In the summer of not Lloyd things got worse. I missed school, my teachers, the lunch and books. Books, books took me to faraway lands, far away from my mother’s rage, the filth, the hunger pains. Lloyd left an empty hole in our apartment. Hank refused to sleep in the crib he used to share with Lloyd and curled up next to me at night.
I got good at guessing what mood my mother was in each morning. If she came out of her room shuffling her feet as if carrying something heavy, Hank and I were in trouble. We would scramble underneath the couch and wait for her to return to her room. If I misjudged her moods she’d go after Hank: “You were the one that was supposed to die, the dark one—you, Hank! Why didn’t God take you?” I’d get in between her and Hank trying to protect Hank, my baby. It was my turn: “Margaret, you are a stupid ugly girl, that’s why your Daddy left!” And the smacks came hard. Sometimes I’d run outside, down the steps to the back yard to my big oak tree, she wouldn’t bother me there. I sang to my tree, silly songs I’d make up and it didn’t mind me plucking some of its green shiny leaves. I’d pray to the tree for my Daddy to come back and bring lots of food and toys for me and Hank, and I could sit on his lap like I used to.
If she came out with quick light steps it was the nice mother, and she would tell me to hurry and get Hank dressed because we were going to church or to Lloyd’s grave. There were days she did not come out at all. Hank and I had to fend for ourselves. I went to Aunt Jo and the nuns on Mercy Street, begging for food.
Sometimes men would come, strange men who would slip into our mother’s bedroom, make all kinds of sounds. I tried to sleep, Hank and I tried to sleep. One time I woke to a monster’s hands on my body down below, it was a monster, I tried to scream for help but a hand covered my mouth. I made myself frozen so the monster would leave. But he didn’t. After that I’d see them come up the stairs and I’d pull Hank’s hand and we’d run down the stairs and climb my tree. We’d stay there sitting on the thick gray branch till the men left, counting stars till late at night.
I decided I would be a nun when I grew up. I would help all the poor children that needed help. The nuns were safe in the church. God loved them best because they gave up their lives for him and wore habits.
Daddy was going to visit us. Mother cleaned, cooked and made sure we were bathed and ready—most of the time, he didn’t show. One night, Hank and I waited all night for him, hoping the door would open—it never did. When Daddy did come, he’d hold me in his lap and whisper I was his favorite. He’d sing silly songs to me and Hank. He had a new family with Aunt Beah, a boy, Kenny.
That summer was a hungry summer that went into a hungry winter. That winter the United States declared war on Germany. We had our own war going on, trying to be fed, trying not to get hit, trying to find warmth—the nuns—if it weren’t for the nuns Hank and I would have starved. I begged because I had to. Hank depended on me.