Flash Fiction by Mary Carroll-Hackett
| Mama makes bread when Daddy makes trouble. I sit in the corner and watch when the sheriff brings Daddy home from old Joe's poker house. He's drunk again and Mama thanks the sheriff kindly before closing the door on the night outside. Mama says "Go to bed, Luci" and Daddy says "Come here, baby" but most times, I go to bed 'cause I know that's what's best by the look in Mama's brown eyes. Daddy says "Come here, baby" over and over again until I am at the top of the stairs and Mama's voice is a hiss far away as the spit of the stove. I get in bed with my yellow quilt and picture all the bread we'll have for breakfast. They're yelling by then and I can tell when Daddy's losing 'cause he changes "Come here, baby" to "Aw, Honey." I know Mama's pulling dough in her hands, flour scattered white, powdering the breadboard. I try to stay awake but the smell of fresh bread wafts around me warm and slow and when my eyes close, I dream of the seeds in blackberry jam getting stuck in my teeth and my fingers slipping on the slick buttery crust of braided bread. In the morning, I never ask where Daddy is. I don't want to know if Mama let him sleep here or made him go down the road to Uncle Ray's. I just slide my chair in close to the table, remember not to spread crumbs around, and use my napkin to wipe jam from the corners of my mouth. The bread is French this time, long even loaves lined on the counter and Mama lets me climb in a chair beside her while she slices it in thick spongy pieces. "Good girl" is what she says 'cause I'm careful to stand in the middle of the chair. Mama's hair is soft and dark when it spills against my arm. She kneads and kneads some more. The air is warm around us with the smell of yeast bubbling, sun rising. |
copyright © 1999 by Mary Carroll-Hackett