Milk Glass Moon Read Online Free PDF Page A

what you did this afternoon. And about the way you talked to me.”
    I leave the room and close the door quietly behind me. I walk down the front stairs and go through the screen door to the porch. I sit down on the steps as I have done so many times at twilight. Otto and Worley pack up their truck without saying a word. They take full responsibility for Etta being on the roof, and I don’t want to say anything more. They get into their truck and wave somberly as they descend the hill.
    I lean back on the stairs and take a deep breath. The mountains, still green at the end of summer, seem to intersect like those in a pop-up book. This old stone house is hidden in their folds like an abandoned castle, with me its wizened housekeeper, taken for granted and obsolete. I feel myself hitting the wall common to all mothers: the day your daughter turns on you. And it happened on such an ordinary day in Cracker’s Neck Holler. Nothing strange or different or particularly dramatic in the weather or the wind. The sky meets the top of the mountains in a ruffle of deep blue. The sun sets in streaks of golden pink as it slips behind Skeens Ridge. I get lost in the quiet, the color, and the breeze, and I’m back in simpler days, the brief time before Jack and I had children, when this house was a place where we made love and ate good food and tended the garden.
    The cool air soothes the throbbing in my head. I am making a mess of motherhood. What do I know about children, really? I was an only child. Maybe I baby-sat here and there, but I never had a grand plan that included children. When I found out I was pregnant, I made Iva Lou order me every book on parenthood from the county library. I read each one, choosing concepts that made sense and figuring out how to implement them. When my kids came along, I thought everything would fall into place. But my daughter isn’t who I expected her to be. I thought she’d be like me, like my side of the family, marooned Eye-talians in Southwest Virginia who made a good life and fit in. But she’s pure MacChesney, freckled and fearless. My kid has no dark corners, no Italian temper or Mediterranean largesse. And I know that I have disappointed her too—she needs an outdoorsy, athletic mom, one who encourages her to take risks. I do the opposite; I encourage her to stop and think. My goal is to keep her safe, and she resents that. Sometimes I am filled with dread at what lies ahead. How do I stop fearing the future? No book can tell me that.
    The high beams on Jack’s pickup truck light up the field as he takes the turn up the holler road. He slows down to check the mailbox, and I see him throw a few envelopes on the front seat. Then he guns the engine again, spitting gravel under his wheels. Soon I hear my daughter’s footsteps as she runs down the stairs. The screen door flies open and she jumps down the steps two at a time, ignoring me, and over the path to meet her father as he parks. I hear the muffled start to her version of the Roof Disaster and wish briefly that I weren’t the mother but the wizened housekeeper after all, so I wouldn’t have to rat her out. But I know that I have to be unwavering so that at some point when she must make hard decisions, she will remember these days, find the wisdom born of experience, and make the right choice (yeah, right). I have to be the bad guy. Jack puts his arm around Etta as they walk up the path. I stand up. Etta passes by in a businesslike huff without looking at me. She bangs the screen door behind her.
    “Are you okay?” Jack gives me a kiss.
    “My nerves are shot,” I tell him with a nice teaspoon of self-pity.
    “We’re going to have to come up with a doozy of a punishment,” he promises.
    “Great.” My carefully rehearsed Sex Talk is ruined for now, another plan gone awry.
    “Kids taking chances, taking risks, it’s all a part of life, Ave.” Jack sighs.
    As we walk up the stairs, I want to tell my husband that I’m scared.