The Cape Ann Read Online Free PDF

to the crib. There was no way, without solid walls and real doors, that she could prevent me from hearing every word, but whatever small distance the crib could provide, I was to enjoy.
    “Wait a minute,” Mama said, grabbing my arm as I passed. “What’s in your hair?”
    “My hair?” Sure enough there was an awful messy feeling lump in my hair. The jawbreaker bubble gum Mr. Wendel had given me.
    “For God’s sake, Willie,” Mama spat.
    “It’s not
my
fault,” Papa told her, foraging in the refrigerator.
    Mama shoved me along toward the bedroom.
    Removing my chenille robe and hanging it over the end of the crib, I climbed in. The house plans were still scattered on the Three Pigs quilt. Piling them at the foot of the crib with #127—The Cape Ann on top, I lay down, pulling the quilt tightly around me.
    In the kitchen, Mama exploded. “Where in hell have you been, Willie?”
    “You know where.”
    “Until five-thirty in the morning?”
    Papa didn’t answer.
    “What kind of man keeps a child out all night while he gets drunk and loses his money?”
    “I’m not drunk.”
    “You’re not sober.”
    “Oh, for God’s sake, Arlene, the kid was fine. She had a good time.”
    “You’re the biggest liar in St. Bridget County, Willie.”
    “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
    “I’m talking to somebody who takes a six-year-old that’s got to be at first communion instruction at eight o’clock this morningout to a stranger’s house, keeps her there till five-thirty A.M. , and then says she had a good time.”
    “Herbie Wendel’s not a stranger.”
    “Where was Vera Wendel while this was going on?”
    “At her folks.”
    “Why didn’t you leave a note so I’d at least know where you were? I could have come and got Lark after bridge club.”
    “That’s why I didn’t. You’d have flounced in there and made a scene. I wanted to have a good time for a change.”
    “I don’t notice you denying yourself. And you’re damned right I’d have flounced in and had a word with a husband who’s too damned stubborn to call a high school girl to stay with his daughter, but drags her off to poker like she was the same trash he is.”
    A chair fell over, and Mama screamed, “Keep your hands off me, Willie.” Then there was the cruel “thung” of a fist landing. I climbed out of the crib and ran to the kitchen. Mama was bent over the table and Papa was standing over her, his fist raised to hit her again. Mama grabbed the Heinz ketchup bottle from the table and swung around, catching Papa in the ribs. He fell back against the stove, and Mama grabbed a butcher knife from the drain board. She was a formidable fighter.
    “Come near me and I’ll kill you, Willie.”
    Papa moaned, “You broke my ribs.”
    “Good,” Mama whispered, breathing heavily. “Get out of here.”
    Holding his ribs, Papa shuffled to the door. When he had left, Mama stood for a long minute with the ketchup bottle in one hand and the butcher knife in the other.
    I hurried back to the crib. It was because of me that Mama and Papa had fought. If Papa had wanted me to tell her I had a wonderful time at Herbie Wendel’s, he should have explained on the way home. Was I supposed to know without him telling me? Would most first graders? How did other children keep their mama and papa from fighting?
    It was harder to be six than to be five or four. Before four nothing was hard except not wetting your pants and not spilling things.
    Before I could fall into dreams, Mama was waking me up. Time to get ready for catechism class. I wasn’t going to have my first communionfor a year. I didn’t see why we had to start so far ahead. It was one more thing that made six harder than five.
    Most of the children in my instruction class couldn’t even read the
Baltimore Catechism
book that prepared us for the sacraments. We were only first graders. But the nuns said our mamas could teach us the words we didn’t know. It was their responsibility