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Show in my father's house/ 138 The moon was waxing full again when the city ran out of water. At first we thought it was a problem with the plumbing because the toddlers sometimes flushed soiled diapers down the toilet, stopping up the main pipes so that the entire system mysteriously balked. To make matters worse, the babies had dysentery. Diapers piled up in each of the three luxurious bathrooms so even the sweet gardenias blooming around the stucco mansion couldn't camouflage the stench. Each day, the babies grew weaker, more diarrhetic. In one week, my little brother -- now nine months old -- became as spindly as the day he was born. His skin sallowed and his cry was pitifully weak. We bought water as long as jugs were available, and when that was gone, we bought Seven-up to drink. In Salt Lake, soda pop was a rare treat, but after two days of drinking nothing else, of tasting it in our food and of dabbing it on our lips, I hated the sticky sweetness. At last, when we learned that the entire area was out of water and when my baby brother's temperature reached 104, Aunt Helga called my father. He arrived three days later, weary but smiling, and -- we could tell -- very glad to see us. He had driven straight through, stopping only to nap for an hour or two on the roadside, "I'm taking you girls home," he declared as he came through the front entrance, stooping to miss the doorjam. The mothers ran to him and clustered in the circle of his |