The Mother's Story

Abstract

The Mother's Story n> by Connie J. Green It's the mothers who get the bum rap— trying all those years to raise Jack decentlike , trying tokeepfoodonthetable, ashirt on his back, the wolf from the door—but that's another story. We were squeaking by.until that damn cowwentdry as lastweek's cornbread. Us without a hen on the place to lay an egg or fill a pot and it coming on February and a long time until poke sallet. So I said to 59 Jack, look son, you just take that brindled cow, lead her by a halter down to the square—this being Saturday morning and all the yokels hanging about the hardware store spitting at the stove and trading tall tales. See ifyou can't swap that dry cow for a side of bacon, a bushel of potatoes stored in some root cellar, maybe a squash or pumpkin not gone soft with age. What we need is food. So Jack he put on his blue jean jacket, his wrists dangling out the sleeves like some scarecrow in a field. And offhe went heading for town, the cow, sad-eyed behind him, not knowing whether she was part of some Old Testament tale of sacrifice or if this was a modem fable. To take my mind off my stomach, I commenced scrubbing out the cupboards, wiping down cobwebs that had grown since the last food was stored there. Well, it wasn't any time a-tall until I heard somebody turning the doorknob. Then in walked Jack, whistling under his breath, his face split by a grin wide as a yule log. I didn't see any grocery bags anywhere about. Where'd you leave the vittles, I asked straight out. Didn't get none. I raised the skillet, fixing to knock some sense into that jughead. Aw, Ma, he said, flinging his arms over his head. I made me a better trade. Abettertrade.Iyelled. Itbetterbe. Then I folded my arms across my chest, the skillet still dangling, handy, cause I figured I hadn't heard the end of this. Jack never was too bright. His first-grade teacher thought he'dprofit by a little more homelearning , andit's been thatway ever since. Okay, Jack, I said, what's a better trade than food for folks that're starving? Jack hejust pulled his fist out ofhis pocket and he grinned some more. It s here in my hand, Ma. I couldn'tthinkofanything worth acow that'dfitinthepalmofahandunlessitwas a goldpiece. So I commenced to grin too. You done good, Jack, I says. You're sharperthanfolks giveyoucreditfor. And I pried open his fist with my fingers, my eyes hungry for the shine of that gold. There, nestled against the calluses in his EaIm, right straddle his lifeline, lay a ean—one solitarybean, lightbrownwith speckles of pink circling it, the kind of bean that takes two cups to boil up into a Eot, thekindyou'd servewith fatback and •esh onions out ofthe garden. But there wasn't any ofthat to go with it. It wasjust a bean, a single bean, as dry and unmated as our old cow. I still had the skillet in one hand and I flung it hard as I could right through the window, thebean, that solitary bean, behind it. Jack and me went to bed hungrier than ever, the cold wind howling around the rags I stuffed into that window hole. You know the rest of the story—how thebeanstalkappearedovernightandwhat Jack did. But I m still here in this drafty house and I want toknow how I'm going to explain to the authorities that dead giant filling up the backyard. And what's the I.R.S. going to say about all those golden eggs—those eggs that won't crack into a yellow yolk and fry up like the sunball floating above the clouds. A Clearing Riding bulldozers the men come. An old house and bam falling with decay are scraped together, burned, a clearing on a hill, an exorcism. The men leave with their wages. I stay where flamelight points back to a clump of daffodils; a sudden oneness rises in me, past...