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Authors: Faith Sullivan
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because hescreamed like a banshee when the ball was hit. Bill McGivern said that when Hilly first started going to softball games after the war, he’d jump down from the stands and run after the ball. The players on the Harvester Blue Sox would just tell him to get the hell back up in the stands, but a first baseman from Red Berry once got so riled, he hit Hilly with his fist and knocked him down.
Hilly never hit back. Not the softball player, and not the eleven-and twelve-year-old boys who taunted him and threw things at him. I thought it was strange that someone who’d been a hero in the war never hit back. When I told this to Mama, she said thank God he didn’t, or people around here would throw him in the state hospital for the insane and retarded faster than you could salute the flag.
The six o’clock whistle blew. We could hear it plainly. Supper was always on the table at five-thirty. Hilly looked at me.
“Don’t worry,” I told him. But
I
was worried. I didn’t want to get the back of the brush.
As we reached the hobo jungle, I scanned the open cellar for anyone new, any latecomer. There was a third man now, one who was clean shaven and looked recently bathed. He’d probably been out scratching for work when I’d come by earlier. He was sitting by the fire, heating a can of Campbell’s Pork and Beans.
In a sudden flush of temerity, I went to the edge of the basement and called, “Do you know Earl Samson?” Then I was shy and couldn’t believe I had called to them that way.
The oldest of the three, the one who’d been napping before, glanced at the others. “I guess not, little lady,” he said. “Is there a message if I meet him?”
But my courage was gone. I shook my head and turned away, hurrying toward home with Hilly. And whom should we sight striding down the track, anger in every step, but Mama.
“Where in
hell
have you been, Lark?” When Mama was mad, she didn’t mince words, and it didn’t matter who was around. “I’ve been worried sick.” Reaching us, she grabbed my upper arm, giving me a good pinch. “I sat down to read,” she explained, relief and worry and impatience mixed in her voice, “and fell asleep with the book in my hand, or else I’d have been out here with the brush an hour ago.” She didn’t have the brush with her. If she was feeling guilty for falling asleep and not keeping a check on me, she might not use the brush at all. “I told you to be home for supper,” shecontinued, grasping my hand and pulling me roughly along at a trot.
“I brought you a bouquet,” I told her, holding up the mustard and onions, which she ignored. “I met Hilly while I was picking flowers.” Hilly loped along beside us in his tipsy fashion. Mama’s lips were pressed tightly together, so I stopped trying to make conversation.
It was embarrassing to be dragged along like this. I hoped not too many people were watching, especially not too many first graders. Some mothers covered up their anger until they got home, but Mama would swat me on the backside right in the middle of Main Street if I were being “incorrigible.” Incorrigible was a favorite word of Mama’s. I was an incorrigible nail biter. Papa had been trying to get me to stop biting my nails for as long as I could remember. He’d recently begun weekly inspections. Every Monday at supper, he ordered me to lay my hands on the table while he examined my nails. Last Monday he was so upset, he said if there wasn’t improvement by next Monday, I’d get the back of the brush.
Papa believed that ladies, big and little, should be as pretty and perfect in every detail as was possible. He had limited control over my too-fine, straight-as-a-stick hair and my scrawny arms and legs (though sometimes he kept me at the table until nearly bedtime to see that I cleaned my plate), but over my fingernails he was determined to prevail.
The fact was, Mama bit her nails, too, but Papa had long ago despaired of breaking her of
Hilly never hit back. Not the softball player, and not the eleven-and twelve-year-old boys who taunted him and threw things at him. I thought it was strange that someone who’d been a hero in the war never hit back. When I told this to Mama, she said thank God he didn’t, or people around here would throw him in the state hospital for the insane and retarded faster than you could salute the flag.
The six o’clock whistle blew. We could hear it plainly. Supper was always on the table at five-thirty. Hilly looked at me.
“Don’t worry,” I told him. But
I
was worried. I didn’t want to get the back of the brush.
As we reached the hobo jungle, I scanned the open cellar for anyone new, any latecomer. There was a third man now, one who was clean shaven and looked recently bathed. He’d probably been out scratching for work when I’d come by earlier. He was sitting by the fire, heating a can of Campbell’s Pork and Beans.
In a sudden flush of temerity, I went to the edge of the basement and called, “Do you know Earl Samson?” Then I was shy and couldn’t believe I had called to them that way.
The oldest of the three, the one who’d been napping before, glanced at the others. “I guess not, little lady,” he said. “Is there a message if I meet him?”
But my courage was gone. I shook my head and turned away, hurrying toward home with Hilly. And whom should we sight striding down the track, anger in every step, but Mama.
“Where in
hell
have you been, Lark?” When Mama was mad, she didn’t mince words, and it didn’t matter who was around. “I’ve been worried sick.” Reaching us, she grabbed my upper arm, giving me a good pinch. “I sat down to read,” she explained, relief and worry and impatience mixed in her voice, “and fell asleep with the book in my hand, or else I’d have been out here with the brush an hour ago.” She didn’t have the brush with her. If she was feeling guilty for falling asleep and not keeping a check on me, she might not use the brush at all. “I told you to be home for supper,” shecontinued, grasping my hand and pulling me roughly along at a trot.
“I brought you a bouquet,” I told her, holding up the mustard and onions, which she ignored. “I met Hilly while I was picking flowers.” Hilly loped along beside us in his tipsy fashion. Mama’s lips were pressed tightly together, so I stopped trying to make conversation.
It was embarrassing to be dragged along like this. I hoped not too many people were watching, especially not too many first graders. Some mothers covered up their anger until they got home, but Mama would swat me on the backside right in the middle of Main Street if I were being “incorrigible.” Incorrigible was a favorite word of Mama’s. I was an incorrigible nail biter. Papa had been trying to get me to stop biting my nails for as long as I could remember. He’d recently begun weekly inspections. Every Monday at supper, he ordered me to lay my hands on the table while he examined my nails. Last Monday he was so upset, he said if there wasn’t improvement by next Monday, I’d get the back of the brush.
Papa believed that ladies, big and little, should be as pretty and perfect in every detail as was possible. He had limited control over my too-fine, straight-as-a-stick hair and my scrawny arms and legs (though sometimes he kept me at the table until nearly bedtime to see that I cleaned my plate), but over my fingernails he was determined to prevail.
The fact was, Mama bit her nails, too, but Papa had long ago despaired of breaking her of
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