dad sitting next to the market with a bottle of whiskey in his lap, and nowhere to go on Christmas Day."

Uncle Virg started to sing, "God rest ye merry gentlemen..."

Mama interrupted, "Virgil?"

"Yes Virginia."

"Do you remember what the Christmas Truce of 1914 was?"

"I do," said Virgil.

Mama closed her compact and slipped it into her purse. "Well I believe it was the last documented moment in which people were truly nice. It seems like people are not nice anymore. They don't do what they say they are going to do. They lie and do what is easy or what will cover up for their selfishness." She blotted her lips on her hanky. "I need to try to make a truce. Just for today. To be nice."

"What nature of a truce are you about, Virginia?" said Uncle Virg, in his school superintendent voice.

"The Christmas truce of 1937. Please turn the car around Virgil, I can't do this today," said Mama.

Uncle Virg pulled the car over to the side of the road. He kept his hands on the steering wheel, kept his eyes forward, and said nothing. Mama said nothing. I wrapped Jessie's blanket around her a little bit tighter.

"I saw him back there by the market Virgil. I pretended not to see him. I wanted not to see him, but I did and I can't go on my merry way with him sitting there on Christmas day with a bottle of whiskey as his only friend. Two wrongs don't make a right."

"You will never be able to match the wrongs that have been done to you, Virginia."

"So let's not try."

Uncle Virg turned toward her with a look of total obedience, trying to understand a heart that was better than his. "You're too good."

"I'm not good, I'm confused. Just go back before I change my mind," Mama said with a fluttery wave of her hand.

We drove back toward the store in silence. Father was sitting there just as before. He didn't look up as Uncle Virg brought the car to a gradual stop. Mama got out, left the car door open, and walked up to him. I could not hear what she was saying, but she had her arms folded and her body was completely still except for a barely noticeable, but constant and steady tap of her right heel. The tapping of her foot seemed to release just enough tension so she wouldn't cry, yell, or faint. He slowly lifted his eyes to her face. She placed her hands on her hips and her heel tapped faster. Finally, he stood up. He picked up the brown bag, paused for a moment, then dropped it in the trash can beside the crate. He put on his hat, and followed my mother to the car. Mama got in next to me and curled her legs up onto the seat to avoid the buggy. Father got in the front.

"Thanks Virgil, Merry Christmas," mumbled Father.

"No thanks to me Gust. Not my idea," said Uncle Virg. He offered Father a cigarette, and father took two, lit both and handed one back to Mama.

The second time Uncle Virg turned the car around on Tower Street that Christmas day, we were a family again. No one spoke for a while, and when the thought came into my head I asked, "Uncle Virg, what was the Christmas truce of 1914?"

He took a long deep breath and thought a moment before answering. "Well, it was during World War One, when some clever boy sent a message over, probably threw it wrapped around a grenade without the pin pulled. It might have said something like, "Let's have a party. Let's meet in the middle. No shooting between the lines." So the soldiers got up out of their trenches, left their rifles behind and went up to enemy lines. They swapped cigarettes and addresses, asked about friends or relatives they knew from each others hometowns. They left their differences behind and treated each other like brothers on that Christmas day. There was an unspoken understanding that after Christmas they'd go back to fighting, but for that one day they would trust each other to act cautiously civil and attempt to put away their differences."

"Oh," I said. "Too bad they had to go back to fighting."

Father leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes. Mama looked out her window and commented on everything she observed, like the Christmas decorations uptown and the ornate window displays in Biglows Department store. It was a three hour drive each way to Greenwood, where Uncle Virg lived, I hoped Mama didn't act this odd way for the entire drive. Once we got out onto the big highway, little rivers of accumulated rain streamed down the hills along the highway and every once in a while the tires sent fans of water off to each side. The damp made it feel close and steamy inside the car. I wrote my name on the fogged-up glass of the window. On the outside, the window held little drops of moisture that worked like a kaleidoscope when I put my eye close to the window and looked through them at the green and blue and brown of the passing countryside. The skeletons of the leafless trees sent droplets from branch to twig to twig like trapeze artists swinging from limb to limb, and every once in a while a giant raindrop would fall from the canopy of trees along the road. There would be no walks with the buggy on the sidewalk in front of Uncle Virg's house today. But their house had a covered porch that wrapped all the way around and I already knew it would be the perfect place for Jessie and me to take our maiden voyage with the buggy.

