Full of Life Read Online Free PDF Page B

floor.
    “Johnny! Oh, thank God!”
    I rushed forward and she fell into my arms, her hair the color of white clouds at my shoulder, her hands around my neck. But she did not lose consciousness. She seemed to be having a heart attack. I knew this from the quick rasping gasps, the quivering of her small frame. Carefully I led her to a chair at the kitchen table. She lay back, her mouth open, smiling bravely, her left arm helpless at her side, and you could see that she was trying to lift the arm and was without strength.
    “Water. Water…please.”
    I brought her a glass and put it to her lips. She sipped wearily, too far gone, too drained, only seconds from the other shore.
    “My arm…no feelings…my chest…pain…my boy…the baby…I won’t live to see…”
    She collapsed face down on the checkered red and white oilcloth. I was reasonably sure she was all right, but when I gently turned her face and saw the gray purple of her cheeks I felt that I was wrong this time, and I yelled for Papa.
    “Get a doctor! Hurry.”
    It restored her strength. Slowly she raised her head.
    “I’m better. It was only a little attack.”
    It was my turn to weaken, relieved, suddenly exhausted. I threw myself into a chair and tried to unravel my fingers as I groped for a smoke. Papa entered.
    “What’s going on?”
    My Mama smiled bravely. She was so pleased to see me distraught. She could not doubt my love now. She felt quite strong again.
    “It’s nothing. Nothing at all.”
    She was very happy. She purred. She rose and came around to where I sat and took my head in her arms and stroked my hair.
    “He’s tired from his trip. Get him a glass of wine.”
    We understood, Papa and I. There was a rumble of curses in his throat, scarcely audible, as he opened the icebox and removed a decanter of wine. He took a glass from the cupboard and filled it. Mama smiled, watching. He glanced at her angrily.
    “You cut that out.”
    The great green eyes of my Mama opened their widest.
    “Me?”
    “You cut out that stuff.”
    I drank the wine. It was very fine wine, out of thewarm soil of those very plains, chilled delicately by ice. Mama was glad to have me in her kitchen. I could see her spine straighten, her shoulders rising. She took the glass from my hand and drained it. Then she looked at me carefully.
    “Such a pretty shirt. I’ll wash and iron it before you leave.”
    We ate the peppers with goat’s cheese, salted apples, bread and wine. Mama’s tongue whirred incessantly, a trapped moth free at last. Normally Papa would have quieted her down, but the son was home and this was cause for relaxing the rules. In a little while her chatter would suddenly exasperate him, and she would slip back to her cocoon of respectful silence. We ate while Mama talked and walked around the kitchen, filling the room with thought fragments. An electric fan purred on the icebox, turning left and right and back again. It seemed to be following Mama around the room, like a face staring in blank astonishment.
    Mama said:
    The winter had been cold and wet. Stella’s children were beautiful. There were moths in the clothes closet. She had dreamed of her dead sister Katie. The price of chicken feed was too high. My brother Jim ate dirt as a baby. Sometimes she had shooting pains in her legs. It was bad luck to wash diapers in the moonlight. When you lose something, pray to St. Anthony. The cats were killing blackbirds. Bacon should not be kept on ice. She was afraid of snakes. The roof leaked. There was a new postman. Her mother died of gangrene poisoning. Ice was bad for thestomach. Pregnant women shouldn’t look at frogs or lizards. Love was more important than money. She was lonesome.
    Her hands rested on my shoulders.
    “If you would write just once a week…”
    For half an hour she had talked constantly. It was a soothing drone we identified but ignored. Papa and I finished the peppers. He filled my glass.
    Then Mama said, “You planted the seeds