Read Online A Lotus Grows in the Mud by Goldie Hawn - Free Book Online
Authors: Goldie Hawn
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saw a movie at school, and they said we’re gonna die from an enemy attack. I ran straight home, Mommy, because I have to see you. Please come home.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! Okay, just let me lock up the store and call a cab.”
Throwing my arms around Nixi’s neck, I push my face into his black-and-white fur, feeling his chest rise and fall.
Running to the window, I climb on top of the radiator cover, waiting and waiting for the yellow taxi to pull into our driveway. It seems like an eternity. Suddenly, it appears from around the corner, and I am flooded with relief. I watch my mom step out, pay the driver and walk with quick little steps toward the house. She’ll have the answers. She’ll know what to say to make me feel okay. I run to the door, throw it open, hug her and begin to cry. “Mommy” is all I can manage.
She takes me inside, my arms tight around her waist, sits me in her lap on the sofa and waits for my tears to subside. In between hiccups, which I always get when I cry too hard, I start to tell her about the film. Bit by bit, I gather momentum.
“There were babies screaming and mothers crying, and dead dogs and cows. There was light busting out of windows, and all the buildings were ruined. Then there was this man, this man who said…” I try to catch my breath. “There was this man that said we were all going to die, and our skin would be burned away unless we used soap, and…and, Mommy, I don’t understand.” Sobbing, I hug her tighter. “Is Russia really going to bomb us?”
In my mother’s inimitable fashion, she shakes her head. “All right now, Goldie Jeanne,” she tells me, setting me down on the couch beside her, “we’re going to straighten up and fly right here.” She gets up and walks over to the bookcase and pulls out an atlas. Sitting down, she opens it on her lap. “Number one, this is Russia. And this is us,” shesays, pointing to two separate sides of the page. “We are miles and miles apart. If one person presses a button in Russia, it’s going to take a long, long time for a bomb to get here. Number two, our bombs are bigger and faster than theirs, and they know that. Do you think the Russians want to be bombed any more than we do?”
I feel such relief. My breathing calms as Mom wipes the tears from my eyes. “Really, Mommy? Really?” I want to believe that she is telling me the truth.
“Yes, really. The fact that we have the same weapons, the fact that nobody wants to die—this is what’s protecting us and keeping us safe.”
I sit on the couch thinking about what she said, staring at the map. I hear Mom in the kitchen rattling around. I think she’s putting on a pot of tea. She always does that to make me feel better. Sweet tea with lemon. When I was sick, she used to sit by my bed and spoon-feed it to me. But I’m a big girl now, sadly. She can no longer spoon-feed me tea. Just as she can no longer keep me from the fear of dying.
When the tea is brewed, I turn around and see my mother through the kitchen door. I watch her dial the telephone and demand to speak to the superintendent of schools.
“Hello, this is Laura Hawn,” she says tersely. “My daughter Goldie is sitting here in our house in a terrible state because someone at her school was stupid enough to show her a film today about the A-bomb. I have had to come home from work to calm her down.”
Her fury making the veins pulse in her neck, she asks, “What on earth do you hope to achieve by such propaganda? And what in the hell are they supposed to do about it? You are frightening the life out of them. I’d think twice before you show these films to other children!” Then she slams down the receiver.
D espite my mom’s assurances, I continue to live in mortal fear of the atomic bomb. Every week in class, we have to perform a duck-and-cover exercise, flashing us back to that horrible experience in the Dungeon. I often skip school.
As the Cold War gains momentum and the
“Oh, for Christ’s sake! Okay, just let me lock up the store and call a cab.”
Throwing my arms around Nixi’s neck, I push my face into his black-and-white fur, feeling his chest rise and fall.
Running to the window, I climb on top of the radiator cover, waiting and waiting for the yellow taxi to pull into our driveway. It seems like an eternity. Suddenly, it appears from around the corner, and I am flooded with relief. I watch my mom step out, pay the driver and walk with quick little steps toward the house. She’ll have the answers. She’ll know what to say to make me feel okay. I run to the door, throw it open, hug her and begin to cry. “Mommy” is all I can manage.
She takes me inside, my arms tight around her waist, sits me in her lap on the sofa and waits for my tears to subside. In between hiccups, which I always get when I cry too hard, I start to tell her about the film. Bit by bit, I gather momentum.
“There were babies screaming and mothers crying, and dead dogs and cows. There was light busting out of windows, and all the buildings were ruined. Then there was this man, this man who said…” I try to catch my breath. “There was this man that said we were all going to die, and our skin would be burned away unless we used soap, and…and, Mommy, I don’t understand.” Sobbing, I hug her tighter. “Is Russia really going to bomb us?”
In my mother’s inimitable fashion, she shakes her head. “All right now, Goldie Jeanne,” she tells me, setting me down on the couch beside her, “we’re going to straighten up and fly right here.” She gets up and walks over to the bookcase and pulls out an atlas. Sitting down, she opens it on her lap. “Number one, this is Russia. And this is us,” shesays, pointing to two separate sides of the page. “We are miles and miles apart. If one person presses a button in Russia, it’s going to take a long, long time for a bomb to get here. Number two, our bombs are bigger and faster than theirs, and they know that. Do you think the Russians want to be bombed any more than we do?”
I feel such relief. My breathing calms as Mom wipes the tears from my eyes. “Really, Mommy? Really?” I want to believe that she is telling me the truth.
“Yes, really. The fact that we have the same weapons, the fact that nobody wants to die—this is what’s protecting us and keeping us safe.”
I sit on the couch thinking about what she said, staring at the map. I hear Mom in the kitchen rattling around. I think she’s putting on a pot of tea. She always does that to make me feel better. Sweet tea with lemon. When I was sick, she used to sit by my bed and spoon-feed it to me. But I’m a big girl now, sadly. She can no longer spoon-feed me tea. Just as she can no longer keep me from the fear of dying.
When the tea is brewed, I turn around and see my mother through the kitchen door. I watch her dial the telephone and demand to speak to the superintendent of schools.
“Hello, this is Laura Hawn,” she says tersely. “My daughter Goldie is sitting here in our house in a terrible state because someone at her school was stupid enough to show her a film today about the A-bomb. I have had to come home from work to calm her down.”
Her fury making the veins pulse in her neck, she asks, “What on earth do you hope to achieve by such propaganda? And what in the hell are they supposed to do about it? You are frightening the life out of them. I’d think twice before you show these films to other children!” Then she slams down the receiver.
D espite my mom’s assurances, I continue to live in mortal fear of the atomic bomb. Every week in class, we have to perform a duck-and-cover exercise, flashing us back to that horrible experience in the Dungeon. I often skip school.
As the Cold War gains momentum and the
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