Read Online Mother Box and Other Tales by Sarah Blackman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sarah Blackman
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close, saw it all. But, though he was interviewed several times by the magistrate, the tale he told made no sense. Something about their bodies shrinking, their empty clothes falling to the ground. Something about two little birds with white caps and bright black eyes hopping from the garments' loose necks and cocking their heads to peer up at him. The butcher's grandson described thesleek line of their feathers, their trim wings. He described how they blinked, the fragility of their eyelids, the moment of blindness when they were most at risk.
For a short time, the birds hopped about the cobblestones on their stiff legs, pecking at crumbs, dodging the revelers' heedless feet. They crossed each other's paths, before each other, behind each other, but gave no sign they were working in concert or were aware of their momentous change. Then, as if at an unheard signal, both sprang into the air, pumping their competent wings, and rose above the heads of their fellow townspeople. They wheeled once, the boy saw them, and flew off in opposite directions with no show of sorrow or even farewell.
“It was as if they didn't know each other at all,” the child said.
Try as he might, the magistrate could get no other answer out of him and it was observed that this was a child who had come to his mother late in life, who had been born at the end of a long, difficult labor. His head was too large and round, the magistrate observed, and his hair crossed it only sparsely. His eyes were too wide and his cheeks were too red. Hadn't he been born in the light of a dubious moon? the magistrate said. And didn't these things happen? And wasn't it a shame?
For the rest of his short, baleful life the child was treated with gentle constraint. His bad behaviors were overlooked and his good ones too fervently praised. When he died, his family erected a monument garlanded by lambs, cast a concrete bench for quiet contemplation and fashioned a little fountain to gurgle at his feet. Many years later, when the forest had taken back all the lands of the town, it was still possible to see the outlines of his grave through the tangle of thicket and to apprehend the shape of the bench beneath its coat of moss. Though the fountain no longer bubbled, every storm filled it to running over. In the long dreaming of the season, birds came there to splash and groom.They clung to the fountain's lip and sung their songs. They lived their brief lives and bore no witness.
The Groomsmen
One day, she gave birth to seven babies. This was a great surprise, the more so because all of the babies were boys. “I am the mother of seven sons,” she practiced in the little square mirror the hospital thoughtfully provided. On the table behind her was a vase with a bouquet of pansies her mother had sent and behind that an incredible number of bassinets.
When she brought the babies home her husband said, “Good Lord,” and retreated to his study where he sat and looked out the window, gloomily eating a sack of pretzels. For awhile, she walked her sons up and down the halls, wiped their bottoms with rags, threw diapers in the washing machine, hung diapers out on the line to dry, spooned carrots and peas and beans and chickens and corn and mushrooms and pears and eggs into their mouths, sanitized bottles, sanitized pacifiers, washed their hair, washed their bodies, wiped their bottoms with rags, made choo-choo noises and showed them the spoon, spooned carrots and peas and beansand chickens, made a horse out of her knees, made a horse out of her back, hung their diapers to dry, boiled their bottles, boiled their dishes, rubbed a finger over their sensitive gums. Then, her husband came out of his study and gave one of the sons a pretzel. “It won't be so bad,” he said and picked up a spoon.
Previously in her and her husband's lives together she had thought of herself as the kind of woman other men would describe as a spit-fire. She understood there was a certain volatile
For a short time, the birds hopped about the cobblestones on their stiff legs, pecking at crumbs, dodging the revelers' heedless feet. They crossed each other's paths, before each other, behind each other, but gave no sign they were working in concert or were aware of their momentous change. Then, as if at an unheard signal, both sprang into the air, pumping their competent wings, and rose above the heads of their fellow townspeople. They wheeled once, the boy saw them, and flew off in opposite directions with no show of sorrow or even farewell.
“It was as if they didn't know each other at all,” the child said.
Try as he might, the magistrate could get no other answer out of him and it was observed that this was a child who had come to his mother late in life, who had been born at the end of a long, difficult labor. His head was too large and round, the magistrate observed, and his hair crossed it only sparsely. His eyes were too wide and his cheeks were too red. Hadn't he been born in the light of a dubious moon? the magistrate said. And didn't these things happen? And wasn't it a shame?
For the rest of his short, baleful life the child was treated with gentle constraint. His bad behaviors were overlooked and his good ones too fervently praised. When he died, his family erected a monument garlanded by lambs, cast a concrete bench for quiet contemplation and fashioned a little fountain to gurgle at his feet. Many years later, when the forest had taken back all the lands of the town, it was still possible to see the outlines of his grave through the tangle of thicket and to apprehend the shape of the bench beneath its coat of moss. Though the fountain no longer bubbled, every storm filled it to running over. In the long dreaming of the season, birds came there to splash and groom.They clung to the fountain's lip and sung their songs. They lived their brief lives and bore no witness.
The Groomsmen
One day, she gave birth to seven babies. This was a great surprise, the more so because all of the babies were boys. “I am the mother of seven sons,” she practiced in the little square mirror the hospital thoughtfully provided. On the table behind her was a vase with a bouquet of pansies her mother had sent and behind that an incredible number of bassinets.
When she brought the babies home her husband said, “Good Lord,” and retreated to his study where he sat and looked out the window, gloomily eating a sack of pretzels. For awhile, she walked her sons up and down the halls, wiped their bottoms with rags, threw diapers in the washing machine, hung diapers out on the line to dry, spooned carrots and peas and beans and chickens and corn and mushrooms and pears and eggs into their mouths, sanitized bottles, sanitized pacifiers, washed their hair, washed their bodies, wiped their bottoms with rags, made choo-choo noises and showed them the spoon, spooned carrots and peas and beansand chickens, made a horse out of her knees, made a horse out of her back, hung their diapers to dry, boiled their bottles, boiled their dishes, rubbed a finger over their sensitive gums. Then, her husband came out of his study and gave one of the sons a pretzel. “It won't be so bad,” he said and picked up a spoon.
Previously in her and her husband's lives together she had thought of herself as the kind of woman other men would describe as a spit-fire. She understood there was a certain volatile
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