Morning With
The
Family
JAMES T. FARRELL
FEELING the presence of Lizz beside him, warm
and sweaty, Jim listened to the final tinklings of the
alarm clock. He bent over and kissed Lizz.
"I'll get up and make your breakfast," Lizz said
yawningly.
"Don't worry," Jim said, looking past her, at the
dim dawn-gray of the building next to them.
"Catherine has to be fed anyway," Lizz said.
Jim got out of bed reluctantly, yawned, a tall,
raw-boned man in his long and soiled winter under-
wear. He picked up his truss, put it on carefully,
and then drew on his work pants. He sat on the chair,
putting on his socks, smelling the perspiration of his
own feet, telling himself he ought to bathe to-night.
That goddamn business of making your living driv-
ing, always feeling that you smelled the manure. He
laced on his shoes.
"Jim, I'm so worried," she said.
"I tell you Lizz, forget worrying about that
drunken sister of yours."
"It's not that hussy, Jim. It's something else.
You know, the curse should have come to me yester-
day."
"vVell, isn't it sometimes not regular?"
"1'
es, but yesterday I felt sick to my stomach. Oh
Jim, what are we going to do? I told you not to do
it, and you made me. Now, we might have another
mouth to feed, as if we didn't have enough already."
"Lizz, let's not cross our bridges before we come
to them."
"I don't see how it could be. Mother told me
that you can't be caught with a new baby as long
as you are still nursing a baby at your breasts. And
little Catherine is far, far from being weaned yet."
"Lizz, I say again, let's just not try crossing our
bridges before we come to them."
"But, Jim, I'm so afraid. What are we going to
do if I am caught?"
"When we got so much to worry about, and so
much weight on our shoulders already, we better
just try and not let ourselves worry, and not to
start crossing bridges before we come to them,"
Jim said.
"I'll get up now and make your breakfast, Jim."
"Let me get the fire going first," Jim said, but-
toning his blue workshirt as he left the room.
The kitchen was chilly, and he rubbed his hands
together and shook himself to get his blood cir-
culating. He lit the kerosene lamp. He cleaned out
the ashes from the stove, put in old papers, and
sticks of box wood. He stood watching the fire leap,
hearing the crack of the fire as the wood caught it.
He put in a few more sticks, and smiled in fascina-
tion at the roar and leap of the golden bright flam~s,
and at the louder crackling of the burning wood. He
dropped in a thick chunk of dirty wood with rusty
nails sticking out of it, and put the lid over the fire.
He filled the kettle with water, and set it on the
stove to heat. He washed his hands and face in cold
water from the running faucet thinking how some-
day it would be swell if he could afford a flat with
running hot and cold water. Then he would get up
in the morning, wash and shave in warm water that
ran out of the faucet. On cold mornings, the radiator
would already be sizzling. Breakfast would be made
by lighting the gas range. Well! Wouldn't that be
nice! It seemed like a nice pipe dream anyway,
particularly if Lizz was knocked up again. He
rubbed his hands across his smooth chin. He was
glad he'd shaved last night. But he'd had to. He'd
had enough whiskers on him to make a barbed wire
fence. He glanced around the dim kitchen.
His belly was empty, just one big noisy hole. He
wished breakfast was ready right pronto this minute.
Lizz appearing in her dirty flannel nightgown,
her unwashed face smeared with sleep, her black
hair tangled loosely together.
"Better put a robe on Lizz, or you'll catch cold."
"Yes I think I will. It is chilly. I only hoped that
I would get breakfast started before the little one
woke up and started crying for her milk," Lizz said,
turning around and dragging her slippered feet out
of the kitchen.
He looked toward the covered pot in the corner.
Hated goddamn pisspots! But it was chilly, and his
kidneys were damn near floating. As he was uri-
nating into the pot, Lizz came back, wearing an old
brown skirt over her nightgown, and a rag tied
under her chin.
"You got the fire going good and quick," Lizz
said, going to the stove, and hearing the last trick-
ling dropping sounds in the corner.
"Yes, I'm experienced at making fires by now,"
Jim said.
Lizz looked affectionately up at him. Meeting
her gaze, he thought of the Lizz that once was, the
thin, beautiful shy girl with the beautiful black hair,
the trim, neat white body, the lovely complexion,
the dark eyes. Her dark eyes were about all that
carried over from the Lizz who once was. He looked
into those eyes. They closed as he clutched her in
his arms, and planted a long wet kiss on her lips.
He held her tightly. Her body was warm. She clung
to him. He released her. He smiled weakly, then,
grimly. He patted her head.
"Don't worry Lizz
I
You and I are going to stick
together, and come down the home stretch like
PARTISAN
REVIEW
