We Are All Welcome Here Part 1

We Are All Welcome Here.

by Elizabeth Berg.

Author's Note

In September 2003, I received a letter from a reader named Marianne Raming Burke, who had an idea for a book she wanted me to write. She began, "I don't know if you ever do this kind of thing...." My first thought was, I can tell you right now, I don't. I can tell you right now, I don't. I don't like to take ideas from anyone-it goes best when I work alone. I don't like to take ideas from anyone-it goes best when I work alone.

Marianne went on to say that she would like me to tell the story of her mother. Pat Raming was given up for adoption to parents who died before she was five, so she spent most of her growing-up years in foster homes. She contracted polio when she was twenty-two years old and pregnant with Marianne, and gave birth to her in an iron lung-a medical miracle. Her happiness was tempered by her learning that she would no longer be able to move anything but her head and would require almost continual mechanical a.s.sistance in order to breathe.

Pat was divorced by her husband. He offered to adopt out their children before he left, but Pat refused. She spent three years in an iron lung, then came home to raise her family. Later, after thirty years of being away from school, she went back to the cla.s.sroom and earned a degree so that she could become an addictions counselor. She was also an activist for the disabled.

Impossible for me to attempt this, I thought. I thought. I'm a fiction writer. I would never try to tell someone else's true story. I'm a fiction writer. I would never try to tell someone else's true story. But Marianne had enclosed a photo of her mother, and I was captivated by the image. It showed a beautiful young woman in a wheelchair wearing a portable respirator, her little curly-haired daughter standing behind her. Both of them were smiling. There was something so strong and clear in that young mother's face; I couldn't stop looking at it. There was not a trace of self-pity there. Instead, there was a kind of joy. But Marianne had enclosed a photo of her mother, and I was captivated by the image. It showed a beautiful young woman in a wheelchair wearing a portable respirator, her little curly-haired daughter standing behind her. Both of them were smiling. There was something so strong and clear in that young mother's face; I couldn't stop looking at it. There was not a trace of self-pity there. Instead, there was a kind of joy.

I called Marianne and told her that if I wrote about her mother, the story would be completely fictionalized, that her mother's circ.u.mstances would serve only as inspiration for a different story that I made up. I suggested that if she wanted her mother's real story to be told, she should find a nonfiction writer, or she should try to write the book herself. She said she wanted me to do it, in whatever form I chose. I told her I'd try.

Over many months, we exchanged e-mails, mostly with my asking questions about technical matters, although we once got into a discussion about pies. Marianne was remarkably patient and willing to provide me with any information I requested, no matter how intimate that information might be. She told me over and over that she was happy for me to have complete freedom with fictionalizing; her only request was that one "real" thing be represented in the book: her mother's love of Scrabble.

We Are All Welcome Here is indeed fiction, but it is absolutely true in this respect: Pat Raming inspired it. She endured extremely difficult circ.u.mstances from the time she was born, but she never lost faith, never lost her desire to learn, her feistiness, her sense of humor, her good looks, or her love of life. It was her spirit I imagined when I created the character of Paige Dunn, and it was in honor of her memory that I attempted this novel in the first place. While writing it, I often felt as though Pat were sitting beside me, urging me on. Say what you will about such supernatural events; I say I felt a presence nearby. I am deeply grateful to Marianne Burke for doing her own kind of urging, for writing to me with a hopeful suggestion that led to the creation of this book. is indeed fiction, but it is absolutely true in this respect: Pat Raming inspired it. She endured extremely difficult circ.u.mstances from the time she was born, but she never lost faith, never lost her desire to learn, her feistiness, her sense of humor, her good looks, or her love of life. It was her spirit I imagined when I created the character of Paige Dunn, and it was in honor of her memory that I attempted this novel in the first place. While writing it, I often felt as though Pat were sitting beside me, urging me on. Say what you will about such supernatural events; I say I felt a presence nearby. I am deeply grateful to Marianne Burke for doing her own kind of urging, for writing to me with a hopeful suggestion that led to the creation of this book.

Prologue.