I was dying to get out of the car as soon as we pulled up to Uncle Virg's house but he told me to stay put. We were going to church, and we needed to make room for Aunt Marion in the car. Mama opened her door and guided the baby buggy out to Uncle Virg. He carried it up onto the porch, opened the front door and rolled it over the threshold. Aunt Marion's Boston bull terrier, Butch, sneaked out the door to greet us, but as soon as his paws felt the rain, he high-tailed it right back into the house. Butch was just about as spoiled rotten as a dog could be. He had his own bed in the corner of the kitchen by the wood stove, and several hand knit sweaters made by Aunt Marion herself. Aunt Marion was still talking baby-talk to Butch when she shut the door. Uncle Virg helped her down the steps. One of her legs was a little shorter and skinnier than the other because of Polio when she was a little girl. She said she was lucky to have a leg at all. Mama scooted over next to me and Jessie so Aunt Marion could get in the back with us.

"Merry Christmas Carol...Gust. Merry Christmas Virginia," said Aunt Marion. She laid her hand on top of my mom's and gave it a "Good to see you" squeeze.

"You're longer than I expected, did the rain slow you down?"

"No Marion, we had to go back and get something we forgot, said Mama. "Oh no, I forgot the pumpkin pies!" Mama tapped her hand to her forehead and sunk down in frustration.

"Oh Virginia, don't think about it for even one minute. I made my minced meat pie and chocolate cake and we had the pleasure of your pies at Thanksgiving. Take them to the hospital. They won't last five minutes in the lunch room."

Mama was obviously disheartened, but smiled with a nod.

"Of course you could always feed them to Carol for breakfast, lunch and dinner. The child is so painfully thin." She looked across the seat to me. "I see you finally fit into your skirt."

"And she looks very smart in it, I might add," said Uncle Virg.

I lifted Jessie to better show off my skirt and started to say how much I liked it but she interrupted, carrying on about how Pendleton Wool came from Oregon and was some of the finest wool made in the whole United States--and that when I grew out of it I should preserve it in moth balls and save it for my own children because it would last forever. This was probably only the seventeenth time I'd heard this lecture. I vowed never to make my children wear Aunt Marion's skirt.

It was a short drive to the church. I loved going to church with Aunt Marion and Uncle Virg. Whenever we stayed over a Sunday with Aunt Marion and Uncle Virg-- which included the past three Christmases--we'd go to whatever service or gathering the church was having and be greeted like celebrities. On Sunday mornings, whenever it was a child's birthday week, they got to go up in front of the congregation during the offering and put a penny in the little ceramic, church-shaped bank. I always asked Mama for two pennies, one for me and one for the Christ Child, as our birthdays are only nine days apart. For my birthday that year Mama had gotten me a book called The Birds' Christmas Carol, by Kate Douglas Wiggin. It is about a little girl named Carol Bird who is bedridden and sickly, but was most certainly the nicest girl I would ever hope to meet. She was born on Christmas day so her parents called her their own Christmas Carol, just like Mama called me. I actually think Mama got the idea from the book, but that's okay, I wished I was Carol Bird, except for the part when she dies. Mama and I bawled our eyes out when we read that part. That was the book that made me love to read. It seemed so real. So, in honor of my new imaginary friend, Carol Bird, that year I asked Mama for three pennies to put in the offering. One for me, one for Jesus and one for Carol Bird.

