his book and carried over the gaming box, which held equipment enough to play forty different games.
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, as he began to place the red and black rounds on the board. “Why are you sitting so quiet, so scared looking? Afraid I’ll win again?”
Games, I wasn’t thinking of games. I told him my thoughts of fire, and my idea of ripping up sheets and knotting them together to form a ladder to reach the ground, just like they did in many an old movie. Then if a fire started, maybe tonight, we’d have a way to reach the ground after we broke a window, and each of us could tie a twin to our back.
I’d never seen his blue eyes show so much respect as they lit up with admiration. “Wow, what a fantastic idea, Cathy! Terrific! Exactly what we’ll do if a fire starts—which it won’t. And boy, it sure is good to know you’re not going to be a crybaby after all. When you think ahead and plan for unexpected contingencies it shows you’re growing up, and I like that.”
Golly-day, in twelve years of hard striving, I had at last won his respect and approval, and reached a goal I thought impossible. It was sweet knowing we could get along when shut up so close. Our exchanged smiles promised that together we were going to manage to survive until the end of the week. Our newfound camaraderie constructed some security, a bit of happiness to grab hold of, like hands clasping.
Then, what we’d found was shattered. Into our room came our mother, walking so funny, wearing the strangest expression. We’d waited so long for her return, and somehow it didn’t give us the anticipated joy to be with her again. Maybe it was only the grandmother, who followed so close at her heels, with her flint hard, mean gray eyes that quickly quelled our enthusiasm.
My hand rose to my mouth. Something dreadful had happened. I knew it! I just knew it!
Chris and I were sitting on a bed, playing a checker game and from time to time looking at each other while we rumpled the bedspread.
One rule broken . . . no, two . . . looking was forbidden as well as rumpling.
And the twins had puzzle pieces here and there, and their cars and marbles were scattered about, so the room wasn’t exactly tidy.
Three rules broken.
And boys and girls had been in the bathroom together.
And maybe we’d even broken another rule, for we were always to feel, no matter what we did, that God and the grandmother had some secret communication between them.
The Wrath of God
M omma came into our room this first night, tight-limbed and stiff-jointed, as if every movement she made hurt. Her lovely face was pale and bloated; her swollen eyes red-rimmed. At the age of thirty-three, someone had humiliated her so much she couldn’t squarely meet a pair of our eyes. Looking defeated, forlorn, humbled, she stood in the center of the room like a child brutally chastised. Thoughtlessly, the twins ran to greet her. They threw enthusiastic arms about her legs, laughing and crying out in happy voices, “Momma, Momma! Where have you been?”
Chris and I ambled over to tentatively hug her. One might have thought she had been gone a decade of Sundays, and not just one Wednesday, but she represented our hope, our reality, our line to the world outside.
Did we kiss her too much? Did our eager, hungry, clinging embraces make her wince from pain, or from the obligations? While fat and slow tears slid silently down her pale cheeks, I thought she cried only for the pity she felt for us. When we sat, all wanting to be as close to her as possible, it was on one of thebig beds. She lifted both twins to her lap so Chris and I could cuddle close on either side. She looked us over, and complimented our glowing cleanliness, and smiled because I had tied a green ribbon in Carrie’s hair to match the green stripes on her dress. She spoke, her voice hoarse, as if she had a cold, or that fabled frog had lodged in her throat. “Now, tell me honestly, how did it
“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, as he began to place the red and black rounds on the board. “Why are you sitting so quiet, so scared looking? Afraid I’ll win again?”
Games, I wasn’t thinking of games. I told him my thoughts of fire, and my idea of ripping up sheets and knotting them together to form a ladder to reach the ground, just like they did in many an old movie. Then if a fire started, maybe tonight, we’d have a way to reach the ground after we broke a window, and each of us could tie a twin to our back.
I’d never seen his blue eyes show so much respect as they lit up with admiration. “Wow, what a fantastic idea, Cathy! Terrific! Exactly what we’ll do if a fire starts—which it won’t. And boy, it sure is good to know you’re not going to be a crybaby after all. When you think ahead and plan for unexpected contingencies it shows you’re growing up, and I like that.”
Golly-day, in twelve years of hard striving, I had at last won his respect and approval, and reached a goal I thought impossible. It was sweet knowing we could get along when shut up so close. Our exchanged smiles promised that together we were going to manage to survive until the end of the week. Our newfound camaraderie constructed some security, a bit of happiness to grab hold of, like hands clasping.
Then, what we’d found was shattered. Into our room came our mother, walking so funny, wearing the strangest expression. We’d waited so long for her return, and somehow it didn’t give us the anticipated joy to be with her again. Maybe it was only the grandmother, who followed so close at her heels, with her flint hard, mean gray eyes that quickly quelled our enthusiasm.
My hand rose to my mouth. Something dreadful had happened. I knew it! I just knew it!
Chris and I were sitting on a bed, playing a checker game and from time to time looking at each other while we rumpled the bedspread.
One rule broken . . . no, two . . . looking was forbidden as well as rumpling.
And the twins had puzzle pieces here and there, and their cars and marbles were scattered about, so the room wasn’t exactly tidy.
Three rules broken.
And boys and girls had been in the bathroom together.
And maybe we’d even broken another rule, for we were always to feel, no matter what we did, that God and the grandmother had some secret communication between them.
The Wrath of God
M omma came into our room this first night, tight-limbed and stiff-jointed, as if every movement she made hurt. Her lovely face was pale and bloated; her swollen eyes red-rimmed. At the age of thirty-three, someone had humiliated her so much she couldn’t squarely meet a pair of our eyes. Looking defeated, forlorn, humbled, she stood in the center of the room like a child brutally chastised. Thoughtlessly, the twins ran to greet her. They threw enthusiastic arms about her legs, laughing and crying out in happy voices, “Momma, Momma! Where have you been?”
Chris and I ambled over to tentatively hug her. One might have thought she had been gone a decade of Sundays, and not just one Wednesday, but she represented our hope, our reality, our line to the world outside.
Did we kiss her too much? Did our eager, hungry, clinging embraces make her wince from pain, or from the obligations? While fat and slow tears slid silently down her pale cheeks, I thought she cried only for the pity she felt for us. When we sat, all wanting to be as close to her as possible, it was on one of thebig beds. She lifted both twins to her lap so Chris and I could cuddle close on either side. She looked us over, and complimented our glowing cleanliness, and smiled because I had tied a green ribbon in Carrie’s hair to match the green stripes on her dress. She spoke, her voice hoarse, as if she had a cold, or that fabled frog had lodged in her throat. “Now, tell me honestly, how did it
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