It was our home.
I held my breath when they came out of the bedroom. Daddy stumbled through the kitchen doorway and came back with a fresh bottle of beer.
Mama opened the front door and put the suitcase down. “You are a good-for-nothing drunk. I should’ve listened to my daddy. I could have been a teacher. Instead, I ruined my life by running off to have a baby with you.” She tapped her stomach. “I haven’t learned my lesson yet.”
Daddy stared at Mama for a full thirty seconds. The clock ticked them off one by one.
Then, in the quietest voice I’ve ever heard her use, she said, “Get out, Homer.”
Daddy left the suitcase on the floor. He let the screen door slam behind him. He threw his beer bottle on the sidewalk, and the brown glass shattered. At last the Chevy screeched out of the driveway.
Mama yelled from the doorway, “You are going to crash, you fool!”
As the roar of the engine faded away, Mama fell to her knees and started to cry.
Mama never cries. When she’s mad, she cleans.
Next thing I knew she was stacking Daddy’s books and records on the driveway beside the suitcase. His bowling ball was out there, too. I peeked out the window, praying the neighbors didn’t hear the commotion. After she put Daddy’s favorite chair outside, Mama saw me in the window and yelled, “Freedom! Go to bed!” She was huffing and puffing. Her belly was too big to be dragging furniture around.
Mama went back to her bedroom and called Aunt Janie. The black phone cord snaked all the way across the kitchen floor and got jammed in the closed bedroom door. I could hear Mama crying again.
I put on my pajamas and lay on top of my bed. I couldn’t stop thinking about all those things stacked up on the driveway.
What were the neighbors going to think?
Higgie was snoring in his bed. How could he sleep through all that fighting? I picked at the embroidered yellow daisies on my pillowcase. I got hot and opened the window just a crack. I lay back down and wondered why my daddy had to drink so much beer.
I must have slept some, because when I woke up, the house was still. I smelled cherry tobacco drifting through my open window. At some point Daddy had come home. I snuck out to the kitchen. He was sitting on the back step, smoking his pipe. The chirping crickets and the transistor radio were his only company. I didn’t let him know I was there. I crept back to bed.
When he’s upset about something, Daddy drinks beer after beer and leans up against the house, smoking his pipe, staring at the moon, thinking about important things.
Things that I guess my mama must not understand.
Daddy told Mama once that he’s tired of the way President Eisenhower is running the country. He’s afraid that Mr. Kennedy is going to be the next president and just make things worse. If you ask me, those are some awfully big things to worry about. Maybe Daddy should worry about smaller stuff.
As I began falling asleep for the second time, another thought occurred to me: That baby—the one that Mama ran off with Daddy to have—was me.
Chapter Seven
A Neighborly Chat
SEPTEMBER 1, 1959
This morning Mama told me to return Mrs. Zierk’s cake plate. “I’ve had it long enough,” she said.
Mama had washed it, put it away, and forgotten about it.
“Mama, she probably has loads of plates over there. Maybe, since she hasn’t come for it, she wants us to keep it?” The beige plate has fancy scalloped edges. It didn’t match any of our plain white dinnerware.
Mama held out the plate. “This one looks real special. I’m sure she’s been eating nails, waiting for us to give it back.”
I sighed and walked over to Mrs. Zierk’s. I knocked on her door, hoping she wouldn’t answer. I was bending over to lay the cake plate on the mat when she scared me half to death by peeking around the corner of her yard.
She was holding a rake filled with leaves. “What are you doing on my porch?”
I picked up the plate. “I only came over to bring back your plate. Mama said to tell you that she’s sorry it took so long.” I winced. Mama never actually said that. I shuffled my feet around. “The apple cake was real good,” I added. “My daddy sure enjoyed it. He told Mama to ask for the recipe.” That part was true.
Mrs. Zierk set her rake against the house. “Is that brother of yours with you?” Her gray bun stuck out from under her sun hat.
“No, ma’am.”
She eyed me suspiciously. “Want some lemonade?”
