Full Cicada Moon

by Marilyn Hilton

  I feel it.”

  Good News and Sadness

  Timothy and Pattress cross the fence

  while I’m feeding the turkeys.

  “I have some news,” he says,

  taking the bucket of grain from me.

  He pours it into the feeder.

  “Is it good news?” I ask.

  “I think so.”

  “I have news, too.”

  “You first,” Timothy says.

  I tell him, “We’re staying in Hillsborough.”

  “Cool,” he says. “Because my news is

  I’m staying here till next June.”

  “That’s great news,” I say, and smile.

  But Timothy’s eyes look sad.

  “Right?”

  “Sure,” he says, and shrugs,

  and keeps looking at me like he needs more

  than a smile.

  We give the turkeys fresh water,

  and Timothy helps me lock the pen.

  Pattress has been sitting outside all this time

  and wags her tail when we come out.

  Finally I ask, “Why are you staying here?

  Doesn’t your mother want you home,

  now that Wesley’s in Vietnam?”

  Then he tells me a little

  about his life in New York

  and why he’s staying with his grumpy uncle.

  “My dad and mom are divorced.

  He left us when I was three.”

  “Do you remember your dad?”

  “Not really. My mom and Wesley

  have told me stories,

  but now I don’t know if I remember him or the stories.

  Mom thinks I need to be around someone

  who can be like a father.

  She doesn’t like that I like to cook.”

  “My dad likes to cook.”

  “I would tell her that

  if I didn’t have to keep it a secret

  that I come over here.”

  “You have to keep lots of secrets. Isn’t it hard

  to keep them all straight?”

  “I like coming over,” he says.

  “It’s one of the only reasons

  I even want to stay with my uncle.”

  Then I say what Papa says all the time:

  “You are welcome to visit us anytime.”

  Timothy smiles finally.

  “I wish I lived here. I wish

  I had your family.”

  “I don’t think you’d want to be in my family.

  It’s not always easy.”

  “My family isn’t easy, either.”

  Now I know

  that what Timothy needed more than a smile

  was for me to hear his story.

  I give him a hug

  for the first time,

  and he hugs me back

  as if he has wanted to forever.

  It feels good. And now I’m glad

  my family voted to stay.

  Language

  Dr. Haseda has come to visit us again

  with Baby Cake, who

  has grown up so much since April.

  Now she walks without lurching

  and has lots more teeth.

  I take her outside and blow bubbles

  so Mama and her friend can visit alone.

  Kate chases the bubbles and pops them

  with her fingers and her face,

  and laughs and screams

  and falls down.

  Timothy crosses the fence

  and gives Kate pony rides on his back.

  She grabs the neck of his T-shirt

  and his ears

  as he neighs and whinnies through the grass.

  She wants to ride on Pattress, too,

  who would let her,

  but we say no,

  and blow more bubbles.

  Then Timothy has to leave,

  and Kate and I go inside, where our mothers

  are drinking tea with lemon and eating ginger cookies

  that Dr. Haseda brought.

  She gives one to her daughter.

  And when she sets Kate on her lap,

  Mama presses her hand over her heart

  and looks at me.

  “I am thinking of offering a class in the tea ceremony,” Dr. Haseda says to Mama

  in Japanese.

  Mama sets her teacup in the saucer. “Did you know

  I am certified to teach osado?”

  “My, my,” Dr. Haseda says. “I don’t suppose you’d be interested in teaching my class.”

  Mama looks at her teacup to hide her smile. “I might be.

  I’ll need to talk to my husband first.”

  This is Mama’s way of hiding her glee.

  “Of course,” says Dr. Haseda,

  who puts her teacup down and gathers her daughter.

  She knows Mama’s answer will be yes.

  I would not be able to explain to Timothy or Stacey

  or anyone else in Hillsborough how

  I understand the language

  behind their words.

  Tilling

  Papa nudges his dinner plate,

  but Mama doesn’t take it to the sink right away.

  When I get up to leave,

  she says, “Stay, Mimi-chan,”

  and starts telling Papa about Dr. Haseda’s visit,

  what a nice person she is,

  and how big Baby Cake has grown.

  Papa nods patiently.

  I’m holding my breath for the punch line,

  because Mama’s way is to feel out the mood,

  till the soil before planting the seeds.

  Finally Papa asks, “What else?”

  kindly.

  “She wants to introduce students to tea ceremony this fall.”

