since the night of my birthday. Otis howled hysterically. I have to admit, I thought it was funny myself. There we were, shaking in our boots over what we thought was a ferocious rodent, when all the time it was only a helpless little duck smothered with rotten oranges. I got out a garbage bag and Otis tossed the whole thing in, even Ma’s baking pan. All the way to the garbage chute, we couldn’t stop laughing.
When I told the story to Ma on the phone that night, she didn’t think it was funny at all. In fact, it made her sadder than ever.
“Poor Haley!” she sobbed into the telephone. “Poor Otis!”
“Stop crying,” I pleaded. “We’re fine. It wasn’t a rat. It was a duck.”
“But that was your birthday duck!” she moaned. She cried some more.
It was almost as if Ma was looking for things to be upset about. Still, every evening I called her.
“Otis and I cooked some beans,” I told her on the telephone once. She always wanted to know what we ate.
“Did you soak them first?” she asked quietly.
“Nope. But we cooked them for seven hours.”
I heard her sigh.
“Don’t worry, Ma. They tasted good. The only problem was that they kept on expanding. First we put them into a little pot, but then we had to find a pot that was bigger. The same thing happened to the rice. I never knew how much rice and beans expand when you cook them.” I giggled. “Food was everywhere.”
“What do you mean?” she asked in alarm.
“Both of the pots boiled over, even the big ones. The rice and beans just wouldn’t stop cooking. It was like the story of the porridge.”
“Porridge?” she sounded confused. “You ate cereal with rice and beans?”
“No, Ma,” I pressed, “the story of the porridge in
Grimms’.
You used to read it to me,” I reminded her. “The porridge filled up the whole town, so everyone had to eat their way out?”
“This isn’t a fairy tale,” she said with a whimper. “I don’t want to hear this.”
“We ended up throwing most of it out, anyway,” I said quietly.
She cleared her throat. “Where was Mrs. Brown?”
“At home watching television.”
“Does she ever bring you anything for dinner?” Ma asked helplessly.
“She brought us some turnip greens and ham hocks. Don’t worry, Ma, we aren’t starving.”
Ma began to wail. “I hate those fatty ham hocks!”
She cried and cried, so I finally hung up.
If I mentioned Otis on the telephone, that was a sure cue for her to break up. But Ma always wanted to hear about him.
“Where’s your brother? What is he up to?” she asked one night.
“He leaves early every morning and travels around with his buddy Reggie.”
She drew in a breath. “Where does he go?”
“I don’t know. He and his partner set up their incense stand down in the subway. He always comes home after dark.”
“That boy…he’d better not be up to anything,” she muttered. “I’ve got to get home to check up on him.”
“You’re coming home?” I asked. “When?”
“I’m not sure,” she answered. “The doctor is trying to adjust the medication.” Her voice drifted off.
I pressed my ear to the phone. She was trying to hold it in this time, but I could still hear her crying softly.
She even cried when I told her about my blister! “I was lifting rocks in Jackson’s yard,” I reported. “I got a big blister on one of my pinkies.”
Ma burst into tears like a baby.
“Snap out of it, Ma,” I said, losing my patience. “It wasn’t
your
blister, it was
my
blister. All I needed was a little bandage.”
Otis never talked to Ma himself, but I reported it all to him faithfully.
“If she doesn’t stop all that crying, she might go blind,” my brother said, pacing the floor.
“People don’t go blind from crying,” I told him. “But she might feel better if you called her.”
“Not until she acts like herself again,” declared Otis. “Anyway, she’ll be nagging me.”
Even though I knew that people don’t go
When I told the story to Ma on the phone that night, she didn’t think it was funny at all. In fact, it made her sadder than ever.
“Poor Haley!” she sobbed into the telephone. “Poor Otis!”
“Stop crying,” I pleaded. “We’re fine. It wasn’t a rat. It was a duck.”
“But that was your birthday duck!” she moaned. She cried some more.
It was almost as if Ma was looking for things to be upset about. Still, every evening I called her.
“Otis and I cooked some beans,” I told her on the telephone once. She always wanted to know what we ate.
“Did you soak them first?” she asked quietly.
“Nope. But we cooked them for seven hours.”
I heard her sigh.
“Don’t worry, Ma. They tasted good. The only problem was that they kept on expanding. First we put them into a little pot, but then we had to find a pot that was bigger. The same thing happened to the rice. I never knew how much rice and beans expand when you cook them.” I giggled. “Food was everywhere.”
“What do you mean?” she asked in alarm.
“Both of the pots boiled over, even the big ones. The rice and beans just wouldn’t stop cooking. It was like the story of the porridge.”
“Porridge?” she sounded confused. “You ate cereal with rice and beans?”
“No, Ma,” I pressed, “the story of the porridge in
Grimms’.
You used to read it to me,” I reminded her. “The porridge filled up the whole town, so everyone had to eat their way out?”
“This isn’t a fairy tale,” she said with a whimper. “I don’t want to hear this.”
“We ended up throwing most of it out, anyway,” I said quietly.
She cleared her throat. “Where was Mrs. Brown?”
“At home watching television.”
“Does she ever bring you anything for dinner?” Ma asked helplessly.
“She brought us some turnip greens and ham hocks. Don’t worry, Ma, we aren’t starving.”
Ma began to wail. “I hate those fatty ham hocks!”
She cried and cried, so I finally hung up.
If I mentioned Otis on the telephone, that was a sure cue for her to break up. But Ma always wanted to hear about him.
“Where’s your brother? What is he up to?” she asked one night.
“He leaves early every morning and travels around with his buddy Reggie.”
She drew in a breath. “Where does he go?”
“I don’t know. He and his partner set up their incense stand down in the subway. He always comes home after dark.”
“That boy…he’d better not be up to anything,” she muttered. “I’ve got to get home to check up on him.”
“You’re coming home?” I asked. “When?”
“I’m not sure,” she answered. “The doctor is trying to adjust the medication.” Her voice drifted off.
I pressed my ear to the phone. She was trying to hold it in this time, but I could still hear her crying softly.
She even cried when I told her about my blister! “I was lifting rocks in Jackson’s yard,” I reported. “I got a big blister on one of my pinkies.”
Ma burst into tears like a baby.
“Snap out of it, Ma,” I said, losing my patience. “It wasn’t
your
blister, it was
my
blister. All I needed was a little bandage.”
Otis never talked to Ma himself, but I reported it all to him faithfully.
“If she doesn’t stop all that crying, she might go blind,” my brother said, pacing the floor.
“People don’t go blind from crying,” I told him. “But she might feel better if you called her.”
“Not until she acts like herself again,” declared Otis. “Anyway, she’ll be nagging me.”
Even though I knew that people don’t go
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