“Oh, pshaw, you know better’n to talk like that,” Blanche says, a smile coming to her lips.
“Hal, how’re ya doin’?” Edith says, then whispers to me, “This’s Hal, my brother.”
“Just about great,” he answers Edith, then his eyes find me. “And don’t you forget it, little lady. Lookit you, you’ve grow’d up.” Hal wraps his beefy arms around me and squeezes.
“This is Grace and Stan, remember? Grace is our sis.”
“Call me Aunt Grace. Hi there, little Linda.” Her face is wreathed in smiles and her eyes beam warmly at me. Her large body envelops me for a moment. She smells like flowers.
“Lula, what the hell have ya been doin’. Haven’t seen ya for a while.” As Hal towers over her, Gram puts her head on his shoulder. “Any more trips on them boats? Any new husbands?”
Color rises in Gram’s cheeks. “I’m taking care of Linda, making sure she gets a good education.”
“Book learnin’s all right, long as ya don’t fergit how to act,” Blanche says as she lays out plates and silverware.
The dogs bark again, and the screen door flaps. In comes a very round woman, her stomach jutting out in front of her, a cigarette hanging in the corner of her mouth. She wears a plaid dress and flat, floppy shoes. Her big grin makes me like her right away.
“Lula, how the hell are ya?” She grabs Gram’s neck in the crook of her elbow.
“Celia, you’re a sight for sore eyes.” Gram’s voice sounds more like theirs now; her fancy self is fading.
“Is this the little tyke, Linda? Get over here and give your old aunt a hug. Lula, you don’t fancy her up too much, do ya?”
“Sure she does.” Grace flicks Celia with the dish towel.
Celia wraps her arms around me tight, pats me, and leans down to look in my face. “Yeah, you’re Josephine’s all right. How is that girl anyway?”
“Lula could pass for Linda’s mom instead of her grandmother,” says Grace.
“What about Jo’tine, Lula?” asks Margaret, putting out homemade bread-and-butter pickles.
“They had a fight on the phone last week,” I chime in.
“Get over here,” Gram hisses between her teeth, grabbing my arm and hauling me into the living room. Sparks seems to fly from her eyes and her fingers grip my arm hard.
“Don’t you dare talk about our business in front of strangers.”
“They’re your brothers and sisters…” I protest meekly.
“What happens in our house is not for anyone else to know. Do you understand?” I don’t understand, but I nod, wanting to hide in shame. I slink back to the kitchen, my cheeks burning. Grace gives me a friendly look and tells me to follow her. She gestures toward a bushel of apples and two wooden chairs in the room off the kitchen. “Sit down and help me peel these apples.” She hands me a paring knife.
“I have grandchildren, too,” Grace says. Her brown eyes are huge behind her thick glasses. “You put the blade of the knife into the skin like this.” She rotates the apple so the peel comes off in a single long curl.
“I can’t do it,” I mutter. My apple is in pieces. Gram’s recent scolding has me burning with shame.
Grace’s voice is soothing. “That’s all right. Just watch me. It’s nice when the peel comes off in one curl, but don’t worry. You’ll learn.” Her eyes tell me more than her words. After a little practice, I learn to peel two apples her way, with a whole peeling curling into the bowl. She tells me that I’m a quick learner.
At the table, they all joke and talk about the weather, the price of hogs on the market, the rain. I love the easy flow of conversation, elbows poked in ribs. All the adults defer respectfully to Blanche. After dinner, my aunts and Blanche stay in the kitchen, flicking each other with dish towels and telling dirty jokes out of the sides of their mouths. I love the fresh smell of soap, the slow, soft way they talk, the comfortable way they touch each other. Here I can be a kid, with more than enough mothers to teach me the ways of the farm that Gram left so long ago.
After a week at Edith’s, Blanche wants to go to her own house. “Here’s the castle,” Blanche says, as Gram pulls The Nash Rambler in front of a small house covered in fake brown brick. Her house is small, old, and musty. It has two bedrooms, no bathroom, a kitchen with a wood cookstove and a tilted floor. She tells us to sleep in her room, the one with a fluffy featherbed just like at Edith’s. An old organ with cloth pedals is on one side of the room, decorated with dozens of family pictures. In one of them, Blanche, her mother and father, and all her brothers and sisters stare sternly into the camera. Blanche looks younger, but still serious.
