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Authors: Bobbie Ann Mason
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her scrapbook.
“Life sure is strange,” I said.
“Didn’t I tell you?” she said. “Now, don’t you worry about your mama, hon. She’s going to be all right.”
—
Later that day, my aunt and uncle stood in the corridor of the hospital while I visited my mother. The hospital was large and gray and steaming with the heat. Mama lay against a mound of pillows, smiling weakly.
“
I
’m the one that showed out,” she said, looking ashamed. She took my hand and made me sit on the bed next to her. “You
were
going to have a little brother or sister,” she said. “But I was mistaken.”
“What happened to it?”
“I lost it. That happens sometimes.”
When I looked at her blankly, she tried to explain that there wasn’t
really
a baby, as there was when she had Johnny two years before.
She said, “You know how sometimes one or two of the chicken eggs don’t hatch? The baby chick just won’t take hold. That’s what happened.”
It occurred to me to ask what the baby’s name would have been.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m trying to tell you there wasn’t really a baby. I didn’t know about it, anyway.”
“You didn’t even know there was a baby?”
“No. I didn’t know about it till I lost it.”
She tried to laugh, but she was weak, and she seemed as confused as I was. She squeezed my hand and closed her eyes for a moment. Then she said, “Boone says the buses will start up this week. You could go with your aunt to Detroit and see the big buildings.”
“Without you?”
“The doctor said I should rest up before we go back. But you go ahead. Mozelle will take you.” She smiled at me sleepily. “I wanted to go so bad—just to see those big fancy store windows. And I wanted to see your face when you saw the city.”
—
That evening,
Toast of the Town
was on television, and then Fred Waring, and
Garroway at Large
. I was lost among the screen phantoms—the magic acts, puppets, jokes, clowns, dancers, singers, wisecracking announcers. My aunt and uncle laughed uproariously. Uncle Boone was drinking beer, something I had not seen him do, and the room stank with the smoke of his Old Golds. Now and then I was aware of all of us sitting there together, laughing in the dim light from the television, while my mother was in the hospital. Even Betsy Lou was watching with us. Later, I went to the guest room and sat on the large bed, trying to concentrate on finishing the Fab jingle.
Here’s to a fabulous life with Fab
There’s no soap scum to make wash drab
Your clothes get cleaner—whiter, too—
I heard my aunt calling to me excitedly. I was missing something on the television screen. I had left because the news was on.
“Pictures of Detroit!” she cried. “Come quick. You can see the big buildings.”
I raced into the living room in time to see some faint, dark shapes, hiding behind the snow, like a forest in winter, and then the image faded into the snow.
“Mozelle can take you into Detroit in a day or two,” my uncle said. “The buses is starting up again.”
“I don’t want to go,” I said.
“You don’t want to miss the chance,” said my aunt.
“Yes, I do.”
That night, alone in the pine-and-cedar room, I saw everything clearly, like the sharpened images that floated on the television screen. My mother had said an egg didn’t hatch,but I knew better. The reds had stolen the baby. They took things. They were after my aunt’s copper-bottomed pans. They stole the butter. They wanted my uncle’s job. They were invisible, like the guardian angel, although they might wear disguises. You didn’t know who might be a red. You never knew when you might lose a baby that you didn’t know you had. I understood it all. I hadn’t trusted my guardian angel, and so he had failed to protect me. During the night, I hit upon a last line to the Fab jingle, but when I awoke I saw how silly and inappropriate it was. It was going over and over in my mind:
Red soap makes
“Life sure is strange,” I said.
“Didn’t I tell you?” she said. “Now, don’t you worry about your mama, hon. She’s going to be all right.”
—
Later that day, my aunt and uncle stood in the corridor of the hospital while I visited my mother. The hospital was large and gray and steaming with the heat. Mama lay against a mound of pillows, smiling weakly.
“
I
’m the one that showed out,” she said, looking ashamed. She took my hand and made me sit on the bed next to her. “You
were
going to have a little brother or sister,” she said. “But I was mistaken.”
“What happened to it?”
“I lost it. That happens sometimes.”
When I looked at her blankly, she tried to explain that there wasn’t
really
a baby, as there was when she had Johnny two years before.
She said, “You know how sometimes one or two of the chicken eggs don’t hatch? The baby chick just won’t take hold. That’s what happened.”
It occurred to me to ask what the baby’s name would have been.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m trying to tell you there wasn’t really a baby. I didn’t know about it, anyway.”
“You didn’t even know there was a baby?”
“No. I didn’t know about it till I lost it.”
She tried to laugh, but she was weak, and she seemed as confused as I was. She squeezed my hand and closed her eyes for a moment. Then she said, “Boone says the buses will start up this week. You could go with your aunt to Detroit and see the big buildings.”
“Without you?”
“The doctor said I should rest up before we go back. But you go ahead. Mozelle will take you.” She smiled at me sleepily. “I wanted to go so bad—just to see those big fancy store windows. And I wanted to see your face when you saw the city.”
—
That evening,
Toast of the Town
was on television, and then Fred Waring, and
Garroway at Large
. I was lost among the screen phantoms—the magic acts, puppets, jokes, clowns, dancers, singers, wisecracking announcers. My aunt and uncle laughed uproariously. Uncle Boone was drinking beer, something I had not seen him do, and the room stank with the smoke of his Old Golds. Now and then I was aware of all of us sitting there together, laughing in the dim light from the television, while my mother was in the hospital. Even Betsy Lou was watching with us. Later, I went to the guest room and sat on the large bed, trying to concentrate on finishing the Fab jingle.
Here’s to a fabulous life with Fab
There’s no soap scum to make wash drab
Your clothes get cleaner—whiter, too—
I heard my aunt calling to me excitedly. I was missing something on the television screen. I had left because the news was on.
“Pictures of Detroit!” she cried. “Come quick. You can see the big buildings.”
I raced into the living room in time to see some faint, dark shapes, hiding behind the snow, like a forest in winter, and then the image faded into the snow.
“Mozelle can take you into Detroit in a day or two,” my uncle said. “The buses is starting up again.”
“I don’t want to go,” I said.
“You don’t want to miss the chance,” said my aunt.
“Yes, I do.”
That night, alone in the pine-and-cedar room, I saw everything clearly, like the sharpened images that floated on the television screen. My mother had said an egg didn’t hatch,but I knew better. The reds had stolen the baby. They took things. They were after my aunt’s copper-bottomed pans. They stole the butter. They wanted my uncle’s job. They were invisible, like the guardian angel, although they might wear disguises. You didn’t know who might be a red. You never knew when you might lose a baby that you didn’t know you had. I understood it all. I hadn’t trusted my guardian angel, and so he had failed to protect me. During the night, I hit upon a last line to the Fab jingle, but when I awoke I saw how silly and inappropriate it was. It was going over and over in my mind:
Red soap makes
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