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Show Minnesota, a move they thought signaled the start of their "real" lives together, a new . daughter, a new job, the start of a career. Which is maybe why they bought the Chevrolet convertible, drove it all the way from Texas with me lying in a bassinet wedged in the back seat and a cat named Piwacket wailing the entire way. Perhaps the convertible was a way to set their neighbors at ease, offset the chopsticks and small wooden dishes with bright dollops of hot mustard, the embroidered shirts, the raw silk purses. Amid such upheaval, it is not surprising, that, on a warm summer night, early in the summer, a respite from the cries of a pain-possessed infant, that they jumped in the car, a boat of a Chevy representing both freedom and stability, a recognizable anchor to a country where they often felt isolated. Let's get a pie, my father said, eyes bright at the thought of the gooseberry pies baked in the shop on the other side of town. They had been sitting in the kitchen, black coffee made hours ago now cool in their hands but still good, talking about the number of hours in a day that I cried. A whole pie, my mother added because she remembered how fun it was to share a pie with my father, forks in hand, not a plate in sight. They jumped in the convertible, the top down for the summer, and set off into the Minnesota night that was a bright as day. Trees heavy with summer foliage kept them company on their drive, cars pulling boats to nearby lakes turned into the state parks. My mother tightened the scarf that held her hair, sinking lower into the seat for warmth as the sun dipped below the tops of the trees. It was miles before they remembered they had a baby at home who couldn't be left alone, a baby wrapped in bandages. 36 |