Every day after school
I drag myself to the diner,
wishing the police would come
and haul my dad off in chains
for making us kids work all the time.
I wish they’d throw him
into a cold stone cell
and feed him nothing
but lima beans.
And if Dad begged his jailers
to let him out,
to give him another chance
so he could change his ways,
and even promised
never to make any of us kids
work in the diner again,
they’d just sneer at him
and say, “You’d better get used to
lima beans, buddy,
because you’re gonna be in here so long
you’ll rot!”
Sometimes I Can’t Stand Mildred
Before Melvin died
and Mom started staying home,
Sylvia was already working at the diner,
and so were Daniel and Raymond
in between their other jobs,
but not my big sister Mildred.
Even now that Marian and I
have to work there, too,
Mildred still doesn’t have to.
She told Dad it would be bad for business
because her many boyfriends
(practically every boy in Baltimore, I think)
would crowd into the restaurant,
sitting around drinking sodas,
taking up tables
just to get a glimpse of her,
and they’d never order a crumb of food.
Maybe Mildred
should work in Bubby Anne’s store
since she seems to have a knack
for selling things.
She sold Dad
a bunch of baloney
that he wouldn’t have bought
from anybody else.
Working Late
I hate nights like tonight,
when I have to close up the diner
all by myself
because Marian’s too young to stay late
and Daniel’s working a double shift
at the factory
and Raymond’s working
at the service station
and Sylvia’s out with her boyfriend
and Mildred never has to work
and Dad is driving his cab.
After I clean off the counters
and put the food away,
I stuff the cash into a brown paper bag,
lock the door, then give it a hard pull
and dash into the black night
with the bag hidden inside my coat.
As I hurry onto the empty bus,
I can feel my heart thumping
like it’s going to pop right out of my chest
any minute.
At my stop, I jump off
and race down my street
in case a robber is lurking in the darkness.
And not until I reach the house,
yank the door shut behind me,
and lock it
can I start to breathe again.
The One Good Thing About Working Late
I come home from work
long after midnight,
when the house is silent,
to find a dim light
still on in the kitchen,
and Mom,
with a hot iron in her hand,
working her arm
back and forth,
back and forth
in a rhythm,
and the two of us
talk and talk,
just us,
and I don’t
have to share
her
with anyone.
I Need to Know
There’s a question that I can’t shake
out of my head,
so I use this time alone with Mom
to ask her,
because she always has good answers.
“Remember when you told me
that on Rosh Hashanah
we need to think about the bad things
we’ve done
and to say we’re sorry?
that God decides what will happen
to each of us
in the coming year?”
“Yes, yes,” she says. “I remember.”
“Since Melvin was too little
to have done anything very bad,
why did God decide to let him die?”
I ask her.
But this time
she doesn’t answer.
She just hugs me tight.
I Have a Good Excuse
I can’t stay awake in school,
but thank goodness for Eunice,
who pokes me from behind
when it’s my turn to read.
Miss Connelly doesn’t understand.
She probably thinks I’m lazy.
If only
I could speak up to teachers
like Marian can,
I could tell her that I fall asleep in class
because right after school
I work at Paul’s Luncheonette
serving burgers and fries
until the late-night movie closes down
and the ushers come around
for something to eat,
and that I don’t get home
till almost 2:00.
If only
Miss Connelly knew.
At the Diner Without Dad
Sylvia, Marian, and I are working today.
Before Dad leaves the diner,
he warns Sylvia,
“Don’t let your sisters get into the pies,
you hear me!”
As soon as he walks out the door,
Marian and I ask Sylvia for some pie.
“Sure,” she says,
and serves each of us a thick slice.
As that sweet coconut custard
slides across my tongue,
I know that we have the best big sister
of anyone.
Something of My Own
There’s this guy we call
Jimmy the Greek
who comes to the diner to eat
whenever I’m working there with Sylvia.
I’m lucky he’s sweet on her,
because today
he brought me
a Shirley Temple doll.
It’s the first time
I’ve ever gotten anything
so special that I can truly call
my own.
It almost makes me glad
I’m working
at the diner.
Almost.
I Had a Coin Collection
When the soldiers and sailors
come to the diner
they give me coins
from faraway places
to add to my collection.
But today all my coins disappeared,
and I wanted Sol to disappear, too,
when I found out
that he put every one of them
in the pinball machine.
He says he didn’t know
they were special.
“I’ve been saving those coins forever.
Those were mine,
and you had no right
to take them!” I screamed.
I’m awfully glad
that my Shirley Temple doll
is too big to fit
into a pinball machine.
I Can Feel Summer Just Around the Corner
But it won’t be like last summer.
Mom will still hang the garden hose
over the clothesline
to make an outdoor shower
for us to run through
on the hottest days,
but Melvin won’t be here
to hold my hand
and giggle
when the cool water sprays him.
And Dad will still take us
to the shore on Sundays,
but Melvin won’t be here
to hold my hand and squeal
as we play chase with the waves
up and down the beach.
