Daddy smiled and sat down on the couch to remove his shoes. I crawled into his lap and he hugged me tight.
“But you know, Cassie, I think Mom’s right about preschool. I think Judy would like being with other kids.”
“Why?” Mama demanded. “So she can learn to be a good little girl? Learn how not to run or laugh too loud or ask questions?”
“No,” Daddy said. “So she can make some friends.”
“She has friends,” Mama said, sitting beside him on the couch. “She has Amy and Rhonda and Derrick.”
“Honey,” Daddy said, shaking his head. “I mean friends her own age, not grown-ups who act like children.”
“Well, she has me,” Mama said firmly.
“And she’ll always have you, Cassie. But don’t you think she might want to play with other children?”
Mama sat quietly for a minute, then smiled at Daddy and said, “Well then, let’s ask her.”
She leaned down to look straight into my face.
“Do you want to go to preschool, Sweet Judy Blue Eyes?” She watched me carefully.
I sank deeper into Daddy’s lap.
All afternoon I’d been thinking about it. I loved playing with Mama and her friends. I loved the charades and the races and the elaborate cardboard playhouses they made.
But sometimes when I watched the other kids heading off for school in the morning, I wondered what it would be like to go with them, to have someone small like me to play with.
I looked up into Mama’s beautiful, hopeful face.
“No, Mama,” I said firmly. “I want to stay here with you.”
And so I did not begin preschool that fall. Instead, I watched from our attic window as the other neighborhood kids left for school with their backpacks, laughing and shoving at each other.
Some kids wore the same clothes every day, the boys in dark blue pants and white shirts, the girls in blue checked jumpers with white blouses. Those children went to Catholic school.
“That’s even worse than public school,” Mama explained, when I asked her why they were all dressed alike. “They are going to have their poor spirits squashed.”
But when they came home from school, laughing and running down the street, they didn’t look squashed to me. They looked happy.
Mama loved to bake. She made bread and chocolate chip cookies and soft, chewy brownies. Often when Daddy came home from work, she had a plate of home-baked goodies waiting. He would eat dinner with us, then drive back downtown to his night classes at law school
One afternoon, just as Mama took a pan of brownies from the oven, the front door swung open and Rhonda arrived, carrying a huge bouquet of daisies.
“Aren’t they gorgeous?” She grinned.
I liked Rhonda. She was small and thin and freckled, and she read stories in the nicest voice.
She joined Mama in the kitchen while I watched cartoons on the television. Shortly after that, Derrick arrived.
“Hey.” He grinned at me. “Who brought my favorite girls those daisies?”
He joined the women in the kitchen, and soon after, the smell of pot filled the apartment.
When Derrick and Mama headed into the bedroom for a nap, Rhonda joined me on the floor in front of the small television. She sat a plate of brownies on the floor.
“Can I have one?”
I loved Mama’s brownies.
“Sure, sweetie,” she said, not looking at me. She seemed transfixed by the television.
The warm chocolate was wonderful, slightly gooey in the center and crisped at the edges. I chewed each bite slowly, savoring the dark fudge taste.
“Rhonda?” My voice sounded like it was coming from very far away.
“Hmmm?”
“I don’t feel good.”
Rhonda tore her gaze from the television to look at me.
“What’s wrong, baby?” I saw her mouth form the words, but my ears were filled with a high-pitched buzzing. At the edges of my vision, a dark circle was closing in.
“Cassie!” Rhonda’s voice pierced the buzzing in my head. “Something’s wrong with Sweet Judy!”
The last thing I saw before the dark circle covered my eyes completely was my mother’s pale face staring down at me, her green eyes wide. Above her stood Derrick, his dark skin glistening with sweat.
I awoke to the drip of Mama’s tears on my face. I lay with my head in her lap. Her hands stroked my damp hair.
“Oh, baby, oh, my Sweet Judy Blue Eyes ... are you okay?”
I turned my head and threw up in her lap.
Derrick laughed then. “She’s all right,” he said. “Let her get it out of her system.”