That night, we go to bed just after dark because Blanche says she doesn’t want to burn lights and waste money. The next morning I wake up to footsteps pounding in the kitchen. I get up and wander in, excited to be here in this new place and eager to explore. Blanche is stuffing newspapers into the stove, poking at the stubborn fire. “You sleepyhead, what are ya doin’ sleepin’ your life away? And Lula, that lazy good-for-nothin’.” To Blanche, sleeping past dawn is a mortal sin.
She uses firewood from her back-lot wood pile to feed the crackling fire, then wrestles her iron skillet onto the stove and throws in thick slices of bacon. After a pan of water starts boiling, Blanche tosses in coffee grounds to make coffee.
Blanche seems to have five pairs of hands. When she clanks open the stove to feed it more wood, I watch the fire snap and crackle as if it’s alive. I love this kitchen coziness. As she works, Blanche tells me more about the old days: how cows would freeze in the terrible icy winters. “But we had food in our stomachs, we did,” she says. “Never had to beg for a dime. People don’t know the meanin’ of work these days. You just need your garden, your kids, and your pride.”
A sleepy-looking Gram comes in. She and Blanche sip coffee, sitting in peaceful harmony together. I watch this mother and daughter, thinking of my own mother. Why can’t she and Gram have mornings like this? Why is it better with Blanche and Gram?
I know one thing: Here, in this town by the Mississippi, I’m rooted in our family. I taste the flavor of the past in my breakfast and see it in the coffee grounds as they make patterns on top of the water in the saucepan. The fire crackles a message to me, telling me that I am home, home, home.
Grandpa,
the Prayer Man
The Nash Rambler scoots us down narrow highways, bisecting oceans of corn that stretch as far as the eye can see across the rolling landscape. Gram talks about my grandfather, Blaine, whom she’s taking me to visit in Wapello.
“We were married when we were very young. We were so in love. Ha!” Gram laughs.
“Why did you get divorced?”
“Just one of those things.” She pauses. “He was young and hot-headed… Let’s just say I was unhappy. But that was a long time ago. He’s a nice enough man.” She taps her cigarette against the ashtray.
“Did Mommy see her daddy when she was little?”
“Sure. He married Bernie after we divorced, and they had a little girl, Jean, who lives here in Wapello. Her children are your cousins.” Gram keeps lighting cigarettes, looking into the rearview mirror to smooth her hair and check her lipstick.
When we pull into a driveway, a bald man with a round stomach and a woman with white hair come to the car. He smiles and greets Gram. The woman says hello, too, but I sense words underneath that aren’t being said.
“Linda Joy, how nice to see you again. How you’ve grown, young lady.” They pat my head. I’m surprised at the sweetness of their greetings.
Grandpa’s lower teeth jut out of a large jaw, and his voice booms with certainty. Gram stands slightly apart, with her elbow tucked in the crook of her waist, waving a cigarette.
Bernie asks me to come inside to help her make lemonade. Gram and Grandpa chat out by the hollyhocks, Bernie watches them from her kitchen window. She asks about my music lessons. “Your Grandpa is a great piano player. He played all over Iowa and even New York. Last time we sa
w you, you were a tiny little thing. Remember, you came here with your mother?”
As always, I say yes, even though I have no such memory. Gram stands close to Blaine, speaking in her English accent, but moves away when she sees us coming with the lemonade. They all stand around as if there’s an elephant in the garden everyone’s determined to ignore. Bernie stands back, her dark eyes flicking back and forth. Gram finally says she has to leave. I don’t want to let her go—I’ve never been away from her since Vera—but I pretend to be brave and don’t hug her too long.
After Gram leaves, Bernie seems more relaxed. She takes me to my bedroom, a room full of sun, and helps me unpack my suitcase. That night Grandpa says really long prayers at dinner, his head bowed and eyes closed. The fat on the hamburgers turns yellow, and the mashed potatoes stiffen as he drones on. He asks for help with his temptations and asks God to bless the garden, the fish in the river, and the corn growing in the fields.
“Thank you, Lord, for sending Linda Joy to us. We’ve missed her. And please bless her mother, Josephine. Thank you, Lord, that Linda Joy has such a nice home with her grandmother.”
