My Father's Horse

“Your father’s a hero”, she said wiping my feverish brow. The red popsicle she held was melting down her arm and a fine red mist was gathering on my cover. It looked like the results of a nose bleed. “I remember when I met him” she continued. “He was wearing a green shirt that said fighting for war is like…” She smiled. “You’re too young to hear the end of that sentence. I was filled with so much passion back then and him too. It was a rally for...isn’t that funny I don’t remember. I remember what he was wearing but not what we were fighting for.”
She shook the memory free and smoothed the covers with her free hand, smearing the red flecks. The popsicle was now dripping right off her elbow and she licked her forearm absentmindedly. My eyelids fluttered up and down like the creaky springs on a trampoline that’s been left out in the rain too long. The shadows grew until they engulfed the room. I heard a door close miles and miles away. The smell of my mother’s nutmeg skin lingered in the room but it was my father I dreamt of that night. He rode a galloping brown mare and a green cape fluttered behind him in the wind. I couldn’t quite see his face but I knew that it was him.

We are making chocolate chip oatmeal cookies in the kitchen. Even though it’s almost November the kitchen is warm and bright. I am old enough now to crack the eggs in the bright yellow Pyrex bowl. Some times a few pieces of the shells fall in but mom picks most of them out. I even get to put the trays in the oven. Mom’s nervous. She tells me to watch out because the oven racks are very hot and the tray is heavy and big in my hands. She has to hold the oven door open for me because some times when you’re not expecting it, it springs shut on you. One time mom lost a whole chicken dinner that way but it was ok because we got to eat cereal for dinner, which would never normally be allowed. She was lucky it didn’t snap shut on her arm.
From my stool at the island I watch as the cookies grow and turn golden. Mom can’t bend down that far anymore so it’s my job to tell her when they’re just perfect. While we wait mom sings Little Bunny Foo Foo and she really bops me on the head but not hard or anything just so it’s funny and we laugh. She stops laughing too quickly go and her hands turn to fists as she kneads her back and frowns.
When the cookies are ready she lets me take them out of the oven with the big cow print oven mitts. She usually never lets me touch the hot sheets. I put the cookies on the giant silver cooling rack that looks like part of a hamster’s cage and I see burnt on crumbs from the last time we made cookies. Mom doesn’t see them and I don’t mention them. “Let’s save some for your father” she says but we both know they won’t be any good by the time he gets back.

My dad was on TV. My dad was on TV. My dad was on TV. I didn’t understand a lot of what they were saying. A scary old man had a lot of bad things to say but lots of beautiful young people with long hair and pretty beads said really nice stuff. One guy with a really big beard said that my dad will change the face of America. I didn’t know a country could have a face but my dad could change it. When my mom heard the man with the beard she squeezed my hand so tight I thought I would cry but I didn’t make sound. Mom says I’m too big to cry now anyway but I saw her wiping her eyes on her sleeve when she thought I wasn’t watching.
When the mean old man came back on the TV my mom shook her fist. “Lord”, she said “he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. Some people are so plain ass ignorant but your daddy’s going to change some people. Pumpkin, you should be so proud.” I don’t know why I should be proud. I didn’t do anything. My dad did. I still don’t know what but it’s something big alright. Maybe some day they’ll have a holiday for him and name a street after him. That would sure show Ella and Katie. Then they’d never tease me about my ghost dad again. Mom says I should just tell them that my daddy’s a hero when they start to tease me but when I did that they just called me a liar and told me not to make believe. I stamped my foot and yelled “I’m not, I’m not” but I couldn’t give them an answer when they asked me what he did.
When the news is over, mom gets up and pushes the silver knob on the TV and the picture disappears with a whizzing sound. Mom suddenly notices all the dust on the TV. She blows on it a big cloud rises and settles on her. She goes into the kitchen and grabs her yellow cleaning gloves and the old, worn pajamas she uses as a cleaning rag. I beg her to tell me another story about dad. I don’t care so much about the story but I know if she tells me one she’ll sit right close to me al cuddled up and stroke my hair. She’ll smile for at least half an hour, maybe even sing, but she just tsks and scrubs the coffee table. I go upstairs to play with my dolls.

