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Authors: Natalie S. Harnett
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also had me help with house maintenance and repairs. She had me cut up old dungarees so that we could go on the roof and patch it by spreading tar over the denim pieces. Together we removed the wooden window screens and replaced them with wooden storm windows. We painted the front railing, hammered down the loose nails on the porch stoop and changed the washers in the tub and faucets.
“See, girl,” Gram liked to tell me. “With what I’m teachin’ you, you don’t need a man. In fact you don’t need no one. I never let a sick husband or this hump”—she jabbed her thumb toward her back—“stop me from anything. That’s somethin’ your ma could use to learn.” Gram would repeat this lecture to me often, ending it with a smack between the shoulder blades and a warning to stand up straight. Gram was convinced that she’d gotten her hump from slouching because her mother had made fun of her so much. “But what did Mama know about being a mama, comin’ from an orphanage and all? You remember that too.” And Gram would give me this telling look that I didn’t quite understand and then inevitably complain about how haphazardly I’d washed the windows or hung the curtains.
Ma barely seemed to notice Gram’s complaints about my work and I’d learned not to bother complaining to Ma about Gram’s chores either. Once when I’d whined that the dust rags Gram gave me were either Gramp’s old drawers or hankies, Ma said I was lucky that was my only problem and then she’d tell me how in the orphanage the nuns would make you sit in a corner with a dunce cap on if you didn’t do your chores to their standard. When she’d talk about wearing that cap her face would glow with hate as if a bright hot light had been turned on inside her. I could tell Ma considered underdrawers and hankies luxury dust rags and thought I was just acting spoiled thinking otherwise.
That particular Saturday, by the time Ma came home, I’d finished my chores and Brother and I were sitting out on the side porch enjoying the spring weather. Saturdays were especially nice because there was no drilling or blasting. You could actually hear the breeze and the birdcalls and it was like you only right then realized you’d been missing them all week, which crazy as it sounded, made you miss them more. Brother was busy flipping through one of his favorite Superman comics and I was reading a book about Joan of Arc, eager to get to the part where she burned at the stake.
I was so into the book that I didn’t even hear Ma come in the porch door. She walked in smoking and when she saw me she winked and started singing, “Somewhere Over The Rainbow.” Me and Brother, surprised by Ma’s good mood, stole a glance at each other. Ma’s smile didn’t even quiver when Gram came in and yelled at Ma to put out her cigarette. Gram took one last puff on her own cigarette before smashing it out in a glass plate she used as an ashtray. Ma took a long slow drag as she happily rolled her eyes at me.
“Rollin’ your eyes like a little kid!” Gram proclaimed.
“I’ll hold my tongue out of respect, old lady,” Ma said.
“Fine with me. You got nothin’ worthwhile to say anyways.”
“Not to you,” Ma said, her voice relaxed and playful, the way I hadn’t heard it in years, and for some reason or other that unsettled something inside me.
Gram walked around the porch, inspecting my shabby dusting job. She asked how much brains it took to wipe up some dirt.
“What’s a little dust?” Ma said, smashing out her cigarette. “Live a little, old lady. I ain’t afraid of you.”
“’Fraid of me?” Gram said. “Now look at what a fool you sound, Dolores. I’m talkin’ about how to teach your child to ’complish a task.”
“Complish shmomplish,” Ma said and then we heard a sound like a cat hissing coming from somewhere on the front walk. We all turned toward the window and saw standing out between the two ash trees the crazy old lady who
“See, girl,” Gram liked to tell me. “With what I’m teachin’ you, you don’t need a man. In fact you don’t need no one. I never let a sick husband or this hump”—she jabbed her thumb toward her back—“stop me from anything. That’s somethin’ your ma could use to learn.” Gram would repeat this lecture to me often, ending it with a smack between the shoulder blades and a warning to stand up straight. Gram was convinced that she’d gotten her hump from slouching because her mother had made fun of her so much. “But what did Mama know about being a mama, comin’ from an orphanage and all? You remember that too.” And Gram would give me this telling look that I didn’t quite understand and then inevitably complain about how haphazardly I’d washed the windows or hung the curtains.
Ma barely seemed to notice Gram’s complaints about my work and I’d learned not to bother complaining to Ma about Gram’s chores either. Once when I’d whined that the dust rags Gram gave me were either Gramp’s old drawers or hankies, Ma said I was lucky that was my only problem and then she’d tell me how in the orphanage the nuns would make you sit in a corner with a dunce cap on if you didn’t do your chores to their standard. When she’d talk about wearing that cap her face would glow with hate as if a bright hot light had been turned on inside her. I could tell Ma considered underdrawers and hankies luxury dust rags and thought I was just acting spoiled thinking otherwise.
That particular Saturday, by the time Ma came home, I’d finished my chores and Brother and I were sitting out on the side porch enjoying the spring weather. Saturdays were especially nice because there was no drilling or blasting. You could actually hear the breeze and the birdcalls and it was like you only right then realized you’d been missing them all week, which crazy as it sounded, made you miss them more. Brother was busy flipping through one of his favorite Superman comics and I was reading a book about Joan of Arc, eager to get to the part where she burned at the stake.
I was so into the book that I didn’t even hear Ma come in the porch door. She walked in smoking and when she saw me she winked and started singing, “Somewhere Over The Rainbow.” Me and Brother, surprised by Ma’s good mood, stole a glance at each other. Ma’s smile didn’t even quiver when Gram came in and yelled at Ma to put out her cigarette. Gram took one last puff on her own cigarette before smashing it out in a glass plate she used as an ashtray. Ma took a long slow drag as she happily rolled her eyes at me.
“Rollin’ your eyes like a little kid!” Gram proclaimed.
“I’ll hold my tongue out of respect, old lady,” Ma said.
“Fine with me. You got nothin’ worthwhile to say anyways.”
“Not to you,” Ma said, her voice relaxed and playful, the way I hadn’t heard it in years, and for some reason or other that unsettled something inside me.
Gram walked around the porch, inspecting my shabby dusting job. She asked how much brains it took to wipe up some dirt.
“What’s a little dust?” Ma said, smashing out her cigarette. “Live a little, old lady. I ain’t afraid of you.”
“’Fraid of me?” Gram said. “Now look at what a fool you sound, Dolores. I’m talkin’ about how to teach your child to ’complish a task.”
“Complish shmomplish,” Ma said and then we heard a sound like a cat hissing coming from somewhere on the front walk. We all turned toward the window and saw standing out between the two ash trees the crazy old lady who
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