Mama carried me into the bathroom and put me in the tub. Then she undressed and got into the bath with me.
“I’m so sorry, my Sweet Judy,” she crooned, splashing warm water over my body. “I’m so sorry, sweet baby.”
After the bath, she put me to bed. My ears still rang with a soft buzzing and the afternoon sun came through the window too brightly. As I drifted off to sleep, I heard Mama yelling at Rhonda.
“What were you thinking, giving her those brownies? I told you I had a second batch in the oven for her. Jesus fucking Christ, Rhonda, you gave my baby pot brownies!”
I awoke shortly before Daddy got home. Mama was sitting on my bed, watching me.
“Hi, sweetie.” She smiled. “Do you feel better now?”
I nodded. “Yes, Mama.”
“That’s good, honey. That’s so good. Why don’t you get up, and we’ll set the table for dinner. And, Judy ... baby? Let’s not tell Daddy that you got sick today, okay? Daddy gets so sad when you’re sick.”
I nodded again. Daddy had not seemed particularly sad when I had the flu two months before. But maybe I hadn’t noticed it.
After dinner, Mama brought out a plate of brownies.
“Sweet Judy Blue Eyes.” She smiled at me. “Do you want a brownie? I baked this batch just for you.”
“No, Mama.”
“What? Is Judy turning down a brownie?” Daddy laughed. “Well, I guess we’d better keep an eye out for flying pigs tonight.”
3
One afternoon in winter, Mama and I were in the kitchen kneading bread dough. Mama always gave me a piece of dough to knead and shape into my own loaf.
Mama was singing as she pounded the dough, and I sang along: “Inch by inch, row by row, gonna make this garden grow.”
When the phone rang, Mama wiped the flour from her hands and answered, “Blessings to you, friend. This is Cassie Skylark.”
I watched as the smile drained from her face. Her voice became sharp and fearful.
“When?”
“Is he okay?”
“What hospital?”
When she hung up the phone, Mama’s hands were shaking.
She stood for a long moment in silence, then lifted me from the chair I was standing on by the counter.
“Come on, Sweet Judy. We’re going to have a bath.”
“But, Mama, what about the bread?”
“The bread will have to wait.”
She filled the bathtub, climbed in with me, and began washing my hair.
“Ouch! Mama, you’re pulling too hard.”
“Sorry, sweetie.”
“Why are we taking a bath?”
“Because, my Sweet Judy, when your daddy gets home from work, you and I are going to take the car and drive down to Bloomington to see your grandma and grandpa.”
“Why are they in Bloomington?”
My grandparents lived just a few blocks from us. We saw them every week.
“No, sweetie.” Mama smiled as she poured warm water over my head. “Not your Grandma Anne and Grandpa Earl. We’re going to see my parents ... your Grandma Pat and Grandpa John.”
I had never heard of Grandma Pat and Grandpa John before.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because your Grandpa John is sick, and we need to go see him.”
She toweled me dr
y and chose a dress for me to wear, then braided my hair into a long coil down my back.
When Daddy arrived, we were dressed and ready to go.
“My sister called,” Mama said as Daddy walked in the door.
“Karen? What did she want?”
“My dad had a stroke.”
“Is he all right?”
“I don’t know, Kirk. He’s in the hospital. I need to use the car. I have to go see him.”
“I have class tonight.”
“Can’t you take the bus?”
Daddy looked at her for a minute, then pulled her into a tight hug.
“Yes, honey, of course I can take the bus ... or I’ll borrow Dad’s car. Are you going to stay the night?”
“I don’t know,” Mama said. “Maybe.”
“Well, call me when you get there, okay?”
They kissed, then Mama picked up the suitcase she’d packed and we left for Bloomington.
The hospital was big and smelled of Lysol. We rode the elevator to the third floor, and I followed Mama down a long hallway to a room where several people sat in silent clusters.
“Hi, Mom.” Mama’s voice echoed in the quiet room.
A tall, slender woman rose from a couch. She looked blankly at Mama.
“Cassandra,” she said, finally. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
She didn’t move toward us, didn’t smile.
