got to her. She retreated to her sofa bed and stayed there for days on end,
crying and occasionally throwing things at us. She could have been a
famous artist by now, she yelled, if she hadn't had children, and none of
us appreciated her sacrifice. The next day, if the mood had passed, she'd
be painting and humming away as if nothing had happened.
One Saturday morning not long after Mom started wearing her new
diamond ring, her mood was on an upswing, and she decided we'd all
clean the house. I thought this was a great idea. I told Mom we should
empty out each room, clean it thoroughly, and put back only the things
that were essential. That was the one way, it seemed to me, to get rid of
the clutter. But Mom said my idea was too time-consuming, so all we
ended up doing was straightening piles of paper into stacks and stuffing
dirty clothes into the chest of drawers. Mom insisted that we chant Hail
Marys while we worked. "It's a way of cleansing our souls while we're
cleaning house," she said. "We're killing two birds with one stone."
The reason she had become a tad moody, she said later that day, was that
she hadn't been getting enough exercise. "I'm going to start doing
calisthenics," she announced. "Once you get your circulation going, it
changes your entire outlook on life." She leaned over and touched her
toes.
When she came up, she said she was feeling better already, and went
down for another toe touch. I watched from the writing desk with my
arms folded across my chest. I knew the problem was not that we all had
poor circulation. We didn't need to start doing toe touches. We needed to
take drastic measures. I was twelve by now, and I had been weighing our
options, doing some research at the public library and picking up scraps
of information about how other families on Little Hobart Street survived.
I had come up with a plan and had been waiting for the opportunity to
broach it to Mom. The moment seemed ripe.
"Mom, we can't go on living like this," I said.