We hurried on to the doctor’s office. When it was her turn, Mama told us to be good. “And keep an eye on Higgie,” she told me sternly. I watched her walk down the hall with Doc Brooks and waited for Higgie to throw a fit.
But he didn’t. The pretty receptionist with brown eyes had him under her spell.
“I’m Miss Hill,” she told Higgie from behind her big desk. “Would you like to come and sit with me, Higginbotham? We can color.” She held out a coloring book and a green crayon.
Higgie stood on one foot and cocked his head. “Nope.” A few seconds later, he said, “Want to see my boo-boo?” He climbed up onto her lap and started to unwrap his hurt thumb.
Miss Hill examined it. “Oh, my. What happened?” Then she winked at me.
Higgie told her how I’d slammed the car door on his hand. She gave him a stick of Juicy Fruit gum from her purse and put a Band-Aid on Higgie’s boo-boo. Then she drew a couple of stars on the Band-Aid with a ball-point pen.
It’s always this way. Higgie can charm anyone when he wants to.
I stared at the closed door of the examining room. Mama was taking forever. Waiting is hard work. I stared at the bright white floor and counted the tiles. I studied the paintings on the walls. One was of a tall building. One was of a bowl of flowers. I decided that the artwork didn’t go with the orange plastic chairs we were sitting in. Or the brown carpet. My chair got more uncomfortable by the minute.
Still, I sat nicely, with my hands in my lap, while my brother took too many trips to the drinking fountain in the hall. Miss Hill couldn’t stop him. The front of his shirt got soaked. He swallowed his gum. He drove his Matchbox car all around the floor on his hands and knees. He asked “When’s Mama coming?” a hundred times.
At last Mama came out of the examining room. The minute Higgie spied her, he jumped up and said, “Hi, Mama! Look at my fancy Band-Aid.”
Mama smiled weakly. Her face was flushed, and she tucked a wrinkled hankie into her pocketbook. “Did you thank the nice lady?”
“They’ve been perfect little angels,” Miss Hill said. She put the crayons in her desk drawer and patted her platinum hair.
I rolled my eyes. No matter what Higgie does, people always say he’s an angel. Probably because of his curly blond hair and blue eyes and chubby pink cheeks. I’m sure Miss Hill was secretly glad we were leaving.
Mama nodded curtly to Miss Hill, checked her watch, and grabbed Higgie’s hand. “We’d better go!”
I asked Mama, “Is everything okay?”
“I’m gaining too much weight is all.” She saw my worried face and smiled again. “I guess I’d better not have a piece of pie after supper tonight!”
I laughed.
She said, “Don’t worry, Freedom.”
Higgie wouldn’t stop talking all the way home, asking why we couldn’t go for ice cream, why was there a dog all alone on the side of the road, and why was the fence around the park so white?
When we got to our house, Mama set her pocketbook on the counter. “Why don’t you two go outside and play?”
“It’s too hot,” I said. “Can’t I lie on the floor in the living room and listen to the radio?”
I’d been good all day and I told her so.
She looked kind of tired. “Please go and get some fresh air, Freedom. And take your brother with you so I can have five minutes to myself.”
“But what about my boo-boo?” asked Higgie.
Mama leaned down and kissed it. “Higginbotham, there’s a bandage on it. It’s time for you to toughen up.” Mama pointed to the back door. “Go!”
I wasn’t in the mood to play outside, especially without Daniel; but lately it seems like he’s always got to mow the lawn or do chores around the house for his mama. Daddy keeps saying he’s going to hire Daniel to help him fix up our house. The white siding is starting to chip off in big sheets. Mama says the house is falling apart. She might be right. The sidewalk is cracked out front, the gate hinge squeaks, and the gutter is full of leaves and gunk half the time. Just last week Mrs. Zierk left a note on the front door about the “shabby exterior” and the “piece of junk” in the driveway.
Daddy says he doesn’t have the time to work on it. Mama says it seems like he’s got plenty of time to drink beer.