Oftentimes on summer evenings, I would sit outside with my mother and look at the constellations. We lived in a small town, far away from city lights, and our skies were inky black and so thick with stars it felt as though somebody ought to stir them. I would stretch out beside my mother's chair, and she would lean her head back and gaze upward, smiling at Orion's Belt, at the backward question mark of Leo, at the intimate grouping of the seven daughters of Atlas. Sometimes I would pick some of the fragrant gra.s.s I lay in to put under her nose. "Ummm!" she would say, every time, and every time there was a depth to her appreciation-and a kind of surprise, too-that made it seem as though she were smelling it for the first time. When I once commented on this, she said, "Well, it might be the last time, you never know. And if you're aware it might be the last time, it feels like the first time." She was always saying things like that, things you needed to replay in your mind one more time. "Life is the cure for life, and death is the cure for death," for example.

She was a bit of a philosopher in that way, my mother. She was also a bit of a psychic, skilled in reading tarot cards and tea leaves, eerily accurate in random, off-the-cuff predictions. She knew lots of things other mothers didn't: the laws of thermodynamics, how to write a song, the place for chili powder in chocolate, the importance of timing in telling a joke, how to paint j.a.panese anemones, personality quirks of George Washington. She taught me things about nature and about people's psyches that have served me well my entire life.

She could also make me fear her. Until the age of eighteen, I did exactly what she told me to do-otherwise, she would discipline me in her odd way, by biting my finger, oftentimes so hard it bled. Then she would instruct me on how to disinfect the wound before I covered it with a Band-Aid. She had been a nurse-she could measure with extreme accuracy the degree of your fever by putting her lips to your forehead.

I brought her presents: wildflower bouquets, drawings and stories from my own hand, occasionally something from a store that I had saved for. I never felt the full pleasure of any accomplishment until she had acknowledged it. I was jealous of her attention to others. But I also punched pillows, pretending they were her, and talked between my teeth about her, hard-edged words full of frustration and deep, deep anger.

I played paper dolls at her feet, and she played with me. "Mine wants to go out to dinner tonight," my mother once said. "She wants to wear the fanciest dress she has." I held up the elegant long blue dress, the one used so often the tabs were barely holding on. "No," my mother said. "The pink one." I held it up, the sparkly one that came complete with a white fur stole and diamond bracelet. My mother sighed and said, "Yes, that's the one. Now light me a cigarette." She took a deep drag, then closed her eyes. I thought I knew what she was seeing: Herself, in that dress. She pulls the generous yardage in and around her after she is seated in her date's car, and he closes the door carefully after her-she hears the satisfying, muted click. She insulates herself into her stole, breathes in the scent of her perfume, which lingers there. At the restaurant, she orders steak Diane and asparagus with hollandaise sauce. There are gold-tipped matches on each table, and a small lamp, lit romantically. A band is playing for those who want to dance, and my mother does, right after she finishes her second dessert. She will powder her nose, then hit the dance floor and not stop dancing until the band stops and not even then, for she will dance out to the car. Herself, in that dress. She pulls the generous yardage in and around her after she is seated in her date's car, and he closes the door carefully after her-she hears the satisfying, muted click. She insulates herself into her stole, breathes in the scent of her perfume, which lingers there. At the restaurant, she orders steak Diane and asparagus with hollandaise sauce. There are gold-tipped matches on each table, and a small lamp, lit romantically. A band is playing for those who want to dance, and my mother does, right after she finishes her second dessert. She will powder her nose, then hit the dance floor and not stop dancing until the band stops and not even then, for she will dance out to the car.

