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Authors: Mona Simpson
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and flicked on the news. I crowded near my mother to fix the plates.
“Do you think he sees?” I said. Everything in the kitchen was clean and polished. We’d opened a new box of Arm & Hammer baking soda in the refrigerator.
“Absolutely.” She nodded. “Comemeer.” She walked over to a clean place on the counter. When I’d put away my picture, in a cupboard, she must have found it. Now she was looking downhard at it. I had been drawing grass, the individual stalks. There was still a field of white. It was only half finished.
“I thought it would be of me,” she said.
I was in trouble all the time now.
On weekends, my mother and Ted slept late. I always snuck outside before they woke up. “A-yun,” my mother called me one Saturday, yelling from the porch like other mothers. I wouldn’t have gone in, but there was a whole kickball team of kids looking at me who went running when their mothers called.
“Be right back.” I dropped the ball, knowing, as I said it, what the chances of that were.
My mother, seeing me, pulled her head back into the house like a turtle and slammed the door. Ted’s car was gone from the driveway, that was bad. I walked slowly, staying out as long as I could. She stood just inside the door, in the entry hall. Even though it was a cool, bright day, our house seemed stale, as if the air was old. My mother was wearing nothing but Ted’s old gray sweat shirt that she slept in.
“You really think you’re the cat’s meow, don’t you,” she said, looking at me and shaking her head. “You think you can just play, while I work and work and work. Sure, that’s what mothers are for, isn’t it, to slave away so you can have a nice house and clothes and food in the refrigerator when your friends come over. Sounds pretty good. Well, I’m sorry to tell you, but you’re not going to get away with that anymore. You’re going to have to start pulling your own weight.”
Through the kitchen windows, the sky was clear and young, the palest blue.
“It’s my fault too, I spoiled you. I should have let you cry when your father wanted to go dancing. I should’ve gone with him.”
I started walking and her nails bit into my arm.
“Oh, no you don’t. You’re not going anywhere. You’re going to stay right here and clean, for a change. You can see what I do all day Saturday and Sunday and that’s my vacation. I work all week while you’re playing.”
“I go to school,” I said.
She bent down over the vacuum cleaner. Hoses and brushes sprawled over the kitchen floor.
It was the same vacuum cleaner we’d always had, the Electrolux my father had given me rides on when I was a child. He’d pulled me on it all over my grandmother’s house, bumping from the carpets onto the floors. We got it for free because it was my father’s sample, when he worked as a vacuum cleaner salesman. “You go over EACH square FIVE times. THEN you move on to the next one.” The kitchen was the only room in the new house that didn’t have wood floors. The floor was black and white linoleum, checkered. It went on and on. There must have been hundreds of squares. I was counting up one side, to multiply with the other. “See, now watch carefully.” My mother put all her weight into banging the long brush against the molding. Her legs moved with bitter, zealous energy.
“Mom, it’s one o’clock. Why don’t you put on some pants.”
“Because
I
’ve
been working all day, that’s why, Little Miss.”
“You’ve been sleeping is what you’ve been doing. And you go to anybody else’s house and their mother’s wearing pants. I don’t care what you do, I just think it’s ugly, that’s all.”
“Well, then, I’ll tell you, Honey. Don’t look. Because I’ll wear whatever I want in my own house that I pay for—”
“Gramma paid for it.”
“Ooo, you little—” She lifted the vacuum cleaner nozzle over her head ready to swing, but I jumped back and then she sucked in her breath.
“Do you think he sees?” I said. Everything in the kitchen was clean and polished. We’d opened a new box of Arm & Hammer baking soda in the refrigerator.
“Absolutely.” She nodded. “Comemeer.” She walked over to a clean place on the counter. When I’d put away my picture, in a cupboard, she must have found it. Now she was looking downhard at it. I had been drawing grass, the individual stalks. There was still a field of white. It was only half finished.
“I thought it would be of me,” she said.
I was in trouble all the time now.
On weekends, my mother and Ted slept late. I always snuck outside before they woke up. “A-yun,” my mother called me one Saturday, yelling from the porch like other mothers. I wouldn’t have gone in, but there was a whole kickball team of kids looking at me who went running when their mothers called.
“Be right back.” I dropped the ball, knowing, as I said it, what the chances of that were.
My mother, seeing me, pulled her head back into the house like a turtle and slammed the door. Ted’s car was gone from the driveway, that was bad. I walked slowly, staying out as long as I could. She stood just inside the door, in the entry hall. Even though it was a cool, bright day, our house seemed stale, as if the air was old. My mother was wearing nothing but Ted’s old gray sweat shirt that she slept in.
“You really think you’re the cat’s meow, don’t you,” she said, looking at me and shaking her head. “You think you can just play, while I work and work and work. Sure, that’s what mothers are for, isn’t it, to slave away so you can have a nice house and clothes and food in the refrigerator when your friends come over. Sounds pretty good. Well, I’m sorry to tell you, but you’re not going to get away with that anymore. You’re going to have to start pulling your own weight.”
Through the kitchen windows, the sky was clear and young, the palest blue.
“It’s my fault too, I spoiled you. I should have let you cry when your father wanted to go dancing. I should’ve gone with him.”
I started walking and her nails bit into my arm.
“Oh, no you don’t. You’re not going anywhere. You’re going to stay right here and clean, for a change. You can see what I do all day Saturday and Sunday and that’s my vacation. I work all week while you’re playing.”
“I go to school,” I said.
She bent down over the vacuum cleaner. Hoses and brushes sprawled over the kitchen floor.
It was the same vacuum cleaner we’d always had, the Electrolux my father had given me rides on when I was a child. He’d pulled me on it all over my grandmother’s house, bumping from the carpets onto the floors. We got it for free because it was my father’s sample, when he worked as a vacuum cleaner salesman. “You go over EACH square FIVE times. THEN you move on to the next one.” The kitchen was the only room in the new house that didn’t have wood floors. The floor was black and white linoleum, checkered. It went on and on. There must have been hundreds of squares. I was counting up one side, to multiply with the other. “See, now watch carefully.” My mother put all her weight into banging the long brush against the molding. Her legs moved with bitter, zealous energy.
“Mom, it’s one o’clock. Why don’t you put on some pants.”
“Because
I
’ve
been working all day, that’s why, Little Miss.”
“You’ve been sleeping is what you’ve been doing. And you go to anybody else’s house and their mother’s wearing pants. I don’t care what you do, I just think it’s ugly, that’s all.”
“Well, then, I’ll tell you, Honey. Don’t look. Because I’ll wear whatever I want in my own house that I pay for—”
“Gramma paid for it.”
“Ooo, you little—” She lifted the vacuum cleaner nozzle over her head ready to swing, but I jumped back and then she sucked in her breath.
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