stay all night,” he panted. “She might change her mind when it gets dark. A night out here might do her some good.”
Mama slid into the driver’s seat, rolled down the window, and started the engine. “I’m leaving, Willie. You can walk back if you don’t get in now.” Papa stood very still for a long time. My screams had subsided. His grip on my arm tightened. The engine hummed, and mourning doves cooed in their nests along the cemetery fence. He released me and tramped away to the car, opening the door on the passenger side and dropping angrily into the seat.
“How will she ever respect me if you do this?” he hissed.
Mama reached back and opened the door for me. I climbed in and pulled the door closed as she put the car in reverse and backed onto the main road. At home, Papa left to prepare for the early freight. Mama helped me out of my dress and washed my face a little. She lowered my nightie down over my head and went to find an aspirin. I felt cold, except for my bottom, and I shivered a little. When I had taken the aspirin, she boosted me into the crib.
“Lie on your stomach,” she told me. Then I heard her in the kitchen, emptying ice cubes from a tray, dumping them into a basin. She ran water into the basin and carried it into the bedroom, setting it on the table beside the big bed. Dipping a washcloth into the basin and wringing it out, she laid it on my bottom for a few minutes, drawing the heat from my skin. She dipped the cloth again and again, laying it on my throbbing back. At length shesprinkled fragrant talcum on me, pulled my nightie down, and covered me lightly with the quilt.
“Try to sleep.” Skinning off her own clothes, she got into a nightgown and slipped into the other bed. In a minute she was up again, turning off all the lights in the house. It was still twilight outside, and pale light crept in around the venetian blinds. Mama settled back into bed for the night and, although she said nothing more, she did not fall asleep immediately. I could tell from her breathing that she was lying awake thinking. It seemed that if I held my breath and strained to listen, I would overhear her thoughts.
But I had thoughts of my own: sad, not wholly formed thoughts about fairness and justice and punishment. I dreamed of running away and knew I never would.
In the dark, I couldn’t see the banjo clock, but I knew its picture by heart, every flower and shadow. In that place, sunbeams danced on the kitchen floor as I sat sipping tea and milk.
Later I woke as Papa came home, put on his pajamas in the dark, and stood beside the crib. I pretended to be asleep.
He put a hand on my shoulder. “Lark,” he said, giving me a little shake, “I’m sorry. We’ll go fishing next weekend, just you and me. Would you like that? Do you forgive me?”
But I kept on pretending to be asleep.
9
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT AT supper, Papa warned me, “Those nails had better look prettier next Monday, or it’ll be the brush again. And the cemetery.” To Mama he said, “I don’t know why I never thought of the cemetery before. It gives Lark a real good chance to exercise her lungs without an audience, at least not an audience that’ll complain about the noise.” He smiled at his little joke, and at me, in a genuinely jolly way, as if to share the humor with me.
I didn’t want to cry in front of Papa. Slipping from my chair, I ran into the bedroom and climbed into the crib. I covered my head with the quilt to keep Papa from hearing me.
“You get yourself right back to this table,” he called to me, “and finish your supper.”
“Let her go, Willie,” Mama told him, speaking in a low, distinct voice that meant business.
With the memory fresh in his mind of Mama with a ketchup bottle in her hand, maybe Papa didn’t want to cross her again so soon. In any case, he let her change the subject.
“I had a letter from Betty today,” she told him. “She’s sick most of the time, she says. The doctor
Mama slid into the driver’s seat, rolled down the window, and started the engine. “I’m leaving, Willie. You can walk back if you don’t get in now.” Papa stood very still for a long time. My screams had subsided. His grip on my arm tightened. The engine hummed, and mourning doves cooed in their nests along the cemetery fence. He released me and tramped away to the car, opening the door on the passenger side and dropping angrily into the seat.
“How will she ever respect me if you do this?” he hissed.
Mama reached back and opened the door for me. I climbed in and pulled the door closed as she put the car in reverse and backed onto the main road. At home, Papa left to prepare for the early freight. Mama helped me out of my dress and washed my face a little. She lowered my nightie down over my head and went to find an aspirin. I felt cold, except for my bottom, and I shivered a little. When I had taken the aspirin, she boosted me into the crib.
“Lie on your stomach,” she told me. Then I heard her in the kitchen, emptying ice cubes from a tray, dumping them into a basin. She ran water into the basin and carried it into the bedroom, setting it on the table beside the big bed. Dipping a washcloth into the basin and wringing it out, she laid it on my bottom for a few minutes, drawing the heat from my skin. She dipped the cloth again and again, laying it on my throbbing back. At length shesprinkled fragrant talcum on me, pulled my nightie down, and covered me lightly with the quilt.
“Try to sleep.” Skinning off her own clothes, she got into a nightgown and slipped into the other bed. In a minute she was up again, turning off all the lights in the house. It was still twilight outside, and pale light crept in around the venetian blinds. Mama settled back into bed for the night and, although she said nothing more, she did not fall asleep immediately. I could tell from her breathing that she was lying awake thinking. It seemed that if I held my breath and strained to listen, I would overhear her thoughts.
But I had thoughts of my own: sad, not wholly formed thoughts about fairness and justice and punishment. I dreamed of running away and knew I never would.
In the dark, I couldn’t see the banjo clock, but I knew its picture by heart, every flower and shadow. In that place, sunbeams danced on the kitchen floor as I sat sipping tea and milk.
Later I woke as Papa came home, put on his pajamas in the dark, and stood beside the crib. I pretended to be asleep.
He put a hand on my shoulder. “Lark,” he said, giving me a little shake, “I’m sorry. We’ll go fishing next weekend, just you and me. Would you like that? Do you forgive me?”
But I kept on pretending to be asleep.
9
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT AT supper, Papa warned me, “Those nails had better look prettier next Monday, or it’ll be the brush again. And the cemetery.” To Mama he said, “I don’t know why I never thought of the cemetery before. It gives Lark a real good chance to exercise her lungs without an audience, at least not an audience that’ll complain about the noise.” He smiled at his little joke, and at me, in a genuinely jolly way, as if to share the humor with me.
I didn’t want to cry in front of Papa. Slipping from my chair, I ran into the bedroom and climbed into the crib. I covered my head with the quilt to keep Papa from hearing me.
“You get yourself right back to this table,” he called to me, “and finish your supper.”
“Let her go, Willie,” Mama told him, speaking in a low, distinct voice that meant business.
With the memory fresh in his mind of Mama with a ketchup bottle in her hand, maybe Papa didn’t want to cross her again so soon. In any case, he let her change the subject.
“I had a letter from Betty today,” she told him. “She’s sick most of the time, she says. The doctor
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