I did more than fantasize at my mother's feet. I learned to read there. I drew pictures and she explained the subtle art of shading. I conjugated French verbs. I leafed through Sears catalogues, showing her what I would like to have for Christmas, and I painted both our toenails the deep red color she liked best. Once, on a September afternoon when I was six years old, I sat and listened to her patient instructions on how to tie shoes-it took an hour and a half. I was entering first grade the next day, and my mother told me I needed to know how to tie my Buster Browns. And so we sat, me saying, "This way?" and her gently saying, "No. Put the other lace over that one...no, the other one...that's right." She couldn't show me how; she had to tell me. She had to talk me through everything-how to fold laundry, how to cut meat, how to make the cursive capital Q, Q, how to sew a blind hem, how to julienne vegetables, how to fit a bra, how to apply mascara-because the only thing she could move was her head. It was funny, how often I forgot that. Almost everyone who knew her did. how to sew a blind hem, how to julienne vegetables, how to fit a bra, how to apply mascara-because the only thing she could move was her head. It was funny, how often I forgot that. Almost everyone who knew her did.

In 1951, when she was twenty-two years old and nine months pregnant with me, my mother contracted polio and was for a time put into an iron lung. I was born there, my dubious claim to fame, pulled out through a "bedpan portal" alive and howling-much to the amazement of the doctor, who had prepared death certificates in advance for both me and my mother-no woman had ever delivered inside a lung, but my mother had been too ill to be taken out of it. As soon as she saw me, wrapped in a white hospital blanket, my hand (my mother insisted) reaching toward her, she rose to joy.

Not so for my father, who left when he learned my mother would not fully recover, that her only progress would be to move to a portable respirator. On his last visit to my mother, he told her that he would take care of getting me adopted out. My mother told him to f.u.c.k himself. In those words. She made arrangements to rent a house and hire a caretaker for me, and then she stayed in the lung for three years, driven to survive so that she could come home and raise her daughter as well as any other mother. Or better.

She and I lived in a two-bedroom mill house just north of downtown Tupelo, Mississippi. You know the town. Elvis's birthplace. He had a kind of great luck and then terrible tragedy. For us, it was the opposite.

The sun was barely up when I crept downstairs. I had awakened early again, full of a pulsating need to get out and get things done, done, though if the truth be told, I was not fully certain what those things were. I had recently turned thirteen and was being yanked about by hormones that had me weeping one moment and yelling the next; rapturously practice-kissing the inside of my elbow one moment, then crossing the street to avoid boys the next. I alternated between periods of extreme confidence and bouts of quivering insecurity. Life was curiously exhausting but also exhilarating. though if the truth be told, I was not fully certain what those things were. I had recently turned thirteen and was being yanked about by hormones that had me weeping one moment and yelling the next; rapturously practice-kissing the inside of my elbow one moment, then crossing the street to avoid boys the next. I alternated between periods of extreme confidence and bouts of quivering insecurity. Life was curiously exhausting but also exhilarating.

I longed for things I'd never wanted before: clothes that conferred upon the wearer inalienable status, makeup that apparently transformed not only the face but the soul. But mostly I wanted a kind of inner strength that would offer protection against the small-town injustices I had long endured, something that would let me take pride in myself as myself. I focused on making money, because I believed that despite what people said, money could could buy happiness. I knew beyond knowing that this was the summer I would get that money. All I had to figure out was how. buy happiness. I knew beyond knowing that this was the summer I would get that money. All I had to figure out was how.

I crept into the dining room and made sure my mother was sleeping soundly, then slipped out onto the front porch. I wanted to be alone to unravel my restlessness, to soothe myself by making plans for the day being born before me. I stretched, then stood with my hands on my hips to survey the street on this already hot July day. It was dead as usual, no activity seen inside or out of the tiny houses with their sagging porches, their dented mailboxes, their yards mostly gone to dust. I walked down the steps and started for a patch of dandelions growing against the side of the house. I would use them to brighten my desk, where today I would be writing a letter to Sandra Dee. I wrote often to movie stars, letting them know that I, too, was an actress and also a playwright, just in case they might be looking for someone.

I did not get back inside quickly enough, for I heard a car door slam and looked over to see Peacie, her skinny self walking slowly toward our house, swinging her big black purse. She was wearing a red-and-white polka-dot housedress, the great big polka dots that looked like poker chips, and blindingly white ankle socks with her black men's shoes, and inside her purse was the flowered ap.r.o.n she'd put on as soon as she stepped inside. When she left, she'd carry that ap.r.o.n home in a brown paper bag to wash in her own automatic washing machine-she did not like our wringer model.