The other thing I liked about the Greenwood Church was the shoes. I always made sure to sit on the end of the pew, nearest the isle, so when everyone went up to get the bread and the juice, I could see the different styles of shoes. I had two pairs of shoes, one for church and one for school. I usually went barefoot when it got warm in the summer. As I got older, what shoes I got for the next school year greatly depended on what I saw walking the isle at Greenwood Methodist. Our neighborhood church in Jamestown had a piano, and the pastor's wife played it in such a manner as made me want to march. At Greenwood, there was a pipe organ with a giant row of pipes all along the wall above the altar. The organ was stately and serious. It filled every corner of the sanctuary with thrones for the Holy Spirit. I could sing as loud as I wanted and never go off key. They also had a harp that made me think of magical wonders in heavenly places. Listening to it, if I closed my eyes, I could picture myself dressed in a white frock with wings lifting me up to sit right on Jesus' lap, like the pictures in the Sunday school room. On this particular Christmas day, after I had deposited my pennies, we were singing "Oh little town of Bethlehem," with the harp as the accompaniment. I looked up at Father sitting next to me. He wasn't singing, but he had his eyes closed and wore a thin, wide, smile. I wondered if he wished that he had a white frock too. He looked so joyful and different. I threaded my arm through the crook of his elbow and rested my head on him and listened. I held on tight to my father's arm, thinking I might lift right off the pew with all the joy I was feeling. The drone of the preacher's voice usually made me sleepy, but today was different. I couldn't think of anywhere I'd rather be. I didn't know it then, but this was the last time I would ever sit in church with my dad.

5

After church Mama announced that she and father would walk back to the house, and asked if  Aunt Marion and Uncle Virg would take me home with them. Aunt Marion tried to talk Mama into going downstairs to the fellowship hall for pastries and coffee, but Uncle Virg intervened and off they went. I ended up being the only celebrity and got all the attention, and two pastries. On our way home in the car we passed Mama and Father, but they didn't see me waving to them out the window. Father was talking with a serious face, and his hands were waving around like Mrs. Indellicati, the sausage lady.

Since we got home before them, I settled Jesse in her buggy and made several trips around the porch. Butch trotted along beside me as I promenaded. After the fourth time around, Butch retired to a temporary patch of sunlight on the front door mat. His little legs were plumb worn out. So on my next trip around I made room in the buggy and told him to lay down, but he had no intention of being my other baby. He propped himself up with his paws on the side of the buggy and enjoyed the view from his new perspective. The slatted boards of the porch made a bumpy noise and the vibration seemed to helped Jesse fall asleep. I was feeling a little tired too, so we stopped. I sat in the wicker chair on the side of the house and as soon as I was settled in, Butch jumped onto my lap and curled up for a little nap.

This house was grand, compared to our basement apartment. Aunt Marion called it her Victorian Beauty and said she never would move, as long as she could climb the stairs. She spent most of her free time in spring and summer in the yard and vegetable garden. After she went back to teaching at the College in the Fall, she spent weekends in September and half of October, canning the bountiful harvest of fruits and vegetables that she and Uncle Virg grew. When the canning was done she took to crocheting. She used a tiny hook and very fine cotton thread to made doilies, collars, lace and sundry other useful, if frivolous, creations. From each of the upstairs windows hung intricately crocheted curtains. When the windows were open, the fringe waved in the wind and made pretty shadows on the walls. Their house was fancy and breakable. I liked being outside more than in and my favorite part about the house, other than the porch, was the roof. It had five tall peaks and a turret over their bedroom that looked like a hat, topped with an angel blowing a trumpet. It was an easy climb up to the roof from the balcony off of the guest room, but I only went up there when Aunt Marion wasn't home. I liked being at Aunt Marion and Uncle Virg's house, I never felt like company.

Mama arrived back before Father did. She looked tired and her cheeks were pink from the walk. She took off her rain bonnet and sat in the love seat across from me and pulled the collar of her coat up around her neck.

"When you were a baby I used to wrap you up in a bunting and put you outside on the covered porch in your bassinet for fresh air, even in the winter," Mama said.

"Didn't I get cold? Weren't you afraid I would get sick?" I said.

