was an undertaking my mothe r l ater admitted almost killed her. When spring came, they knelt in the grass next to the flats of petunias and impatiens, Madeline determining the arrangement.
"Your nursing degree for this?" Figgy said to my mother, watching the taffy making in the kitchen. "I thought you were going to save all the poor people, the colored children of the South. Aren't you losing your mind? Can't you put her away?"
"Pull," my mother said, handing her a dull brown lump.
"Julia. There are places for people like her. Why can't I get that through your head? You don't have to live like this. She's never going to get better."
"She can learn, even if her capacity is limited. She can have enjoyment. She's very opinionated about what she likes. It's funny how she still has her eye. I should show you her paintings--"
Figgy, who had studied art history, said, "Spare me."
"She knows how to make a thing look nice. And she cares. Believe it or not, I'm learning from her. She has no idea that she's a teacher, but she's made me think about the self, about what we are without memory, without a sense of time."
My aunt stared. at Julia. "Finally, getting the education you've always wanted. And taking style tips seriously. From a half-wit."
"Keep pulling," my mother said.
"Do you know what I think, Mrs. Maciver? I think she's childish on purpose. What is she now, my ex-sister-in-law, or is she my niece? I can't keep it straight. I think she only means to annoy with her tantrums. When she had--what was that tyrant nurse's name, the one who cared for her at first?--Nurse Kimball!--Madeline was a model patient for Nurse Kimball of the ugly face and big voice. What are you going to do, bring up baby until you drop dead? Have you thought of that?"
"Wait. Stop right now. Are the ridges starting to hold their shape? Is the taffy--wait, wait, what does it say--is it opaque, firm, and elastic?"
Although Figgy never paid Madeline much attention, she di d b ring her extravagant gifts, dolls for grown-ups, she explained to me, not little girl bric-a-brac. After she presented Madeline with a Shanty Town Scarlett O'Hara doll, she said to Julia in singsong, "I'll get her something even nicer if you lock her up."
The first time she mentioned her fatigue with Bill Eastman and her idea of divorcing him, Julia turned to pet Madeline's hair, as if that action might demonstrate to Figgy one's duty to stay the course. Figgy got the gist. "I'm not like you, Julia." She felt strongly enough to repeat what was evident. "I'm not anything like you."
My father was gone all day, but even if he'd been home I think Madeline's affections would have changed. To battle the kindness of her caretaker for long would have taken real endurance, and it's not surprising that she eventually capitulated to my mother's program of industry and safekeeping. They walked down the alley hand in hand, Madeline drawing to Julia's side when they passed a barking dog behind a fence. They went to the community pool, both of them in their modest suits, Julia sitting on the edge while Madeline, towering above the waterline in the shallow end, held her nose and turned incomplete somersaults. She'd come spraying up, digging into her eye sockets with her fists, coughing. My father once remarked, watching her at Moose Lake, that Venus obviously had sputtered at her birth. Every Thursday afternoon Madeline stayed with Russia, so that Mrs. Maciver in her few free hours could do her work with the League of Women Voters, and once in a rare while Grandmother came out on a Saturday so the honeymooners could take their walk in the forest preserve.
At dinner, a few months before I was born, Madeline made her declaration to my father: "I don't like you anymore." She was sitting at her own place, pushing her mushrooms to the edge of her plate with a teaspoon. It was as if she were the one who was finally breaking up.
He nodded slowly. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"I like Julia
"Your nursing degree for this?" Figgy said to my mother, watching the taffy making in the kitchen. "I thought you were going to save all the poor people, the colored children of the South. Aren't you losing your mind? Can't you put her away?"
"Pull," my mother said, handing her a dull brown lump.
"Julia. There are places for people like her. Why can't I get that through your head? You don't have to live like this. She's never going to get better."
"She can learn, even if her capacity is limited. She can have enjoyment. She's very opinionated about what she likes. It's funny how she still has her eye. I should show you her paintings--"
Figgy, who had studied art history, said, "Spare me."
"She knows how to make a thing look nice. And she cares. Believe it or not, I'm learning from her. She has no idea that she's a teacher, but she's made me think about the self, about what we are without memory, without a sense of time."
My aunt stared. at Julia. "Finally, getting the education you've always wanted. And taking style tips seriously. From a half-wit."
"Keep pulling," my mother said.
"Do you know what I think, Mrs. Maciver? I think she's childish on purpose. What is she now, my ex-sister-in-law, or is she my niece? I can't keep it straight. I think she only means to annoy with her tantrums. When she had--what was that tyrant nurse's name, the one who cared for her at first?--Nurse Kimball!--Madeline was a model patient for Nurse Kimball of the ugly face and big voice. What are you going to do, bring up baby until you drop dead? Have you thought of that?"
"Wait. Stop right now. Are the ridges starting to hold their shape? Is the taffy--wait, wait, what does it say--is it opaque, firm, and elastic?"
Although Figgy never paid Madeline much attention, she di d b ring her extravagant gifts, dolls for grown-ups, she explained to me, not little girl bric-a-brac. After she presented Madeline with a Shanty Town Scarlett O'Hara doll, she said to Julia in singsong, "I'll get her something even nicer if you lock her up."
The first time she mentioned her fatigue with Bill Eastman and her idea of divorcing him, Julia turned to pet Madeline's hair, as if that action might demonstrate to Figgy one's duty to stay the course. Figgy got the gist. "I'm not like you, Julia." She felt strongly enough to repeat what was evident. "I'm not anything like you."
My father was gone all day, but even if he'd been home I think Madeline's affections would have changed. To battle the kindness of her caretaker for long would have taken real endurance, and it's not surprising that she eventually capitulated to my mother's program of industry and safekeeping. They walked down the alley hand in hand, Madeline drawing to Julia's side when they passed a barking dog behind a fence. They went to the community pool, both of them in their modest suits, Julia sitting on the edge while Madeline, towering above the waterline in the shallow end, held her nose and turned incomplete somersaults. She'd come spraying up, digging into her eye sockets with her fists, coughing. My father once remarked, watching her at Moose Lake, that Venus obviously had sputtered at her birth. Every Thursday afternoon Madeline stayed with Russia, so that Mrs. Maciver in her few free hours could do her work with the League of Women Voters, and once in a rare while Grandmother came out on a Saturday so the honeymooners could take their walk in the forest preserve.
At dinner, a few months before I was born, Madeline made her declaration to my father: "I don't like you anymore." She was sitting at her own place, pushing her mushrooms to the edge of her plate with a teaspoon. It was as if she were the one who was finally breaking up.
He nodded slowly. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"I like Julia
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