But where did I get the money for them? I knew where my parents stored a key to a safe in which they kept what was to me a lot of money. It wasn’t long before I could get the key, unlock the safe, and remove some money, and I am sure I could have done this blindfolded. If they missed it, they must have chalked it up to a mistake. It was a pleasure to see that they didn’t know everything.
One afternoon, after making some outlandish claim of devotion to my work at school, I told my mother that I was going off to observe or collect—it was all the same to me—one ridiculous thing or other. I was off to see the Red Girl, of course, and I was especially happy to be going on that day because my gift was an unusually beautiful marble—a marble of blue porcelain. I had never seen a marble like it before, and from the time I first saw it I wanted very much to possess it. I had played against the girl to whom it belonged for three days in a row until finally I won all her marbles—thirty-three—except for that one. Then I had to play her and win six games in a row to get the prize—the marble made of blue porcelain. Using the usual slamming-the-gate-and-quietly-creeping-back technique, I dived under the house to retrieve the marble from the special place where I had hidden it. As I came out from under the house, what should I see before me but my mother’s two enormous, canvas-clad feet. From the look on my face, she guessed immediately that I was up to something; from the look on her face, I guessed immediately that everything was over. “What do you have in your hand?” she asked, and I had no choice but to open my hand, revealing the hard-earned prize to her angrier and angrier eyes.
My mother said, “Marbles? I had heard you played marbles, but I just couldn’t believe it. You were not off to look for plants at all, you were off to play marbles.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “Oh, no.”
“Where are your other marbles?” said my mother. “If you have one, you have many.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “Oh, no. I don’t have marbles, because I don’t play marbles.”
“You keep them under the house,” said my mother, completely ignoring everything I said.
“Oh, no.”
“I am going to find them and throw them into the deep sea,” she said.
My mother now crawled under the house and began a furious and incredible search for my marbles. If she and I had been taking a walk in the Amazon forest, two of my steps equaling one of her strides, and after a while she noticed that I was no longer at her side, her search for me then would have equaled her search for my marbles now. On and on went her search—behind some planks my father had stored years ago for some long-forgotten use; behind some hatboxes that held old Christmas and birthday cards and old letters from my mother’s family; tearing apart my neat pile of books, which, if she had opened any one of them, would have revealed to her, stamped on the title page, these words: “Public Library, Antigua.” Of course, that would have been a whole other story, and I can’t say which would have been worse, the stolen books or playing marbles. On it went.
“Where are the marbles?” she asked.
“I don’t have any marbles,” I would reply. “Only this one I found one day as I was crossing the street to school.”
Of course I thought, At any minute I am going to die. For there were the marbles staring right at me, staring right at her. Sometimes her hand was actually resting on them. I had stored them in old cans, though my most valued ones were in an old red leather handbag of hers. There they were at her feet, as she rested for a moment, her heel actually digging into the handbag. My heart could have stopped.
My father came home. My mother postponed the rest of the search. Over supper, which, in spite of everything, I was allowed to eat with them, she told him about the marbles, adding a list of things that seemed as long as two chapters from the Old
One afternoon, after making some outlandish claim of devotion to my work at school, I told my mother that I was going off to observe or collect—it was all the same to me—one ridiculous thing or other. I was off to see the Red Girl, of course, and I was especially happy to be going on that day because my gift was an unusually beautiful marble—a marble of blue porcelain. I had never seen a marble like it before, and from the time I first saw it I wanted very much to possess it. I had played against the girl to whom it belonged for three days in a row until finally I won all her marbles—thirty-three—except for that one. Then I had to play her and win six games in a row to get the prize—the marble made of blue porcelain. Using the usual slamming-the-gate-and-quietly-creeping-back technique, I dived under the house to retrieve the marble from the special place where I had hidden it. As I came out from under the house, what should I see before me but my mother’s two enormous, canvas-clad feet. From the look on my face, she guessed immediately that I was up to something; from the look on her face, I guessed immediately that everything was over. “What do you have in your hand?” she asked, and I had no choice but to open my hand, revealing the hard-earned prize to her angrier and angrier eyes.
My mother said, “Marbles? I had heard you played marbles, but I just couldn’t believe it. You were not off to look for plants at all, you were off to play marbles.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “Oh, no.”
“Where are your other marbles?” said my mother. “If you have one, you have many.”
“Oh, no,” I said. “Oh, no. I don’t have marbles, because I don’t play marbles.”
“You keep them under the house,” said my mother, completely ignoring everything I said.
“Oh, no.”
“I am going to find them and throw them into the deep sea,” she said.
My mother now crawled under the house and began a furious and incredible search for my marbles. If she and I had been taking a walk in the Amazon forest, two of my steps equaling one of her strides, and after a while she noticed that I was no longer at her side, her search for me then would have equaled her search for my marbles now. On and on went her search—behind some planks my father had stored years ago for some long-forgotten use; behind some hatboxes that held old Christmas and birthday cards and old letters from my mother’s family; tearing apart my neat pile of books, which, if she had opened any one of them, would have revealed to her, stamped on the title page, these words: “Public Library, Antigua.” Of course, that would have been a whole other story, and I can’t say which would have been worse, the stolen books or playing marbles. On it went.
“Where are the marbles?” she asked.
“I don’t have any marbles,” I would reply. “Only this one I found one day as I was crossing the street to school.”
Of course I thought, At any minute I am going to die. For there were the marbles staring right at me, staring right at her. Sometimes her hand was actually resting on them. I had stored them in old cans, though my most valued ones were in an old red leather handbag of hers. There they were at her feet, as she rested for a moment, her heel actually digging into the handbag. My heart could have stopped.
My father came home. My mother postponed the rest of the search. Over supper, which, in spite of everything, I was allowed to eat with them, she told him about the marbles, adding a list of things that seemed as long as two chapters from the Old
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