"Nope, you had lots of blankets, you were nice and warm. I'd let you lay out there and cry and get mad so you would be good and tired by the time your father came home. You'd wail for five or ten minutes while you flailed your arms and legs around. It was good for your lungs. Then I'd bring you in with your face all red and wet and cuddle you up for a snack, and you'd sleep for a few hours, snug as a bug." Mama got up from her seat and started toward the kitchen door around back of the house. "It's probably getting time for dinner Carol. Let's see if Aunt Marion needs some help."

I got up and followed her with Jesse in the buggy, bumping over the kitchen threshold and into the steam of boiling potatoes.

"What can we do to help, Marion?" Mama asked.

Aunt Marion started right in, giving orders and delegating responsibilities. As usual I was in charge of the silverware.

Dinner was uncomfortable. Usually Uncle Virg told stories and shared remembrances of when he and Mama were growing up. Aunt Marion liked to re-cap the news headlines and offer her opinions and conclusions. Today it felt like they were quizzing Father on a chapter of a book he hadn't read.

"How's the job search, Gust?"

"Not so good, Virgil."

"What nature of work are you looking for?" Aunt Marion probed.

"Can't say. Carpentry maybe."

"There's a service station, Texaco I think, going in at the North part of Jamestown. You could see if they need any help," Uncle Virg suggested as he passed the peas.

"Could. Might build furniture." Father took a small spoonful, like he didn't deserve more.

"Well times are tough," offered Aunt Marion. "I've lost my assistant and they've given me a student volunteer. The girl doesn't know diddly about being a secretarial assistant. Can't type or file or answer the phone with any civility. She's more interested in the health of her cuticles than the pile of papers on her desk. How's your typing, Gust?"

"Don't type." His jaws pulsed, not from chewing but from clenching. He did this when he didn't want to talk about it.

I dove in to save him, "Wanna play checkers after dinner daddy?

"We'll see Peach" He didn't smile.

***

When Father went out for his after-dinner cigarette, he didn't come back. Aunt Marion wore a questioning furrow on her brow. Mama seemed relieved. Uncle Virg and I played checkers in the corner of the kitchen by the wood stove while Aunt Marion and Mama washed dishes.

The kitchen sink was under a set of double-hung windows that looked out onto the back yard and the creek beyond. Naked weeping willows hung over the muddy water, which ran swiftly on this dark, drippy, day. Mama was taking special care to clean off the dried gravy under the pour spout of the gravy boat. Aunt Marion dried the glasses with a special towel that had the word "glass" woven right into it. She held each glass up to the light of the window before she returned it to the paper-lined shelf.

"Virgil," said Aunt Marion, still drying and checking, and double checking, "why don't you and Carol go out to the parlor for a while. Make a fire if you want to, I think Jack Armstrong, the all American Boy, is on the radio."

"What is it you had in mind, Marion?" said Uncle Virg.

"Nothing a young girl and her Uncle would be interested in. Go on then. I'll be out shortly with dessert. Do you care for coffee Virgil?"

"Becher-life!" Uncle Virg said, and then looked at me with his Cheshire cat smile and bouncing eyebrows. "A little minty cocoa might be a nice libation for my opponent. We have a championship to play and the winner gets a double portion of chocolate cake." He winked at me and carefully raised the checkerboard from the table. We left through the kitchen door. It swung three times and rested in it's place.

"I'll be right back Uncle Virg," I said, and detoured to the bathroom.

"Don't hurry, I'll be planning my strategy," he chided.

Thanks to a large vent that allowed the wood stove heat to flow into the bathroom, I could hear everything Aunt Marion and Mama said from the kitchen. Consequently my trip to the bathroom lasted a little longer than I had intended.

"Virginia, what in the world is going on with you and Gust? There couldn't have been five words shared between the two of you during that entire meal, and he never did look me in the eye, not a single time."

Mama didn't speak right away. I imagined her staring silently out the window, past the creek and the trees, past the sky and rain clouds, and all the way back around to her heart. I was worried she would cry again. I couldn't do what I went into the bathroom to do. My stomach ached.

Finally the words churned through her lips. "He doesn't ...love me. I still love him, but he doesn't love me," she wept.

