The Rest of the StoryRemembering childhood Carolyn Forché (bio) No matter how early I woke, how light it was or wet the fields, and whether or not the horses from the stable down the road had broken their fence and were grazing near our windows like horses in a dream, Anna would be gone. I swept my arm across the still-warm sheet. Her teeth were missing from the glass on the bedside table, and her wire-rimmed spectacles were also gone. Once again, she had not shaken me from sleep to go with her. I got dressed, taking care not to let the door make any sound, as everyone else was still asleep and the alarm, set for six, would not yet be jangling on my father's bedside table. [End Page 7] Click for larger view View full resolution The author's aunts: Margaret (left) and Anna. Courtesy the author. [End Page 8] Break of day. My grandmother was already moving along the rows, bending and hoeing, tossing weeds into one bushel basket and squash or cucumbers into another as crows gathered above her and the dawn fog rose. Her hoe rang out when it struck a stone buried in the soil, and she stooped to pry it up and carry it to a pile of stones at the edge of the field. Back and forth she walked, rocking from side to side, muttering under her breath either prayers or swear words, I couldn't tell, or else she was talking to someone who wasn't there. At first, she ignored me, planting her hoe again and again, turning and pulling soil and stone, as white grubs fell from the edge of the blade, curled from having been pulled so abruptly from their darkness. Once she let a grub fall into my palm, and it bit me. When I cried out, she shook it away and laughed, not as if a joke had been told. On this morning, she wrapped a stick with a rag soaked in fluid, set it on fire, and stabbed it into a mole's tunnel until the mole emerged and then was finished off under her shovel. Two crows followed her as she worked, rising and falling in the air on oily black wings to steal strawberries from her quart basket or snatch rye scraps from her outstretched hands. Go away! she cried out even as she fed them, and in Slovak, too, she said it. Chod' preč! We picked whatever was ripe, and then as we walked back through the orchard with our full bushels, she checked each tree for the hardness of its fruits. Hours passed, yet it was still morning, and the mist hadn't left the fields when we returned to the kitchen to proof yeast for bread and kolachy. Only then would she sit, all in, weary from work, rubbing her wire-rimmed spectacles in her apron, dabbing her face with a handkerchief edged in lace. She often talked then about her childhood house in the Tatras and of things as they were in her village, Tarnov, and of Bratislava, not so very far from Vienna. She spoke of the Emperor, Franz Josef I, as if he were still alive. We have opera and dance there. Your own cousin is a tenor in the Vienna Opera House. Opera and dance, you cannot imagine, Piskata, because you have nothing here. By here she meant the United States as she had known it. [End Page 9] It had by now been a decade since her husband's death the month before I was born. He went suddenly, they said, while chopping wood. She found him, his ax blade embedded in a split of oak, staring up without blinking at the passing clouds. When Anna wasn't living with us, she lived with her eldest daughter on Chalfonte Street in Detroit. Sometimes I went there for visits, and Anna shared her room with me. The house was quiet and orderly, its silence broken only by the chirps of a cuckoo on the quarter hour. Heavy drapes darkened the rooms, and the porcelain figurines in the glass case chimed when...
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