When Women Were Dragons(29)

“Do I have to go to school?” Beatrice asked glumly.

“Yes,” my mother said as she stitched the jumper. “Also, stop wiggling.”

“But do I actually?” Beatrice pressed.

“Yes,” my mother said, pins in her mouth and her thumb hooked under Beatrice’s waistband, trying to keep my sister from dashing about. “Everyone goes to school. It’s the law. Also, for god’s sake, hold still.”

“I am still,” Beatrice said as she wiggled and hopped. “I’m the stilliest.” She continued to bounce.

The dress had to be shortened two inches and narrowed significantly. I didn’t bother asking why my mother didn’t simply purchase a new uniform for Beatrice. My father made an excellent salary at his job, and was, as my mother often said, a good provider, but he didn’t like it when my mother spent money on my sister.

It was late August, and unbearably humid. School was to start in less than two weeks. My father was on a business trip again. Mother refused to mention it. We left the house at two to attend a lemonade social at the school for the brand-new students, and Beatrice was to meet her new teacher. It was for families. The invitation was addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Green, and it said in bold letters that they requested the whole family attend.

“What about Dad?” I asked. I was feeling cross. I didn’t want to go either. I wanted to go to the library, but my mother had been forbidding me from going lately, for reasons that she would not name and I could not ask. In prior years, I had been allowed to spend as much time at the library as I wanted and could come and go as I pleased. It wasn’t far, and I knew the way, and my mother wanted to encourage my interests. Also, she and the head librarian, an impossibly old woman named Mrs. Gyzinska, once were on quite friendly terms—I would find them, from time to time, deep in conversation in a corner of the library about politics or logic or geometry. I had started a self-study mathematics curriculum, which both my mother and the librarian encouraged, and there was talk of me doing more—something involving the university, but I wasn’t sure at the time what it was. I liked the sound of it. I liked math. And learning. And mostly, I just liked the library. I loved running my fingers along the spines and bringing home books that I could hardly understand, but hoped to someday. Also, I knew Sonja spent her weekend afternoons at the library. My stomach flipped just thinking about it. It felt so good to have a friend.

But lately . . . the library had become more and more out of bounds. I could go only when accompanied, and never for very long. It seemed that my mother and Mrs. Gyzinska had some sort of falling-out. Or my mother had the falling-out, and then clung to some combination of frustration and resentment, but the librarian didn’t seem to notice either way. She greeted my mother the way she greeted everyone else: the sort of brisk benevolence of a person with far more to do than anyone realizes.

At the picnic, I sat by myself off to the side, in a bit of a snit. The knot around my wrist was already coming undone. I tucked it under the sleeve of my cardigan, so my mother wouldn’t see. I didn’t want to talk to the principal. I certainly didn’t want to talk to my teachers. What I wanted was to go to the library. I looked over at my mother, who stood apart from everyone else, sipping her lemonade. The other mothers mingled with mothers and the fathers mingled with fathers, and the teachers flitted from group to group, the nuns looking a bit like magpies and the non-nuns looking a bit like small, brown sparrows. Beatrice ran through the throng of children, a blur of speed and force and color. She was faster than everyone else, and more agile. They struggled to keep up.

When it was time to leave, Beatrice’s dress was filthy, the braids were undone, and her bright hair wafted around her head like a halo.

My mother sighed.

“Well,” she said. “At least we tried.” We were about to leave when the principal appeared out of nowhere.

“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Green,” Mr. Alphonse said. “A pity that Mr. Green couldn’t come as well, but perhaps another time. We are so thrilled to be teaching your . . . younger child.” The tiniest of hesitations.

“Indeed,” my mother said, her face utterly impassive. She blinked her eyes very slowly. Immediately, the air around them became suddenly cold, and tight. Mr. Alphonse blanched, his color draining. He took a step backward. My mother didn’t shift in her place. She simply slowly blinked once again. I had never seen a blink more dangerous. Mr. Alphonse cleared his throat, nervously, and his shoulders pulled inward. As tiny as my mother was, it seemed to me that she towered before him. I curled my lips between my teeth and felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand up like soldiers. “I can hardly believe it’s here already,” my mother continued, ignoring the principal’s discomfort. “Time does fly, after all.” She smiled serenely. He opened his mouth, as though he was about to say something else, but nothing came out. My mother folded her hands and kept her face impassive. I realized that my back had begun to sweat.

Mr. Alphonse made a series of nonsensical hand gestures, mumbled something about the weather, and then wandered away to shake the hands of various fathers and share a slap on the back along with a loud guffaw, his relief at being far away from my mother radiating from his body like heat. I could feel it from where I stood.

My mother betrayed no feeling. She remained where she was, her hands folded, watching the principal as he retreated. Another slow blink. And on her lips—the tiniest hint of a smile.