Aunt Marion growled. I heard the clink of coffee cups, the snap of the canister lid, and water running. Then the kitchen was quiet for a time.

Uncle Virg's voice came through the vent, "How's the coffee coming, sweetheart?"

"Bad timing," Marion barked.

The kitchen door swung three more times as Uncle Virg retreated. I stayed seated, rocking back and forth to calm the gurgling in my stomach. I looked out the window and traced the terminal branches of the oak tree with my eyes. A blue jay landed and enjoyed the bobbing of the branch for a few seconds before it pulled a piece of moss from a knarly twig and flew away.

When Mama's sobbing stopped, Aunt Marion asked, "Why do you think he doesn't love you?"

Mama's words came slowly, with a chesty tension that made it difficult for me to listen to, but I couldn't help myself. "Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud, rude or selfish. It is not easily angered and keeps no records of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices in the truth. Love always protects, trusts, always hopes... always perseveres. Love doesn't come home on payday with liquor on his breath and no check. Love is there when your daughter is born and when your mother dies. Love knows the difference between working late, and carousing around with the bosses daughter."

"Oh dear God, Virginia," Aunt Marion said.

Both women wept.

"It'll be alright Marion, I'll be okay," Mama said. "He's moving out and I'm moving on."

"I'm so sorry. I had no idea. Virginia, you don't deserve this. What will you do? How will you get by? I need a secretary, how's your typing?"

"I'm an excellent typist, but that's not what I'll do. Carol and I will be fine, it's Gust I'm worried about. Seems the booze has sucked the life out of him, just doesn't act rational anymore. He's sad and puny most of the time and when he's happy it's because he has some grandiose pipe dream that's gonna bring our ship into harbor and set us up for life."

So, I knew a secret. We all knew a secret, for when I came out of the bathroom, Uncle Virg still had his ear up to the kitchen door. My father was more than a liar. My father had secrets too. I may have been only six, but I understood the story my mother told through her tears.

We each swept our four-way secret under the nearest rug, for the sake of the others, and continued to let it be Christmas.

Part One - Chapters 1-3

These are the first three chapters of my book, Seven Years Between. Please let me know what you think.

Part One

Chapter 1

The first time I got the death pains I was six. I was jolted awake to a disturbing uproar coming from the kitchen. Mama was hollering and Father was mumbling and every time her hollering got louder, his mumbling got smaller and farther away. I'd never heard words like that come from my mother, wasn't even sure it was her. It sounded like her voice, but didn't have the right cadence. She just wasn't given to much carrying on. She was usually deliberate, slow to speak. Succinct. Her tirade paralyzed me and I became aware of the sound of my heartbeat in my ears. I was unable to move, except to bring my hand to my chest to feel for the source of the pressure. It felt like, while a cruel force was holding me down, my heart might catapult right out of my chest.

It was still dark outside, but felt like morning. I smelled coffee. The rusty screech of the storm door signaled someone either coming or going. I listened carefully to know which it was. The door answered with an angry slam. Everything was quiet for a few seconds, then a shattering crash sent me cowering under my covers. My throat closed and my face got hot, and everything sounded fuzzy. I concentrated on breathing, because if you don't breath you'll die. Mama said that. From my cocoon I could hear mama crying and blowing her nose. I peeked out from under my blanket, fumbled for my glasses, and watched the long hand go past the twelve, two times.

A curly moan echoed from the kitchen. It was the sound Mama made when she heard a sad story, or saw a dead animal on the side of the road. I heard her blow her nose again, sniff and take a deep breath. Then everything was quiet.

"Mama?" I managed, my throat tight with apprehension.

No answer.

"Mama?" I tried again, but couldn't make my voice go very far.

Only stillness. Silence.

When my curiosity outweighed my fear, I emerged from my bed and wrapped my almost still-pink blanket around my neck. Reluctantly, I approached the door of the bedroom. The heaviness in my chest didn't fall off when I got up.

Slowly, I opened the door and peeked around the door jam, into the kitchen. It was dark except for a dim light over the stove. I didn't see my mother, so I called again, "Mama?"