I’m surprised that Grandpa knows so much about us. As I sit eating at their table that first night, I realize that I have found another strand of family here in Wapello.
I enjoy playing with my cousins, Joanie, a bouncy five-year-old, and nine-year-old Kenny. That week I giggle more than I have in my whole life. We run through the sprinkler, and play hide and seek, Old Maid, dolls, cowboys and Indians.
Grandpa says that not too long ago he bought a black-and-white teddy bear for Joanie and a truck for Kenny. He tells me that when I leave, I can have a toy, too. I decide to get a doll buggy. My doll buggy disappeared when I went to Vera’s and I want to have another, thinking it will help erase what happened. Secretly, I really want the teddy bear, but Grandpa might get mad if I ask for the same thing as Joanie. Gram would want me to choose the buggy and not be such a baby.
On the last day at Grandpa’s, I feel shaky inside, already missing them. We have had such a good time, and I really don’t want to leave. Grandpa takes me to the toy store where he asks for the doll buggy. He hands it to me proudly, but I take it with a heavy heart. I want the wonderful black-and-white bear with the big red bow so badly it makes my chest ache, but I just can’t bring myself to speak my feelings.
Big blotches of rain fall on Grandpa’s windshield on the way back to his house and the wind swirls the green leaves of the roadside trees. I’ve had such a wonderful time. I have a lump in my throat as Bernie helps me pack the tiny doll clothes she made for me. Finally, I can’t help it and start crying Bernie puts her arm around me. “What’s the matter? Did we hurt your feelings?” Grandpa kneels down before me, his blue eyes full of concern; Bernie kneels down with him. I want them to get up and leave me to my misery like most adults do, but they reach for me, pat me, and keep asking me what’s wrong.
Bernie and Grandpa hover, kindly asking me again and again what’s the matter. Finally, just to get this agonizing moment to end, I blurt out, “I’m sorry, I don’t want to cause any trouble, but… could I please have the bear instead?” They sigh with relief.
Grandpa stands up and announces, “We’ll take the buggy back and trade it in for the bear. Let’s go.” Bernie pats my back. They are clearly not upset by my request, and I am amazed.
Bernie cuddles me in the back seat on the way to the toy store. I’m exhausted from so much worrying and crying. They are unbelievably casual about making the exchange. Grandpa says to the storekeeper, without a hint of annoyance, “Could we please exchange the buggy for the bear?” The storekeeper smiles and lifts the huge bear down into my arms. I’m so relieved and happy. I hug him to me, but I’m still embarrassed for making such a fuss. Grandpa and Bernie have seen a part of me I never let anyone know about. Usually I’m careful to keep my fear and my worry, and especially my need, covered up, hidden even from myself.
On the way back to Edith’s, I wrap myself around the beautiful bear and stroke his shiny red ribbon. I hold him close, basking in the warmth and ease of this rare drama-free experience.
When we get to Edith’s, I gratefully sink into Gram’s open arms. The adults talk for a few minutes, but Grandpa doesn’t mention our two trips to the toy store. He seems to sense that Gram would disapprove. Everyone gathers around me and my precious bear as we wave goodbye to Grandpa and Bernie.
We tramp into the kitchen, where Aunt Edith boils milk for hot cocoa. She sits me down at the table, my bear by my side, with a cup of cocoa and cookies. I feel wrapped in soft cotton, loved and safe, allowed to be just a little girl.
Spare the Rod
Back in Enid now, I have begun to feel safe, finally believing that Vera won’t steal me away again. Gram and I are together, a twosome against the world. Gram especially likes it when I play piano without a mistake at a recital, or when I play more advanced pieces than the other kids. She wants me to be the best at everything and constantly compares me to other children. “They got 100 percent—why didn’t you? They are in the highest math group—why aren’t you?”
It’s a Saturday afternoon and Gram has me doing chores. I’m washing dishes and playing with bubbles, enjoying the warmth and the rainbows in the dishwater. I pick up a plate, but it slips from my hands, shattering into pieces.
Gram yells, “What happened?” I say, “Nothing.” Her heels pound the floor toward me. I know she’ll be upset, but I figure that she’ll hug me anyway and tell me it’s all right.
“Sweep it up into the dust pan.” Her voice is stern. She goes on, “You need to be taught a lesson. Turn around and pull down your pants.”
