say, I’m going to miss Babička like hell when we move. Now, open it,” she adds, pointing. “I’m starving.”
I almost cry when I see the kolaches : prune, peach, poppy seed. People sell what they call kolaches , but I’ve never found any like Albina’s: pastry somewhere between biscuit and pancake; butter, sugar, eggs, almond extract harmonious as a Kachina dance song.
Cornelia reaches for one of the poppy seed. “To your health,” she says, and I almost drop the box. She closes her eyes while she chews.
I pick a peach one and picture Sam at the piano with Terezie, their songs this delicious. I take a bite and see Cyril swinging his hoe in a cotton field, then Sam knee-deep in the creek holding a gasping bass.
“Speaking of health,” Cornelia says, “you’ve heard mine’s on its final countdown?”
“Yes, and I’m sorry,” I sputter. “But I understand you’re getting a transplant.”
“It’s the only wish on my Christmas list. I’m being embarrassingly good this year.”
“When are you and your parents moving to Rochester?” Is she still taking classes, I wonder. What’s going on with Kurt and Hugh? Does she blame me for the hold up? Is that why she’s here?
“We’re hoping I won’t turn blue before the semester’s over. Then it’s ta-ta to Texas.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” I say, standing, my discomfort obvious. “Please thank your grandmother for the kolaches .”
“Mom’s right,” she says, grabbing her bag. “You’re ‘one tough customer’.” She stands, throws a strap over her shoulder. “But I see why everybody likes you.”
She definitely wants something.
“You knew Mom in high school. I’ll bet she kicked ass, right?”
I picture Terezie in her brogans, clomping along the hallway. “Yes. Your mother was formidable.”
“Afraid of you, though.”
Me? I grip the desk, nudging my coffee cup, catching it as a few drops spill.
“ Legendary, is what Mom says.” Cornelia shrugs. “Fact is, you’d never pack a house, but I guess I could see that.”
She moves to the doorway then turns, her amethyst eyes incredible. “Thanks for letting me crash your part-ay.” She whistles, her raised eyebrows mocking. “Hey, I had to see what you were like, okay? Can I come back?”
“Of course. You’re welcome anytime.” I wave, trying to remember if I’ve ever said these words before.
C HAPTER 6
1961-1963 AND 1913
I N S EPTEMBER, the high school principal’s office called each time Sam was absent. Sometimes my mother lied, assuring the secretary that he was sick at home. Other times she said, “I have absolutely no idea where he is. Why don’t you try to find him?” Sam always freely admitted where he’d gone, places like the Austin bat caves or my grandparents’ house at Rockport; girls, of course, were involved. “You don’t care what this does to me,” my mother would argue, red-faced. My father’s response was typical, another question: “What would happen if you needed Mama and couldn’t find her ?” Finally, one night he whipped Sam, then grounded him.
When my father called Sam into the master bedroom, I buried my face in my pillows. I could still hear everything, since my room was adjacent.
“Listen,” my father said when Sam protested. “You’re right.” He cleared his throat. “You’re almost grown. I don’t have much time left to teach you.” He sighed. “As for what I’m about to do, it’s hard. But that doesn’t keep me from doing what I’m supposed to.” He walked several steps. “Let’s say this has to do with the way you set priorities.”
I imagined welts, my brother’s flesh swollen, stinging. I counted five licks, then ten. Sam made no sound, and my father kept going—eleven, twelve, thirteen. Still, Sam was silent. After twenty licks, my father was panting. “Go to your room,” he wheezed.
As Sam crossed the hall, my father closed himself in the bathroom. The sound of running water
I almost cry when I see the kolaches : prune, peach, poppy seed. People sell what they call kolaches , but I’ve never found any like Albina’s: pastry somewhere between biscuit and pancake; butter, sugar, eggs, almond extract harmonious as a Kachina dance song.
Cornelia reaches for one of the poppy seed. “To your health,” she says, and I almost drop the box. She closes her eyes while she chews.
I pick a peach one and picture Sam at the piano with Terezie, their songs this delicious. I take a bite and see Cyril swinging his hoe in a cotton field, then Sam knee-deep in the creek holding a gasping bass.
“Speaking of health,” Cornelia says, “you’ve heard mine’s on its final countdown?”
“Yes, and I’m sorry,” I sputter. “But I understand you’re getting a transplant.”
“It’s the only wish on my Christmas list. I’m being embarrassingly good this year.”
“When are you and your parents moving to Rochester?” Is she still taking classes, I wonder. What’s going on with Kurt and Hugh? Does she blame me for the hold up? Is that why she’s here?
“We’re hoping I won’t turn blue before the semester’s over. Then it’s ta-ta to Texas.”
“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” I say, standing, my discomfort obvious. “Please thank your grandmother for the kolaches .”
“Mom’s right,” she says, grabbing her bag. “You’re ‘one tough customer’.” She stands, throws a strap over her shoulder. “But I see why everybody likes you.”
She definitely wants something.
“You knew Mom in high school. I’ll bet she kicked ass, right?”
I picture Terezie in her brogans, clomping along the hallway. “Yes. Your mother was formidable.”
“Afraid of you, though.”
Me? I grip the desk, nudging my coffee cup, catching it as a few drops spill.
“ Legendary, is what Mom says.” Cornelia shrugs. “Fact is, you’d never pack a house, but I guess I could see that.”
She moves to the doorway then turns, her amethyst eyes incredible. “Thanks for letting me crash your part-ay.” She whistles, her raised eyebrows mocking. “Hey, I had to see what you were like, okay? Can I come back?”
“Of course. You’re welcome anytime.” I wave, trying to remember if I’ve ever said these words before.
C HAPTER 6
1961-1963 AND 1913
I N S EPTEMBER, the high school principal’s office called each time Sam was absent. Sometimes my mother lied, assuring the secretary that he was sick at home. Other times she said, “I have absolutely no idea where he is. Why don’t you try to find him?” Sam always freely admitted where he’d gone, places like the Austin bat caves or my grandparents’ house at Rockport; girls, of course, were involved. “You don’t care what this does to me,” my mother would argue, red-faced. My father’s response was typical, another question: “What would happen if you needed Mama and couldn’t find her ?” Finally, one night he whipped Sam, then grounded him.
When my father called Sam into the master bedroom, I buried my face in my pillows. I could still hear everything, since my room was adjacent.
“Listen,” my father said when Sam protested. “You’re right.” He cleared his throat. “You’re almost grown. I don’t have much time left to teach you.” He sighed. “As for what I’m about to do, it’s hard. But that doesn’t keep me from doing what I’m supposed to.” He walked several steps. “Let’s say this has to do with the way you set priorities.”
I imagined welts, my brother’s flesh swollen, stinging. I counted five licks, then ten. Sam made no sound, and my father kept going—eleven, twelve, thirteen. Still, Sam was silent. After twenty licks, my father was panting. “Go to your room,” he wheezed.
As Sam crossed the hall, my father closed himself in the bathroom. The sound of running water
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