We got a lot of sympathy from the town and so much food that Mother bought a freezer, which she told Sears to deliver to Grandma’s because the wiring in our house was old and a freezer would blow a fuse. We had enough freezable casseroles to last for a year, but occasionally Mother would fix macaroni and cheese for Jarrell or make a meal from Chef-Boyardee. She quit going to church, which Grandma said was only temporary, but sent us every Sunday, before she went back to bed. During the week, she volunteered to teach new routines to the high school majorettes and joined the Junior Women’s Club, planting flowers and shrubs in front of the library, the town hall and the covered bridge, which had been condemned for traffic but was being preserved as an historic monument. Grandma Lizzie kept us while Mother was out, and came over twice a day, morning and evening. For a while, Mother had trouble getting out of bed.
Months passed and soon my dad had been dead a year. Mother still grieved, but she’d stopped crying at night. The boys didn’t remember Dad, and as for me, I was forgetting him, too, especially as his picture wasn’t being plastered on the front page of newspapers anymore. But something was wrong with Mother. She’d never been the talker Grandma was, but now she scarcely spoke. There were other things. One day she was sluggish and swollen eyed, the next day she was quick and nervous, jumping at every sound. A new wind had swept through our screen door, causing Mother to spill out the words, “I’m bored.”
I couldn’t understand that statement. She had us, she had Grandma, she had plenty to do.
My understanding came due to a bad habit. I hadn’t given up my bottle of Ovaltine yet. Mother had once told me that I hadn’t been breast fed, that when I was born everyone had gone Gerber bottle crazy. I still had one glass bottle left from a set of four that hadn’t been shattered. I’d get up at dawn and mix Ovaltine and milk in it, suck it, rinse it, and then go back to bed. Quite a shameful habit as I was going on ten. One morning, however, I overslept, and Grandma Lizzie was over extra early. I was heading to the kitchen, knowledgeable of every creak in every board of the hallway, when I stopped, hearing the sounds of an argument. They were keeping their voices low, but there was no disguising the anger. I froze, slid down beside the phone table, and listened.
‘You’ve been up and down for months, Carmen,” my grandmother was saying. “I’m your mother. I know you and—”
“You know me?” That simple statement let loose a rage I’d never heard before and Grandma chose to ignore.
“Of course, I know you. Mothers know their daughters inside and out.”
This time there was no response.
“All of this isn’t because of Samy. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing you’d understand.”
I heard the slap of a hand on the table. Mother had made Grandma Lizzie mad.
“I understand more than you think. I know about those trips to Clovington and to the 3rd Avenue ABC store. I know where you keep your liquor.” I peered around the table and saw my grandmother motion toward the top cabinet. “Right up there.”
I sat back in place, nearly banging my head against the wall. Liquor! The devil’s drink in our house. And worst of all, if Grandma had found Mother’s liquor, she’d found my bottle as well. Her liquor! My Ovaltine! My head was buzzing. I was undone, but Mother wasn’t.
