18: What a beauty . . .

Little Follies, “My Mother Takes a Tumble,” Chapter 6

Jun 04, 2021

WHAT A BEAUTY the next day was, one of those late spring days that make one want to go on living, a June day that, confused, had blundered into April. Everyone slept late. In the afternoon, we were all on the front lawn. Gumma, Guppa, and my parents were sitting in lawn chairs on the half of the lawn near Mr. Beaker’s house. On the other half, separated from them by the front walk, I was chasing Gumma’s cat’s six black kittens. When I caught one, I carried it, often by the tail, to my little red wagon, plopped it into the wagon, and went off after another. The kitten sniffed around in the wagon for a while, hopped out, and wandered away. I brought another kitten to the empty wagon, plopped it in, clapped my hands and giggled, and scrambled off after another. I was having a fine time. If my mother had not tumbled from her lawn chair, there is no telling how long I might have continued happily chasing those kittens without ever caring whether I got them all into the wagon at once, but the innocent and useless pursuits of childhood cannot last forever.
     When Mr. Beaker’s front door opened, we all heard it. We stopped what we were doing, turned, and watched a leggy blonde in a white sunsuit start down the steps. Mr. Beaker followed her, grinning, and saying something that I couldn’t quite make out. We watched them every step of the way from his house to Gumma and Guppa’s, for we knew that we were watching something important, a change, and that we were likely always to remember this day as the day that Mr. Beaker stepped out of his house with a blonde.
     The kittens soon stopped watching and went back to hopping and tumbling about, but I watched the introductions, which were a little stiff, Eliza holding back a bit until Mr. Beaker put a hand on her nates and nudged her forward. Guppa and my father hopped out of their chairs and offered them to Eliza, but she wanted to stand, and my father nearly said that if he had legs like that he’d rather stand too, but he thought better of it and offered Dudley and Eliza a beer. Gumma pointed out the crescent of crocuses in a corner of the lawn; everyone turned at once to look at them, and there were remarks about their beauty and the beauty of the day. When Eliza bent at the waist to look more closely at the crocuses, my mother looked away, turning toward me again. She looked as if she wanted me to get back to work chasing the kittens, so I did.
     “Oh, look, Dudley, isn’t Peter cute?” cooed my mother. She twisted in her folding chair and reached for her iced tea.
     “Cute,” said Gumma. She clapped her hands in just the way that I was clapping them and giggled just as I was giggling. I clapped and giggled back.
     “What he’s doing is pretty damned stupid, if you ask me,” said my father. “Like trying to carry water in a sieve, wouldn’t you say, Dudley?”
     Mr. Beaker didn’t answer, but he did give my father a look of interest and encouragement.
     “Why doesn’t he see that he’ll never get the kittens to stay in the wagon, and just give up?” my father asked. “That’s one of the big lessons in life, knowing when to quit.” He took a long, bracing pull at his beer and glanced at my mother.
     “Kin,” I said.
     “Kitten,” said Guppa, aiming his box camera my way.
     “Kin,” I said.
     “Kit-ten,” said Mr. Beaker. “Kit-ten. Kitten.”
     “Oh, leave him alone, Dudley,” whispered Eliza.
     “Smile, Peter. Say ‘cheese,’” called Guppa.
     “Kin,” I said. I clapped my hands and smiled into Guppa’s camera.
     Reaching for her tea but watching me, my mother bumped her hand against the metal folding table that held the tea and her cigarettes and ash tray. The table, poorly balanced on the uneven lawn, tipped away from her. She felt it move and glanced at it. She saw it tipping and knew at once that she would not be able to stop it. If she tried, she was likely to end up on the lawn herself, with her skirt halfway up her thighs and people fussing over her.
     With a frantic, desperate effort, my mother lunged for the table.
     My mother, her chair, and her table began to fall in an arc, as if the lawn had been a rug someone had yanked from under her. My mother was wearing a white skirt and blouse and a look of surprise. Her arms were thrown out to the side, toward the falling table, and her legs were raised high in the air, flapping out of control. I could see the tops of her stockings and her garters and the pink flesh of her inner thighs. A glass of tea was in the air above the table, and beside it, drifting away from it, floated a clamshell ashtray under a cloud of ashes. I clapped and giggled again. Another kitten hopped out of the wagon.
     The table struck the lawn, its circular top resounding like a gong, flying off the base, and rolling toward the street.
     “Ye gods and little kittens!” shouted Gumma, clasping her hands over her heart.
     “Shit!” expostulated my mother, reaching the lawn herself.
     My father and Mr. Beaker ran to my mother at once. Gumma and Guppa struggled out of their chairs and rushed over to help. The tea had ruined my mother’s cigarettes and stained her skirt.
     Mr. Beaker gripped my mother in the left armpit and began helping my father haul her to her feet.