And we’ll still stop
on our way home from the shore
for four-cent hot dogs at Hymer’s,
but I won’t be able
to wipe the mustard and sauerkraut
off his face and fingers and hair.
I won’t be able to take his hand
to walk back to the car afterwards.
We never talk about Melvin much
anymore,
but I cry about him
every night in my pillow,
and in the day
my hand feels awfully empty.
An Inspiration
I try to rush out after class
like I always do,
but today Miss Connelly
tells me to stay.
All I can think about
is how she’s going to give me detention
for falling asleep in class again,
and how Dad is going to kill me
for being late to work.
But instead,
she asks me in a voice so gentle
it feels like a hug,
“Where do you race off to after school
every day?”
And suddenly the words
start pouring out of me like rain
and I find myself telling her
all about the burgers and diapers
and long days
and late nights
and crowded beds.
Then she says,
“I have seen what you can do
when your eyes are open, Edith.
You’re a smart girl and a fast learner, too.
You should go to college someday.”
College? Smart? Fast learner?
No one has ever said words
like these to me.
No one.
But then I remember
the girl in my class with the big vocabulary,
and I say, “I don’t think I’m so smart,
Miss Connelly.
I don’t even know
what any of those big words mean
that Helen Krashinsky uses.”
“Neither does she,” Miss Connelly says
with a wink.
Floating
I am a bubble
blown full
with Miss Connelly’s words,
floating out of the classroom,
bobbing across the grassy lot,
drifting by Levin’s Bakery,
letting the breeze carry me to the diner.
“WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN!?”
Dad yells when I come in,
but I just float right by him.
Even Bubbles Have to Work
But at least
I don’t have to work the late shift tonight.
So I serve my last hot roast beef sandwich
and float home.
I glide into the parlor.
Do they notice my feet
aren’t touching the ground?
“I’m going to college someday,”
I announce,
“and I’m going to be a teacher.”
Dad grunts.
“We don’t have money for college,
and girls don’t need to go anyways,”
he says.
“You’ll work at the diner
until you get married.”
His words pierce me,
and I burst.
Bubby Comfort
I go over to Bubby Etta’s house
to tell her about my future,
the one I had for a little while,
until Dad smashed it into a million pieces.
And even her golden brown knishes
filled with creamy potato
that she’s just taken out of the oven
don’t help me feel any better.
But then she cradles my cheeks in her hands,
forcing my eyes to look straight into hers,
and says, “Don’t worry, bubbelah,
you will go to college,
and I will help you.”
I throw my arms around her
and squeeze her hard,
feeling as if she’s just reached
into her shopping bag of gifts
and pulled my dreams out
whole again.
Our Secret
I’m having a late-night ironing talk
with Mom
when I tell her
what Miss Connelly said
about me being smart
and about college
and how Bubby said she’d help.
“That Miss Connelly is a sharp lady,”
Mom says.
Then she leaves the room
and comes back
with something cupped in her hand.
She opens my hand,
drops a wad of dollar bills into it,
and then closes it up tight,
holding her shushing finger
up to her lips.
“For college,” she says,
and goes back
to her ironing.
I Have to See for Myself
So I don’t tell anyone
where I’m going,
and I take two quarters
(two days’ wages)
that I’ve stashed away
and use them to pay the fare
each way
for two buses
and a trackless trolley.
It takes me
more than an hour
to get there,
but when I do,
it’s better than I imagined—
tall brick buildings
with ivy clinging to them,
packed with classrooms and dormitories,
boys and girls
sitting on the grass
in small groups, chatting,
others hurrying down the walkways
hugging their books.
On the way home
I think about how it was definitely
worth two days’ wages,
two buses,
and one trolley
to see Towson State Teachers College,
where someday
I’ll be going to school.
Who I Am Now
Now I have a better answer
for Miss Connelly,
who wanted me to think about who I am
in my family.
Maybe I am one of Dad’s work slaves,
and I’m still
the good little mother,
taking care of my sisters and brothers,
but I am definitely someone else, too.
I am the one
who will go to college someday
and become a teacher.
Maybe He Does Care
We’re having a hot-enough-to-fry-eggs-on-
the-pavement
kind of heat wave,
and my whooping cough is so bad
it feels like someone’s hammering
on my chest.
It’s one in the morning
and I’m sitting on the front steps
coughing nonstop
when Dad comes home from
driving the cab.
“Come on, Edith,” he says.
“I’ll take you for a ride to cool off”
He rolls all the windows down
and we ride around the neighborhood.
Just me and him.
And I’m not even going to tell him
that I feel a little sick to my stomach
riding in the back seat,
because I don’t want anything
to spoil this night
when my dad
&
nbsp; is actually being nice
and spending time
just with me.
I Wish
In June I’ll be finishing
at McGee Elementary,
but before I go on to junior high
I’m getting an award—
a student achievement award,
the very first in my family.
I wish Mom would come to the ceremony
at McGee,
but she doesn’t leave the house much
anymore.
I wish Mom would come—
just for me.
Ironing Out Memories
It’s late-night ironing time,
so Mom pulls the board
down from the wall,
stretching a blue blouse over it.