We have bacon and eggs and biscuits for breakfast.
“Bacon and ham in one day,” Frankie says to Gracie. “Not yet a vegetarian?”
“Nope,” says Gracie.
“I was once,” says Mama.
“I remember,” says Frankie. “You were lots of things.”
“I was going to be lots of things. Coming back here reminds me of all those things I meant to be.”
“And you came to Boston to go to school, and you met me and fell in love, and look at you!” says Boots.
“Look at me,” repeats Mama.
There is a small silence at the table.
“And you have Boots, and Grace, and Lucy, and Teddy,” says Frankie.
“And Langhorne Slim,” I add.
Mama gets up, taking her plate to the sink to rinse. She goes out of the kitchen, through the hallway, and out to the porch.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have said that,” I say.
Boots gets up.
“No, it isn’t you. Mama needs something all her own, that’s all,” he says.
He goes out to where Mama is.
“Mama needs more than us,” I say.
“Not really,” says Frankie. “She just doesn’t quite know what she has. She never did. She’ll find that out one day. I promise.”
Frankie pours coffee and leans over close to me.
“Baa, baa, See,” she says softly.
I look quickly at her.
“You heard last night?”
Frankie nods.
“You know I can’t sing then,” I say.
“That doesn’t matter. What matters is that you are a spectacular sister.”
“Spec-tac-u,” he says.
“What are you two talking about?” asks Gracie.
“Secrets,” says Frankie. “Don’t you have secrets too?”
“Lots of them,” says Gracie happily.
“Lucky girl,” says Frankie. “You’re spectacular too.”
“Spec-tac-u-lar!” says Teddy slowly.
He looks all around the table at us, waiting.
“Yay!” we all shout, our arms in the air. Even Frankie.
Frankie leans over to ask a question.
“Who is Langhorne Slim?”
Gracie and I laugh out loud.
Slowly, during the day, the river calms a bit. There are fewer pieces of trees flowing by. The water begins to fall away from the porch, leaving watermarks behind. There is still a foot of water in the backyard, but the sun is bright and warm.
Boots and Frankie go up to the barn to milk the cows. Mama goes with them, carrying Teddy up through the water to dry land to feed her chickens. The chickens have come out in the sunlight, walking around in the grasses.
Gracie sits on the porch with her drawing pad, sketching scenes of the wide river and the ducks. Her drawing of the big Dutch Belted cow lies on the table.
“Thanks. It’s simple to draw. Like someone else made this big, big drawing and all I had to do was fill it in.”
I stare at Gracie.
I sit down and stare at her drawing.
“You’re brilliant, Gracie,” I tell her.
Gracie looks up from her drawing and smiles at me.
“I’m only six,” she says. “Too young to be brilliant.”
She goes back to her work. I go upstairs and into my room. The bed is still rumpled from sleep—dents made from Teddy’s body, my body. I pull up the covers and smooth us away.
I pick up my notebook.
I write.
What artist
Sketched
Sculpted
Your
Big black sky body
I look at the page for a long time. Boots is right. You can’t write anything better than a cow. I tear out the page of the notebook. I close the notebook.
And that is when I hear Mama’s screaming.