Finally, Mama walked to her and wrapped her arms around the woman’s neck. The woman let Mama hold her briefly, then took a slight step back, away from her.
“Karen called me,” Mama said. “How’s Dad?”
“He’s going to be fine,” the woman said. “It was a small stroke, and there doesn’t seem to be any paralysis. There was no need for you to come.”
“Oh.” Mama’s shoulders slumped slightly. “I guess ... I thought you might want to meet your granddaughter.”
She turned to me and held out her hand.
“Mom, this is my Sweet Judy Blue Eyes.”
She pulled me toward the woman.
I stared at the woman in silence. She didn’t look like a grandmother. . . at least not like my grandmother.
Grandma Anne was soft and round. She wore housedresses and fuzzy slippers and curlers in her gray hair.
The woman standing before me was thin and well dressed ... like the ladies who worked at the bank. She wore a dark gray skirt and a cream-colored sweater and very high-heeled sling-back shoes. A single strand of pearls circled her slender throat. Her dark blond hair was cut short around her face.
She knelt before me, staring into my eyes.
“Her eyes aren’t blue,” she said after a long silence.
Mama sighed.
“Hello, Judy.” The woman smiled at me, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “I’m your Grandma Pat.”
She hugged me briefly, her arms light around my shoulders. Then she stood, one hand smoothing her skirt, the other touching the pearls at her throat. I watched her, wondering how she could maneuver in such high heels.
“So then”—she turned back toward Mama—“there really was no need for you to come, Cassandra.”
“Can I see Dad?” Mama asked.
“No.” The woman shook her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’ll just upset him.”
“But, Mom, I brought Sweet Judy just to meet him.”
“You’ve had four years to bring your child, Cassandra. It’s a bit late now, don’t you think?”
Mama stood in silence, but I could see she was shaking. After a long minute of awful silence, she straightened her shoulders, took my hand, and pulled me back toward the hallway.
I looked back as we walked away down the hall. The woman stood watching us for a moment, then returned to the couch and picked up a magazine.
We sat in the car for a few minutes before Mama finally started the motor.
“Mama?”
“Yes, baby.”
“Why doesn’t she like us?”
Mama sighed and reached out to stroke my hair.
“Because she’s a mean woman,” she said softly. “I’m sorry I brought you here, sweetie. I’d forgotten what a mean woman she is.”
Mama bought me dinner at Burger Chef and drove in silence as I ate a lukewarm hamburger and French fries.
By the time we got home, it was dark and I was only half awake. Mama carried me from the car, up the three flights of steps to our apartment, and laid me in the bed she shared with Daddy, not even bothering to undress me.
A few minutes later, the familiar sweet smell of pot filled the room. Then the sound of Paul McCartney came crooning, “Yesterday, all my troubles seemed so far away. Now it looks as though they’re here to stay. Oh, I believe in yesterday.”
Soon after, I felt Mama curl herself around me in the bed, the way she did sometimes when Daddy was away late at class. Just before I drifted into a troubled sleep, I felt her tears hot on the back of my neck.
4
On my fifth birthday, Mama threw an elaborate party. Streamers draped from every window and light fixture in the apartment, cardboard cutout circus animals marched across the walls, and balloons covered the floor. Rhonda and Amy helped Mama build a huge cardboard castle on the front lawn, using appliance boxes they’d found behind the hardware store. Painted neon pink with bright green trim, the castle stood a good five feet tall. A bright purple sock flew in lieu of a flag. It was perfect.
Grandma Anne and Grandpa Earl joined us for the festivities, and even they liked the castle. Daddy grilled hot dogs and laughed as he watched Mama dance with me on the lawn. Mama had no sense of rhythm, but that never deterred her from dancing. I guess it would have embarrassed me had I been older, but I didn’t know better then. By the time I did, Mama would be long gone.