The minute we were out on the sagging back porch, Higgie ran off. I sniffed the air. I could smell a clove cigarette next door, so I peeked through the slats in the side fence. Mrs. Zierk was out in her garden, mumbling in Polish. Bees as big as silver dollars hovered around her wiry gray hair, while she used her broom to smack the grasshoppers off her corn stalks. She looks like a witch, but she’s got the prettiest garden you’ve ever laid eyes on.
In the afternoons she sits on a chair on the back porch guarding her garden, watching everything and everyone with her all-seeing eyes. I feel like they’re always on me, even when I’m in my own backyard. I decided to ignore her.
Mama poked her head out the kitchen window. “Freedom, can you pick some green beans?”
“Yes, Mama.” She handed me the colander.
I wondered if there’d be any beans left in Mama’s pitiful garden. The only things that ever sprout for Mama are green beans, tomatoes, lettuce, and onions. The rabbits have eaten most of the lettuce. The onions are puny, and the tomatoes never turn red.
Old Mrs. Zierk can grow just about everything God ever invented and then some.
Strawberries and raspberries. Bushels of lettuce. Big tomatoes. Beautiful onions. Cucumbers. And potatoes. Rhubarb grows wild in patches all around her backyard. Giant sunflower plants crawl up the side of Mrs. Zierk’s house. She cans pickles and beets and all kinds of jam right in the backyard on top of a camping stove. The delicious smells drift around the whole neighborhood and nearly drive me crazy.
The ground was squishy and the air was so thick and muggy, I could barely breathe. I decided to dig for worms before I picked beans. Daddy has me collecting fishing worms in a coffee can for him. He gives me a penny for each one I dig up. So far we’ve got twenty.
I found the good silver spoon that I keep hidden under the rocks by the back step. It’s the perfect spoon for digging. I made a teensy-tiny hole in the grass and put my finger down into it but didn’t find a worm. I took a peek at the back porch. If Mama found me digging with her spoon, I’d need my Last Will and Testimony sooner than I thought.
Mama’s been crankier than usual. Seems she’s always yelling at me for something I did, or something I didn’t do, or something she thinks I’m doing behind her back.
It makes me cranky, too.
The sun was burning my neck when I made another hole over by the garden gate. I pulled up a jagged rock and tossed it aside. Sure enough, there was a long, wiggly worm underneath. I bent down to pull the earthworm from the ground. He was so cold and gooey, I almost couldn’t keep ahold of him. I wiped my fingers on my dress and pulled him up. I named him Jake and tucked him in my pocket.
It was time to pick those blasted beans for Mama.
I had about sixteen wrinkly beans in the colander when Higgie came around the corner of our house. The matted tail of his coonskin cap bobbed up and down. He was singing the ABC song while he whacked away at Mama’s tulips with a stick.
“A, B, C, D, E, F, G...”
I waited for Mama to come out and start hollering about the tulips, but she didn’t.
I had an idea. I took Jake from my pocket and kissed him on the head. Or maybe it was his tail. The earthworm curled around my palm, leaving a trail of slimy goo. I shivered in the hot sun. “Don’t worry, Jakey,” I said. “I’m not going to stab you with a fishing hook. Not today, my friend.”
I should’ve put that worm in the can. Heck, I could’ve even given him a ride on the tire swing first. But I didn’t. I decided to play Higgie’s favorite game. I called, “Higgie!”
That dumb bunny came galloping toward me and swung the pointy stick right in my face. “Look, Freedom. Look at my magic wand!”
He mu
st have gone back inside, and even though Mama told us to stay out, she’d tied a green-striped dish towel around his neck like a cape. He always pretends he’s a magician. Or Superman. But we aren’t supposed to play with sticks in case someone’s eye gets poked out.
“Stop it!” I grabbed Higgie by his cape. “Do you want to play Surprise with me or not? If you do, you’ll have to close your eyes. No peeking.”
After he squeezed his eyes shut, I threw the stick into the bushes. He wiggled around. There was dirt on his cheek, and his breath smelled like he’d been chewing on grass. I waved my hand in front of his face to see if he was peeking. He was. He giggled and opened one eye.
I poked him in the chest. “Do you want the surprise or not?”
“What do you have for me, Freedom?” He stuck out his pink tongue and panted like a puppy.