I ran under the porch, praying she hadn't seen me, wishing I'd known her boyfriend, LaRue, was going to drop her off. If I'd known that, I'd have stayed in the house so that I could have run out and visited with him. LaRue often brought me presents: Moon Pies or Goo-Goo Cl.u.s.ters, Popsicle sticks for the little houses I liked to build, puppets he'd made from socks, and on one memorable occasion, a silver dollar he'd won shooting c.r.a.ps. He could balance a goober on the end of his nose and then flip it into his mouth. He was a highly imaginative dresser; he once wore a tie made from the Sunday comics, for example. He favored electric colors and had white bucks on which he'd drawn intricate designs in black ink. He cooked bacon with brown sugar, chili powder, and pecans-praline bacon, he called it-and it was delicious. He told jokes that I could understand. He drank coffee out of a saucer and made it look elegant.

LaRue tooted his horn to Peacie and drove off. I thought quickly about what my options were and decided to stay hidden and then sneak back in, acting like I'd been inside the house all along-I wasn't ever supposed to leave my mother alone. The unlatched screen door was a problem. That door was always supposed to be kept locked. Otherwise it would stay stubbornly cracked open and flies would be everywhere, big fat metallic blue ones with loud buzzes that made you feel sick when you got them with the swatter-their heavy fall from the window onto the sill, the way they would lie there on their backs, their legs in the air, only half dead. But I'd just say I'd forgotten to latch it-it certainly wouldn't be the first time.

I had only yesterday discovered access to this s.p.a.ce under the porch, small and damp and fecund-smelling-cool, too; and in a climate like ours that was not to be undervalued. Mostly I liked how utterly private it was. In addition to my other burgeoning desires, I was beginning to crave privacy. Sometimes I sat at the edge of the bed in my room doing nothing but feeling the absence of interference.

I sucked at the back of my wrist for the salt and watched as Peacie started up the steps, thinking I might reach out, grab her ankle, and give it a yank, thinking of the spectacular fall I might cause, the black purse flying. I often wanted to hurt Peacie, because in my mind she wielded far too much power.

Peacie was still allowed to spank me, using a wooden mixing spoon. She was also allowed to determine which of my misdeeds deserved such punishment, and I believed this was wrong-only a parent should be allowed to do that. But my mother had decided long ago that some battles were worth fighting and some just weren't-if Peacie said I needed a spanking, well, then, I needed a spanking. My mother made up for it later-a treat close to dinnertime, an extra half hour of television, a story from her girlhood, which I always loved-and in the meantime she kept a reliable caregiver. Others came and went; Peacie stayed. And stayed.

Once, when I was six years old and Peacie was sitting at the kitchen table taking her break, her shoes off and her feet up on another chair, I'd crossed my arms and leaned on the table to look closely into her eyes. I'd meant to pull her into a kinder regard for me, to effect an avalanche of regret on her part for her meanness, followed by a fervent resolution to do better by me. She had dragged me to revival meetings; I knew about sudden miracles. But there'd been no getting through to Peacie. She did not tremble and roll her eyes back in her head and then chuckle and pull me to her. Instead, she narrowed her eyes and said, "What you looking at?"

"Nothing," I said. "You."

"Get gone." She picked a piece of tobacco off her tongue and flicked it into the ashtray. The ashtray was one of the few things belonging to my father that we still had; it featured black and red playing cards rimmed with gold. "Go find something entertain yourself."

"But what?" I spoke quietly, my head hanging low. I felt sorry for myself, tragic. I longed for a red cape to fling around myself at this moment. I would cover half my face, and only my soulful eyes would peek out. I had my mother's eyes, a blue so dark they were almost navy, fringed by thick black lashes. "What is there to do?"

"Crank up your voice box; I cain't hear a word you saying."

I straightened. "What should I do?" should I do?"

"You need me to tell you? You ain't got your own brain? Go on outside and make some friends. I ain't never seen such a solitary child. I guess you just too good for everybody."

