9. Arville was sickly—always wheezing—always coughing—always
whining – always getting Mommy’s attention.
His frequent attacks of
breathing, his persistent sore
throats, his constant need of care were endless. Ivy and I did not share
Mommy’s doting concern. Daddy questioned it. “You’re coddling the boy too much. That ain’t good.”
I was not yet seven when Mommy parked me in the rocking
chair near the heat stove in the front room. A cast iron kettle on the
stove spewed steam into the room. She placed Arville, a big three year old in
my seven year old arms. “Rock him til he goes to sleep.”
My arm hurt!! My arm hurt so bad I was afraid if I didn’t
move it I would die. I moved it. Arville began to cry. Mommy descended like a
hawk after a chicken. “Why can’t you take care of your brother?”
“My arm hurts Mommy.”
“And his throat hurts. And I have to make supper. What good
are you?” She took Arville. “At least go get us a bucket of water.” She turned her attention to Arville as I took
the empty water bucket out to the well.
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