Away from Home by Rona Jaffe Page B

air, the freedom of wearing almost no clothing; they were learning to speak Portuguese with a facility that amazed her. Already, Julie had become friendly again with Mil’s boys, and both of them wanted to sit next to her.
    “What in God’s name are you eating?” Mil said to Roger. “ Feijoada? ” She turned to Helen. “You’re going to let him poison himself?”
    “I like it,” Roger said, looking at Mil sympathetically, as if she were depraved and ignorant.
    “It isn’t going to hurt him,” Helen said.
    “All right,” said Mil. “They put pigs’ ears in it.”
    “You eat scrapple, don’t you?” Helen said.
    “Go ahead and eat pigs’ ears,” Mil said disdainfully.
    “Haw!” Mil’s elder son shouted. “You can’t make a silk purse out of a pig’s ear!”
    “But you can make feijoada! ” Julie shrieked. They both began to laugh and push each other, and Mil’s younger son, not to be left out, began to laugh too, wildly, although he was not quite sure what was so funny, and he gave Roger a shove.
    “Pig’s ear!” the little boy shouted. “Pig’s ear!”
    Roger turned to him calmly. “You’re a pig’s ear,” he said.
    “And you’re a pig.”
    Helen felt fury rising in her like new, warm blood. “ Stop it! All of you. I don’t want to hear any more screaming. If anyone here doesn’t care for what anyone else is eating, he can just shut up.”
    “Well, who do you think you are?” Mil asked. “Your Julie started it.”
    “ You started it, if you want to know,” Helen said coldly. For no reason at all she felt as if she were going to cry, and she shut her eyes and turned her head, pretending to be looking out at the vista beyond the gallery railing. There was silence, punctuated by a nervous giggle from Julie. With an effort, Helen composed herself. “It’s nobody’s fault,” she said, trying to smile. “Let’s all try and be quiet, children. There are other people eating here too, and they don’t want to have to listen to children guffawing.”
    “What’s guffawing?” Roger asked.
    “Laughing,” Helen said. She ruffled his hair, smiling down at him, and she wanted to kiss him. My strength, she thought, is the people I love. That’s the only thing that keeps me alive. And then she was surprised at herself for this entire outburst out here on the harmless gallery in the bright sunshine, and she wondered what was happening to her.
    Although the children continued to eat as though nothing had happened, there was a noticeable coldness from Mil. Helen tried not to care. Mil was a bigot, and if she had not come here and plunked herself down with her children nothing would have happened. And yet, what had happened? Nothing, really; a children’s scuffle, that was all. Something that could, and did, happen every day. But Helen suddenly could not finish her drink, and she did not want anything to eat. When the waiter came over to their table with menus she ordered only coffee. Mil glanced at her with upraised eyebrows, as if to say, Well, look who’s sulking! The meal seemed endless. She heard the children’s chatter, like the chirping of tame birds, and after a while she listened to it, and it soothed her. Their faces, even Roger’s, partly smeared with the brown sauce of the feijoada , seemed beautifuly formed and clean.
    The woman called Ann, whom Helen had spoken to at the pool, passed by their table, holding her child by the hand. She waved distractedly. “How’s your sewing coming?” she called to Mil, not waiting for an answer.
    “Pretty good,” Mil called.
    “Are you still sewing for the hospital bazaar?” Helen asked Mil.
    “Yes. Might as well do something. You ought to try it.”
    “I never could sew anything well,” Helen said apologetically. “I’m just about at the putting-on-a-button stage.”
    “It’s just something to do,” Mil said. Now that she could criticize someone else she seemed warmer and friendlier. “Most of those women have nothing