MY FATHER BROUGHT WINTER
5
bed, the first thing we thought of when we woke in the morning.
It had to be fed. At night my father would walk back and forth across
the room, whistling out of tune, with his hands in his pockets. Once in
a while Aunt Freda would say something to him but Bran wouldn't
look up from the book or paper he was reading. I could see he hated
my father. My father was very polite to him at first.
Winter set in. It rained a lot. There was nothing to do except sit
in
the house and read. My father tried to help me with the house work.
There wasn't enough work to keep one person busy, and he got in
my way. He was always puttering around. He never offered to help
Bran shell the corn or do anything outside, he never offered to milk.
He just hung around the house with his coat collar turned up. The
cooking was my job; I liked it because I liked to have something wait–
ing for me to do at a definite hour. But if I went out of the house
to do something for Bran before meal time I'd come hack and find
my father had already set the table and peeled the potatoes and had
them on the stove frying. We ate a lot of potatoes that winter.
I grew to hate the sight of my father stirring something in the
skillet. He was getting fat, not all over, just his stomach. His legs and
arms were still skinny. One of his arms had been broken and set
badly so that it stuck out from
his
body in a half circle when he
stirred. His skin was pink, too young-looking for his age. His white
hair stood up around the bald spot on top of his head like grass grow–
ing around a place where a house has been burned. His eyes were
small, set deep in his head, his mouth shut in a thin line bent with .
smiling. He tried to make his voice sound deeper than it really was.
He talked as if he thought we might like to listen to him. He was
my father, and he had nothing else to do so he stirred the potatoes on
the stove. It made me sick.
"This is my father," I'd say to myself, "he has come back." I
hadn't been afraid before, but he made me afraid.
If
life had done
this to him what would it do to me? I had the same blood, I couldn't
get away from that. I wanted to get away from him, though. I wanted
never to see him again. But what could I do? I had no money. Besides,
I was afraid.
So there we all were.... Three old ones and a young one in the
house tonight ... getting colder, rain outside and the roads muddy ...
wet in the woods, no place to lie dry ... no getting away now, no use
to think of
it.
And something inside me that had been ready to jump
and run
all
day would relax and drop its head on its paws like a dog
the fire.
I thought up excuses to myself to prove I shouldn't leave: Aunt
Freda needed me, there was too much work for Bran to do alone, I
helping them out and it was up to me to stay. I got to where I
