left shoulder, and
finally her right.
Tie-food shot?
“Oh, you mean the nurse wanted to give me a typhoid shot if
I’d fallen in that disgusting water.”
But I hadn’t fallen. I never even soiled my new snakeskin
shoes. I fought hard not to cry again.
“What time is it, Mama?”
She lifted the shade. The window was splattered with drops,
the sky beyond an ugly blue-black.
“One in the afternoon.”
“I missed Mass?”
“You missed Sunday.”
“What? It’s Monday?” I threw off the covers. “I’m late!”
Mama eased me back against my oak headboard. “No work
for you today. Tomorrow the wakes. Funerals, on Wednesday.”
She tucked my pink chenille bedspread with the puffy flower
pattern around me. “Thursday you may go to work.”
“Thursday! But I’ll be docked three days’ pay!”
“You think I worry for pay? Paaa! ” Mama caved onto my bed.
“My child. My life. Only for you I worry.” She pressed her lips to
my forehead, kissing me long and hard. I inhaled the comforting
scent of her lavender toilet water.
I wasn’t alone. I had Mama. I curled up against her, anxious
to hear her steady heartbeat again.
“How’d I get here? What happened?”
Mama’s chest heaved with a sob. “Karel sent you home in a
horse and buggy.”
Salvatore and Lucille. They had waited, as promised. “I’ve
been sleeping for thirty hours?”
“ Oui . You need much rest.”
My stomach grumbled painfully. “I’ve had enough sleep.
Please, Mama. I want to get up.”
She studied me for a few seconds. “Maybe enough of this bed.”
She pulled back my bedspread. “I make you some fried eggs. Oui ?”
I nodded hungrily. We got up, at least Mama did. My sleepy
legs swayed. I landed back on my bed.
“Lean on me.” She offered her arm. I clung to her as we made
our way into the hall. I peered toward the parlor.
“What’s all that?” I stared at a pile of black material near her
Singer sewing machine.
“Mourning clothes. Some need only buttons. Others I take
in, take out.”
I turned back to Mama and noticed for the first time since
waking how exhausted she looked. Her sallow complexion had
gone ashen. The shadows under her eyes were so dark, she looked
as though she wore a mask. I started for the pile of clothes.
“I can help.”
“ Non! Today you take it slow.”
“But there’s so much mending.” Days and days of it, by the
look of all those clothes.
“ Oui . Much work. Mrs. Ivanko needs a new mourning dress.”
“Then Mr. Ivanko …” I touched my scalp in the tender spot
where Mrs. Ivanko had pulled my hair.
Mama nodded.
“Poor woman. What’ll she do now?”
“What we all must do. Help one to another. And live.”
Mama made living sound so definite. But I didn’t possess her
confidence. I knew I’d stumble in my efforts to make it through
each day without Mae. At least I had Mama to lean on.
“If I eat something, then may I sew?”
She shook her head. “Tomorrow, when you are stronger.”
“Please, Mama! I need something to occupy my mind or I’ll
go stark-raving mad.” And then, I smiled. “Do you realize I’m
begging to sew? And you’re demanding I rest, not work.”
Mama shook her head and chuckled. “You are strong
enough?”
“Maybe, after I eat. Can you make my favorite?”
“How many?” She looked annoyed, but I knew she was
faking.
“Three Birds in a Nest, if you please.”
We ambled into the kitchen together. I plunked into my regular chair at our tiny table to watch and to wait. Mama opened the
dampers on her black enameled-steel range, stacked maple kindling in the firebox, and lit the bundle with a match. While the
wood-burning stove warmed, she cut three slices of bread from
a thick, Italian loaf. Then using a glass turned upside-down, she
cut out a circle in the center of each slice.
“Will you check the fire?” She took three eggs from the icebox.
I wrapped the hot firebox handle in a dishrag, opened the
door, and added maple logs to the smoldering kindling. While I
was
finally her right.
Tie-food shot?
“Oh, you mean the nurse wanted to give me a typhoid shot if
I’d fallen in that disgusting water.”
But I hadn’t fallen. I never even soiled my new snakeskin
shoes. I fought hard not to cry again.
“What time is it, Mama?”
She lifted the shade. The window was splattered with drops,
the sky beyond an ugly blue-black.
“One in the afternoon.”
“I missed Mass?”
“You missed Sunday.”
“What? It’s Monday?” I threw off the covers. “I’m late!”
Mama eased me back against my oak headboard. “No work
for you today. Tomorrow the wakes. Funerals, on Wednesday.”
She tucked my pink chenille bedspread with the puffy flower
pattern around me. “Thursday you may go to work.”
“Thursday! But I’ll be docked three days’ pay!”
“You think I worry for pay? Paaa! ” Mama caved onto my bed.
“My child. My life. Only for you I worry.” She pressed her lips to
my forehead, kissing me long and hard. I inhaled the comforting
scent of her lavender toilet water.
I wasn’t alone. I had Mama. I curled up against her, anxious
to hear her steady heartbeat again.
“How’d I get here? What happened?”
Mama’s chest heaved with a sob. “Karel sent you home in a
horse and buggy.”
Salvatore and Lucille. They had waited, as promised. “I’ve
been sleeping for thirty hours?”
“ Oui . You need much rest.”
My stomach grumbled painfully. “I’ve had enough sleep.
Please, Mama. I want to get up.”
She studied me for a few seconds. “Maybe enough of this bed.”
She pulled back my bedspread. “I make you some fried eggs. Oui ?”
I nodded hungrily. We got up, at least Mama did. My sleepy
legs swayed. I landed back on my bed.
“Lean on me.” She offered her arm. I clung to her as we made
our way into the hall. I peered toward the parlor.
“What’s all that?” I stared at a pile of black material near her
Singer sewing machine.
“Mourning clothes. Some need only buttons. Others I take
in, take out.”
I turned back to Mama and noticed for the first time since
waking how exhausted she looked. Her sallow complexion had
gone ashen. The shadows under her eyes were so dark, she looked
as though she wore a mask. I started for the pile of clothes.
“I can help.”
“ Non! Today you take it slow.”
“But there’s so much mending.” Days and days of it, by the
look of all those clothes.
“ Oui . Much work. Mrs. Ivanko needs a new mourning dress.”
“Then Mr. Ivanko …” I touched my scalp in the tender spot
where Mrs. Ivanko had pulled my hair.
Mama nodded.
“Poor woman. What’ll she do now?”
“What we all must do. Help one to another. And live.”
Mama made living sound so definite. But I didn’t possess her
confidence. I knew I’d stumble in my efforts to make it through
each day without Mae. At least I had Mama to lean on.
“If I eat something, then may I sew?”
She shook her head. “Tomorrow, when you are stronger.”
“Please, Mama! I need something to occupy my mind or I’ll
go stark-raving mad.” And then, I smiled. “Do you realize I’m
begging to sew? And you’re demanding I rest, not work.”
Mama shook her head and chuckled. “You are strong
enough?”
“Maybe, after I eat. Can you make my favorite?”
“How many?” She looked annoyed, but I knew she was
faking.
“Three Birds in a Nest, if you please.”
We ambled into the kitchen together. I plunked into my regular chair at our tiny table to watch and to wait. Mama opened the
dampers on her black enameled-steel range, stacked maple kindling in the firebox, and lit the bundle with a match. While the
wood-burning stove warmed, she cut three slices of bread from
a thick, Italian loaf. Then using a glass turned upside-down, she
cut out a circle in the center of each slice.
“Will you check the fire?” She took three eggs from the icebox.
I wrapped the hot firebox handle in a dishrag, opened the
door, and added maple logs to the smoldering kindling. While I
was
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