knuckles were red and scraped; I was bleeding. He looked down into my face, not letting go.
“Take it away from her, Ted.” My mother, still inside, poked her head out, yelling. “She’ll kill herself with it. Look at her, she’s going crazy.”
Ted’s voice was gentle, almost a whisper. “I know you want it done now. I understand that. But I’ll do it. Let me do it.” I thought there was something wrong with his smile, though, his teeth looked like a zipper.
I stepped back, crossing my arms. I was looking down at mytennis shoes. The right one was ripped over the toes and there were grass stains, too.
Ted was stronger than I was. Each of his lunges mowed a five-foot row evenly.
“Oh, Ted, don’t now,” my mother called. “Why? We already paid him.”
“It’s all right, Adele. It won’t take me long.”
She let the screen door drop shut. “I just don’t see why she always has to get her way. Every time she throws a tantrum, we give in.”
I ran to the end of the block to the kickball game. When the Kokowski boy stole second base, he saw Ted on our lawn.
“Hey, your stepdad’s mowing your yard. I was supposed to do it tomorrow.”
“You better give him his money back,” I said.
“So, how come he’s doing it now? He sure waited long enough before.”
“Want to fight over it?”
He said no, forget it, even though he was bigger than I was. I’m glad he did because the way I was right then I know I could have hurt him.
I lay on my stomach on the kitchen floor, drawing. My mother moved at the counter, washing food. It was four o’clock on a Sunday and the world, from our windows, stayed still.
For a long time, I colored my picture. All my drawing took a long time. I didn’t like there to be any white left on the page. My third-grade nun had tacked my pictures up on the bulletin board in the hall. She had dunked my head over a drawing on a table to see the first-place blue ribbon in the crafts fair. She told me I was the best artist in primary school because I was patient. Then another boy moved to the district, a boy they didn’t like because he couldn’t sit still and because he wore clothes that were too small for him. Tim drew all the time, on everything. He could pencil psychedelic drum sets on the edge of his lined paper in three minutes and they pulsed against your eyes. Nobody else thoughthe was any good, but I didn’t mind moving so much when we went to Carriage Court, because of Tim. I knew he was better.
I still drew at home, on the floor, and my mother never looked at the pictures. No one saw them except me.
That day she was standing at the window by the sink and I stopped. I put all my crayons away in the box and turned over the picture to the floor. Her shoulders were jumping.
I went over and touched her. She didn’t seem to notice. “Mom,” I whispered, ever so quiet, not wanting to disturb anything.
Then she looked down at me. “Was it better just the two of us?” She bit her lip, then shoved knuckles into her wobbling mouth. I looked up at her, still holding the end of her sweater. She’d stumped me, guessed what I always meant. If it was still just the two of us, we were going to move to California. So I could be a child star on television.
But I thought of Ted, then, the familiar sound of his car coming up our driveway, everything the way it was.
“Tell me, Bipper, were you happier without this man?”
“He’s nice,” I said.
“Do you really think so?”
I nodded, eagerly. We took the afternoon to make a surprise; we were both dressed up when he came home at seven for supper, the kitchen floor was waxed and glistening like ice. We must have seemed expectant, heads tilted, beaming, when he came to the door.
He looked from one of us to the other, bemused. “What’s up?”
“Dinner in a sec,” my mother said. She opened the broiler, poked the meat.
Then Ted did what he always did, he carried the black and white TV in from my room to the kitchen
“Take it away from her, Ted.” My mother, still inside, poked her head out, yelling. “She’ll kill herself with it. Look at her, she’s going crazy.”
Ted’s voice was gentle, almost a whisper. “I know you want it done now. I understand that. But I’ll do it. Let me do it.” I thought there was something wrong with his smile, though, his teeth looked like a zipper.
I stepped back, crossing my arms. I was looking down at mytennis shoes. The right one was ripped over the toes and there were grass stains, too.
Ted was stronger than I was. Each of his lunges mowed a five-foot row evenly.
“Oh, Ted, don’t now,” my mother called. “Why? We already paid him.”
“It’s all right, Adele. It won’t take me long.”
She let the screen door drop shut. “I just don’t see why she always has to get her way. Every time she throws a tantrum, we give in.”
I ran to the end of the block to the kickball game. When the Kokowski boy stole second base, he saw Ted on our lawn.
“Hey, your stepdad’s mowing your yard. I was supposed to do it tomorrow.”
“You better give him his money back,” I said.
“So, how come he’s doing it now? He sure waited long enough before.”
“Want to fight over it?”
He said no, forget it, even though he was bigger than I was. I’m glad he did because the way I was right then I know I could have hurt him.
I lay on my stomach on the kitchen floor, drawing. My mother moved at the counter, washing food. It was four o’clock on a Sunday and the world, from our windows, stayed still.
For a long time, I colored my picture. All my drawing took a long time. I didn’t like there to be any white left on the page. My third-grade nun had tacked my pictures up on the bulletin board in the hall. She had dunked my head over a drawing on a table to see the first-place blue ribbon in the crafts fair. She told me I was the best artist in primary school because I was patient. Then another boy moved to the district, a boy they didn’t like because he couldn’t sit still and because he wore clothes that were too small for him. Tim drew all the time, on everything. He could pencil psychedelic drum sets on the edge of his lined paper in three minutes and they pulsed against your eyes. Nobody else thoughthe was any good, but I didn’t mind moving so much when we went to Carriage Court, because of Tim. I knew he was better.
I still drew at home, on the floor, and my mother never looked at the pictures. No one saw them except me.
That day she was standing at the window by the sink and I stopped. I put all my crayons away in the box and turned over the picture to the floor. Her shoulders were jumping.
I went over and touched her. She didn’t seem to notice. “Mom,” I whispered, ever so quiet, not wanting to disturb anything.
Then she looked down at me. “Was it better just the two of us?” She bit her lip, then shoved knuckles into her wobbling mouth. I looked up at her, still holding the end of her sweater. She’d stumped me, guessed what I always meant. If it was still just the two of us, we were going to move to California. So I could be a child star on television.
But I thought of Ted, then, the familiar sound of his car coming up our driveway, everything the way it was.
“Tell me, Bipper, were you happier without this man?”
“He’s nice,” I said.
“Do you really think so?”
I nodded, eagerly. We took the afternoon to make a surprise; we were both dressed up when he came home at seven for supper, the kitchen floor was waxed and glistening like ice. We must have seemed expectant, heads tilted, beaming, when he came to the door.
He looked from one of us to the other, bemused. “What’s up?”
“Dinner in a sec,” my mother said. She opened the broiler, poked the meat.
Then Ted did what he always did, he carried the black and white TV in from my room to the kitchen
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