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Authors: Adriana Trigiani
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situation.”
“She said she’s sorry.”
“Maybe that’s my problem. I don’t believe her. She’s old enough to know this was a terrible thing to do. Where’s her conscience? Her compassion? Don’t you worry that she’s not sensitive to other people’s feelings?”
“Like you’re sensitive to mine?” Jack asks softly.
“What?”
“When did we talk about a punishment? You just sort of sprung the New York thing on her and me. I want to back you up, but you need to at least let me know what you’re going to do.”
“I don’t believe it! You’re turning this into something
I’m
doing wrong.”
“If you want me to help, you have to let me make the decisions with you. That’s all I’m saying.” Jack’s tone is even and calm, as though we’ve had this argument before. (We have.)
“I’m sorry. This incident hit a nerve.”
“I see that.” Jack puts his arm around me. I sink into him like a spoon in cake batter.
“All the books say to get a grip on your emotions before you discipline your child. Haven’t I done that in the past? I usually have a grip, don’t I?”
“Yes, you do. Most of the time.”
“But this time I saw myself in it. I was like Miss Benton for a lot of years. It’s like Etta did something personal to the person I used to be.”
Jack holds me for a long time, and I don’t say a word. No matter how many years go by, I’m never very far from who I was, the ferriner, the unmarried one, the lone Eye-talian. And no matter how many years go by, I carry her inside me. Somehow I know that I always will.
Etta has left for school early. She has the Girls’ Athletic Association preschool basketball game, but I’m sure she wants to avoid me. Jack is off to work already, so the house is quiet. As I pull a mug from the kitchen cabinet, I see a letter addressed to me propped on the windowsill. With the end of a teaspoon, I open the letter and unfold it, then I pour myself a cup of coffee.
Dear Mom,
I know you hate me right now but I wanted you to hear my side of things. I did do the wrong thing. I did call the coal company and place the order on a Friday when we knew they were rushing to get out of there and wouldn’t check. I don’t hate Miss Benton, except for the laps she makes us run, she’s been a pretty good band director. We thought it would be funny to see a pile of coal in her yard. I didn’t think about how we would get it out of there. I am very sorry. I am sorry I hurt Miss Benton and sorry I can’t go to New York where I’ve always wanted to go. I won’t order a coal dump in anyone’s yard anymore.
Etta
I grab some paper and a pen and write Etta a note back.
Dear Etta,
I don’t hate you. I don’t like what you did, there’s a difference. I believe you are sorry for the coal dump and that you won’t do it again. But next time you think of doing something for the sport of it, would you please consider the person’s feelings? How would you like someone to do that to you?
Love,Mom
I leave the letter on Etta’s bed, noting that her room has never been so neat. She’s not a bad kid, I remind myself as I pack up for work. She didn’t try to weasel out of her punishment or blame anyone else for the prank. Maybe she even learned something. But it’s uncanny to me, how my kid can zero in on my sensitivities. She knows I’m protective of new folks who move to town. And she knows equally well what is required for me to set myself on the path of forgiveness.
Life in Cracker’s Neck Holler has been so quiet since the coal dump a month ago, you’d think this old house was a monastery. I chose not to back down on my punishment. Etta will not be going to New York City with me (this time), and Jack agreed. It is so hard to follow through with this decision, because one of my dreams for my daughter is to travel, to expose her to the outside world, to museums, plays, culture. A couple of days ago, I almost buckled, but Jack reined me in. It won’t be
“She said she’s sorry.”
“Maybe that’s my problem. I don’t believe her. She’s old enough to know this was a terrible thing to do. Where’s her conscience? Her compassion? Don’t you worry that she’s not sensitive to other people’s feelings?”
“Like you’re sensitive to mine?” Jack asks softly.
“What?”
“When did we talk about a punishment? You just sort of sprung the New York thing on her and me. I want to back you up, but you need to at least let me know what you’re going to do.”
“I don’t believe it! You’re turning this into something
I’m
doing wrong.”
“If you want me to help, you have to let me make the decisions with you. That’s all I’m saying.” Jack’s tone is even and calm, as though we’ve had this argument before. (We have.)
“I’m sorry. This incident hit a nerve.”
“I see that.” Jack puts his arm around me. I sink into him like a spoon in cake batter.
“All the books say to get a grip on your emotions before you discipline your child. Haven’t I done that in the past? I usually have a grip, don’t I?”
“Yes, you do. Most of the time.”
“But this time I saw myself in it. I was like Miss Benton for a lot of years. It’s like Etta did something personal to the person I used to be.”
Jack holds me for a long time, and I don’t say a word. No matter how many years go by, I’m never very far from who I was, the ferriner, the unmarried one, the lone Eye-talian. And no matter how many years go by, I carry her inside me. Somehow I know that I always will.
Etta has left for school early. She has the Girls’ Athletic Association preschool basketball game, but I’m sure she wants to avoid me. Jack is off to work already, so the house is quiet. As I pull a mug from the kitchen cabinet, I see a letter addressed to me propped on the windowsill. With the end of a teaspoon, I open the letter and unfold it, then I pour myself a cup of coffee.
Dear Mom,
I know you hate me right now but I wanted you to hear my side of things. I did do the wrong thing. I did call the coal company and place the order on a Friday when we knew they were rushing to get out of there and wouldn’t check. I don’t hate Miss Benton, except for the laps she makes us run, she’s been a pretty good band director. We thought it would be funny to see a pile of coal in her yard. I didn’t think about how we would get it out of there. I am very sorry. I am sorry I hurt Miss Benton and sorry I can’t go to New York where I’ve always wanted to go. I won’t order a coal dump in anyone’s yard anymore.
Etta
I grab some paper and a pen and write Etta a note back.
Dear Etta,
I don’t hate you. I don’t like what you did, there’s a difference. I believe you are sorry for the coal dump and that you won’t do it again. But next time you think of doing something for the sport of it, would you please consider the person’s feelings? How would you like someone to do that to you?
Love,Mom
I leave the letter on Etta’s bed, noting that her room has never been so neat. She’s not a bad kid, I remind myself as I pack up for work. She didn’t try to weasel out of her punishment or blame anyone else for the prank. Maybe she even learned something. But it’s uncanny to me, how my kid can zero in on my sensitivities. She knows I’m protective of new folks who move to town. And she knows equally well what is required for me to set myself on the path of forgiveness.
Life in Cracker’s Neck Holler has been so quiet since the coal dump a month ago, you’d think this old house was a monastery. I chose not to back down on my punishment. Etta will not be going to New York City with me (this time), and Jack agreed. It is so hard to follow through with this decision, because one of my dreams for my daughter is to travel, to expose her to the outside world, to museums, plays, culture. A couple of days ago, I almost buckled, but Jack reined me in. It won’t be
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