standing in front of the cauldron, stirring the peanuts with a long two-by-four, her shins bright red from the open flame beneath the pot.
Our life had a settled routine to it, and while I can’t say that we were happy, we made do with what we had. At night, sometimes we would hear people beeping their horns as they crossed into Alabama, and Mama would get a wistful look on her face. She never said anything, but I remember the first time I saw that look I got a pain in my gut as I realized that maybe Mama wasn’t happy, that maybe she didn’t want to be here with me and Daddy. Like most things, this passed, and soon we learned to ignore the honking vacationers. Around about the middle ofsummer, every supper would go something like, “Pass the—” Honk-honk. Or, “Can I have some—” Toot-toot.
Daddy was a long-hauler, driving semis across the nation for this company or that, and he would be gone for weeks, sometimes months, at a time. Mostly when he was home I slept on the couch, but when he was gone, I would sleep with Mama in their bed. We would stay up at night talking about him, both missing him. I think these are the happiest memories I have of my mother. At night with the lights off, there was no work to do; no floors to scrub, meals to fix, shirts to iron. Mama had two jobs then, one cleaning the restrooms at the welcome center on the Alabama side, the other working nights at the laundry. When I would lay with her, I could smell an odd mixture of Clorox bleach and dry-cleaning solvent. I often think if that knife had not killed her, the chemicals she used would have sent her to an early grave.
About a week before she died, Mama had a talk with me. We had turned in early, just as the sun was dipping into the horizon, because Mama was due at work around four the next morning. A hard rain was sweeping across the tin roof, making shushing noises to lull us to sleep. I was just about to nod off when Mama rolled over in bed, nudging me awake.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“Shh-shh-shh,” the rain warned, none too softly.
Mama spoke over the hush, her voice firm. “We need to have that talk.”
I knew what she meant. There was a boy at school, Rod Henry, who had started to pay attention to me. With no encouragement from me, he had gotten off the bus at my stop instead of his, which was three miles down. I had no particular interest in Rod Henry other than in the fact that he was an older boy, about sixteen. He had what could on a generous day be called a mustache along his upper lip, and his hair was long enough to pull back into a ponytail. When he pulled me behind the pecan shack in our front yard, I did not stop him. Out of curiosity, I let him kiss me. Out of curiosity, I let him touch me.
“That Rod Henry,” Mama said. “He’s no good.”
“He has a tattoo,” I told her, because I had seen it. “I don’t like him much.”
“I didn’t like your daddy much when I met him, either,” Mama said. “But things happen.”
I knew that I was the thing that happened to her, the thing that took her out of school at the age of fifteen, the thing that put her in the welcome center cleaning toilets instead of workingat the Belk over in Mobile like she had planned to do when she got out of school. Her sister Ida worked there as a manager, and it had been lined up for years that Mama would go over and help Ida as soon as she finished school. She would live in Ida’s apartment and they would save their money and one day they would meet nice, respectable boys and settle down. The plan was perfect until Daddy came along.
To hear Mama tell it, there was no romance in the way Daddy got her. It was a night of firsts that changed her life. Her first cigarette, her first beer, her first kiss, her first time having sex.
“That’s all it takes, baby,” Mama said, her fingers digging into my arm, her stubby nails like slivers of hot metal. “Just one time is all it takes.”
I closed my eyes, crying for
Our life had a settled routine to it, and while I can’t say that we were happy, we made do with what we had. At night, sometimes we would hear people beeping their horns as they crossed into Alabama, and Mama would get a wistful look on her face. She never said anything, but I remember the first time I saw that look I got a pain in my gut as I realized that maybe Mama wasn’t happy, that maybe she didn’t want to be here with me and Daddy. Like most things, this passed, and soon we learned to ignore the honking vacationers. Around about the middle ofsummer, every supper would go something like, “Pass the—” Honk-honk. Or, “Can I have some—” Toot-toot.
Daddy was a long-hauler, driving semis across the nation for this company or that, and he would be gone for weeks, sometimes months, at a time. Mostly when he was home I slept on the couch, but when he was gone, I would sleep with Mama in their bed. We would stay up at night talking about him, both missing him. I think these are the happiest memories I have of my mother. At night with the lights off, there was no work to do; no floors to scrub, meals to fix, shirts to iron. Mama had two jobs then, one cleaning the restrooms at the welcome center on the Alabama side, the other working nights at the laundry. When I would lay with her, I could smell an odd mixture of Clorox bleach and dry-cleaning solvent. I often think if that knife had not killed her, the chemicals she used would have sent her to an early grave.
About a week before she died, Mama had a talk with me. We had turned in early, just as the sun was dipping into the horizon, because Mama was due at work around four the next morning. A hard rain was sweeping across the tin roof, making shushing noises to lull us to sleep. I was just about to nod off when Mama rolled over in bed, nudging me awake.
“We need to talk,” she said.
“Shh-shh-shh,” the rain warned, none too softly.
Mama spoke over the hush, her voice firm. “We need to have that talk.”
I knew what she meant. There was a boy at school, Rod Henry, who had started to pay attention to me. With no encouragement from me, he had gotten off the bus at my stop instead of his, which was three miles down. I had no particular interest in Rod Henry other than in the fact that he was an older boy, about sixteen. He had what could on a generous day be called a mustache along his upper lip, and his hair was long enough to pull back into a ponytail. When he pulled me behind the pecan shack in our front yard, I did not stop him. Out of curiosity, I let him kiss me. Out of curiosity, I let him touch me.
“That Rod Henry,” Mama said. “He’s no good.”
“He has a tattoo,” I told her, because I had seen it. “I don’t like him much.”
“I didn’t like your daddy much when I met him, either,” Mama said. “But things happen.”
I knew that I was the thing that happened to her, the thing that took her out of school at the age of fifteen, the thing that put her in the welcome center cleaning toilets instead of workingat the Belk over in Mobile like she had planned to do when she got out of school. Her sister Ida worked there as a manager, and it had been lined up for years that Mama would go over and help Ida as soon as she finished school. She would live in Ida’s apartment and they would save their money and one day they would meet nice, respectable boys and settle down. The plan was perfect until Daddy came along.
To hear Mama tell it, there was no romance in the way Daddy got her. It was a night of firsts that changed her life. Her first cigarette, her first beer, her first kiss, her first time having sex.
“That’s all it takes, baby,” Mama said, her fingers digging into my arm, her stubby nails like slivers of hot metal. “Just one time is all it takes.”
I closed my eyes, crying for
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