Blueberry Hill: a Sister's Story(21)



Donna furrows her eyebrows and nods an emphatic yes. She flutters her hand over her heart and motions to the dog, meaning she loves him.

Mama heaves a sigh that would have you believe she’s got the weight of the world on her shoulders. “Well, I’m too old to walk it for you, so I hope you know what you’re doing.”



When Dick returns with the crabs we put two aside for Floyd, then tear open the bag to divide up the remainder along with the coleslaw and piping hot French fries. I look at Donna’s plate. It is painfully sparse. She has only a small handful of fries. And she’s feeding some of those to the dog.

After dinner the three of us play rummy while Dick watches a basketball game on television. Donna holds the dog in her lap and shows him each card as it’s dealt, but Pink-eye pays no attention. He licks his paw and cleans the French fry grease from his face. Three times in a row Donna slaps down a winning hand and goes out, racking up points while Mama and I get caught holding a slew of cards in our hand.

The minute Donna smacks down that third hand, Mama gets a pouty mouth and says, “I’ve got to go home. Floyd’s waiting for his crabs.”

The real reason she wants to leave is because she’s losing. If Mama was up a couple hundred points, Floyd could starve to death before she’d go home.

As she’s saying goodbye, I grab my jacket and tell her, “I’ll walk you out.”

Mama has parked at the far end of the lot where there are no other cars. As we start down the long walkway I sneak a glance at her face, yellowed by the glow of a dim streetlight. The laugh lines are gone, and crevices of worry have taken over. It seems as though the years have suddenly rushed in and settled upon her. Not slowly as you might expect to happen, but pow! Like a pie in the face. One day she was a dark-haired mother with kids squabbling over the roller skate key, and then suddenly she’s an old woman stooped under the weight of sickness and survival.

“I don’t know,” she says, shaking her head sorrowfully. “I think getting this dog’s a bad idea.”

I wrap my arm around her shoulders. “Try to be patient. Having a dog is good for Donna. She’s lonely, she needs something—”

“Don’t you think I know she’s lonely?” Mama flares up like a Fourth of July rocket. “I’m the one who comes over here three, maybe four times a week. I’m the one who checks she’s got groceries. I’m the one…”

Mama’s voice is thick with a mix of anger and guilt. Guilt because she urged Donna to move to a place where she is far from her sisters and children. Anger because now Mama feels it’s her responsibility to care for Donna. The irony of this is that my sister isn’t sorry she moved to Baltimore, and she doesn’t want anyone taking care of her.

I’ve told Mama that a number of times, but it’s not something she wants to hear. Once she gets in a feeling-sorry-for-herself mood, the only thing you can do is appease her.

“I know how much you do,” I say. “And we all appreciate it.”

“Just so long as you understand,” Mama grumps, and we keep walking. When we reach her car, she struggles with the lock and I offer to help.

“I can do it myself!”

As the big Ford Fairlane pulls away, I watch how Mama cranes her neck to look over the steering wheel. She is once again getting smaller. At one time she was a formidable force; now she is a tiny woman with more responsibility than she can handle.

When I return to the apartment Donna is in the recliner, suctioning her throat. The dog is asleep in her lap. I ask if she’s decided on a name for him.

She nods and hands me a scrap of paper where she has written a single word.

I read what she has handed me. “Jason?”

She nods, gives me a mischievous grin, and mouths the words, I’ll tell you about it sometime.

I laugh. “Okay, Jason he is.” I can’t help but think how sad it is that the dog will never hear his mistress speak the name she has given him. He has learned to come when he hears the sound of the cricket clicker I have given her.





Winter’s End




I wish I could tell you this is a short story, but it’s not. Like many of life’s miseries it stretches itself out, making hours into days and weeks into months. In the bitter cold we drive the icy roads back and forth to Baltimore, sometimes every third week, sometimes once a month. It is a four-hour drive, so we leave early Saturday morning and return home late Sunday evening. Often the laundry goes undone, and the dust on the dining room table is left to thicken until the grain of the wood is no longer visible.

These things no longer bother me. I have come to realize they are small. They are actually smaller than small: they are miniscule. Several times a week I call Donna; I talk and she taps. I tell myself it is not much but it’s better than nothing.

When we visit I see the weariness in Mama’s face. It is not the weariness of work; it’s the weariness of worry. From time to time Mama and Donna will have a spat and go for days without seeing each other. I always know when this happens because Mama will call me and say I ought to check up on Donna. She doesn’t mention them having an argument, but I know.

All winter we take turns visiting. Dick and I go some weekends, Geri and Ted go other weekends, and Debi goes more often than anyone. We schedule it on our calendar, the same as we’d schedule any other responsibility.

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