"Hmmm?" a muffled voice answered.

I still couldn't see her, so I tip-toed into the kitchen. The floor was cold and a little bit wet and I stepped on something sharp.

"Mama? Where are you?"

I limped over to wipe my foot on a towel, sticking out of a pile of dirty laundry that was waiting to be washed. As I rubbed the sole of my foot on the towel it moved and I screamed. The laundry pile turned out to be my mother, curled up in the middle of the kitchen floor. She had a towel turbaned around her head that covered her face, and her blue quilted bathrobe was wrapped around her body. The kitchen table cloth, still clutched in her right hand, trailed across her legs. She was curled up like a baby, crying the cry of someone who doesn't want you to hear. I found her face and got right down next to her. With what was left of the silky part of my blanket, I dried her tears. This made her cry even louder. She wiped her nose with the table cloth, then motioned for me to lay down next to her. She spooned me into her belly and found the heavy place in my chest. We stayed like this for a good long time and when she could speak she said, "It's okay Carol. Mama's here, I'm here." Eventually her breath slowed, and her arm relaxed over me so that it was too heavy and I started to squirm. She gave me a squeeze, kissed my hair and whispered, "I miss my Mama." I kissed her wet, salty cheek, then licked it. She tried to smile and scrunched her nose.

"Don't be sad Mama, it's Christmas."

"So it is, and you are my own Christmas Carol."

2

The kitchen floor was dangerous territory that morning. Most of the glass from the the first whiskey bottle landed on the steps outside the kitchen door. But as Mama confessed to Uncle Virg later, the feeling of reeling that bottle at someone so thoroughly marinated in what had been its own contents, was so satisfying that she threw another one, half full this time. The second projectile shattered into the wall, sending whiskey and glass shrapnel into every corner of the tiny kitchen.

Mama got up off the floor and sat me on the kitchen counter. She checked my feet and plucked out a tiny piece of glass. Then she lit a cigarette and turned on the hot water and let it run for a minute as she looked out the window and I looked at her. She tested a warm washcloth to her cheek and wiped my feet with it.

She kissed my foot where the glass had been, and said, "All better. Stay there Peach, I need some different shoes." A thin stream of smoke trailed behind her as she scuffed across the hallway.

I perused the view from my perch. There was an arched opening in the wall between the living room and the kitchen. Our small Christmas tree sat on a table by Father's chair, for lack of space to put it anywhere else. The chair, a small sofa, and Mama's sewing machine competed for what little space there was. Father said a smaller tree was easier to cut down, cheaper to decorate, and faster to dispose of when the "bless-ed holidays" were over. He made the word "bless-ed" sound like a cuss word. I craned my neck to see something sticking out from in back of Father's chair and the anxiety of the morning now had a new target. I wasn't sure, but it could be. I leaned out a little farther and saw the wooden dowel of what might be a handle. It was attached to a length of black curvy metal. I leaned way down and saw what was surely the shape of a wheel. He'd brought it! My heart bubbled in my chest again, but this time for an entirely different reason. My baby buggy. The possibility of Santa actually coming through consumed me. I'd almost traded the death pains for happy anticipation, until Mama tapped back into the room. She was still wearing her bathrobe, but had wound her hair up into a sloppy French twist and was sporting her navy blue platform high heels.

"These should keep me out of the danger zone while I clean up this mess," she said. She planted her cigarette in the corner of her lips and started sweeping.

I stole glances into the living room when she wasn't watching.

A few days earlier, mostly looking at Father even though she was talking to me, Mama said dolls don't need carriages, only real babies do, and that if I wanted a buggy to schlep my doll around, I'd better be hoping Santa didn't realize how particularly foolish and unnecessary it was. She said that even a stamp was beyond our means, so if I wanted to send Santa Clause a letter, I could just fold it up into a paper airplane, throw it out the window of the Empire State Building, and hope it got to the North Pole. I thought how silly that was because it would cost way more to get to the Empire State Building than to use one stamp. So, I took it to Mr. Sorenson next door at the Market. He said if anyone passing through was going to the Empire State Building, he would be sure to give it to them for safe delivery. I suggested anyone going to the North Pole could also deliver it straight away.

