Beatrice Becette

I

Momma made moonshine in the bathtub on Sunday nights. We were supposed to

play in Anne’s room. Daddy reminded Momma. Take care of my girls, he’d whisper to

her. Take care of Momma, he’d whisper to us.

One night I watched Momma. She pulled up her hair in a real messy bun, her

curly red strands fell over her face. The room smelled sour. I watched her working in the

tub, drinking in the liquid. I’d never heard her sing before, but here she was, singing

about the trees and the bees. She smiled in a way I didn’t know existed. Her eyes like the

sliver of the moon, her face red like the berries in our backyard. I watched her sway and

drink until her singing stopped, and she fell into a tender sleep.

I never met my brothers, never even saw their faces. We couldn’t afford pictures

then. Momma said they had skin like the angels at church and hair as golden as

grandma’s necklace. Steven and John died at war, she said. But Andrew was not so

lucky. Andrew was caught in a fire. It’s like he knew that day was his last, ‘cause he

asked Momma if he could wear his Sunday church shirt. He begged her.

Did I tell you about my wedding? The day Robert and I got married, I wore white

kitten heels that I bought for a nickel at the Sunday market. I wore Momma’s old dress

made of lace and tulle. Anne said I looked like an angel. Momma helped me with my

hair.

And did I tell you kids about my factory days? I worked seven days a week, from

five to five. Billy and Shubert loved me. They gave me a free cup of coffee every

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morning. And when I left they gave me an eighteen pound chicken, and they promised

me one every year from then on.

II

The doctors ask me questions about my Momma. Momma gave me her dress for

my wedding. Momma made moonshine on Sunday nights. They ask me to talk about my

brother Andrew. I tell them about the fire. Too bad I never met my only brother. They ask

me about Steven and John. Steven and John? They say they’re my brothers. They say

they died in the war. But I swear to God I never knew a Steven or John.

Little Amanda wants to know about the wedding. Susie tells her not to ask. But I

want to tell her. I want to tell her about the dress that I bought at the Sunday market for a

nickel and the shoes that Momma gave me. I want to tell her that my Momma said I

looked like an angel, and Anne did my hair.

I want to tell her about the chicken from our neighbor, Shubert. I want to tell her

about my bosses, Steven and John, and how Andrew should be coming home for dinner

soon. I tell her, and Susie says it’s okay. I don’t know what she means. Susie says I

should stop and just eat. I don’t know what she means. And I don’t know, because I am

the mother, and Susie is the child. Why does she look so tired? Why does she look so

sad? When did I become the child?

III

The young girl calls me grandma, but I’m not a grandma. Robert and I just got

married in June. I’m happy, and tired, and pregnant. I’ve got to wake up early for work

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tomorrow, but the young girl looks so sad, so I want to tell her a story. Momma made

moonshine in the bathtub on Sunday nights. Momma made moonshine in the bathtub on

Saturday nights. Monday nights. Momma made Moonshine. I look to my lap, into hands

that can’t be mine. Who is touching me? Where is Robert? Where is my belly? Where is

my baby? I look up. The room is silent. And the young girl just stares and stares, and I

don’t know why.

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