Tea Cups & Tiger Claws by Timothy Patrick Read Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Timothy Patrick
and lipstick, the red rashes went away, and she looked good. She didn’t fix herself up very often, but if she did, she could be almost as pretty as Judith and Abbey’s mother, if she didn’t let her teeth stick out too much.
Then she’d look like a pretty mo ther, but she still wouldn’t act like one. Other mothers watched out the window and knew when their kids got skinned knees. When it got dark, they stood on the porch and hollered for their kids to come in. They got mad when their kids went out in the cold without jackets. They told them to brush their teeth and say their prayers. And they let their kids call them “Mommy.” Dorthea wondered why Ermel didn’t act like a mother.
Chapter 3
The screen door slammed, and the children looked up. Dad had come home. Their punishment was over. Tommy, the four year old, had spilled milk on Ermel’s gossip magazine, and they’d been restricted to the tiny bedroom that all six of them shared. It’s a good thing Ermel’s gin bottle hadn’t been knocked over or they’d be hanging by their thumbs. She got mean when she drank. They both drank, but only she got mean. He made long speeches and had a temper but not a mean one.
Now they had their freedom. Two of the older kids climbed out the open window and ran into the orange California twilight. The three younger ones ran out the bedroom door, past the grownups in the kitchen and out the front door. They still hadn’t figured out that getting too close to the grownups at this time of day sometimes meant getting a talking-to, or getting sent to the neighbors to beg for cigarettes. Dorthea stayed behind.
The year was 1928 and Dorthea had turned twelve, old enough to know she’d had a rotten childhood and curious to know if things got better as an adult. To that end, she’d recently taken up listening in on the grown-ups. She quietly stepped over one of the two mattresses on the floor and edged over to the doorjamb, the best spot to listen in on Jeb and Ermel when they talked at the kitchen table.
“Is that it, just this hillbilly pop?” said Ermel.
“I don’t place no orders, Ermel, if you don’t like it, drink milk. It sure won’t do you no harm.”
“I’d drink milk before I’d drink rotgut that some dumb hayseed made in a dirty washtub.”
Dorthea heard Ermel open the squeaky cupboard where she kept her gin bottle. Every day it started out in that cupboard, like a rarely used spice, and every day she opened the cupboard two dozen times. Her own kids knew the sound of that squeaky cupboard better than they knew the sound of her voice. By late afternoon, the show ended and the bottle stayed on the kitchen table next to her cigarettes and ashtray. And if she ran out of the good stuff from Canada, she’d drink anything—whether it came from a washtub or not.
Dorthea heard her set the bottle on the table and sit down. And then her father sat down too.
“I seen Joe Tanner up at the market,” he said. “Of course he’s still puttin’ on airs. Now he’s tellin’ everyone how the rich folks wave to him when they pass by.”
“Puttin’ on airs don’t seem so bad to me, if you got somethin’ to put on airs about,” said Ermel.
“Joe Tanner ain’t got nothin’. Gettin’ a house like that ain’t so hard if a person puts his mind to it. And let me tell you, if it was me, you wouldn’t catch me strutin’ like a peacock.”
“Well, since it ain’t you, I guess we won’t never know for sure, now will we?”
“We do know, Ermel, ‘cause I’m tellin’ you.”
“And I’m tellin’ you, if I had to choose between a man who ain’t got no money and a man who’s got money and thinks he’s a sheik, I’d be takin’ belly dancin’ lessons right quick.”
They liked to rile each other. It’s what they did every night. Dorthea heard her father loudly exhale tobacco smoke.
“If that’s the way you see it,” he said, “ ain’t nobody should be more puffed up than me—and
Then she’d look like a pretty mo ther, but she still wouldn’t act like one. Other mothers watched out the window and knew when their kids got skinned knees. When it got dark, they stood on the porch and hollered for their kids to come in. They got mad when their kids went out in the cold without jackets. They told them to brush their teeth and say their prayers. And they let their kids call them “Mommy.” Dorthea wondered why Ermel didn’t act like a mother.
Chapter 3
The screen door slammed, and the children looked up. Dad had come home. Their punishment was over. Tommy, the four year old, had spilled milk on Ermel’s gossip magazine, and they’d been restricted to the tiny bedroom that all six of them shared. It’s a good thing Ermel’s gin bottle hadn’t been knocked over or they’d be hanging by their thumbs. She got mean when she drank. They both drank, but only she got mean. He made long speeches and had a temper but not a mean one.
Now they had their freedom. Two of the older kids climbed out the open window and ran into the orange California twilight. The three younger ones ran out the bedroom door, past the grownups in the kitchen and out the front door. They still hadn’t figured out that getting too close to the grownups at this time of day sometimes meant getting a talking-to, or getting sent to the neighbors to beg for cigarettes. Dorthea stayed behind.
The year was 1928 and Dorthea had turned twelve, old enough to know she’d had a rotten childhood and curious to know if things got better as an adult. To that end, she’d recently taken up listening in on the grown-ups. She quietly stepped over one of the two mattresses on the floor and edged over to the doorjamb, the best spot to listen in on Jeb and Ermel when they talked at the kitchen table.
“Is that it, just this hillbilly pop?” said Ermel.
“I don’t place no orders, Ermel, if you don’t like it, drink milk. It sure won’t do you no harm.”
“I’d drink milk before I’d drink rotgut that some dumb hayseed made in a dirty washtub.”
Dorthea heard Ermel open the squeaky cupboard where she kept her gin bottle. Every day it started out in that cupboard, like a rarely used spice, and every day she opened the cupboard two dozen times. Her own kids knew the sound of that squeaky cupboard better than they knew the sound of her voice. By late afternoon, the show ended and the bottle stayed on the kitchen table next to her cigarettes and ashtray. And if she ran out of the good stuff from Canada, she’d drink anything—whether it came from a washtub or not.
Dorthea heard her set the bottle on the table and sit down. And then her father sat down too.
“I seen Joe Tanner up at the market,” he said. “Of course he’s still puttin’ on airs. Now he’s tellin’ everyone how the rich folks wave to him when they pass by.”
“Puttin’ on airs don’t seem so bad to me, if you got somethin’ to put on airs about,” said Ermel.
“Joe Tanner ain’t got nothin’. Gettin’ a house like that ain’t so hard if a person puts his mind to it. And let me tell you, if it was me, you wouldn’t catch me strutin’ like a peacock.”
“Well, since it ain’t you, I guess we won’t never know for sure, now will we?”
“We do know, Ermel, ‘cause I’m tellin’ you.”
“And I’m tellin’ you, if I had to choose between a man who ain’t got no money and a man who’s got money and thinks he’s a sheik, I’d be takin’ belly dancin’ lessons right quick.”
They liked to rile each other. It’s what they did every night. Dorthea heard her father loudly exhale tobacco smoke.
“If that’s the way you see it,” he said, “ ain’t nobody should be more puffed up than me—and