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Show in my father's house/ 65 And I sat holding him as though he were the finest heirloom crystal in Aunt Gerda's china cupboard. I looked up at Aunt Helga. Our eyes met shine for shine, smile for smile. My mother let me watch as she nursed the baby, her breasts heavy and full as the sun-hot ripe tomatoes in the garden. But her face was long and her eyes red. She rarely smiled since the baby's birth. "What's wrong, Mama?" I asked. Her voice was thin and she shrugged. "I don't know. I guess I don't feel special anymore." I didn't know what to say, so I wandered outside. My older brothers and sisters were cutting spinach at 'the Japs' as we naively called our gentle neighbors, or cleaning cages in Mr. Cheaseman's aviary for twenty-five cents an hour. The peacocks scolded as my brothers moved about the cages. "Help! Help!" the birds cried, a sound which also seemed to come from my heart I went back into the house. My mother was sitting on her bed, crying. Aunt Helga led me away. "Go outside," she whispered. "Your mother isn't feeling well." I felt numb and frightened. For once I didn't let the screen door slam. I saw Leora playing alone in the mud by the garden, but I didn't go to play with her. I knew if she talked about her mother today I would start to cry. When Aunt Helga left in the green Hudson to do the grocery shopping alone, I went inside to my mother. A question was gnawing at me. |