I stared at my feet, bare and brown, full of calluses of which I was inordinately proud and that were thick enough to let me walk down hot sidewalks without wincing. We had no sidewalks in our neighborhood, but downtown was only a mile away and they had sidewalks. They had everything. A lunch counter at the drugstore that sold cherry c.o.kes served in gla.s.ses with silver metal holders and set out on white paper doilies. They had a department store, a movie house, and especially they had a five-and-dime, which sold things I desired to distraction: Parakeets. Board games. Headbands and barrettes and rhinestone engagement rings and Friendship Garden perfume. Models of palomino horses wearing little bridles and saddles. There were gold heart necklaces featuring your birthstone on which you could have your name engraved. White leather diaries that locked with a real key. Cork-backed drink coasters of which I was unaccountably fond featuring a black-and-gold abstract pattern of what looked like boomerangs.

Peacie dug in her purse for a new pack of Chesterfields, and she did not, as ever, offer me one of the b.u.t.terscotch candies that were in plain sight there. The actual b.u.t.terscotch wasn't as yellow as the wrapper, but still.

"I don't think I'm too good for anyone," I said. "But n.o.body will play with me."

Peacie pulled out a cigarette with her long fingers, lit it with a kitchen match, and blew the smoke out over my head. "Humph. And why do you suppose that is?"

"Because my mother is a third base."

Peacie held still as a photo for one second. Then she took her feet off the chair and slowly leaned over so that her face was next to mine. I could smell the vanilla extract she dabbed behind her ears every morning; I could see the red etching of veins in her eyes. I thought she was going to tell me a secret or quietly laugh-the moment seemed full of a kind of mirthful restraint-and I grinned companionably. "She is, is," I said, in an effort to prolong and enlarge the moment.

But I had misread Peacie completely, for she reached out to grab me, squeezing my arms tightly. "Don't you never say that again. Don't you never think it, neither!" Her voice was low and terrible. "If I wasn't resting my aching feet, if I wasn't on my well-deserved break, I would get right out this chair and introduce your mouth to a fresh bar of soap." She let me go and put her feet back up on the chair. The ash was long on her cigarette; the smoke undulated upward, uncaring. Peacie would not break from staring at me; in a way, that was worse than the way she'd squeezed me.

I began to cry; I had called my mother a third base rather in the same way I would have called her a brunette. I didn't know exactly what it meant. I knew only that the kids in my neighborhood had once called her that and that it seemed to be funny-it certainly made them laugh. Those kids were all older than I; I was the youngest by three years, so it was doubtful they'd have been interested in playing with me anyway. But they had had a good time calling my mother a third base that day; they had giggled and jostled one another and continued laughing as they walked away.

"You hurt me!" I told Peacie. "I'm telling my mother!"

"If you wake her up," Peacie said, "I'll wear you out like you ain't never been wore out before."

"I wish only Mrs. Gruder would come here because I hate hate you!" My voice cracked, betraying my intention to sound fierce. I walked away, headed for the comfort of the out-of-doors: the high, white clouds, the singing insects, the wildflowers that grew at the base of the telephone poles. Behind me, I heard Peacie say, "I like Mrs. Gruder, too! Umhum, sure do. Mrs. Gruder, I you!" My voice cracked, betraying my intention to sound fierce. I walked away, headed for the comfort of the out-of-doors: the high, white clouds, the singing insects, the wildflowers that grew at the base of the telephone poles. Behind me, I heard Peacie say, "I like Mrs. Gruder, too! Umhum, sure do. Mrs. Gruder, I like. like."

Eleanor Gruder was our current nighttime caretaker, who stayed until ten every evening. She wasn't mean, like Peacie could be, but she wasn't very interesting, either. After she'd put my mother to bed and was waiting for her husband to come and get her, she'd sit on the sofa with her hands folded in her lap, staring out at nothing, a little smile on her face. At those times, she reminded me of Baby McPherson, the r.e.t.a.r.ded girl who used to live in our neighborhood and spent her days sitting out on the top step of her front porch, smiling in the same vacant way, her underpants showing. I would sit in my pajamas waiting with Mrs. Gruder, sometimes reading, sometimes dozing, and then, after her husband pulled up outside the house and honked for her, she would remind me to turn out the porch light and lock the door. Always, I turned out the light-electricity was expensive. But I never locked the front door. If I needed to get out, it would have to be quickly.