I watched as Mama sweep the last bit of glass into the dustpan.

"When can we open presents?" I said, as I wiggled back and forth on the counter with my ankles crossed.

"Soon as you go pee, and I get dressed," she said, and lifted me from the counter.

I wrapped my legs around her waist and my arms around her neck like a baby Koala bear.

"Where is Father?" I whispered in her ear.

She backed up, sat down in a kitchen chair and sat me on her lap, facing her. Then she wrapped both my hands in hers and brought them to her chest and looked me right in the eyes. I could see that hers were holding back a spill.

"Your father is gone Peach. I don't know when we'll see him again. Your father is a liar, and I cannot tolerate a liar."

The death pains surged up again. They squeezed my chest, wrenched my stomach, loosed my bladder, and I peed all over my mothers legs and navy blue high heels, before she lifted me like a wet cat and carried me to the bathroom.

Mama washed my hair and I cried. The bath tub is a good place to cry because you can't count your tears and you can let your nose just drip all it wants. I bet by the time I got out of that tub it was as salty as the Dead Sea. I felt like I needed another bath just to get the sad off. Mama wrapped me in a towel, sat on the toilet seat and rocked me while she hummed the tune to Silent Night.

"I miss my Daddy," I said, before I drifted off to sleep in her arms.

3

The second time I woke up on Christmas morning I was in Mama's bed. I was still wrapped in a towel. At first I wondered why, but then I remembered about Father, and the kitchen floor, and the bath.

"You feeling better honey?" Mama was laying my clothes out on a chair.

"I think so."

"How's your foot?"

I wiggled it around to check. "Fine. My chest feels better too."

"Good. I always feel better after I've had a good cry." She kissed me, then turned in response to the kitchen timer. "My pies are ready, get dressed. Uncle Virg will be here in about an hour."

I lay there for awhile, looking at the pattern in the ceiling and the dirty smudges along the wall by my bed. I made all those smudges with my dirty feet during nap time when I'd rather tip-toe dance, than rest. There was only one bedroom in our apartment. In it there was a chair, a dresser as tall as me, my little white painted iron bed and Mama and Father's big bed. Between the beds stood a wooden watermelon box for our lamp and the wind-up alarm clock that Aunt Marion and Uncle Virg gave me for my Birthday on December 16^th. Aunt Marion said that six was a good age to start taking responsibility for part of yourself, so I put myself in charge of waking up with my alarm clock. Sometimes I liked to time myself. I made up rewards for beating the clock. Like, if I got my teeth brushed, clothes on, and bed made, in less than ten minutes, then I would have a good day and no one would ask me to do any more chores. Mama said I was a good self manager, and good for me because no one else needs to boss me around anyway.

A man on the radio in the kitchen was telling the whole world how unusually warm it was for Christmas in New York. There were way too many clothes on the chair for an unusually warm Christmas day, so I decided to forfeit the wool leggings and wear my white tights instead. I'd wear no tights at all, just cotton socks, except I saw that Mama had laid out the plaid skirt Aunt Marion and Uncle Virg had gotten me for Christmas the previous year. It was so scratchy that I couldn't stand it next to my legs. I don't know why she bought a size 6 when I was only a size 5 last year. I think people do that so a thing will last longer, but what good is anything if it doesn't fit. Aunt Marion repeatedly complained of how painfully thin I was, and tried to feed me all kinds of high calorie concoctions. Mama said I was perfect and that I should only eat when I am hungry. These are the things I liked to eat: pot roast sandwiches with mayonnaise, pork chops--especially the fat around the edges, pistachios, fried potatoes, celery with peanut butter, crumpets with coddled cream--which I only got at my grandmothers house, egg salad sandwiches, and chocolate cake. Those were my favorites. I despised sweet potatoes, okra, lemon bars, chicken legs, and biscuits and gravy.

