The Angry Woman Suite Read Online Free PDF Page A

what would become of me and Bean, convinced we were doomed to endure horrible deaths, too.
    I had to think, to come up with a plan. Bean would look to me to lead. I had to take care of Bean. I was the eldest—I had to be responsible now that we were on our own. I prayed for a miracle, for Stephen Eric, for our sudden savior to rise from the dead and take me and Bean out of Mississippi, to take us back to Papa in Sacramento, to safety.
    Somehow, I slept. It was daylight when I woke. I heard noises. I smelled Bean’s diaper and my damp sheets, and I was thirsty … I tiptoed out to the kitchen. Mother was alive and making breakfast! I ran to her, sobbing relief, burying my head in her apron. “Mother!” I cried. “Oh Mother!”
    She didn’t bend down to me. “Now, now,” she said from very faraway. I drew back, questioning. She didn’t look me in the face. “Now, now,” she repeated, fiddling with things on the kitchen table. “Daddy doesn’t like you being so shrill, Elyse. That screaming every night has got to stop.”
    I stepped back, understanding the incredible; understanding what Mother was showing me, teaching me. If I quit crying and paid attention, I’d see how we were to handle things when we got scared. We were to pretend nothing was wrong, and that we didn’t fear horrible deaths (which meant, of course, not only did no one ever know how scared we were, but after awhile we pretty much didn’t know, either).
    I straightened my shoulders and stood tall, vowing to be just as brave as Mother, vowing to never wet the bed again. Even if I had to stay awake all night holding it, I could do it, I was just that brave. Besides, I never wanted to see Daddy’s thing so angry again. I was sure that next time out it would try killing me, too.
    Daddy was in a good mood. He’d heard from an old friend named Buster. Daddy had grown up with Buster in Pennsylvania, and Buster had played trombone for Daddy’s famous orchestra back in the 1940s. Buster was coming to town to talk with Daddy about starting a new band.
    “We’d be playing nights, of course,” I heard Daddy tell Mother in the kitchen. “On base. We could use the money.” Bean in hand, I peeked into the kitchen.
    Mother and Daddy were hugging. “Francis Grayson, you phenomenal man, you,” Mother said. Daddy smiled. He had a nice smile. Mother was right about Daddy being the handsomest man in the world, like a movie star: tall and lots of dark hair, and a moustache, and beautiful white teeth. And you could only tell his one ear wasn’t quite right if you looked real close. Mother was right about that too; Daddy’s shorter ear wasn’t a big deal.
    “You wouldn’t mind? There are still people out there who want to hear real music.” Daddy sounded excited. He noticed me standing on the threshold. My uncertainty must’ve showed. “Come here, baby.” Daddy got down on one knee. His eyes crinkled at the corners. Bean, looking terrified, went to Mother, but I hesitated, still mindful Daddy had a killer between his legs. I took baby steps. Daddy pulled me down onto the shelf of his thigh. “There’s a good girl,” he crooned, putting his lips to my ear and nibbling it, tickling me. Despite myself, I giggled.
    “That’s better,” Daddy sighed. “I love you so much. I just love you all to death.”
    Remembering those words, I feel a chill every time—but back then, I leaned into Daddy, talking myself into forgetting about him wanting to kill us, loving him back instead, for making us such a nice family.
    The fantasy had no staying power. Although Daddy would try telling you otherwise, the fact of the matter is I tried, but I just couldn’t seem to pull it together. There was always something I didn’t do right, if I did it at all; some rule I missed, something he had to punish me for, because family loved one another. And children behaved. I began living in a state of perpetual dread, hiding behind Bean’s crib when I heard Daddy’s