to shout in earnest one nurse ran for doctors and orderlies. But before anyone came he lunged at Mama with a paring knife he had carried in his pocket all the way from home. Mama locked herself in the bathroom before he could reach her. Papa beat at the door with his piece of arm shouting not that he wanted to kill her but that he wanted her to come out and pay some mind to him, look at him, see him for a while.
The doctors told Mama they could put him in jail if she wanted them to, if she would press charges. She told them no. If he were in jail, who would feed her family?
You slept through all this, a deep sleep that made Mama more afraid than before. She stood at the side of the bed all night, counting your breaths.
In the morning you woke to see them both at the window, Mama facing Papa, Papa standing with arm and piece of arm clumsily folded. Past his head you could see clouds, far above the world. The dream of the other had disappeared. Your chin was dry. You could feel the large and rubbery blood clot on your tongue.
âYou should have waited to tell me till after all this was over, I couldnât take any more surprises. Iâm about out of my mind.â
âI already waited two months to tell you because I was afraid what you might do.â
Then you called, âMama,â softly, your voice strangely thickened by the clot.
They turned and saw you, and both of them smiled. Mama pushed Papaâs arm out of the way and came to you.
âSee,â she said, âI told you it would be all right.â
In a moment Papa came too, and laid his heavy hand on top of your stomach.
A week later when the clot disappeared you could eat soft foods again, and the doctors let you go home. Mama packed your clothes into a shopping bag saying Papa was bringing Aunt Deliaâs car to drive you home. Not to the old house but to a new one. She acted as if the news shouldsurprise you, and you, for your part, were never quite sure why it didnât. She told you the story in the car while you waited for Papa to sign the papers about the hospital bill. Papa broke Mr. Rejenkins jaw in a fight, Mama said, and spent the night in jail. The next day Mr. Rejenkins evicted the family from the house. The new house was nicer, Mama said, in a neat, clean yard, closer to town than the last house. That wasnât the end of the news, either. In a little while, Mama said, you were going to have a new baby sister or brother, and wouldnât that be fun?
IN THE next house, the sixth one, you lived for two years. You named that house the Light House because from a distance it looked like an old white lighthouse rising out of a sea of trees. The center of the house stood three stories tall, narrow and sheer like a tower. Mama hated this house from the beginning, despite what she told you that day in the car. There were so many stairs to climb she ran like a mountain goat from morning to night. She swore it was the stairs that brought on the early birth of your youngest brother Grove, who lay three weeks in a hospital incubator before the doctors thought him strong enough to come home. Papa fretted every day about the money wasted as peevishly as if Grove had checked himself into an expensive hotel. Mama lay in bed staring at the ceiling and keeping quiet. She laid Groveâs birth certificate on the dresser next to her where she could see it all the time.
When Grove came home he lay in the crib with his eyes closed all day long, a small, dark-haired toy. Soonenough he proved to be a bleeder like you. One day a razor blade accidentally tumbled off the dresser into his playpen, and he dragged his soft arm across it. The pale flesh oozed blood hour after hour, more than you would have thought such a small body could contain. Mama and Papa drove him to the hospital in Mars Hill. Once there he bled for weeks.
He almost died, Mama said. A few months later he almost died again, of a bruise on the side from a simple fall in his
The doctors told Mama they could put him in jail if she wanted them to, if she would press charges. She told them no. If he were in jail, who would feed her family?
You slept through all this, a deep sleep that made Mama more afraid than before. She stood at the side of the bed all night, counting your breaths.
In the morning you woke to see them both at the window, Mama facing Papa, Papa standing with arm and piece of arm clumsily folded. Past his head you could see clouds, far above the world. The dream of the other had disappeared. Your chin was dry. You could feel the large and rubbery blood clot on your tongue.
âYou should have waited to tell me till after all this was over, I couldnât take any more surprises. Iâm about out of my mind.â
âI already waited two months to tell you because I was afraid what you might do.â
Then you called, âMama,â softly, your voice strangely thickened by the clot.
They turned and saw you, and both of them smiled. Mama pushed Papaâs arm out of the way and came to you.
âSee,â she said, âI told you it would be all right.â
In a moment Papa came too, and laid his heavy hand on top of your stomach.
A week later when the clot disappeared you could eat soft foods again, and the doctors let you go home. Mama packed your clothes into a shopping bag saying Papa was bringing Aunt Deliaâs car to drive you home. Not to the old house but to a new one. She acted as if the news shouldsurprise you, and you, for your part, were never quite sure why it didnât. She told you the story in the car while you waited for Papa to sign the papers about the hospital bill. Papa broke Mr. Rejenkins jaw in a fight, Mama said, and spent the night in jail. The next day Mr. Rejenkins evicted the family from the house. The new house was nicer, Mama said, in a neat, clean yard, closer to town than the last house. That wasnât the end of the news, either. In a little while, Mama said, you were going to have a new baby sister or brother, and wouldnât that be fun?
IN THE next house, the sixth one, you lived for two years. You named that house the Light House because from a distance it looked like an old white lighthouse rising out of a sea of trees. The center of the house stood three stories tall, narrow and sheer like a tower. Mama hated this house from the beginning, despite what she told you that day in the car. There were so many stairs to climb she ran like a mountain goat from morning to night. She swore it was the stairs that brought on the early birth of your youngest brother Grove, who lay three weeks in a hospital incubator before the doctors thought him strong enough to come home. Papa fretted every day about the money wasted as peevishly as if Grove had checked himself into an expensive hotel. Mama lay in bed staring at the ceiling and keeping quiet. She laid Groveâs birth certificate on the dresser next to her where she could see it all the time.
When Grove came home he lay in the crib with his eyes closed all day long, a small, dark-haired toy. Soonenough he proved to be a bleeder like you. One day a razor blade accidentally tumbled off the dresser into his playpen, and he dragged his soft arm across it. The pale flesh oozed blood hour after hour, more than you would have thought such a small body could contain. Mama and Papa drove him to the hospital in Mars Hill. Once there he bled for weeks.
He almost died, Mama said. A few months later he almost died again, of a bruise on the side from a simple fall in his
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