I tried on the skirt and it fit. Mama said I looked like a private school girl and helped me tuck in the white blouse--which helped with the itchiness, and straighten out my tights. I felt cute, but stiff, even without putting on the sweater and bulky, wool coat that still hung on the back of the chair.

The next thing on my list was to get my hands on that baby buggy. Mama said I needed to eat before presents and that there was oatmeal on the stove. Oatmeal was not my favorite, nor was it something I hated. I just ate it because if she made it and I didn't eat it, I'd get nothing. That's just how we did it here. If I went to Aunt Marion and Uncle Virg's house, all I'd have to do is look at the oatmeal with a sad face and Uncle Virg would make me cinnamon toast and chocolate milk to dip it in. Uncle Virg is the nicest man I've ever known. The oatmeal that day had raisins in it which made it more interesting, but I had to be careful not to over-raisin any one bite so that they would last until the end. It worked out perfect.

I heard Mama walking down the hall in her high heels and was mortified to think that she was still wearing those piss shoes. She turned into the kitchen, stopped in the doorway and put both hands on her hips waiting for me to say, "Who's the most beautiful woman in the entire nation?" like Father always did.

"Why, thank you so much Peach, and I do not deny it," she said, "if you can't look in the mirror and say you're beautiful then nobody else will."

My mother had a confidence that was comforting. Her beauty came more from the inside, than outward adornment. When she looked in the mirror and told herself she was beautiful, it was almost like she was trying to talk herself into it. She always wore a hat when we went out, even to the market. She owned two and today she wore her church one, with three feathers on the side. I scooted my chair away from the table and looked under it to assess the condition of her shoes. She knew as much and said, "There is no harm done from a little bit of pure, sterile urine, and don't you say one more thing about it Peach. It wiped right off and these shoes are perfect with this skirt."

Then she walked directly into the living room, crawled in back of the sofa, and plugged in the Christmas tree lights. I climbed into the chair, knowing full well that my present was right in back of me. I waited for her to bring it out, and practiced in my mind how I would act surprised.

"Alright then," she announced as she sat on the floor, reached for the ash tray, and lit the half-smoked cigarette that was sitting in it. "Let"s play Hot and Cold, to find your present."

We played this game a lot so I knew to stand in the middle of the living room, close my eyes, and turn around a few times before I started forward with my hands out in front of me, like blind man's bluff.

"Cold, cold, cold."

I turned around.

"Warmer..."

I turned left.

"Cold, colder, freezing!"

I giggled and turned around again, covering my eyes with my hands. The temptation to open them was almost more than I could bear. I walked forward and my knees bumped into Father's chair.

"Hot!"

I climbed into the chair and felt all over the seat and up the back, pretending to be curiously stumped.

"Almost boiling!!"

I stood up on the seat cushion and reached over the back of the chair…

"Boiling hot, steaming, burning, hot-hot-hot!" Mama yelled.

I felt the wicker hood of the carriage and opened my eyes, "Oh Mama!" I scrambled over the arm of the chair and maneuvered the treasure out of it's snug hiding place. "This is just like a real buggy, with rubber wheels!"

There was a card on the soft white pillow in the carriage. I opened it. "For Carol, with love from Father," I read slowly. I looked at Mama, "Santa didn't bring it?

"Why no Carol, Santa doesn't bring presents, parents do," she said absentmindedly as she gracefully rose from the floor and proceeded into the kitchen to find her coffee cup. "You might as well know the truth now Peach, nothing comes for free, and most costs more than it's worth. Uncle Virg will be here in a few minutes, did you brush your teeth?"

"Yes, Mama." I was mortified. I even considered she might be lying.

I went to my bed and found Jesse, my doll. I swaddled her and tucked her in the fancy new buggy. They were a perfect fit for each other.

"Can I take Jessie and my buggy to Uncle Virg and Aunt Marion's?"

"If Virgil has room in the car, and it fits, sure. If not, Jessie can come, but the buggy will have to stay. Your suitcase is by the door, we're staying a few days, so put your toothbrush in there, and a book if you want."

I had a toothbrush at Uncle Virg's already, but I packed three books.