screaming, but they’re really having a good time.”
Mum didn’t cry when Papa died. Neither did I. Luke was too little to understand anything, so he didn’t cry either. Mr. Bennett called to tell Mum what had happened, and she just sat down. It wasn’t like in the movies at all. She told us to sit down, too, and then she said that there had been an accident and that Papa and William and Mary were with God. That was all that happened. There was the funeral, and we went to live with Granny.
It would be only temporary, Mum said when we got off the bus. We wouldn’t be staying long. We had to walk to Granny’s. Luke got to carry the green suitcase because he was smaller than me. “What if Granny doesn’t want us?” Luke wanted to know. “Does she have a television?”
Mum carried the leather case, and we stopped at the end of each block to let Luke catch his breath. Everything was going to be good this time. Each time we stopped we sat on our suitcases, that’s what Mum would say. We walked miles that day, dragging our bags along Ross Street until we got to Granny’s house and stood on the porch in the shade and rang the bell and waited for her to let us in.
Granny smoked. You could smell it everywhere. And Mum said there was something wrong with her eyes but that we shouldn’t ask her about it. Granny liked to sit in the kitchen and smoke.
“Those cigarettes sure do stink, Granny,” Luke told her.
“You’ll get used to it.”
In the late afternoon especially, Granny would sit in a straight-backed chair in the kitchen, in the dark, and smoke.
“You’re the man of the house, now,” Granny told Luke. The blue smoke would curl off her cigarette and flow over her face and hair.
“I’m older than Luke.”
“It’s just a figure of speech, Caroline.” Every so often, she would blow smoke out her nose, like frosty steam on a cold morning. “Luke’s a boy, and you’re a girl.”
Mum got a job at the auction yards, at first. Then she worked for the Railroad Café across from the fire station.
“Why does Granny sit in the dark and smoke, Caroline?”
“Adults like to smoke.”
“It smells awful.”
“It’s what adults do.”
William hung the board on the fence. You didn’t spell it right, I told him. He didn’t care, he said. Everyone would know what he meant and sometimes there were different ways to spell the same word. Papa said he was going to borrow a camera and take a picture of all of us standing by the fence. But he never did.
That winter, the river flooded and put the fence underwater. We watched the sign slowly disappear, and, whenthe water receded, it was gone. As soon as the ground dried to a soft mud, we waded out to the fence. William had to carry Mary on his shoulders. Luke found the sign face down in the mud, and we cleaned if off as best we could and William nailed it back up. Mary thought we should say grace, so we did, and, after, as we trudged back to the house, William held the hammer above his head and sang “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” and we all joined in.
“I don’t believe you about the animals, Caroline.”
“Okay. On Saturday, we can ask Mr. Noah.”
“I don’t like Mr. Noah.”
“You’re afraid of everything.”
“I am not. I’m the man of the house.”
“Boy, are you dopey. It’s just an expression. That’s all it is. It doesn’t mean anything.”
The new calves were in the field. We stood at the fence and watched them perched on their long, thin legs, leaning against their mothers. They had the same crazy eyes as the cows, and their mouths were full of white slobber. Luke sat on the fence and counted them.
“There are fourteen babies, Caroline. You see that brown one over there? Her name is Lucy.”
“It looks like a bull.”
“That one is Mabel. And that one is Mary.”
“Come on,” I said, “let’s go see the bears.”
“See how the mothers watch over them. I’ll bet if wetried to get close, the mothers would run us
Mum didn’t cry when Papa died. Neither did I. Luke was too little to understand anything, so he didn’t cry either. Mr. Bennett called to tell Mum what had happened, and she just sat down. It wasn’t like in the movies at all. She told us to sit down, too, and then she said that there had been an accident and that Papa and William and Mary were with God. That was all that happened. There was the funeral, and we went to live with Granny.
It would be only temporary, Mum said when we got off the bus. We wouldn’t be staying long. We had to walk to Granny’s. Luke got to carry the green suitcase because he was smaller than me. “What if Granny doesn’t want us?” Luke wanted to know. “Does she have a television?”
Mum carried the leather case, and we stopped at the end of each block to let Luke catch his breath. Everything was going to be good this time. Each time we stopped we sat on our suitcases, that’s what Mum would say. We walked miles that day, dragging our bags along Ross Street until we got to Granny’s house and stood on the porch in the shade and rang the bell and waited for her to let us in.
Granny smoked. You could smell it everywhere. And Mum said there was something wrong with her eyes but that we shouldn’t ask her about it. Granny liked to sit in the kitchen and smoke.
“Those cigarettes sure do stink, Granny,” Luke told her.
“You’ll get used to it.”
In the late afternoon especially, Granny would sit in a straight-backed chair in the kitchen, in the dark, and smoke.
“You’re the man of the house, now,” Granny told Luke. The blue smoke would curl off her cigarette and flow over her face and hair.
“I’m older than Luke.”
“It’s just a figure of speech, Caroline.” Every so often, she would blow smoke out her nose, like frosty steam on a cold morning. “Luke’s a boy, and you’re a girl.”
Mum got a job at the auction yards, at first. Then she worked for the Railroad Café across from the fire station.
“Why does Granny sit in the dark and smoke, Caroline?”
“Adults like to smoke.”
“It smells awful.”
“It’s what adults do.”
William hung the board on the fence. You didn’t spell it right, I told him. He didn’t care, he said. Everyone would know what he meant and sometimes there were different ways to spell the same word. Papa said he was going to borrow a camera and take a picture of all of us standing by the fence. But he never did.
That winter, the river flooded and put the fence underwater. We watched the sign slowly disappear, and, whenthe water receded, it was gone. As soon as the ground dried to a soft mud, we waded out to the fence. William had to carry Mary on his shoulders. Luke found the sign face down in the mud, and we cleaned if off as best we could and William nailed it back up. Mary thought we should say grace, so we did, and, after, as we trudged back to the house, William held the hammer above his head and sang “Onward, Christian Soldiers,” and we all joined in.
“I don’t believe you about the animals, Caroline.”
“Okay. On Saturday, we can ask Mr. Noah.”
“I don’t like Mr. Noah.”
“You’re afraid of everything.”
“I am not. I’m the man of the house.”
“Boy, are you dopey. It’s just an expression. That’s all it is. It doesn’t mean anything.”
The new calves were in the field. We stood at the fence and watched them perched on their long, thin legs, leaning against their mothers. They had the same crazy eyes as the cows, and their mouths were full of white slobber. Luke sat on the fence and counted them.
“There are fourteen babies, Caroline. You see that brown one over there? Her name is Lucy.”
“It looks like a bull.”
“That one is Mabel. And that one is Mary.”
“Come on,” I said, “let’s go see the bears.”
“See how the mothers watch over them. I’ll bet if wetried to get close, the mothers would run us
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