  “And she asked you to teach,” Papa says.

  “That’s right.”

  “Can you handle it?” Papa asks. “There are turkeys

  and the house and the family.”

  “Up to you,” Mama says.

  “Do you want to teach?” Papa asks.

  “What do you think?” she asks.

  Mama’s face has no expression—

  not joy or sadness or anticipation.

  She stares at Papa, waiting.

  “It’s fine with me,” he says,

  and smiles, as if making a decision like that is a burden

  he carries with reverence.

  Mama’s mouth twitches into a smile

  she can’t stop,

  so she takes Papa’s plate to the sink.

  “Oh,” she says, turning around,

  “something else. . . . She asked if Mimi can babysit for Kate

  on Saturday night.”

  “Me, babysit?” I ask.

  I can’t keep my smile from taking over my face

  or my squeals from bouncing off the walls.

  “You’re certainly not your mother,” Papa says, laughing.

  I look from him to Mama. “Can I?

  I want to do it.

  And I can handle it.”

  “I’ll ask her for the details,” Papa says,

  “and tell her yes.”

  And that’s how Mama and I get our first jobs

  in Hillsborough on the same day.

  Babysitting Baby Cake

  Dr. Haseda opens the fridge. “Here

  are her bottles.” They’re all lined up on the middle shelf.

  “Always heat them in warm water,” she says

  just like a teacher.

  “But she just ate

  and shouldn’t be hun
gry. In fact,

  she’ll probably sleep straight through for you.”

  “So I won’t get to play with her?” I ask.

  “Not tonight, but maybe next time,

  if you want to come back.”

  Her husband, Rick, is a sculptor,

  who works in their garage.

  He has long hair and a bushy beard.

  At first, he and Dr. Haseda didn’t seem to fit.

  But after five minutes I knew they were perfect for each other.

  They’re going to a movie at the college.

  “We won’t be late,” Dr. Haseda says,

  and shows me a number next to the phone.

  But I say, “I’ll be fine . . . we’ll be fine.

  Kate and I are best friends. Don’t worry. Have fun.”

  After they leave, I go to Kate’s room

  to check on her. She’s lying on her side

  and her mouth is open just a little.

  She smells like milk and baby shampoo,

  and her lips are moving like she’s chewing.

  She has kicked off her blanket, so I pull it back over her,

  and I go back to the living room and look at the magazines.

  Then I get a Fudgsicle

  and turn on The Dating Game.

  The show is almost over

  when Kate starts to cry—low and soft

  and building up.

  I run to her room. She’s standing in her crib.

  She sees me and stops crying

  but looks dazed.

  Then she wails and grabs the railing of her crib.

  “Mama mama mama!”

  “It’s okay, Baby Cake. Remember me? I’m Mimi.

  We blew bubbles together,” I say,

  wishing I’d brought bubbles tonight.

  “Can I pick you up?”

  She shakes her head and cries more.

  “I’ll be right back,” I say,

  and bring a bottle from the fridge.

  But she throws it to the floor.

  “Mama mama mama,” she cries louder.

  “Kate, you’ll wake up the neighbors,”

  I say, even though it’s only eight o’clock.

  I help her lie down again, but she stiffens

  and pops up, pulls on the crib railing.

  So I take her out of the crib

  and carry her to the living room.

  She wants to get down

  and cries more.

  Now I don’t feel like babysitting.

  I’m no good at it,

  and I want to cry, too.

  I try holding her and feeding her

  and rocking her and putting her back in her crib,

  but she cries all through My Three Sons.

  I can’t take anymore,

  so I call the number by the phone.

  It rings and rings, but no one answers,

  and I drop the phone back into the cradle

  and look at the clock. Maybe they’ll be home

  in an hour, or two hours. Or three.

  I’m thirteen now and should be able to handle

  things like this on my own, but I can’t handle this,

  and I call home.

  When Mama answers, I can only talk

  between Kate’s screams and my sobs.

  I feel like I’m drowning, but when Mama says,

  “I’ll come soon, Mimi-chan,”

  I know I’ve found a rowboat to roll into

  and rest.

  When Mama comes, she picks up Baby Cake

  and coos to her. “What a good girl you are.

  Why are you crying for Mimi?”

  Mama takes her back to her room

  and changes her diaper.

  “Where’s her bottle?” Mama asks,

  smoothing Baby Cake’s soft hair

  as she drinks,

  watching Mama. And blinks.

