Lemonade Stand
1954
T he sun hung fat and heavy in the sky, as if ready to be harvested, glowing the gold-to-orange ombré of late summer. Two months ago, the sun would have still been high overhead, proud and young. But it had settled into itself, no longer having quite so much to prove.
Priscilla looked at her mother’s arms, which were draped over the table that they had set up next to the big oak in the front yard.
“Do you think we’re going to get any customers?” asked Priscilla, her voice as tiny and lyrical as a bird’s. She glanced at the pitcher of lemonade that they had made, the sugar still a thick layer at the bottom. It had been her mother’s idea, the lemonade stand.
Her mother turned her head toward her, letting the warm, leaf-dappled light hit her face. “If folks are thirsty,” she answered. Then she smiled, the small gap between her front teeth visible as she closed one eye, resting her cheek on the tablecloth, which was white with big fat red cherries on it.
Priscilla saw a car approach and straightened as it drew closer, waiting to see if it would stop, if the man driving would step out and with a smile drop a shiny nickel in the cup. Instead it only slowed and floated by—a blue-gray cloud passing on the horizon. “Maybe Daddy will buy some,” she offered. But her mother’s focus had gone elsewhere.
“Look, Silla,” she said, rising from her chair, her gaze angled up toward the sky. Scooting round the table, her mother took a few steps closer to the street, her feet shuffling blindly over the dry, brittle grass. She raised her hand, pointing to a bird on a wire. “That’s a scissor-tailed flycatcher.” Her mother looked back at her. “See his tail? See how long it is?”
Silla nodded. The slender feathers that extended past his back were twice as long as the bird himself. “Why is it like that?”
“That’s just how he was made,” answered her mother simply, smiling as she watched her daughter study the bird. “Mama’s gonna make him fly for you,” she said. Then she turned, and squinting into the sun and bringing her hands above her head, she clapped loudly. The bird lifted off instantly, his wings flapping, his glorious tail spreading into a long, elegant fork. “Go on home, Mr. Flycatcher!” she said, her words long and unhurried. Beaming, Silla watched the bird until she couldn’t see it any longer. Then she looked back at her mother, who was staring into the sky, her front teeth gently biting her lower lip.
Her mother was still standing like that when her father’s bright red car approached. He peeled into the driveway and Silla watched him get out, slamming the door shut and marching over to her mother.
“Martha,” he said, quiet and stern as he firmly took her upper arm. “What in God’s name are you doing out on the front lawn dressed like that?”
Priscilla watched her mother look at him, as if she didn’t quite understand the question.
“Goddammit, Martha,” she heard her father whisper, as he took a step toward the house, pulling her mother along with him. She saw her lean toward his leading hand, as if to relieve the pressure from his grip.
“Daddy,” Silla begged in a voice that wasn’t loud enough to be heard, “we were just selling lemonade.” The screen door whined as he pulled it open, and he forced Silla’s mother in ahead of him. Inching closer, she heard her father’s raised voice. “I have to get a phone call at work about you sitting in the front yard with our daughter in nothing but your slip!?”
“Lee,” she heard her mother say. Her voice was always so innocent.
“This sort of thing has got to stop, Martha.” Even at four, Silla understood the gravity in her father’s voice. “One way or another it’s got to stop.”