Don't Call Me Mother by Linda Joy Myers Read Free Book Online

the layout of the house. Uncle Maj’s bedroom is simple, plain, and neat. Aunt Helen’s has lace curtains swaying over her bed, which is covered with a white chenille bedspread. I perch at her dressing table, looking at myself in its oval mirror, trying out the various perfumes and powders. Earrings, necklaces, and bracelets spill from her jewelry box. I put some on and spray Evening in Paris on my wrists, enjoying how much I look like a fancy grown-up lady in the mirror. Aunt Helen comes in and puts her hands on her hips. I put down the bottle, afraid she’ll be mad.
    “Oh darlin’, go ahead. You can have anything you want at Aunt Helen’s, you sweet thing.” She enfolds me in her arms again, and again I’m smothered against her. In her arms I feel safe and happy. For a time, all previous bad things melt away.

    Gram and I now spend most weekends at Aunt Helen’s house, where she feeds us her tasty Southern food—fried chicken and gravy, beef stew, hamburgers, and “glop” made of hamburger, canned tomatoes, and frozen mixed vegetables. On Fridays she makes homemade bread. Another weekly ritual is the bridge game with their neighbors Bob and Willie Jean. The grown-ups spend long evenings playing cards and talking about the war. Aunt Helen always serves coffee and homemade dessert. Uncle Maj doesn’t play cards, so he just sits in his chair and reads, wearing his specs, lamplight falling on his silver hair. At night, I fall asleep in Aunt Helen’s wonderful bed that smells of sun. In the mornings, warm summer breezes come in the window and caress my skin.
    Gram is always in a good mood at Aunt Helen and Uncle Maj’s house, and I learn so much about the life they lived before I was born—all about the war, the soldiers who went off to fight, some never coming back. I learn they are all in their fifties, and they say often, “Life begins at forty.” That seems so very old to me, a long time away for life to begin, and I wonder what they could mean.
    During the week, Uncle Maj walks ten blocks to his office. We see him walking down Broadway on our way to Aunt Helen’s on Friday afternoons, looking regal and determined, trustworthy and solid. In the spring, Uncle Maj introduces me to his roses and shows me how to take care of them: clipping, pruning, watering. He shows me all his flowers. “Look at lovely Miss Clematis. See, her flowers are like skirts fluttering in the breeze.” He cradles the flowers, with their delicate leaves and petals. Bees buzz and hummingbirds hover like helicopters. He introduces me to his mimosa with her frilly pink flowers. “They’re like ballerinas, leaves opening and closing.” All summer, I look forward to these weekly evenings with Uncle Maj, where I learn about the living world of plants and the particular delights of roses.
    Through Aunt Helen and Uncle Maj, I find a different world than the one my family inhabits. Unlike Gram, Aunt Helen and Uncle Maj are church goers, the First Christian every Sunday morning and evening. She’s a regular at the Wednesday night prayer meetings, and each week she takes care of sick old ladies, spreading her warmth with food and her big Texas smile. She tells me that she loves these old, lonely ladies. She has all kinds of sayings—“land sakes,” “well, I’ll be danged,” and “tickle me pink.” Aunt Helen is the sun, and the rest of us are planets that spin around her. She makes our world happy with food, her belly laugh, and her jolly Southern sayings.
    Gram leaves her English accent at home when we are with Aunt Helen and Uncle Maj. With them, I am Gram’s Sugar Pie, and we are all happy.

 
    Night
    Dark night has fallen in the house on Park Street. There is no light, no sound. I am crouched low in the dining room, so the monsters outside won’t see me and I won’t whet their appetites. Gram is silent over on the couch behind a long table that separates the dining room and living room. I can’t see her, and I’m worried.