  “She’s tired. That’s all,” Mama says,

  and picks her up, sways in place.

  Kate’s eyes close and she looks heavy on Mama’s shoulder.

  I take the bottle from her limp hand.

  Mama lays her gently in her crib.

  Baby Cake sleeps on,

  and Mama waits with me in the living room,

  watching Hogan’s Heroes until we’re sure

  Kate will stay asleep.

  “I’ll go now,” Mama says. “You’ll be fine.”

  I know why Mama is leaving

  instead of staying with me—

  so Kate’s mom and dad will see

  that everything went fine

  while I was in charge.

  Going Home

  When Papa’s older sister, Fiona,

  was fourteen, she was burned in a fire.

  But she survived,

  and after that, they called her Phoenix—

  the bird that rose from ashes.

  Auntie Phoenix was the only person in Papa’s family

  who kept in touch with him

  after he and Mama got married.

  Today, Auntie’s husband called.

  Last night she had a heart attack

  and died

  in peace.

  Papa’s leaving for her funeral in Baltimore.

  I’m not going

  because I need to keep Mama company.

  Mama’s not going

  because she has to stay with me.

  And because when Papa married Mama,

  his family disowned him.

  Jitter Legs

  Jitter legs is not a dance

  or a disease

  or the feeling you get when you walk too long in the snow.

  Because Papa is still in Baltimore,

  he can’t drive me to school today—

  my first day of eighth grade.

  But he and Mama had already decided

  I’m old enough now to take the school bus.

  And I have decided I’m old enough

  to walk by myself

  to the bus stop at the end of the road.

  Timothy had said that on our first day of school

  he’d meet me down the street from Mr. Dell’s.

  But he isn’t here,

  so I keep walking

  and tell myself, “Everything will be okay.

  It’s only school,

  this year I’m one of the big kids,

  and I’m not new.

  Timothy is not at the bus stop,

  and neither is the bus.

  A few cars, a motorcycle, and

  a truck carrying chickens whiz by me

  on the road into town.

  The little fear comes back, inching

  from my chest to my arms

  and legs, up to my head.

  It’s hard to breathe.

  Who will my teachers be?

  Will the kids act differently this year

  around me, toward me?

  Will I make more friends?

  Will Timothy come on time?

  I can’t just stand here and wait,

  so I walk in a circle, taking big steps

  like the astronauts on the moon.

  They must have been more afraid

  than I am now, but they

  walked around the moon anyway,

  and did what they had to do.

  Finally, Timothy comes down the hill.

  “Sorry I’m late,” he says, and hands me a Pop-Tart

  that’s still warm.

  I stop walking, relieved to see him, and take a bite.

  Then the bus rolls down the road

  and thuds to a stop ri
ght in front of us.

  The door folds open.

  Timothy waits behind me.

  Jitter legs

  is standing at the bus stop,

  scared that eighth grade will be just like seventh,

  but knowing you have to get on the bus

  and do what you have to do.

  One Small Step

  Loneliness is

  Watching your sea-blue home floating in the blackness

  hundreds of thousands of miles away.

  Leaving your cousins

  to live where no one speaks your language.

  Being abandoned by your family,

  then visiting your favorite sister after she has died.

  Waiting at the bus stop by yourself

  and feeling like it’s last year all over again.

  Fear is

  Standing on the ladder of Eagle

  before taking one small step—

  one giant leap—

  into the ancient dust.

  Lining up on a gangplank in Los Angeles

  before taking your first step

  into your new country, Amerika,

  with your new husband,

  knowing you can never go back home.

  Gathering with thousands of other people

  about to step together

  to a song of freedom and equality for everyone,

  no matter what it may cost.

  Watching the bus door open

  and reading WATCH YOUR STEP

  as you lift your foot

  on your first day of eighth grade.

  But courage is

  Taking that one small step

  anyway.

  Eighth Grade

  The not-so-good things about eighth grade:

  The bus route home takes so long that I almost get carsick

  Miss Bonne said I’m flabby

  There’s a lot more homework in eighth grade

  No one looks like me, but a new boy comes close

  Kids think I should have a crush on the new boy

  Girls still can’t take shop

  And the things that are pretty great:

  I have Mrs. Stanton again for science

  We’re studying the space program

  I like cooking better than sewing

  I eat lunch with Stacey and Timothy

  Miss Bonne thinks I should try out for volleyball