A photo of my mother in her early twenties

Chapter Two - Donna Reed doesn’t live here

Quit and Be Quiet – a memoir

by Mary Thurman Yuhas

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Chapter TwoDonna Reed doesn’t live here

Quit and Be Quietby Mary Thurman Yuhas

Five years later - the summer of 1953

Mom has been awake since the middle of last night, and she made so much noise that it

woke me. I lay in bed for a while and listened but later I crept down the stairs and

peeked around the corner to see what she was doing. Usually she doesn’t start her

ranting until after the sun is up and then it doesn’t seem so scary.

She had turned on all of the lights and was slowly walking in circles round and

round the living room as she screamed and swore nonstop at the voices. I watched for a

while. “Mom, why don’t you go back to bed,” I asked her but she didn’t answer.

She didn’t look at me either so maybe she didn’t hear me or maybe she didn’t

even know I was there. Dad was out of town and I couldn’t think of anything else to do

so I went back to bed and pulled the covers over my head. Sometimes my mother

frightens me.

This morning I stayed upstairs as long as I could because Mom is still screaming.

But my little brother, Frog, who is only three is already outside playing so I have to check

on him. I’m much older. I’m nine. His real name is Stevie, but I nicknamed him Frog

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because he loves the slimy, green things so much that sometimes he even pretends to be

one and the name stuck.

Dad won’t be home until tomorrow night. He is a traveling salesman and sells

boilers to schools and stores and office buildings, and his customers are scattered all over

Illinois. Every week he has to drive from our house in Galesburg almost over to Chicago

and to every place in between. He started his new job about a year ago but the problem is

right after he started it, the monster broke free.

I’m relieved when I look outside through the living room window and see Frog

sitting under the big, old Elm tree in our front yard. That means I don’t have to go look

for him. He is making “vroom vroom” noise as loud as a three-year-can and pushing his

red, metal fire truck back and forth. As I watch, I spot Verbeana Moore and her husband,

Albert, from the corner of my eye walking towards our house.  They live a couple of

blocks away from us and when the gray-haired couple draws closer, they point to Frog

and smile, and when they stop and lean down to talk to him, Frog pushes his fire truck

towards them. Mom must heard them talking because she has quit circling the living

room and is peering at the couple through the screen door.

Mom is thirty-four and old photographs prove she was once a beautiful, smiling

woman, but not anymore.  Her blue eyes are hollow and wild looking and her light brown

hair is so dirty that it sticks up in clumps all over her head. Her pale skin is streaked with

dirt from going for who knows how long without bathing, and the white sleeveless blouse

and blue shorts she is wearing are stiff with dirt and grime.  She looks part human, part

wild animal. Albert draws in a quick breath when he looks up and sees her, and she

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explodes with rage when she sees him staring at her. Her eyes are on fire with anger as

she races out to the porch, the screen door crashing behind her. "White trash.  White

trash. You aren't as good, as," she snarls at him and then inexplicably turns in the

opposite direction, facing no one and seemingly continues ranting at the air.

“Harold, you dumb bastard,” she screams while shaking her fist in the air.

Harold is one of the voices. I know his name because she screams at him the

most. "Yeow. Yeow. I told them, you dumb fucker. Get the hell out of here," she

screeches while flaying her arms in the air.

Next she coughs up a huge glob of spit that she sends flying in Harold’s direction

and then laughs a loud, hideous laugh that sounds like laughter in a horror movie.

“Bitch, I’m not going anywhere,” she answers herself in a deep, menacing, male

sounding voice.

That seems to shock her, and Mom steps back and shields herself by holding her

hands in front of her face as if someone might hit her. "Yeow. Yeow," she shouts before

collapsing to the floor and kicking in Harold’s direction as she emits a pitiful wail.

At least she is speaking in a female voice again.

          Albert and Verbeana watch speechless Mom continues fighting this battle as

though her very life depends on winning it.  What they don’t know, but I do, is that the

voices always win because they never leave, and Mom fights with them endlessly except

when she is asleep. Maybe she even fights with them in her dreams.

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The stunned couple look at Frog and wave good-bye to him before turning to

leave. Frog answers them with a loud “Vroom.”

Mom’s crying jag ends as abruptly as it began. When she stands up instead of

going back in the house, she marches soldier style round and round the porch, laughing

her crazy laugh and screeching her version of "Glory, Glory Hallelujah" at the top of her

lungs.

If I could, I would pull her inside the house but she’s way too big and everyone

says that I am small for my age.  It embarrasses me that all of the neighbors can see and

hear her, and I’m so tired of apologizing to everyone for the bizarre things she does.

Yesterday she ran out of the house screaming as loud as she could at Harold. Frog’s

friend’s, Eddie and Jimmy who live down the street were outside playing with him.  The

little boys must have thought Mom was yelling at them, and they ran off towards their

homes crying all the way as Mom stood there and laughed her crazy laugh.   Frog was

screaming too because his friends ran away.

 Mom wasn’t embarrassed a bit, but I was and I had to go to the boys’ house and

apologize to their mother.  “Mrs. Letts, I’m sorry that Mom scared your boys.”

“That’s alright, Mary Kay.  It’s not your fault,” the round and perennially cheerful

Mrs. Letts replied.

I was fuming mad as I stomped back home and thought about how much I wished

I could trade my mom for Mrs. Letts. 

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The cheerful woman wears an apron almost all of the time because she is usually

busy cooking something really great for her family.  My mom eats out of the refrigerator

and gives us nothing. In the summer, Mrs. Letts often sets brownies or something else

equally good on her front porch for all of the neighborhood kids to eat.  She also keeps

their house very clean.  It reminds me how our house used to look and how good it used

to smell.  Now it’s so dirty that I wake up early so I can pick up the clothes and papers

and food that Mom leaves everywhere before my friends come over to get me to play.  I

don’t want them to see what a horrible mess our house is.

I plop down on the front steps to wait until Mom settles down and goes back in

the house so I can leave and play with my friends.  When she finally goes, she resumes

circling the living room and continues fighting with Harold and the others.

Loud rumblings from my stomach that I ignored earlier remind me I haven’t eaten

and it’s nearly noon.  Rummaging through our nearly empty pantry, I find a half-full box

of Cheerios.  Holding it close to my side, I dash back outside into the warm sunshine and

skip down the porch stairs shouting, “Hey Frog.  Want some lunch?”

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