After lunch, Amy and I sat in the castle, looking through the spyglass she had given me for my birthday. Rhonda slept on the lawn in her bikini, her body shiny with baby oil. Grandma and Grandpa had gone home, and Mama and Daddy sat on the front steps of the house, drinking beer. Mama’s head rested on Daddy’s shoulder, her hand rested in his lap. Life was good.
“Hey, where’s the birthday girl?”
I poked my head out of the castle to see Derrick on the sidewalk, grinning broadly. In his arms was a big wrapped box.
“I’m here,” I called, running to hug him. Derrick hadn’t been around for a while.
“Happy birthday, munchkin!” He kissed my hair and set the box in front of me. Then he sat down on the grass to watch me pull away the wrappings.
“Mama! Look! Look what Derrick brought me!”
A perfect pink bicycle emerged from the box, just big enough for a five-year-old girl. The bike sported a white basket in front and two training wheels behind. It even had a bell.
I danced from foot to foot as Derrick pulled the bike free from the wrapping paper.
“Derrick,” Mama called. “How in the world did you get that?”
She ran across the lawn to see the beautiful bike. Daddy stood on the steps, shading his eyes with a hand, frowning.
“Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.” Derrick laughed, watching as Mama scooped me up to perch me on the bicycle seat.
“Kirk,” she said, turning toward my father. “Come see the bike!”
Daddy turned abruptly and walked into the house. The screen door slammed behind him.
“Come on, Sweet Judy.” Amy was pulling the bicycle forward. “Let’s see you ride this thing.”
I watched Mama stand a moment, looking from me and the bicycle to the screen door. She smiled at me and said, “Go ahead, honey, show Amy how you can ride.” Then she turned and walked into the house.
Derrick and Amy cheered as I wobbled the bike down the sidewalk, showing me how to apply the brakes and steer. Rhonda watched from the lawn. I waited for Mama to reappear. But she didn’t.
Finally, I climbed off the bike and ran toward the house. Amy followed.
“Wait up, Sweet Judy,” she cal
led. “Wait for me.”
But I only ran faster.
At the top of the stairs, our apartment door was closed. Behind the door, I could hear Mama yelling.
“For God’s sake, Kirk, it’s just a bike! It’s not like he bought her a car! Why can’t you be reasonable?”
Amy pounded up the stairs behind me, calling ahead, “Judy, wait for me. Just wait for me.”
Behind the door, the yelling stopped. I stood with my hands on the doorsill, my heart pounding hard.
The door opened, and Mama smiled down at me.
“It’s okay, sweetie,” she crooned, hugging me tight. “It’s all right.”
Daddy brushed by us, knocking Mama off balance, then pounded down the stairs past Amy. A moment later, we heard the car start and the wheels screech out of the driveway. I looked out the window and saw Derrick still standing on the front lawn, watching Daddy’s car drive away.
“Come on, Judy.” Amy held her hand out to me. “Let’s go ride that bike.”
I shook my head and clung tight to Mama.
“It’s okay, Amy,” she said. “Come on in. Let’s have a drink.”
We sat at the kitchen table. Mama poured grape juice for me and vodka tonics for herself and Amy.
“I don’t need the bike, Mama,” I whispered.
She brushed the back of her hand across her eyes.
“Don’t be silly, Sweet Judy,” she said firmly. “That’s your bicycle. It’s your birthday bicycle. And nobody is going to take it away from you.”
Rhonda came in then, pulling a T-shirt over her bikini. “Derrick left,” she announced. “What’s with Kirk?”
Mama sent me to my room then, to look at books. I lay on the bed and listened to Mama and Amy and Rhonda talking in the front room.
“Why does he have to be such a pig?” Mama said. “It’s not like I asked Derrick to buy it.”
“Men!” Rhonda spat the word out like it tasted bad in her mouth. “Bourgeoisie, capitalist, domineering, patriarchal bastards!”
“Amen!” Mama’s voice sounded slurry.
“Well,” Amy spoke softly. I had to strain to hear her. “You can’t really blame Kirk. Sweet Judy is his daughter. He wanted to get her a bike. And it’s got to hurt that he can’t, but Derrick can.”
The Sometimes Daughter Page 2