Mrs. Gruder was probably in her sixties and to my mind ancient. She was a big, fat, strong woman who liked to comb my hair, which fell to my waist. She did not jerk and pull and mutter like Peacie; rather she was almost worshipful, and so gentle I fell into a kind of starey-eyed hypnosis. She was married to a German man named Otto who gave accordion lessons and would never meet your eye. I had once heard my mother wondering aloud to Peacie about where he came came from and what in the world he was from and what in the world he was doing doing here. here.

Mrs. Gruder was kind, but she made me feel suffocated. She offered me chocolate hearts wrapped in gold foil that came all the way from Munich, but it was the dark, bitter chocolate that I did not like. She read books to me, but her voice was flat and lifeless and she did not make up anything extra, or ask questions about what I thought was going to happen, or dramatize using different voices. These were things my mother always did. Even Peacie would stand still against the doorjamb, dust rag in hand, to hear my mother read.

My mother had perfected speaking in coordination with the rising and falling action of her respirator. She could talk only on exhalation, but most people couldn't tell the difference between it and normal speech. Also, she was able to come out of her "sh.e.l.l," the chest-to-waist casing to which the ventilator hose was attached, for an hour or two at a time. At those times, she practiced what was called frog breathing, using a downward motion on her tongue to force bits of air into her lungs. Seeing my mother out of the sh.e.l.l always gave me a kind of jazzy thrill; she almost looked normal.

Now I crouched silently and watched Peacie's slim ankles as she mounted the sagging steps, one, two, three. I reached out my hand but stopped short of grabbing her. Just before she opened the screen door, she said, "I seen you. Devil."

"I don't care," I called up through the floorboards.

"You'd best get out from under there," she said. "Get stains all over your clothes."

"No!" But I whispered it. I lay on my back and looked at the sunlight knifing its way through the cracks between the floorboards, admiring the way it fell like a series of golden veils. Something could be made of all this. When Suralee got home from shopping with her mother, I would enlist her creative services. We would make this a place where we could talk comfortably about our plans to walk to Memphis. But I whispered it. I lay on my back and looked at the sunlight knifing its way through the cracks between the floorboards, admiring the way it fell like a series of golden veils. Something could be made of all this. When Suralee got home from shopping with her mother, I would enlist her creative services. We would make this a place where we could talk comfortably about our plans to walk to Memphis.

I finally had a friend. Suralee Halloway-my age almost exactly, our birthdays were one month apart-had moved here in February and lived with her mother, the Divorcee, at the end of the block. Noreen Halloway had hair like Marilyn Monroe, and she had the mole above the finely formed lip, too. But her face was wide and bland, her body short and pudgy, probably due to the divinity she ate before bed every night. She wore high heels and tight skirts and low-cut blouses and jangling bracelets and wide belts that must have been painful. She tottered off to her job as a doctor's receptionist every morning, full of immoderate good cheer, and returned pale and defeated-looking. She would come wordlessly into the house, open a Tab, slip off her shoes, and lie on the sofa reading a magazine, rubbing one foot with the other in a way that drove Suralee crazy. Then Noreen would make dinner, and the dinner was always awful. Suralee liked to eat dinner with us, even if all we were having was fried gizzards, rice, and greens. Little as we had, my mother told her she was welcome anytime-and so was her mother. Not that her mother ever came.

Suralee did not get along with other kids. They could not see her charms. But I did: her very name; her double-jointedness; her new-from-the-box saddle shoes with their bubble-gum-colored soles; her natural curls; the way my mother called her "overly mature"; her wild black dog named Shooter; her artistic ability; the cut-out photos of movie stars she kept on her walls. Most admirable was her skill at playing every one of her parts in our many plays with total sincerity-I believed believed she was a bus driver, a distraught mother, a dead person, a movie star, Jesus of Nazareth. She imitated Peacie perfectly-I thought even Peacie liked it. she was a bus driver, a distraught mother, a dead person, a movie star, Jesus of Nazareth. She imitated Peacie perfectly-I thought even Peacie liked it.