I thought I heard Mama coming. I checked the back door. No sign of her. “Here we go! Open your mouth, close your eyes, and you will get a big surprise.” I made sure his eyes were closed. Then I dangled Jake right over my brother’s mouth.
Next thing I knew, I had stepped in the mud with my brand-new penny loafers because Mama had nearly scared me senseless.
“Freedom Jane! What has gotten into you?” she hollered. “I can’t believe I saw you feeding that worm to your brother! I never!”
“I didn’t feed it to him, Mama. It was on his tongue for less than a second.” Higgie was sputtering and making a terrible racket. “A worm won’t hurt him.”
Jake lay in the grass at our feet. Mama was still yelling. “And you’re wearing your new school shoes, too!”
She led me by the arm into the house. The colander of green beans got dumped over in the dirt.
“Go to your room until Daddy gets home, Freedom.”
Maybe I’d gone overboard with that earthworm, but Higgie had begged me for a surprise. Jake was all I had.
When Daddy got home, he agreed with Mama. I had to stay in my room for the rest of the night.
Mama brought me a peanut butter sandwich. “I’m sorry,” I told her. “I am really sorry.”
Before she closed my bedroom door, she said, “There are consequences, Freedom. You need to start thinking about these kinds of things before you do them.”
See, the problem is, I get these kinds of ideas all the time. It’s from my “active imagination.” My fourth-grade teacher, Miss Birney, wrote that on my report card.
I ate the sandwich for supper alone on my bed, not the least bit sad about missing out on liver and onions. Or the wrinkly green beans! But I’ve cried two buckets of tears over the banana cream pie Mama had made for dessert.
I’m going to starve to death if my brother doesn’t stop getting me in trouble.
Chapter Three
Mama’s Rules
AUGUST 11, 1959
Daddy’s taken up bowling in a league. Mama says it’s just another excuse to go out drinking with Uncle Mort and avoid his responsibilities at home. Every Tuesday night, right before supper, Daddy goes out wearing a freshly starched red bowling shirt that says HOMER in yellow stitching on the pocket, and he stays out until at least eleven. The rumble of the Chevy usually wakes me up when he comes home.
He doesn’t even know how to bowl. It’s making Mama foam at the mouth.
Before he left tonight, Mrs. Zierk came over and rapped at the screen door. When Daddy answered, she pointed to her giant white Cadillac at the curb. “Won’t start,” she said. Then she walked away without waiting for a response.
Mama said, “It’s not our problem, Homer.” She followed him out to the yard. Higgie and I went after them. “You don’t have to help her, you know. We don’t owe that Commie a thing.”
Mama is convinced that Mrs. Zierk is a Communist for three reasons: 1) because of the way Mrs. Zierk snoops over the fence without saying hello; 2) because she drives too fast; and 3) because she swears in a different language: Polish. (You can tell when she’s swearing because she waves her arms and points at our house with her broom.)
I’m not exactly sure what a Communist is, but I know that Mrs. Zierk used to be a concert pianist, which sounds kind of similar. Now she gives lessons to kids and plays for funerals and events all over town. We hear that piano all summer because the windows are open. I don’t mind, but Mama sure does. She complains about it to everyone we know.
Mama and Mrs. Zierk are always fighting about something. Most often it’s on account of the burning bush that’s in between our houses. It’s called a burning bush because it’s green during the summer and turns bright red in the fall. I think it’s ever so pretty. Mama wants to chop it down because of the white spiders that live in it. Mrs. Zierk says she won’t get rid of “the last thing my beloved husband planted right before he keeled over in the tomatoes.”
Whenever Mrs. Zierk isn’t around, Mama takes the big garden shears and cuts off a branch at a time. This morning Mama got caught. Mrs. Zierk stomped around on our porch bright and early, as mad as a wet cat, bawling Mama out. Mama called her an “old crone” and slammed the door in her face.
If only Mama would stop cutting up the burning bush—and if only Daddy would stop chucking his beer cans over the fence—maybe that cranky old woman wouldn’t hate us so much.
Out in front of her house, Mrs. Zierk already had the hood of the Cadillac up. She was peering at the engine on her tippy-toes like a ballerina, except she was wearing black witchy shoes. Her green-flowered dress was blowing in the breeze. I caught a glimpse of her lacy slip.
