"Money," Betsy cried, unable to deal with Mama's calmness. "so I can get the hell out of here."
"So get a job," her father said."Ill even help you find one."
She sat back with her arms so tightly crossed, she made the veins in her neck press against the skin until they looked embossed. She was soon in her sulk, and nothing anyone said or did
would bring her out of it. It was better to just ignore her and go on to some other topic. What a happy home we're going to soon have. I thought.
As her father had predicted, the day after her New York trip Betsy didn't rise until it was already afternoon. We were having lunch, and when she came down, she unleashed a flow of complaints that seemed to nest in her mouth as comfortably as termites in damp, rotted wood.
"I can't sleep in that room! The bed is too soft and the windows sound like they're about to shatter when the wind hits them. I can't get the smell out of the room either, If I open the windows in there, mosquitos come through the holes in the screen. I need a fan or something."
"You seem to have slept well," Mama said, pretending surprise. "I didn't sleep well. I slept. Why do the closets have that odor?" "Mothballs," Mama told her.
"Mothballs? What are mothballs?"
"They keep moths away from the clothes so they don't eat holes through them." "Ugh. Bugs live in the house? We didn't have many bugs in our old house."
"We don't have them either. That's why I have the mothballs," Mama said dryly.
I don't know if it was just my imagination, but sometimes when Mama spoke to her, she had a small smile on her lips.
"The whole house needs to be sprayed with something that will kill the odors, if you ask me," Betsy whined.
She started to search the kitchen cabinets and the pantry for something to eat and grumbled her grievances about the food Mama had.
"There isn't even a doughnut here."
"That's not a nutritional breakfast," Mama told her. "Ill fix you some toast and jam. The jam's homemade,"
"Oh. brother. Can you drive me to town or let me use your car?"
"No. I can't let you use the car. Your father didn't give me permission for that. and I have things to do before I can go into town. Amuse yourself for a while."
"Doing what?"
"Why don't you help Noble," Mama suggested. I looked up at her quickly. Why was she putting Betsy on me?
"Doing what?"
"Noble, what are you up to today?"
"I wanted to start on gathering firewood, Mama."
"Firewood? It's still summer!" Betsy cried at me.
"The wood has to season and it needs to be split," I told her. I had deliberately chose work that she wouldn't be able to do.
"I'm not going to chop wood. You want me to have hands like yours, break my nails?"
I looked away. No. I don't want you to have hands like mine. I don't want to have hands like mine. I thought.
"You can watch. Maybe. you can read. I'll give you a book to read to Baby Celeste, if you like. You should act her to know you better," Mama said.
Betsy stared at Mama, then glanced at Baby Celeste, who had just finished her lunch. "I still don't understand why you call her Baby Celeste and not just Celeste."
Mama had a way about her when someone other than me made her angry. She didn't like to show her rage, but because I knew her so well, knew every strand of her hair, every line in her face. I could see the subtle changes. Her mouth tightened slightly in the corners, her eyes narrowed just a bit and darkened, and the muscles in her neck stiffened before she formed a cold smile.
"If you must understand, explain it. I once had a child named Celeste,"