I snuck a look over at my house. “Um...I’m probably not supposed to come inside.”
She shucked off her gardening gloves. “Suit yourself. I’m thirsty.”
I stood there holding the plate, thinking about cold lemonade.
She wiped her feet on the mat. “Are you coming in or not?”
I nodded.
When Mrs. Zierk opened the front door, I peeked over her shoulder. We stood there for a few heartbeats. I wondered if she’d changed her mind about inviting me in. She opened the door all the way and said, “Either wipe your feet or take off your shoes.”
I wiped my feet. The house smelled different from ours. Like old lady perfume. Cinnamon. Cooked green beans. And I don’t know what else. My eyes went all around the room. I’d never seen so much stuff in my life. The walls were lined with paintings of butterflies. There were colorful doilies on every surface, even on top of the television. Books, teacups, framed photographs, and knickknacks were everyplace.
I leaned in to see what was in the big curio cabinet in the dining room. I was snooping, but I couldn’t help it. The shelves were filled with thimbles and spoons from other states.
“I’m going to wash up,” she said. “Pick a chair.”
I noticed a single silver picture frame on top of her shiny black piano. It held a faded photograph of a girl who was probably my age. She looked very serious. A cluster of freckles dotted her nose. She was wearing a frilly white dress, and her hair was curled up like fat sausages.
I looked for a chair. There were three rockers to choose from. I sat down on the one that didn’t have magazines stacked on the seat. The other had a pillow on it. I figured it was Mrs. Zierk’s favorite, since her mail and a telephone were on the table next to it. A silky black cat jumped right up onto my lap and kept purring until I had to pet it. I looked around some more and patted the cat while I waited.
Mrs. Zierk came back carrying a silver tray with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses. She set the tray on the coffee table and groaned as she sat in the rocking chair next to me. “My old bones.”
Her cat jumped from my lap and scampered from the room.
I pointed to the photograph on the piano. “Is that your daughter?”
She barely glanced at it before picking up her knitting bag. Mrs. Zierk pulled out a wad of yarn and began working her knitting needles while she talked. “No, that’s me. I never had any children.” She motioned to the tray. “You go ahead and pour.”
I was careful not to clink the crystal glasses on the metal pitcher, but I was so nervous about spilling, I filled each glass only halfway. I set her glass on the tray. “I grew up in Poland,” she said. “My family came to America when I was ten years old.”
“Is that why you talk funny?”
She smiled a little. “I have tried very hard to speak proper English, but sometimes I forget. I am now Polish-American. It was my husband, Frederic, who had trouble learning English. God rest his sweet soul.”
I thought about last year when Mr. Zierk keeled over. Daddy had sat with Mrs. Zierk while Mama called for an ambulance. Half the town went to the funeral. Mr. Zierk was a nice man.
I told her, “He always gave me a roll of Smarties when he saw me.”
“Frederic got a kick out of your family.” She sipped her lemonade.
I took a long drink from my glass. It was sour but refreshing. I didn’t know if it was okay to set my glass on the coffee table, so I held it. “You must like playing piano
a whole lot.”
She set her glass on the tray and picked up her knitting again. “I was a child prodigy. Played piano since I was three.”
“Sometimes we can hear your playing from our house.”
Mrs. Zierk laughed. “I’m sure it bothers your mother.”
“My daddy enjoys it. He likes to play harmonica. And sing with the radio. My mother sings, too, but mostly at church. Or when she thinks no one is around.”
Mrs. Zierk paused at her knitting and stared me in the eye. “You know, I could teach you how to play piano.”
“Mama says we can’t afford it.”
“Pish. Money. I have plenty of it. What if we worked out a trade?”
I set my glass on the tray and wondered what Mrs. Zierk had in store for me. I figured it would have something to do with hard labor in her garden. She surprised me when she said, “I have some strawberries in the kitchen. Would you like to help me make a batch of jam? My sister usually helps with all of the canning, but she can’t make the trip this year.”