I stare at her. All the trust I felt with Gram has disappeared in one sentence; she changes into Vera before my eyes. I stand frozen.
“You have to learn your lesson,” she says. “Come here.” She jerks me toward her and starts whacking my bottom. A jumble of images flash by as I stare at the floor—her kind hands when I had the measles, the love in her eyes when she says “Sugar Pie.” I have to make sure that nothing like this happens again.
I have no chance to devise a strategy. Only a few days later she slaps my face for being impudent. A face slap is worse than a spanking. It hurts more and leaves me feeling even more humiliated than a spanking does. A few weeks after that, Gram decides to use a walnut yardstick on me, making a show of the weapon she intends to use the same way Vera did. “See this? It’s very hard,” she says. Gram warns me about her abilities as a sleuth against lies, tricks, and all the devious ways that children, apparently me in particular, will use to put one over on her. “Don’t think you can get away with anything,” she says.
I’m extra careful washing the dishes. I practice the piano as much as she tells me to. At school I try to make her proud of me with my grades and deportment, doing my best to be perfect. If I’m not perfect, Gram—the closest thing to a mother I’ve got—will punish me.
It is evening in late fall. Outside, the plains wind tugs and pulls at the house. The living room lamps are lit, but shadows hide deep in the corners of the room. Gram is on the couch and I am in the chair reading Treasure Island out loud. Each night she has me read to her to be sure I test above my grade level.
“You are my granddaughter. You are not like those other kids. You are smarter. Don’t you understand? You have to be educated; you have to get the best grades. You have to become something. You don’t want to live like common people, do you?” She waves her hand dismissively. “Get busy and read that passage again.”
She mutters her endless instructions in a monotone of criticism that sets my teeth on edge: “Speak up. Read that with expression. What do you mean, you don’t want to read? I would have given my right arm to have my grandmother do this for me. You’re so ungrateful. I spend my time doing this when no one would take you. You have the nerve to tell me you don’t like it. Who the hell do you think you are?”
I mutter something back and make a face. Suddenly my fac
e is stinging, she’s screaming, and my hair is being yanked by the roots. My scalp is on fire as she drags me across the room to the bathroom, screaming that she’s going to wash my mouth out with soap. This can’t be happening. What happened to my regular Gram? She grabs the Ivory soap and forces my head back, pressing the soap between my teeth. I choke and try to spit out the bitter pieces that bring tears to my eyes.
“That’ll teach you to mouth off at me. You are not to talk to me like that; you are to obey me, understand?” Her fingers are still entwined in my hair, so I can’t move. She yanks my head back hard until I say yes. I’ll say anything to get her to stop.
Afterwards, she goes into the kitchen and makes coffee. When she comes back with her cup, she is the picture of serenity. Shaking, I pick up the book and begin to read.
I write her a note before bed that night.
Dear Gram, I love you very much. I’m sorry I was bad. I love the watercolor set, and I will paint you some pictures. I’ll try harder to learn lots of new words so we can read books. I love you. You sure do make good coffee.
I hope the note will make her like me again.
The next day my sore scalp tells me that it wasn’t all a bad dream. I ease down the hall and slip around the table to spy on her. I need to know who she will be today—the good grandmother or the bad one. Last night my real grandmother was gone. Gram looks up at me now and lifts her arms. “Sugar Pie,” she whispers with a smile. I take a breath. All is well. She goes to the kitchen and pours fresh-perked coffee into our best cups and saucers. She adds real cream and sugar. This wonderful ritual means we are friends again. The good Gram lifts her cup for a toast.
Lemon Meringue Pie
A few months later, we’re back at Aunt Edith’s house in Iowa on a hot June afternoon. The wind flaps the sheets and towels that Edith pinned to the clothesline in the morning. Chocolate chip cookies that I helped to make are baking in the oven. Edith announces, “Now we’re going to make a lemon meringue pie!”
She measures the flour and the Crisco into a bowl, mixes it into crumbly pieces, and pours in just enough cold water to gather it into a ball. She shows me how to roll it into a circle with the rolling pin. She smoothes it one way, then another, turns it over, sprinkles it with flour, then shifts it again to keep its shape even and round. Once the crust is a big circle, she slides it into a pie pan. We crimp the edges, pinching the dough between our fingers until the fluted crust is high and proud.
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