I lay down and daydreamed, thought of how I might decorate under the porch, just to get started. I had scarves I could use. I could bring some dishes under here, some playing cards. Old magazines. I could make it an office, a place for Suralee and me to write our plays.

After a while, I heard the screen door squeak open and then Peacie saying, "Didn't I tell you get out from under there?"

I stayed silent.

"Diana?"

I held my breath.

"I know you there and I'm telling you for the last time to get out." She waited, then played her trump card, "And beside that, your mama want you."

I scrambled out from under the porch and pushed past Peacie. "It's 'Your mama wants wants you,'" I said. Peacie pulled the door shut after me and pointedly hooked the latch. "And it's you,'" I said. Peacie pulled the door shut after me and pointedly hooked the latch. "And it's 'besides,' 'besides,' " I said. " I said.

"Says who?"

"Says me."

"That ain't n.o.body. Wash your hands now, we fixing to eat breakfast. You probably got the ringworm, playing in the dirt like a dog. And no shoes as per usual. You wash up good. I made biscuits, and my sister sent strawberry jam eat with them."

"I want sausage gravy with them."

She stared at me. "You best wash out your ears, too. I ain't hear n.o.body say nothing 'bout no sausage gravy."

I went into the dining room, my mother's bedroom, to see what she wanted. Peacie had done her makeup well this morning; she was even wearing a little blue eye shadow. She had a red ribbon tied in her short black hair, and she was wearing her gold hoop earrings. She wore a man's white shirt over black pants, and red Keds. I moved over to her chair. "Bend down," she said, and when I did, she kissed my forehead. "Good morning." Her mouth smelled like Ipana toothpaste.

"Good morning."

"Scratch my left arm, will you? Just above the elbow." Although my mother could not move anything below her neck, she could feel everything. I scratched for her until she said, "Good." Then she said, "Are you making trouble already? Did I hear Peacie yelling at you?"

"No, ma'am."

She stared at me, a little smile on her face.

My shoulders sagged. "Yes. But it was But it was her fault. her fault." I backed up to sit at the foot of my mother's unmade bed. Later, I would have to make it, and G.o.d forbid there be a wrinkle anywhere when I was done. Peacie wanted the sheets pulled so tight you could flip a coin off them. "Why do they have to be so tight tight?" I once asked, and Peacie said, "On account I said so, first and foremost. Nextly, it look nice." She sniffed in her high and mighty way and turned away.

"Crazy old fool," I muttered under my breath.

"What'd you say?" she asked, and I said nothing. "That's right," she said. "That's the sum total your opinion."

I'd been making the bed, feeding my mother, helping her with the female urinal, and putting her limbs through range of motion since I was five. Peacie wanted me to start learning more so that we could let Mrs. Gruder go; we'd never really been able to afford her. But if we didn't have her, all of my mother's care from 5 P P.M. until when Peacie came at six the next morning would fall to me. I was simply not ready. Nor did I want to be.

I felt it was enough being alone with my mother at night, which I'd been doing since I was ten-information that we went to great lengths to hide from our social worker, Susan Hogart, who was due for another visit any day now. Peacie's sister, Willa, had been instructed that if anyone called her house asking for Janice, she was to a.s.sume the role. My mother and Peacie both made references to "Janice" in ways casual and believable whenever Susan came. For my part, after a few cursory exchanges, I was always sent outside to play. My mother told Susan it was because she didn't want anything that came up in their discussions to be upsetting to me, but in fact it was so that I wouldn't reveal the fact that "Janice Peterson" was me.

"Did you hear anything last night?" my mother asked.

"Yes, ma'am. Real loud gunshots over in Shakerag." Peacie lived in Shakerag, a community of Negroes not far from us. I'd never been there, but everybody knew about it. They had their own grocery store there, their own cafe and juke joint, their own ways.

"It wasn't gunshots," my mother said.

"What was it, then?"

