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Show in my father's house/ 168 moved from one place in my mind to another, more remote space. There he stood, far above me - his image unreachable, unattainable, unclaimable. It was my brother Saul who worked part-time in a service station. "And what does he do?" Mrs. Wilson was asking. "What does a service station attendant do for people?" The point of the lesson. "Oh! Well, he gives them gas." The class burst out laughing and I blushed until recess. Aunt Helga waitressed in a casino coffee-shop, leaving at four-thirty in the morning, driving the Hudson when it would start, but more often trudging through the dark streets, passing drunks as they stumbled back to the reservation, trembling as the wind stirred dead leaves behind her. When she came home in the afternoon she sat at the dining table, propped her swollen feet on a chair and emptied her apron pocket. My mother and I stood by to watch her count her tips, for this was our food and utilities; Aunt Helga's salary barely covered the rent. Sometimes Aunt Helga let me stack the dimes, nickels, quarters and half-dollars for her, and she taught me to count change. But more often, she was exhausted to the point of irritation. Why were we so messy, making our poor mother do our work for us? Why couldn't we be quieter? Didn't we know how hard grown-ups worked? And with all she had to worry about - she didn't know how we would ever make ends meet - hadn't she earned a little corner of peace? |