The Last Straw

(Continued from Tuesday . . .)

On Tuesday, I shared with you the brownstone memory. That evening at dusk, Mom and Dad decided drove us to Baltimore Avenue and parked on its unlighted street that paralleled the busily traveled Main Street.

Dad and Mom in the early 1930s on vacation.

            When they alighted from the car, Mom said, “Dodo, watch your brother. We’ll be back in a little while.” Then she added, “And don’t get out of the car. Stay there ‘til we get back.” They locked the doors, walked to the corner, turned right, and were quickly out of sight.

            My brother asked me to tell him a story, and I recited from memory some of the books Mom had read me when I was little. He knew the stories, too, and would chime in on important sentences. We spoke of Ping and Ferdinand and Babar. He told me he really wanted a dog. I asked him to describe the dog he wanted and he did so with all the enthusiasm of a three-year-old.

            An interminable time passed. Dusk melded into twilight. Twilight faded into the dark of night. My brother fell asleep against my shoulder and I concluded that Mom and Dad had changed their minds. They weren’t going to stuff us in gunnysacks and throw us in the river. Instead, they were going to desert us in this car and go back to Grandma’s another way.

            Clearly. Obviously. They did not want either of us.

            I didn’t cry. Instead, I began to plan. I would take my brother’s hand and lead him down to the corner of Main and 39^th Street, which I knew was always busy with people. I’d have him sit on the sidewalk by the drug store. I’d go up to passersby and ask if they’d take two little children home.

            I planned exactly what I’d say: “I can dry dishes and sweep and sing my little brother to sleep at night. Please take us home. I’ll work for you. Please.”

            Then I planned a little more. I’d point to my brother and say, “See how darling he is with his curly yellow hair? He’s lots of fun. You’ll like him, and I’ll work for you.”   
            With my plan in place, I unlocked the door, opened it, and reached for my brother’s hand. Just then Mom and Dad arrived back at the car. “Dodo!” Mom screeched in an angry voice. “What are you doing getting out of the car? I told you to stay inside and watch your little brother.”

            Sure now that they’d find a place to live and leave me behind again, I burst into tears. Mom held me against her belly. “What is it? What’s wrong?” she asked.

            What’s wrong? What’s wrong? I thought. And I began to hit her with my fists. All the anger and hurt and pain and frustration of the past year bubbled up and into my fists. I hit her until she grabbed my hands and held them still.

            “Stop that. Stop that right now,” she ordered.

            But then she became once again the Mother I’d known for the first five years.

            “It’s okay. Whatever is wrong is okay,” she said and she kissed my forehead and let me sit in the front seat between her and Dad on our way back to Grandma’s. She held my little brother on her lap, and on the way she and Dad sang “White Cliffs of Dover” and “Back in the Saddle Again.” I knew that Gene and Champion, Dusty and Arthur were singing along from the back seat.

            During that kindergarten year, I’d so missed the singing of my parents.

                                                      (. . . to be concluded on Saturday)