the
linoleum, inching up to the porch door.
"He divested Marvin of everything," she
whispered, "and now they want to strip me of all I've got." For
a moment I felt ridiculous crawling along the floor with an old and vengeful
woman who was oozing out of an ancient nightgown. But by the time we
reached the porch I felt quite differently.
We had to strain our eyes to see.
Mom sat in the dark on one of the three stone steps in front of the
house. I pulled out the spring in the screen door so that it would stay
open without slamming against the frame. Crouching next to the railing
among the geraniums, Aunt Ida was swallowed by the darkness.
It's hard to say how long we waited
like that, Mom, Aunt Ida, and me. I just remember it was cool, and dew
covered everything. Suddenly two headlights lit up the street. A
car passed in front of the house and disappeared. There was nothing
special about it, just any old car with a long shadow and a hump, an Olds or a
Ford. In any case, Mom got up and started walking. She walked for
two or three minutes to the place where the road bends and a large maple tree
grows right on the edge of the sidewalk. She waited there for a brief
moment, then turned around and came back home. This time she didn't go back to
her stoop, but skipped over it and went inside by the main door.
"Aunt Ida," I said, then immediately
shut up. Inside the kitchen, right next to us, the light came on.
Mom was looking for something in the freezer. Suddenly she noticed
the open screen door, and she peered outside. She looked right at us, at
me and Aunt Ida, but didn't pick us out in the darkness. She pulled on
the spring I'd removed and replaced it. The door slammed noisily.
Mom went back to poking around the freezer, then took out something
square, wrapped in plastic. She took off the plastic wrapping but she
didn't place the contents in a bowl, like she usually does when she wants to
defrost something.
It was her notebook, and from where I
crouched I could even make out that the first page was covered with crowded
scrawl. She went inside, probably to the bedroom to write sitting next to
Dad - nothing could wake him, anyway.
"Aunt Ida," I touched the arm next to
me. It was cold and inert. A moment later, after I'd already thought of
all the most horrible consequences, she woke up.
"I'll keep watch now," she said, without
opening her eyes. "You go to sleep."
I
opened the screen door. The car that had passed down our street came back
and passed our house. Only then I realized how lucky it was that I hadn't
yet gone inside. For a moment the headlights lit up the living room,
where Mom was sitting, looking out. I carefully closed the door and went
back outside. The car glided down the street. When it got to the
maple tree, it stopped for a few seconds. No more - just a few seconds in
which the brake lights flared, washing the trunk in red light - before it
vanished.
Mom got up and went to the
windowsill, sighing as if she'd completed some task, and again disappeared
somewhere inside the house. I went down to the garden and got into my
room by climbing through the window. Aunt Ida stayed on the porch,
dampening with dew.
The next day I woke early, dressed
quickly, and went off down the street. I stood next to the maple tree and
looked around. Nothing special. Just an old tree with lots of knots
and notches and dead branches. I had to know what had made Mom walk out
here, what had made that unidentified car stop here in the middle of the night.
I went over every inch of the trunk, until I discovered a deep notch.
The tree was full of them, scars from branches that had fallen, except
that all the other notches were full of moss and squirrels' nests, and only
this one was empty and hollow, as if it had been cleaned out. There were
fresh tire tracks in the dirt by the side of the road. Those on the edge
ran right next
linoleum, inching up to the porch door.
"He divested Marvin of everything," she
whispered, "and now they want to strip me of all I've got." For
a moment I felt ridiculous crawling along the floor with an old and vengeful
woman who was oozing out of an ancient nightgown. But by the time we
reached the porch I felt quite differently.
We had to strain our eyes to see.
Mom sat in the dark on one of the three stone steps in front of the
house. I pulled out the spring in the screen door so that it would stay
open without slamming against the frame. Crouching next to the railing
among the geraniums, Aunt Ida was swallowed by the darkness.
It's hard to say how long we waited
like that, Mom, Aunt Ida, and me. I just remember it was cool, and dew
covered everything. Suddenly two headlights lit up the street. A
car passed in front of the house and disappeared. There was nothing
special about it, just any old car with a long shadow and a hump, an Olds or a
Ford. In any case, Mom got up and started walking. She walked for
two or three minutes to the place where the road bends and a large maple tree
grows right on the edge of the sidewalk. She waited there for a brief
moment, then turned around and came back home. This time she didn't go back to
her stoop, but skipped over it and went inside by the main door.
"Aunt Ida," I said, then immediately
shut up. Inside the kitchen, right next to us, the light came on.
Mom was looking for something in the freezer. Suddenly she noticed
the open screen door, and she peered outside. She looked right at us, at
me and Aunt Ida, but didn't pick us out in the darkness. She pulled on
the spring I'd removed and replaced it. The door slammed noisily.
Mom went back to poking around the freezer, then took out something
square, wrapped in plastic. She took off the plastic wrapping but she
didn't place the contents in a bowl, like she usually does when she wants to
defrost something.
It was her notebook, and from where I
crouched I could even make out that the first page was covered with crowded
scrawl. She went inside, probably to the bedroom to write sitting next to
Dad - nothing could wake him, anyway.
"Aunt Ida," I touched the arm next to
me. It was cold and inert. A moment later, after I'd already thought of
all the most horrible consequences, she woke up.
"I'll keep watch now," she said, without
opening her eyes. "You go to sleep."
I
opened the screen door. The car that had passed down our street came back
and passed our house. Only then I realized how lucky it was that I hadn't
yet gone inside. For a moment the headlights lit up the living room,
where Mom was sitting, looking out. I carefully closed the door and went
back outside. The car glided down the street. When it got to the
maple tree, it stopped for a few seconds. No more - just a few seconds in
which the brake lights flared, washing the trunk in red light - before it
vanished.
Mom got up and went to the
windowsill, sighing as if she'd completed some task, and again disappeared
somewhere inside the house. I went down to the garden and got into my
room by climbing through the window. Aunt Ida stayed on the porch,
dampening with dew.
The next day I woke early, dressed
quickly, and went off down the street. I stood next to the maple tree and
looked around. Nothing special. Just an old tree with lots of knots
and notches and dead branches. I had to know what had made Mom walk out
here, what had made that unidentified car stop here in the middle of the night.
I went over every inch of the trunk, until I discovered a deep notch.
The tree was full of them, scars from branches that had fallen, except
that all the other notches were full of moss and squirrels' nests, and only
this one was empty and hollow, as if it had been cleaned out. There were
fresh tire tracks in the dirt by the side of the road. Those on the edge
ran right next
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