“I don’t know—I mean...I’m very busy right now. I’m supposed to be home practicing for the marble-shooting competition. I’m hoping to enter this year now that I’m ten.” I don’t know why I told her all that, but I couldn’t think of any other reason why I couldn’t stay and help her make jam except that Mama probably wouldn’t want me hanging around Mrs. Zierk’s house all day.
“Aren’t marbles for boys?” Mrs. Zierk asked.
Somehow, I knew she was going to say that. She poured some more lemonade into my glass, but I stood up to go. “My mama is probably wondering where I’ve been.”
She waved at me to sit down. “Don’t get your shirt in a twist. All I meant was, what does your mother think about marble shooting?”
“Well, she’d rather I do something else more ladylike, that’s for sure.”
“Hmph. Are you good at it or not?”
Now, how could I answer such a question without sounding like I was bragging?
“Well, are you?” she pressed.
“Yes!” I said. “I am good at marbles.”
I told her how badly I wanted to win in the marble competition.
Mrs. Zierk told me, “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”
I sat back down. “My daddy says girls can do anything. He said I could fly airplanes one day like Jerrie Cobb if I want. She’s going to be an astronaut. I’ve never even been on an airplane. Daddy says it’s only a matter of time before regular folks can buy a ticket to the moon.”
I was rambling, but Mrs. Zierk didn’t seem to mind. She just nodded and worked on her knitting. I could tell she was really listening to me. So I kept talking. “The other day my daddy came home all excited because a rocket took those pictures of the Earth from space. Of course, Mama said she’d believe it when she saw the pictures in Life. She never believes anything until she sees it in a magazine.”
I had the feeling that I could tell Mrs. Zierk practically anything. Before I knew it I blurted out, “I have a secret.” Mrs. Zierk’s needles stopped clicking together. I leaned forward and whispered, “My mama has another baby in her belly, and I’m not sure she’s happy about it. I’m not sure I’m happy, either.”
Mrs. Zierk sat very still. Then her needles were clicking again. “That secret is for your mother to tell. You shouldn’t talk about private family things, Freedom.”
I knew she was right, and I started to cry. And do you know what Mrs. Zierk did? She put down her knitting and gathered me onto her bony lap.
“Babies aren’t all bad,” she said.
I sniffled. My nose was stuffy and running all at the same time. “They’ve been fighting a lot. My daddy is drinking too much.” I flinched. I hadn’t meant to tell her that.
“Nie ma tego zlego, co by na dobre nie wyszlo,” she whispered.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“Bad things often turn out to be good for you. You’ll see.”
I wiped my nose with one of Mrs. Zierk’s embroidered hankies.
“Let’s make some jam,” she whispered. “Would you like that?”
I nodded.
Mrs. Zierk didn’t hover over me the way Mama does. I carefully cut the top off each strawberry in one swipe with a paring knife. As the syrupy jam cooked on the stove, the air smelled so sweet, I wanted to take big bites of it.
After the jam had thickened up just right, we spooned it into jars. Mrs. Zierk put a dab of melted paraffin on the top of each one. I put the lids on as tight as I could. We boiled the jars in a pot, five at a time.
While the jam cooled, I had my first piano lesson. Mrs. Zierk was a patient teacher. I couldn’t stretch my fingers to the right keys, but I learned a scale. Then I got tired, and I listened while she played a few songs instead.
She was playing the last few notes of a waltz called The Blue Danube when I heard Mama calling for me. “I have to go,” I said.
Mrs. Zierk rose from her piano stool. She rummaged around in her pantry and came out with a jar. “Take some jam.”
“Thanks. I had a nice time.”
She handed me a jar of strawberry jam.
“Will I see you tomorrow? We can have another piano lesson.”
I’d had fun making jam, but wasn’t so sure about learning piano. “I’ll think about it,” I answered.
“Maybe you can show me how to shoot marbles.” Her milky blue eyes sparkled.
I jumped off the porch and ran to my own yard.
Mama was standing in front of our house. “You’ve been gone awhile. What happened?”
“Just having a neighborly chat with Mrs. Zierk.”
