together in a playpen with their hands full of soggy graham crackers that they fed alternately to themselves and to each other. Their diapers were always wet, and each baby had a pink rash at the back of his neck. Louise's mother called it "heat rash" and sprinkled it from time to time with cornstarch from the kitchen cupboard. Their nostrils were always
crusty, but they smiled a lot when they weren't biting each other, and they reached their sticky, smeared hands up to me when I came to the house. I liked the babies.
"Hi, Ralph. Hi, Frank," I always said to them shyly, avoiding their gluey grasps and refusing their offers of wet cookies.
Louise's room was a collection of her entire six years of life. She still had her own baby clothes, now on an assortment of eyeless, stuffing-leaky dolls that were piled in a corner.
"Was that yours, really? Did you wear that?" I asked her, fascinated, when she showed me an embroidered white dress, stiff now with dirt, on her favorite, largest doll.
"Yeah. In the album there's a picture of me wearing that. 'Louise Marie, at Aunt Monica's, age six months,' it says under the picture. My mom writes everything in white ink, in the album, because the pages are black."
My mother, too, wrote with white ink in our photograph albums, dipping the pen again and again. There were pictures of me, too, at six months, wearing white embroidered dresses. But where had those dresses gone? Our baby had new clothes, and my dolls were dressed in my mother's carefully stitched doll clothes. What had happened to the things I remembered from
New York? My special glass with the red dots painted on the sides, from which I had drunk orange juice in the mornings? At Grandfather's house, orange juice was served in stemmed crystal, and I had not thought of my red-dotted glass until I met Louise and was introduced to lives that paid no attention to style but still cherished tattered and derelict memories. Maybe my special glass had been broken. Certainly the fragile crystal ones were more elegant.
But I wished that I had the thick, spotted glass to hold, still, for recollection's sake.
People shouted at each other, at Louise's house. Anger, grief, joy: all were conveyed at full volume, with gusto that nudged any tentative secrets out of corners for scrutiny.
"What's your grandfather's name?" Louise's mother had asked me when we met and I explained where I lived.
"I don't know," I confessed.
"YOU DON'T KNOW?" As if she had turned her volume dial to
its
full capacity.
"Well, I've always just called him Grandfather," I explained.
"Louise calls her grandfather Paw-Paw. But she better know his
name
if anyone asks her. Hey, Louise, what's Paw-Paw's name?"
"Ralph Cedric O'Reilly."
"Right. Now, Elizabeth, you find out what your grandfather's real name is, because sometime you might need to know it. In case you get hit by a car and the police have to call your mother, how would they know where to call?"
Hit by a
car?
I always looked both ways, several times, before I crossed the quiet streets on my way to school. If I were in a place of busy streets, my mother was with me, and I was holding her hand. But that evening I asked my mother what Grandfather's name was. She smiled, surprised that I didn't know.
"Benjamin Lord Creighton," she said, and showed me how to spell it. Benjamin and Lord (how
embarrassing,
to be named Lord) I could have spelled myself, sounding out the letters, but Creighton was impossible.
I told Louise's mother. "I found out what my grandfather's name is."
"Oh? So tell."
"Benjamin Creighton." No need to include the other.
"Oh." She wiped vigorously at some dishes with a spotted, damp towel, leaned over and wiped the babies' mouths with the same towel, and picked up the dishes again. "Oh. Well. How about
that!
"
How about that. She seemed embarrassed by my grandfather's name. Embarrassment at Louise's house always took the form of loudness and remarks like
"how about that." I remembered
crusty, but they smiled a lot when they weren't biting each other, and they reached their sticky, smeared hands up to me when I came to the house. I liked the babies.
"Hi, Ralph. Hi, Frank," I always said to them shyly, avoiding their gluey grasps and refusing their offers of wet cookies.
Louise's room was a collection of her entire six years of life. She still had her own baby clothes, now on an assortment of eyeless, stuffing-leaky dolls that were piled in a corner.
"Was that yours, really? Did you wear that?" I asked her, fascinated, when she showed me an embroidered white dress, stiff now with dirt, on her favorite, largest doll.
"Yeah. In the album there's a picture of me wearing that. 'Louise Marie, at Aunt Monica's, age six months,' it says under the picture. My mom writes everything in white ink, in the album, because the pages are black."
My mother, too, wrote with white ink in our photograph albums, dipping the pen again and again. There were pictures of me, too, at six months, wearing white embroidered dresses. But where had those dresses gone? Our baby had new clothes, and my dolls were dressed in my mother's carefully stitched doll clothes. What had happened to the things I remembered from
New York? My special glass with the red dots painted on the sides, from which I had drunk orange juice in the mornings? At Grandfather's house, orange juice was served in stemmed crystal, and I had not thought of my red-dotted glass until I met Louise and was introduced to lives that paid no attention to style but still cherished tattered and derelict memories. Maybe my special glass had been broken. Certainly the fragile crystal ones were more elegant.
But I wished that I had the thick, spotted glass to hold, still, for recollection's sake.
People shouted at each other, at Louise's house. Anger, grief, joy: all were conveyed at full volume, with gusto that nudged any tentative secrets out of corners for scrutiny.
"What's your grandfather's name?" Louise's mother had asked me when we met and I explained where I lived.
"I don't know," I confessed.
"YOU DON'T KNOW?" As if she had turned her volume dial to
its
full capacity.
"Well, I've always just called him Grandfather," I explained.
"Louise calls her grandfather Paw-Paw. But she better know his
name
if anyone asks her. Hey, Louise, what's Paw-Paw's name?"
"Ralph Cedric O'Reilly."
"Right. Now, Elizabeth, you find out what your grandfather's real name is, because sometime you might need to know it. In case you get hit by a car and the police have to call your mother, how would they know where to call?"
Hit by a
car?
I always looked both ways, several times, before I crossed the quiet streets on my way to school. If I were in a place of busy streets, my mother was with me, and I was holding her hand. But that evening I asked my mother what Grandfather's name was. She smiled, surprised that I didn't know.
"Benjamin Lord Creighton," she said, and showed me how to spell it. Benjamin and Lord (how
embarrassing,
to be named Lord) I could have spelled myself, sounding out the letters, but Creighton was impossible.
I told Louise's mother. "I found out what my grandfather's name is."
"Oh? So tell."
"Benjamin Creighton." No need to include the other.
"Oh." She wiped vigorously at some dishes with a spotted, damp towel, leaned over and wiped the babies' mouths with the same towel, and picked up the dishes again. "Oh. Well. How about
that!
"
How about that. She seemed embarrassed by my grandfather's name. Embarrassment at Louise's house always took the form of loudness and remarks like
"how about that." I remembered
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