She looked at me, seeming to consider something, then changed her mind.

The noise from Shakerag hadn't bothered me. I always slept lightly at night, getting up a few times to change my mother's position or give her the bedpan or a drink of water-and always fell easily back to sleep to the distant, humming sound of her respirator. Suralee asked me once if it wasn't awful getting up so often at night, and I told her no, privately wondering if it wouldn't be boring sleeping straight through. I had seen things, getting up at various hours of the night: shooting stars, the glowing eyes of an owl or some other animal in the backyard, spectacular dawns, sometimes headlights from the nearby highway, the beams elongated and searching and melancholy. When the wind rustled the trees at night, it bordered on being scary, so there was a coziness to being inside and watching. I liked the nighttime anyway, for its qualities of mystery, drama, even evil; I felt privileged to be able to look at the glowing hands of the alarm clock and see it reading 4:17 A A.M. I might not be allowed to drink coffee or wear lipstick or hike my skirts up as high as I wanted them, but I could say with complete honesty that I was up "all hours of the night."

We had an arrangement with Riley Coombs, the old man who lived across the street, whereby if either my mother or I needed someone in an emergency, he would come, but it was of little comfort to me. Riley didn't move very quickly. He didn't hear so well. Luckily, the only time we'd needed him was one winter night when we had a storm and the power went out. My mother hadn't needed to call me; when her respirator stopped, the silence woke me as surely as an alarm clock would have. I raced downstairs to the backup generator, but when I flicked the switch it didn't go on. She told me calmly to go and get Riley. She was able to frog-breathe long enough for him to come over and make the relatively minor adjustment that was required. My mother wanted to pay him, but he refused, standing there in his long johns and unlaced boots and ratty raincoat, his hair sticking out from the sides of his head, his eyes downcast. He would never look at my mother, but he did volunteer himself wholeheartedly to her in this way. He made sure I watched him fix the switch that night, gestured with his chin for me to come and sit beside him while he did it; and there was in his wordlessness a mild admonition: I should have been taught this already.

Apart from that incident, the only times my mother had ever needed me at night on any kind of emergency basis were the rare times when she had a cold and got stuffed up. She would call and I would go down and hold a dishcloth to her nose-tissues were too expensive, and Peacie did laundry so vengefully no germs could possibly survive.

But for the outstanding fact of polio, my mother was remarkably healthy; she suffered an occasional problem requiring hospitalization only once or twice a year; and she always came home in a couple of days. Her nurse's training had come in handy; she knew what to do to prevent problems. (If I I became ill, Peacie worked overtime. I tended to recover quickly.) Sometimes I would awaken on my own and come to stand at the foot of her bed, watching her sleep, making sure. But that was about comfort more than anxiety. It was like when I got a new toy and slept with it: I awakened then for the joy of simply seeing it, and slept better for having done so. It was an odd pairing-off: my worries that something might happen pitted against my belief that my mother, though paralyzed, could nonetheless handle anything. We were in each other's care in ways simple and profound. became ill, Peacie worked overtime. I tended to recover quickly.) Sometimes I would awaken on my own and come to stand at the foot of her bed, watching her sleep, making sure. But that was about comfort more than anxiety. It was like when I got a new toy and slept with it: I awakened then for the joy of simply seeing it, and slept better for having done so. It was an odd pairing-off: my worries that something might happen pitted against my belief that my mother, though paralyzed, could nonetheless handle anything. We were in each other's care in ways simple and profound.

"I want you to change the sheets for me, and then we'll have breakfast," my mother said. "The blue flowered ones are clean."

I sighed quietly and started stripping the bed. Other kids were planning their days, thinking of what to do with their free time. Swimming. Movies. Shopping. Hanging out in bedrooms and listening to new 45s, practicing dances. I had some time, but never a whole day.

"What are you going to do today?" my mother asked. Sometimes it was like she read my mind.

"Suralee's coming over after she's done shopping. We're working on a new play." I would not tell my mother about under the porch; I needed my secrets from her.

"Would you walk to town for me when she comes? I've got enough to give you each money for an ice cream."