Grandma was at the stove, mixing incompatible leftovers into a stew when my sister got home. The summer heat and teenage libido had my sister in a lusty, magical haze and oblivious to the souvenir she brought home from her boyfriend.
"What's that?" Grandma asked, squinting through her eyeglasses.
"What?"
"That. On your neck," she said, steam rising from the pot in a manner that seemed as though it was coming off the top of her head. "Were you with a boy?" Grandma took the wooden spoon she was stirring with and swung it at her shoulder.
"I wasn't!" Horror-chick style, she ran, looking behind her, big breasts bouncing all the way upstairs instead of out the front door and trapped herself in the bathroom.
"Don't lie to me! Come out here and see what's waiting for you! Bandida!" She banged on the door, trying to force her out with threats, but my sister wasn't coming out and Grandma was going nowhere. Six decades on this rock, and four of those spent in widowed-celibacy had taught her patience.
My sister, on the other hand, had nothing but the backs of bottles to read; back before cell phones when you could actually die of boredom. Ten minutes later, under the illusion of safety from lack of sound on the other side, she opened the door and had just enough time to protect her head with her hands before the wooden spoon came down with a crack over her knuckles. Ay! Grandma swung it around and got her shoulder and when she tried to come down on her leg, my sister pulled the spoon end up and Grandma pulled the handle end down and together they snapped it in half. I watched splinters fly in slow motion.
"You'll see what else will happen if you mess around with boys again," she warned easing back downstairs, creaking every step of the way, squeaking along the linoleum, and the cling-ding sound of kitchenware as she rummaged around for another wooden spoon followed by the tap-tap of stirring around a metal pot. Grandma didn't need to show her what would happen if she repeated her transgression, but in her wisdom, she must have known of the other lessons boys and men would teach girls and women down the road.
My sister, on the other hand, had nothing but the backs of bottles to read; back before cell phones when you could actually die of boredom. Ten minutes later, under the illusion of safety from lack of sound on the other side, she opened the door and had just enough time to protect her head with her hands before the wooden spoon came down with a crack over her knuckles. Ay! Grandma swung it around and got her shoulder and when she tried to come down on her leg, my sister pulled the spoon end up and Grandma pulled the handle end down and together they snapped it in half. I watched splinters fly in slow motion.
"You'll see what else will happen if you mess around with boys again," she warned easing back downstairs, creaking every step of the way, squeaking along the linoleum, and the cling-ding sound of kitchenware as she rummaged around for another wooden spoon followed by the tap-tap of stirring around a metal pot. Grandma didn't need to show her what would happen if she repeated her transgression, but in her wisdom, she must have known of the other lessons boys and men would teach girls and women down the road.
No comments:
Post a Comment