Down the stairs we determinedly stalked, and right up to the twins who had their eyes glued to Bugs Bunny, who was signing off.
"We are going to teach the two of you to read and write," said Chris.
With loud wails they protested. "No!" howled Carrie. "We don't want to learn to read and write! We don't write letters! We want to watch 'I Love Lucy' !"
Chris grabbed her, and I seized hold of Cory, and quite literally we had to drag them both into the attic. It was like trying to handle slippery snakes. One of them could bellow like a mad bull charging!
Cory didn't speak, nor did he scream, nor did he beat at me with small fists to inflict some damage; he just clung fiercely to whatever came within reach of his hands, and he used his legs to wrap around things, too.
Never did two amateur teachers have a more unwilling student body. But finally, through tricks and threats and fairy tales, we began to interest them. Maybe it was pity for us that soon had them carefully toiling over books, and tediously memorizing and reciting letters. We gave them a McGuffey's first grade primer to copy words from.
Not acquainted with other children the same age as our twins, Chris and I thought our six-year-olds did remarkably well. And though Momma didn't come every day now as she had in the beginning, or every other day, she did show up once or twice a week. How anxiously we waited to give her the short note Cory and Carrie had printed, making sure each had the same amount of words to print.
They printed in letters at least two inches high, and very crooked:
Dear Momma,
We love you, And candy, too.
Good-bye, Carrie and Cory
Such sweating diligence they used to concoct their own message, not coached by either Chris or me--a message which they hoped our mother would get. Which she didn't.
Tooth cavities, of course.
Then summer was upon us. And again it was hot and sweltering, so horribly stuffy, though, strangely, not as unbearable as it had been the previous summer. Chris reasoned our blood was thinner now, so we could tolerate the heat better.
Our summer was filled with books. Apparently Momma just reached in and took books from the shelves downstairs without bothering to read the titles, or wondering if they would be of inter- est to us, or suitable reading for young minds so easily impressed. It didn't really matter. Chris and I would read anything.
One of our favorite books that summer was a historical novel that made history better than that taught in school. We were surprised to read that in the old days women didn't go to the hospitals to have babies. They had them at home on a small, narrow cot, so the doctor could reach them more easily than on a large, wide bed. And sometimes only "midwives" were in attendance.
"A baby swan bed, to give birth to an infant child," mused Chris aloud, lifting his head to stare
off into space.
I rolled over on my back and smiled at him wickedly. We were in the attic, both lying on the old stained mattress near the open windows that let in soft warm breezes. "And kings and queens who held court in their bedroom--or bedchambers, as they called them--and having the nerve to sit up in bed entirely naked. Do you think everything that's written in books can be entirely true?"
"Of course not! But much of it is. After all, people didn't used to wear nightgowns, or pajamas to bed. They only wore nightcaps to keep their skulls warm, and the heck with the rest."
We laughed, both of us, picturing kings and queens who weren't embarrassed to be naked in front of their nobles and foreign dignitaries.
"Naked skin wasn't sinful then, was it? Way back in medieval days?"
"Guess not," he answered.
"It's what you do when you're naked that's sinful, isn't it?"
"Guess so."
For the second time now, I was coping with that curse nature sent to make me a woman, and it did hurt so much the first time that I stayed in bed all day, and made a big to-do about feeling crampy.
"You don't think it's disgusting, what is happening to me-- do you?" I asked Chris.
His face lowered into my hair. "Cathy, I don't think anything about the human body and the way it functions is disgusting or revolting. I guess this is the doctor in me coming out I think like this about your particular situation . . . if it takes a few days a month to make you into a woman like our mother, then I'm all for it. And if it pains, and you don't like it, then think about dancing, for that hurts, too, you've told me so. And yet, you think the price you pay is worth the rewards." My arms closed tighter about him when he paused. "And I pay a price too in becoming a man I don't have a man to talk to, as you have Momma. I'm all alone in a sticky situation, full of frustrations, and sometimes I don't know which way to turn, and how to get away from temptations, and I'm so damned scared I'll never get to be a doctor."
"Chris," I began, then stumbled on quicksand, I knew, "don't you ever have any doubts about her?"
I saw his frown, and spoke again before he could fire back some angry retort, "Doesn't it strike you as . . . as odd, that she keeps us locked up for so long? She's got lots of money, Chris, I know she has. Those rings and bracelets, they're not fake like she tells us. I know they're not!"