“What could you possibly have to chat about?”
“You’d be surprised.”
I told Mama that I’d had a free piano lesson. Mama sighed.
I frowned.
“Would you like a snack? Higgie is napping in the living room,” Mama said.
We tiptoed around Higgie. His mouth was hanging open, and he had a tight grip on his ratty blanket. I’ll admit he does look sweet when he is sleeping. Maybe I’ll try to be more patient with him. It could be good practice for the new baby.
“I also helped Mrs. Zierk with a batch of jam.”
She put the jar in the Frigidaire. “Probably has arsenic in it.” Mama sat down at the kitchen table. “I’ve wanted to talk to you about the other night.”
My face got hot. I sat down next to her.
Mama cleared her throat. “I shouldn’t have said those things in front of you.”
I had to know so I asked her, “What did you mean by ‘running off to have a baby’?”
“Freedom, I was in college when your daddy and I met. My parents were very poor, but they had high expectations for me. The only reason I was in college at all was because I had a scholarship.” Mama looked down at her lap. “Your daddy and I chose to start a family together a little earlier than expected, so I didn’t finish my schooling.”
I reached out across the table and touched Mama’s hand.
“My parents never forgave me for that,” Mama went on. “That’s why you never got to meet them.” She looked up at me. “Things haven’t turned out the way I thought they would, but I love you, Freedom. You and Higgie. And Daddy. I know I’ll love this baby, too. I shouldn’t have said my life is ruined.”
“It’s okay, Mama.”
“No, it’s not,” she said. “And I don’t want you to worry. Daddy said he’s going to try harder.” She squeezed my hand.
The day after their fight, Daddy had bought Mama a bouquet of red carnations, and Mama had helped bring his stuff back inside.
The Chevy pulled into the driveway. Mama straightened her blouse. “Now, help me get a meal going.”
“Thank you for telling me all of that,” I said as she stood up.
Mama nodded. “You’re a good girl, Freedom. I’m sure lucky to have you.”
Chapter Eight
Gone Fishing
SEPTEMBER 5, 1959
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br /> Daddy shook me in the early morning hours. “Come on, baby girl. Get up!”
“It’s still dark.” I rubbed my eyes and tried to snuggle back under the warm covers, but he nudged me again.
“Let’s go fishing, Sugar Beet. It’s Labor Day weekend, and school starts next week!”
Daddy loves taking me to his special fishing hole. Mama says I’m getting too old to play with worms and sit outside all day with my daddy. She also says, “Teaching a man to fish only gives him permission to be a lazy bum.”
That’s not the way we learned it in Sunday school.
I had to get a move on, in case the fish were already jumping. I hopped out of bed, pulled on my brown dungarees, and did my business in the bathroom. There was no reason to bother with my hair, but I brushed my teeth fast and swiped at my sleepy eyes with a washrag.
Daddy popped his head in. “You want to go get Daniel?”
I wrung out the washrag and didn’t look at Daddy when I said, “Nope. He told me he didn’t want to come anymore.”
Daniel used to come fishing with us all the time. Mostly, he’d sit in the shade and read a book, which irritated Daddy, but sometimes Daniel and I would throw sticks into the water and dig in the wet sand.
“His loss,” Daddy said. He ruffled my hair and disappeared.
I felt bad for lying. But I wasn’t ready to admit that Daniel wasn’t talking to me.
I went back to the bedroom to put my marble pouch out of Higgie’s reach. His fat foot was hanging out of the side rail on his bed. I made sure I didn’t wake him when I passed by. Higgie can’t swim, plus he gets tired and mean, so Mama always keeps him home. It was tempting to give his big toe a pinch; but he’d pitch a fit, and Daddy would leave us both behind.
That would make Mama happy. Of course, she thinks fishing is for boys. If we ever get an extra dollar around here, she’s going to put me in ballet class so I’ll learn how to carry myself like a “proper young lady.” There’s no sense in worrying about it. We’ll never have an extra dollar now that a baby is on the way.
The Marble Queen Page 5
