Read Online Don't Call Me Mother by Linda Joy Myers - Free Book Online
Authors: Linda Joy Myers
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grade. I can’t wait for Daddy’s good cheer, his brimming-over energy, his bristling whiskers, the rough nap of his coat, the feel of his strong arms lifting me into the air.
I want to spend time with him alone, to get to know him better, to see his arms without a starched shirt, his dark silky hairs lying against his skin. Other girls talk about their fathers at school. A girlfriend tells me she watches her father mow the lawn wearing no shirt, that she accidentally saw him pee. I can see in her eyes the thrill of it—so naughty, yet so exciting—a secret glimpse of a mysterious part of life that is hidden from children.
I feel cheated without a father in my house, without any contact with men in general. My grandmother doesn’t even let the neighbor guy who mows our lawn use the toilet. The Father, with his big body and those illicit private parts, is exciting and dangerous. There is something about the power of men that changes women, though we kids don’t have words for it, exactly. But we can feel it, we can hear it in the women’s talk about not displeasing a man. We hear the way they chat about their husbands; it’s the same way they talk about God—with awe, a little gasp at the end of the sentence. There is much left unsaid, like between moments of a prayer. The only way to hear in between what people say is to learn to listen to the wheat, the land, the wind. You can only hear these things out in the plains, by a wheat field, say, in the spring.
Feet tap-tap-tap on the bricks of the station platform. He’s coming for me, for me! Now the heavy breath of his deep voice, “Linda, Linda.” He lifts me up. Colors and shapes swirl—the brick train station, the steel train, the conductors’ blue suits—around and around. My ribs are squeezed so tight I can barely breathe. His cashmere coat swings around him, and he laughs from deep in his throat. His Old Spice envelops my face and sinks into my bones, and I am happy all the way through.
“I’ve missed you, my girl, my girl.” He whirls me until I’m dizzy with joy, then sets me down and faces Gram.
I’d rather leave out the next part, how Gram leans toward him, her hand cocked with an unlit cigarette, hovering close to him as he flicks open the lighter. She touches his hand with hers; a sizzle, then the tobacco burns orange. She looks into his eyes and he meets her gaze briefly before they break apart.
It’s been so long since I’ve heard Daddy’s voice that I’ve forgotten what he sounds like. Even his face has dimmed in my memory. The picture of him in my mind is not him, not really, and my photograph of him doesn’t capture him either. A daddy can’t be folded flat in black and white. Sometimes I steal the picture out of its hiding place, but not too often. If you get a good feeling and hold on to it too much, you have to pay for it later.
The Nash Rambler glides down the blacktop. The car overflows with all of us, Daddy taking up more than his share of room, his coat thick with Chicago threads, the white of his starched shirt so bright. His huge hands sculpt the air as he talks excitedly about his work on the L & N railroad, his stock investments, making more money than ever, belonging to fancy clubs. I tug his arm—Daddy, Daddy. He turns back to enfold me in his scratchiness and Old Spice. My happiness knows no bounds. Daddy is a burst of cymbals in my quiet life with Gram.
Daddy and I ride in the elevator of the Oxford Hotel. Looking out the window in his hotel room, I can see all around town—spidery trees, Randolph Street, Broadway, Main Street, and the granite courthouse on the square. We can even hear the train whistles from the Frisco and the Santa Fe, a lonely sound that has always made me think of him and my mother. The spot under my left rib, where I feel always feel the absence of my parents, aches even though Daddy is right here and I can feel his warm hands on my shoulders as we look out the window. I don’t know why a
I want to spend time with him alone, to get to know him better, to see his arms without a starched shirt, his dark silky hairs lying against his skin. Other girls talk about their fathers at school. A girlfriend tells me she watches her father mow the lawn wearing no shirt, that she accidentally saw him pee. I can see in her eyes the thrill of it—so naughty, yet so exciting—a secret glimpse of a mysterious part of life that is hidden from children.
I feel cheated without a father in my house, without any contact with men in general. My grandmother doesn’t even let the neighbor guy who mows our lawn use the toilet. The Father, with his big body and those illicit private parts, is exciting and dangerous. There is something about the power of men that changes women, though we kids don’t have words for it, exactly. But we can feel it, we can hear it in the women’s talk about not displeasing a man. We hear the way they chat about their husbands; it’s the same way they talk about God—with awe, a little gasp at the end of the sentence. There is much left unsaid, like between moments of a prayer. The only way to hear in between what people say is to learn to listen to the wheat, the land, the wind. You can only hear these things out in the plains, by a wheat field, say, in the spring.
Feet tap-tap-tap on the bricks of the station platform. He’s coming for me, for me! Now the heavy breath of his deep voice, “Linda, Linda.” He lifts me up. Colors and shapes swirl—the brick train station, the steel train, the conductors’ blue suits—around and around. My ribs are squeezed so tight I can barely breathe. His cashmere coat swings around him, and he laughs from deep in his throat. His Old Spice envelops my face and sinks into my bones, and I am happy all the way through.
“I’ve missed you, my girl, my girl.” He whirls me until I’m dizzy with joy, then sets me down and faces Gram.
I’d rather leave out the next part, how Gram leans toward him, her hand cocked with an unlit cigarette, hovering close to him as he flicks open the lighter. She touches his hand with hers; a sizzle, then the tobacco burns orange. She looks into his eyes and he meets her gaze briefly before they break apart.
It’s been so long since I’ve heard Daddy’s voice that I’ve forgotten what he sounds like. Even his face has dimmed in my memory. The picture of him in my mind is not him, not really, and my photograph of him doesn’t capture him either. A daddy can’t be folded flat in black and white. Sometimes I steal the picture out of its hiding place, but not too often. If you get a good feeling and hold on to it too much, you have to pay for it later.
The Nash Rambler glides down the blacktop. The car overflows with all of us, Daddy taking up more than his share of room, his coat thick with Chicago threads, the white of his starched shirt so bright. His huge hands sculpt the air as he talks excitedly about his work on the L & N railroad, his stock investments, making more money than ever, belonging to fancy clubs. I tug his arm—Daddy, Daddy. He turns back to enfold me in his scratchiness and Old Spice. My happiness knows no bounds. Daddy is a burst of cymbals in my quiet life with Gram.
Daddy and I ride in the elevator of the Oxford Hotel. Looking out the window in his hotel room, I can see all around town—spidery trees, Randolph Street, Broadway, Main Street, and the granite courthouse on the square. We can even hear the train whistles from the Frisco and the Santa Fe, a lonely sound that has always made me think of him and my mother. The spot under my left rib, where I feel always feel the absence of my parents, aches even though Daddy is right here and I can feel his warm hands on my shoulders as we look out the window. I don’t know why a
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