Apron Strings by Mary Morony Page A

to have her half day off. But my mother suddenly asked her to stay, saying she had something important to do away from the house. Ethel told her that she couldn’t because she had a dentist appointment that afternoon, but she could take us with her. My mother hemmed and hawed then finally gave her permission.
    In preparation for our adventure, Ethel gathered all her possessions: her purse, her sweater—despite the blistering heat—her hat, and her ubiquitous brown shopping bag. She walked from the house with the folded bag tucked under her arm, her purse dangling, and Helen planted high up on her ample hip. She instructed Gordy to hold my hand, and then grabbed my other hand. As we left the yard she said, “Gordy, don’ you let go of ‘er hand no matter what. If’n I gotta let go, you hol’ tight, ya hear?” Gordy nodded and squeezed my hand harder. I did my best to shake free. Before we’d even gotten to the bus stop at the corner in frontof our house, Ethel stopped twice: once to adjust Helen, her purse, and her bag, and again to ask Gordy and me, “Does I have to git a switch?”
    “He’s squeezing my hand too hard,” I whined.
    “But Ethel told me to,” Gordy protested, his face screwed up with earnest responsibility.
    “Honey, jest hold ‘er hand an’ don’ let go. Now hurry on, here’s de bus.”
    Like a monstrous green and yellow dragon spewing diesel fumes, the bus hissed to a stop in front of us. Its enormous doors sprang open, revealing steps. A uniformed driver at the wheel peered down at us.
    “How did it know we wanted it to stop, Ethel?” I asked, mesmerized by the vehicle’s enormity.
    “Cuz it’s a bus stop,” she said. I didn’t think that was much of an explanation since I’d often watched from the house as bus after bus drove up and down the road never stopping. But I let the subject drop. I’d learned that even with Ethel questions sometimes weren’t worth pursuing, and you could never tell which ones they might be until it was already too late. I learned that the hard way the time I asked her how Lil’ Early could be her grandson when she didn’t have any children of her own.
    “He be Big Early’s son’s boy,” she said.
    “How come Big Early has a son and he’s not yours, too?”
    “Big Early was married befo’.”
    Then I went one question too far. I had heard my mother say that Big Early and Ethel were only married
in common-law
. I had no idea what the phrase meant, but I remembered it, so I said, “Common-law, like you and Big Early?”
    “What you know ‘bout dat?” Ethel shot back, giving me a cross look that ended my questions.
    Boarding the bus proved to be awkward. Ethel, juggling Helen and her purse on one arm, let go of my hand to pay the bus driver. The driver had a mean look on his face like he didn’t like us. I glared at him. He kept putting his foot on the brake pedal then taking it off so the bus jumped and bounced as Ethel tried to pay him. I was going to help, but Gordy took it upon himself to be my sole protector while Ethel was otherwiseoccupied. After we had a small skirmish at the head of the steps out of Ethel’s line of sight, I wrested my hand from Gordy and tripped to the vacant seat at the back of the bus. Gordy trailed after me doing his best to follow Ethel’s orders.
    “Leave me alone,” I hissed. “I can’t get lost on the bus. There’s no one on it but us anyway.” With the fare paid, Ethel plodded down the aisle then plopped herself breathlessly down next to me. She placed Helen on her other side. She sat there on the wide back seat, legs splayed, fanning herself with her brown bag, sweat pouring down her face.
    As the bus rattled and lurched its way downtown, Gordy and I stood on the seat and waved at the drivers following us. The honk of a car horn or the friendly wave of a hand through the great cloud of black diesel exhaust behind us provoked squeals of delight. We stopped several times to pick up passengers along