The Tin Horse: A Novel by Janice Steinberg Read Free Book Online Page A

often lounged beside the garden after dinner. The early evenings were pleasant, just cool enough for a light jacket or sweater, the air scented with night-blooming jasmine from the bushes along the back of the house. In the middle of the day, though, I was soon hot and uncomfortable. Mama had to be hot, too. She kept fanning her face. But she didn’t say a word; she just sat and stared at nothing.
    There were things in the closet behind the coats, dark old things whose musty reek mingled with the sickly sweet odor of mothballs. And therewere spiders. Once Mama was getting her coat out, and she screamed at a giant spider on the sleeve. Thinking about it, I felt like it was me trapped in the dark, with horrid things I couldn’t see crawling on me.
    And worse than that fear was the way I felt toward Mama. Like any child, I accepted the behavior of adults in my world even when it baffled me. But imprisoning Barbara in the closet on a sweltering afternoon … Yes, I knew that Mama’s upbringing had been harsh, and in the 1920s there was no such thing as “parenting”—parents simply reared their children, they didn’t have bookstore shelves filled with expert advice. Still, in what Mama had done, even my five-year-old self recognized a streak of irrationality that terrified me. A wave of dizziness sent me pitching out of the chair.
    I crouched on the ground, drenched in sweat, and cast a frightened glance at Mama. Would she put
me
in the closet for leaving my chair?
    But Mama’s eyes were closed. She was asleep.
    Carefully, not making a sound, I stood up, planning to return to the chair.
    She didn’t stir.
    I took two steps away. Mama continued to sleep. Another step. Then, moving as silently as I could, I sneaked back inside the house.
    Into the hallway. Something odd had happened. There were bits of white stuff on the floor. I got closer and saw that the bits were plaster. They had come from a hole in the wall about the size of a potato next to the closet door.
    There was no sound from inside the closet, and for a moment I imagined Barbara had squeezed herself out through the potato-sized hole.
    “Barbara?” I whispered. “Barbara?”
    Two fingers poked out from the hole. I reached for them, and our fingers locked. Hers were clammy, as if she had a fever. And she hadn’t said a word.
    I looked at the key, on its nail above my head. If Mama had thrown Barbara in the closet for sassing her, what would she do to me if I …?
    I kissed Barbara’s fingers. She whimpered.
    “I’m going to get you out. I promise.” I had to pull to loosen her grip.
    I went into the kitchen to get a chair. Peeked into the yard. Mamadidn’t stir. I pulled the chair into the hall, climbed up on it, and got the key. Climbed down and opened the door.
    Barbara flew out as if something were chasing her. I slammed the door to keep whatever it was inside. She was sour with sweat, her bangs plastered to her forehead. She still didn’t say anything.
    “I’ll get you some water.” I took her hand and led her into the kitchen.
    Oh, no! Mama was coming in! She was already through the door, and it was too late to hide.
    But Mama wasn’t mad. Instead, she cried out, “
Oy, mein kind
!” and ran to put her arms around Barbara as if she hadn’t been the one who locked Barbara in the closet. Barbara flinched for a moment, but then started to sob and let Mama kiss her and smooth her sweaty hair.
    That’s how it was between Mama and Barbara. Barbara challenged Mama more than I did, and Mama punished her more harshly. But she was also more affectionate toward Barbara. And it seems bizarre to call Mama
indulgent
, but how else could you describe the way she sometimes went along with Barbara’s fancies? Like when we went to the party Aunt Sonya and Uncle Leo gave in June to show off their new house.
    Mama planned for us to wear our good Kate Greenaway dresses. She took the dresses out of the closet but left us to step into them and do each