1963

            Mother’s head sank again against the sofa. Then, her shoulders shook and I realized she was laughing.

            “Denise, I can guarantee you this baby has nothing to do with Doris. I couldn’t ask for a more perfect daughter than the one I’ve got now.” I was far from being perfect but we both needed the lie she was telling. “Your father and I decided to expand our family. I know it’s a shock, you’re already ten, but sometimes things happen. Besides, this baby might be a boy,” she looked at me, and continued, “and if it is, he’ll play in the dirt and have dirty fingernails, too. You can’t pay attention to Doris.”

            I shrugged. “I guess not, but Deborah Anne—”

            “—is going to die soon. No doubt about it this time. Just play with John Hawkins. Keep him out of trouble. Oh, and,” she pulled a pink booklet out of the end table drawer. “it’s probably time I talked to you about this but, frankly, I’m too tired. Take this up to Grandma’s and have her explain it to you.” 

            I took the booklet. Bouquets of daisies tied with a dark pink ribbon were interspersed on a light pink background. The title was “Growing Up and Liking It” by someone named Kimberly Clark. I just stared. I didn’t have much time for reading in the summer, but when I did, I read mysteries. I liked Nancy Drew a lot.

            “Go on.” Mom had risen with the help of the hard-plastic end of the attachment and was now shooing me out the door, “And Denise, just you and Grandma, okay? Make sure John Hawkins isn’t around when she explains things.” Then she mumbled something about it probably not mattering anyway because he knew everything already, but I didn’t stop to wonder because I was out the door. 

            My ants were sizzling. I knew it. I rolled up the booklet and put it in the back pocket of my cut-offs, running all the way to Grandma’s, and stopped halfway up the hill when I saw John Hawkins.  He paced with his head bent, hands in his pockets. His head shot up when he saw me, and he pulled his hands from his pockets and put them on his hips. Then, with the tip of his foot, he rolled a fat pickle jar down the hill. 

            “Get the ants!” he shouted. This was his pay-back. I was pulling double duty for being late. I’d collected the ants yesterday, too.  

The ants resided in a dead tree stump. An enormous maple had been cut, but the stump had been left in the ground. Now it sprouted suckers. Thin stems with vibrant maple leaves but mixed with something else, poison oak, but that wasn’t all. 

 In between the sprouts and poison oak was a colony of enormous black ants. It didn’t bother me to pick them up. I liked to see them race, then fall, halfway up the jar. Their bites were harmless, and now that the ants with wings, the swarmers, were gone and no longer in my face, it was like playing hide and seek. I’d move a piece of wood and find nothing. I’d move another and find a rivulet of ants, exposed and running in all directions.  

            We’d been heavily warned to stay away from this stump. 

to be con’t. Copyright by Joan Spilman, 2023