Today is my very first day of school. Mom takes pictures of me wearing a new yellow dress. My hair is pulled back in two braids so tight they force me to smile as I hold up my brand new lunch box covered in stars. Mom also makes me hold up the new crinkly package of pencils and the box of erasers shaped like fruit. They smell good enough to eat but they taste gross. I know because I broke off a tiny piece of the pineapple and tasted it.
Mom promised to walk me to school this whole week. It’s only two blocks away and mom can see me if she stands on the porch but I’m happy she wants to show me the way. I don’t like to walk past the older boys alone. They say rude things about places and parts I don’t want to hear about. Plus, if we walk together, she’ll hold my hand and tell me stories about all the people who live in the neighbourhood.
Mr. and Mrs. Carter are very old. They have two cats and they drink a lot of milk, the Carter’s not the cats. Mom knows because she does their grocery shopping once a week. She cleans for them sometimes too. Their place smells like cat pee and maybe even human pee. She wrinkles up her nose as we walk past. Next are the Olivieri’s. They are very loud, loud music and loud talking. They argue on the porch a lot -I can hear them all the way from our house- but they usually finish by laughing. Their laughing is very loud too but a happy loud. They have seven kids so there is always someone around to play with. Their oldest daughter is going to have a baby soon too so there will be even more kids. They argued a lot about that and they never finished by laughing.
Pretty soon I’ll be too old to hold mom’s hand but we both agree that the first day of school is special. She never says it but I think she is going to be lonely without me so I have to make sure she knows I love her lots and that I’ll be back soon. She worries when people leave. I think that’s why she is taking so many pictures of me to put in her picture box in the closet. It makes her sad that she only has one good one of dad and it’s started to get all wrinkled and soft from her stroking it. But she can touch my real face and I’ll answer her when she talks to me.
“We’re going to be late” I tell her. “We can take pictures later”. She is moving so slowly. I ball up my fists and stomps my feet. She laughs at me. “So feisty”. I know she is making fun of me but the first day is really important. I want to make a good impression on the teacher. Late = troublemaker. Still, it’s probably good we don’t leave too early. All those parents kissing their kids good bye, it’s just embarrassing.

I have to pack everything I own into two refrigerator-sized cardboard boxes. We’re moving. Mom says it with this huge grin as if it’s the best thing ever. This neighbourhood isn’t what it used to be she says but this neighbourhood is our home. Plus, at the new place, I won’t even have my own room. Mom explained all smiley how she’s going to put up these curtain things in the living room and it will be so roomy and light and I’ll never have to worry about the dark. Like, hello mom, I’m too old to be scared of the dark.
I wish she would tell me the real reason we’re moving. I mean of course I know why –money, like it’s not totally obvious- but I wish she trusted me enough just to tell me out loud. I mean, she trusts me to come home on my own and make dinner. Sure it’s mostly just wieners and beans or spaghetti-o’s with iceberg lettuce salads but still. It’s like she doesn’t notice that I haven’t asked for anything in ages. Does she think I’m wearing my skirts too short because I’m trying to be cool. Like hi mom, yellow armpit stains are all the rage these days. All the cool kids are doing it.
And still, all I hear about my dad is what a hero he is. Great mom, I’m too old for fairy tales. Still, I’ve been dreaming about him again and he still has the stupid cape and the horse. I must be hearing some of what she says. In the dreams I try to speak to him but he can’t hear me over the roar of the crowd. I want to say, “Look at me dad. I’m here” but he can’t see me through all the people or doesn’t recognize me all these years later. I move closer, pushing arms and legs away. I can see the beads of sweat on his forehead now and a shaving nick on his skin. I can see the horse’s sides trembling and the sinew under its hide. The horse turns its head and I am staring into my mother’s eyes.