When I Crossed No-Bob Read Online Free Page B
Author: Margaret McMullan
doorway, Mr. Frank watching, shaking his head.
***
That evening after supper Mr. Frank catches me crying with the chickens. We sit together on a log under a tree and I am nothing but ashamed. Mr. Frank, he smiles at me, and from where I sit I can see that one of his front teeth sticks out past his bottom lip just a tad. I have not seen this before and it makes me smile because now that I seen this I think that Mr. Frank looks to be about twelve years old. I think of what he must have been like when he was my age, a little boy messing around, him and his pa sitting around the family table all happy-like, his ma feeding them pickled peaches, but as soon as I start thinking on that, I stop.
"I wish I had Momma back." The sun is not down yet and the sky is pinkish.
"But she punished you so much, Addy. You told me so yourself."
I close my eyes, wishing away what I've said. I should not have talked about Momma while I worked alongside Mr. Frank. I should have stayed loyal to her. Already I have told Mr. Frank too much. I have told him about Momma's seasons of sickness. I have told him how she locked me up in the chifforobe.
I tell Mr. Frank that it wasn't so bad, being in the chifforobe. It smelled of pine, and if I moved Momma's two hanging dresses and the folded-up quilt, it was big enough to stand up in, and because it was an old chifforobe, there were cracks for air and plenty of turning-around room to change positions every once in a while. When Momma shut me up in the dark after I did something wrong, I had time to think. I rubbed my eyes with my knees to see the pictures behind my eyelids. I counted the stars inside my mind.
"With all due respect to your momma, Addy, that's no way to punish a child."
"I know. But she made me. She could do what she wanted with me."
"God made you too, Addy."
"Did God make you?"
"Yes, Addy, he did."
"So we're kin?"
"You could say that."
We're looking down at the bald ground where the chickens are scratching. I have these dark feelings and I wish it was spring again instead of fall. The best thing to do is do like Mr. Frank and Miss Irene. Grow up, get married, and try to make a home for yourself. But what if I have a fierce love and a fierce marriage like Momma and Pappy's? But who would ever marry me, anyway? An O'Donnell. A termite.
"I'm mad at God. I don't think I like him."
"Why not, Addy?"
"'Cause he makes some of us rich and some poor. Some O'Donnells, some not. Why can't he just make us all pretty and rich?"
"I don't know. Maybe you need to ask him yourself. Talk to him."
"Talk to him how? Once, I knew a prayer called the Lord's Prayer, but I forget all the words."
"Talk to him like you would your own pa or ma."
"I don't know. He don't seem to be like most folk."
Mr. Frank puts his arm around me and squeezes me to him tight, so tight I think I might cry. "Start with thanking him."
And before I can say, "For what?" Mr. Frank says, "You need a pair of shoes, Addy. I'll make you a pair myself. But for now, let's just sit here for a while."
He doesn't say anything. I watch the leaves fall. A ladybug sets to crawling on my leg. Sitting here with Mr. Frank feels the way I think holding hands with the Lord would feel. Good. Close. Like you know you're going to be OK because you're with someone. I imagine that's what being married feels like too. Being in love must feel like sitting on a log with someone special, someone a little like yourself.
Chapter 4
I don't seem able to sit still and do my reading and writing work like the others. Even at Mr. Frank's house, Miss Irene wants me to sit on the stool in front of the weaver and spin thread and run the loom and I hate hate hate it because I'm bad at both weaving and sitting still. Miss Irene says I won't get good at it unless I stay at it. She says that's what her mother did for her. She says her mother says a woman's worth is determined by her tiny, even rows of stitches. I let that sit for a minute. But then Miss
***
That evening after supper Mr. Frank catches me crying with the chickens. We sit together on a log under a tree and I am nothing but ashamed. Mr. Frank, he smiles at me, and from where I sit I can see that one of his front teeth sticks out past his bottom lip just a tad. I have not seen this before and it makes me smile because now that I seen this I think that Mr. Frank looks to be about twelve years old. I think of what he must have been like when he was my age, a little boy messing around, him and his pa sitting around the family table all happy-like, his ma feeding them pickled peaches, but as soon as I start thinking on that, I stop.
"I wish I had Momma back." The sun is not down yet and the sky is pinkish.
"But she punished you so much, Addy. You told me so yourself."
I close my eyes, wishing away what I've said. I should not have talked about Momma while I worked alongside Mr. Frank. I should have stayed loyal to her. Already I have told Mr. Frank too much. I have told him about Momma's seasons of sickness. I have told him how she locked me up in the chifforobe.
I tell Mr. Frank that it wasn't so bad, being in the chifforobe. It smelled of pine, and if I moved Momma's two hanging dresses and the folded-up quilt, it was big enough to stand up in, and because it was an old chifforobe, there were cracks for air and plenty of turning-around room to change positions every once in a while. When Momma shut me up in the dark after I did something wrong, I had time to think. I rubbed my eyes with my knees to see the pictures behind my eyelids. I counted the stars inside my mind.
"With all due respect to your momma, Addy, that's no way to punish a child."
"I know. But she made me. She could do what she wanted with me."
"God made you too, Addy."
"Did God make you?"
"Yes, Addy, he did."
"So we're kin?"
"You could say that."
We're looking down at the bald ground where the chickens are scratching. I have these dark feelings and I wish it was spring again instead of fall. The best thing to do is do like Mr. Frank and Miss Irene. Grow up, get married, and try to make a home for yourself. But what if I have a fierce love and a fierce marriage like Momma and Pappy's? But who would ever marry me, anyway? An O'Donnell. A termite.
"I'm mad at God. I don't think I like him."
"Why not, Addy?"
"'Cause he makes some of us rich and some poor. Some O'Donnells, some not. Why can't he just make us all pretty and rich?"
"I don't know. Maybe you need to ask him yourself. Talk to him."
"Talk to him how? Once, I knew a prayer called the Lord's Prayer, but I forget all the words."
"Talk to him like you would your own pa or ma."
"I don't know. He don't seem to be like most folk."
Mr. Frank puts his arm around me and squeezes me to him tight, so tight I think I might cry. "Start with thanking him."
And before I can say, "For what?" Mr. Frank says, "You need a pair of shoes, Addy. I'll make you a pair myself. But for now, let's just sit here for a while."
He doesn't say anything. I watch the leaves fall. A ladybug sets to crawling on my leg. Sitting here with Mr. Frank feels the way I think holding hands with the Lord would feel. Good. Close. Like you know you're going to be OK because you're with someone. I imagine that's what being married feels like too. Being in love must feel like sitting on a log with someone special, someone a little like yourself.
Chapter 4
I don't seem able to sit still and do my reading and writing work like the others. Even at Mr. Frank's house, Miss Irene wants me to sit on the stool in front of the weaver and spin thread and run the loom and I hate hate hate it because I'm bad at both weaving and sitting still. Miss Irene says I won't get good at it unless I stay at it. She says that's what her mother did for her. She says her mother says a woman's worth is determined by her tiny, even rows of stitches. I let that sit for a minute. But then Miss
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