talking.
Granny said, “You want driving lessons?”
What next?
But then came Granny’s story-telling voice, all calm and warm. “Honey bear, we’ll sit here and rest and I’ll tell you about driving lessons.”
Grrr.
Nancy tucked one foot under her, to hold herself still, and tried to settle back, knitting her knots, her eyes on the dark face of the house where Grandpa was doctoring.
I was sitting at the dinner table waiting for George to pass the potatoes, but he wouldn’t. Ever since Pa had let him drive home from church that morning, George had hardly spoken to me.
“There is more than one way of being a spider, Nancy,” Granny interrupted herself to say.
“Huh?”
“Wake up back there. I’m trying to tell you something.”
“I’m awake,” said Nancy tolerantly. “Tell me.”
But Granny just went on with her story.
I could see George meant to hog the mashed potatoes. I leaned my elbows on the edge of the table, and said, “Pass the potatoes, George.”
Well, George was being rude, too, ignoring me!
But it was me who got the cold stony stare fromMama, who had frozen in the doorway, the basket of biscuits in her hand.
Pa, at the head of the table, stuck his tongue in his cheek and looked me over. “Pass the potatoes, George, what?”
“Please,” I said, but it was too late.
Pa slammed his fist on the table so hard the dishes hopped. “You can eat your potatoes and the rest of your supper in the barn, Celestine. Come back to this table when you learn some manners.”
My sister Josie made a noise, but shut her mouth fast when Pa looked her way. I bolted from the room with my plate in two hands, the fork tucked underneath. I never did get any potatoes.
I crossed the yard in the hot sun, kicked off my shoes. (Mama wouldn’t like that, but I didn’t care.) I climbed the loft ladder with my plate and ate my dinner. I sat staring out the high window at the blue mountains, eating food that tasted like watery clay. I pictured my brothers and sisters eating inside, more polite than usual, with little halos, and my tears got all mixed up with my ham and carrots.
It’s the way she tells it,
thought Nancy.
It’s almost as ifshe handed me down this memory along with high cheekbones and the knitting gene. Yeah, well, what if I don’t want it?
Why shouldn’t she want it? It was just a picture, just words. She made herself breathe. She could see the West Virginia evening, see Granny’s green-and-white-checked dress. “And then Josie came with the pie,” she said.
“That dear love Josie,” Granny said, sighing. Nancy was just a hair away from being in that loft herself. “But, oh, it was a day of reckoning in more ways than one.”
The front door light of the house where Grandpa was doctoring switched on, and then abruptly off. Granny’s face was turned back toward Nancy, and she didn’t notice the light.
“I spied on Papa when he was teaching George to drive,” said Josie. That was Josie, always so dramatic.
“So what?” I said. “Anybody can drive a horse.”
“But they were hiding up in the woods,” Josie said.
“You can’t learn to drive in the woods,” I said through a mouthful of pie.
Oy,
thought Nancy, and sat on both her feet.
The little fibber went right on with her crazy yarn. “George did, with no wagon. He ran along holding the reins.”
George was a fast runner. For a second I almost believed in this cuckoo picture I had of him running along behind a horse, towed by the reins. “Which horse? Bunny or Bounce?”
“Papa was the horse,” said Josie.
“Now I know you’re lying,” I said.
“Papa had the reins around him like this—” Josie used a hand to circle her chest and shoulders, the reins running back over the shoulders to George’s hands. “And he tied his hanky around his eyes and ran in and out of the trees. George had to run behind him with the reins. Papa made him use them to tell him which way to go.”
“What, gee and haw?” I
Granny said, “You want driving lessons?”
What next?
But then came Granny’s story-telling voice, all calm and warm. “Honey bear, we’ll sit here and rest and I’ll tell you about driving lessons.”
Grrr.
Nancy tucked one foot under her, to hold herself still, and tried to settle back, knitting her knots, her eyes on the dark face of the house where Grandpa was doctoring.
I was sitting at the dinner table waiting for George to pass the potatoes, but he wouldn’t. Ever since Pa had let him drive home from church that morning, George had hardly spoken to me.
“There is more than one way of being a spider, Nancy,” Granny interrupted herself to say.
“Huh?”
“Wake up back there. I’m trying to tell you something.”
“I’m awake,” said Nancy tolerantly. “Tell me.”
But Granny just went on with her story.
I could see George meant to hog the mashed potatoes. I leaned my elbows on the edge of the table, and said, “Pass the potatoes, George.”
Well, George was being rude, too, ignoring me!
But it was me who got the cold stony stare fromMama, who had frozen in the doorway, the basket of biscuits in her hand.
Pa, at the head of the table, stuck his tongue in his cheek and looked me over. “Pass the potatoes, George, what?”
“Please,” I said, but it was too late.
Pa slammed his fist on the table so hard the dishes hopped. “You can eat your potatoes and the rest of your supper in the barn, Celestine. Come back to this table when you learn some manners.”
My sister Josie made a noise, but shut her mouth fast when Pa looked her way. I bolted from the room with my plate in two hands, the fork tucked underneath. I never did get any potatoes.
I crossed the yard in the hot sun, kicked off my shoes. (Mama wouldn’t like that, but I didn’t care.) I climbed the loft ladder with my plate and ate my dinner. I sat staring out the high window at the blue mountains, eating food that tasted like watery clay. I pictured my brothers and sisters eating inside, more polite than usual, with little halos, and my tears got all mixed up with my ham and carrots.
It’s the way she tells it,
thought Nancy.
It’s almost as ifshe handed me down this memory along with high cheekbones and the knitting gene. Yeah, well, what if I don’t want it?
Why shouldn’t she want it? It was just a picture, just words. She made herself breathe. She could see the West Virginia evening, see Granny’s green-and-white-checked dress. “And then Josie came with the pie,” she said.
“That dear love Josie,” Granny said, sighing. Nancy was just a hair away from being in that loft herself. “But, oh, it was a day of reckoning in more ways than one.”
The front door light of the house where Grandpa was doctoring switched on, and then abruptly off. Granny’s face was turned back toward Nancy, and she didn’t notice the light.
“I spied on Papa when he was teaching George to drive,” said Josie. That was Josie, always so dramatic.
“So what?” I said. “Anybody can drive a horse.”
“But they were hiding up in the woods,” Josie said.
“You can’t learn to drive in the woods,” I said through a mouthful of pie.
Oy,
thought Nancy, and sat on both her feet.
The little fibber went right on with her crazy yarn. “George did, with no wagon. He ran along holding the reins.”
George was a fast runner. For a second I almost believed in this cuckoo picture I had of him running along behind a horse, towed by the reins. “Which horse? Bunny or Bounce?”
“Papa was the horse,” said Josie.
“Now I know you’re lying,” I said.
“Papa had the reins around him like this—” Josie used a hand to circle her chest and shoulders, the reins running back over the shoulders to George’s hands. “And he tied his hanky around his eyes and ran in and out of the trees. George had to run behind him with the reins. Papa made him use them to tell him which way to go.”
“What, gee and haw?” I
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