Higgie tried to get a look at the engine, too. “Get your sticky hands off my Caddy,” Mrs. Zierk told him.
Mama said, “Come here, Higginbotham.” Higgie went and hid in Mama’s skirt with his fingers in his mouth. I sat on the step while Daddy pulled our car around.
Mrs. Zierk climbed into her car. Daddy got the jumper cables out of the Chevy’s trunk and fixed the Cadillac right up. That old lady didn’t even say thank you. After she revved the engine a few times, Daddy took the cables off her battery and let the hood shut. Mrs. Zierk nodded at Daddy, scowled at Mama, and drove away.
Daddy grinned and shook his head as he reached into the Chevy window to cut the engine.
“See what I mean, Homer,” Mama said. “There’s just no pleasing that woman.”
Daddy checked his watch. “I guess I’m not going bowling tonight.”
Now Mama grinned. Daddy leaned over and kissed her right on the mouth in front of God and everybody on Lilac Street.
“What are you making me for supper, woman?” he asked.
Mama practically whispered into Daddy’s mouth when she said, “Spam and eggs.” She squealed when Daddy let her go, and they chased each other into the house.
I wrinkled my nose—both for the kiss and the Spam. Ick. “Come on,” I said to Higgie.
While we were eating supper, someone left half an apple cake on the back step, along with Higgie’s Slinky and the baseball that had sailed over to Mrs. Zierk’s yard last week after I showed my brother how to throw a slider.
I was amazed. Mrs. Zierk never gives our stuff back. She doesn’t go to church; she doesn’t give to charity; and the only time she ever turns off her porch light is when you knock on the door on Halloween night. Mama says Mrs. Zierk must be using up all the electricity in the world with that light.
Last year Daddy got the “harebrained scheme” (Mama’s words) to build a bomb shelter in the backyard. He asked Mrs. Zierk if she wanted to pitch in some money and help. That way we could share it if the Communists bombed us. She said no. She said that we’d never even know if we got bombed because we’d disappear in a puff of smoke. That wasn’t very nice.
Daddy ended up spending a whole weekend digging out the bomb shelter with Uncle Mort. It’s held up by some wooden beams. They hung up a single shelf, but so far nothing else from our house is in there. Not even a can of Spam. Higgie and I can’t play in there because Mama’s worried it’ll cave in and kill us dead.
Mama held Mrs. Zierk
’s apple cake up to the light and sniffed at it. “I’d better slice it thin so we can check for razor blades.”
“That lady doesn’t mean us any harm,” said Daddy. “You should be nicer to her. She’s had a difficult time of it since Frederic died.”
Mama snorted. “That man was a good-for-nothing. Like most men I know.” She gave Daddy the eye.
If you ask me, Mama is too hard on Daddy. The other night Mama called him a good-for-nothing right in front of Aunt Janie.
Daddy is good at some things. He went to electrician school before I was born, but only for a year. He works as a small-appliance repairman, a part-time handyman, and an amateur locksmith; but I know he loves fishing best. Well, drinking beer and fishing. He’s really good at fixing radios and toasters, and he’s learning how to change the picture tube in television sets; but he could catch a fish in a snowstorm.
He also writes poetry at the kitchen table. Sometimes he reads it to me. And I always tell him I like his writing, even if I don’t understand all of it. Daddy tries hard to get his poems published. Week after week, he spends four cents an envelope to send things to New York City. Sometimes he gets letters back. He always tears that creamy paper into pieces and throws the confetti into the trash can in the garage. I feel sorry for Daddy when that happens.
He does drink too much beer, though.
I try not to let it bother me, but it does. Mostly because it makes Mama and Daddy fight. Seems they only fight about two things: drinking and money.
But they aren’t always fighting.
Late at night they’ll dance in the kitchen to Johnny Mathis songs when they think Higgie and I are asleep. And sometimes Daddy brings home a bunch of wildflowers for Mama—just because. She cooks his favorite things. And she bakes something different for him nearly every day for dessert because he has a sweet tooth. Whenever they are walking someplace together, they’ll hold hands.
The Marble Queen Page 2