Free The Year My Mother Came Back by Alice Eve Cohen Page A

to say hi or anything in the seconds before the door was shut.
    One woman said, “Sure, Louise, sign me up. I don’t know too much about it, but I’ll sign,” and she did, and she and Mom chatted for a while. I was glad she signed it and talked with my mom, even though her cigarette was smelly. Mom shook her head no at me for holding my nose, and it was time to leave.
    At the next house, the word “Jew” snaked through the door in a hissing whisper, in the millisecond before it slammed.
    And so on, to all the doors around the block.
    Then we walked back to our house on Wilbur Avenue. Even though we had only gone around our block, it felt like we’d traveled a long way. I was tired. So was she, I could tell.
    â€œDon’t ever give up, Sweetheart,” she said when we got home, kneeling down so she was eye level with me, putting both hands on my shoulders. “Even when it’s frustrating, you have to speak up for what you believe is right.”
    â€œOkay, Mom.” I liked it when she looked me in the eye and said serious things to me, stuff I’d have to remember forever and ever.
    Then I ran into the living room to play with my sisters and Amanda the Cat. Madeline was practicing guitar, so I went outside with Jennifer, who was finally old enough to be fun to play with. We ran around in the backyard, and I pushed her on the swing. Kevin from across the street sneaked up on us and called her “Baby, Baby,” in a mean voice, which made her cry, so I shouted, “When you’re two, you’re not a baby anymore, dummy!” Somehow, that shut Kevin up and he slunk away. Jennifer stopped crying and looked up at me like I was her hero.
    When my father came home from work, Madeline and Jennifer and I ran to greet him. Hugs all around, Daddy swinging us in the air, youngest to oldest. My mom brought in a plate of crackers and cheddar cheese, celery and carrots and V8 juice, and we had to be quiet while Daddy smoked a cigar and watched the evening news, and Mom made dinner. The cigar smelled yucky, but we weren’t allowed to tell him that.
    We sat down to eat baked chicken, mashed potatoes, and creamed spinach. Mommy used big words to tell Daddy about her day, about the class she taught at City University. I didn’t understand the words,
“Designation of class . . . A mosaic of identities . . . The insulation of life in suburbia . . . ,”
but the overall effect was like listening to music. “
Juxtaposition of wealth and poverty . . .”
Shimmering syllables streamed from her mouth, like notes and melodies, “
An intricate and precise patterning . . .”
as fast as the rippling Chopin arpeggios Daddy played on the piano.
    She told him about her research for the paper she was writing.
“The unwritten covenants of discrimination . . . A conspiracy of silent acceptance . . .”
Daddy, who loved his dinner, answered while chewing, with approving grunts, “Unh. Mmm,” and some medium-sized words, “Great, Louise. That’s marvelous.” But she did most of the talking.
“Myriad municipalities . . . Economic and color barricades around their boundaries . . . Varying strata of the community . . . Catholic, Protestant, Jewish, Negroes . . .”
    After red jello and whipped cream, Madeline, Jennifer, and I cleared the table. My mother washed the dishes, while my father played the piano in the living room. I played hide and seek with Jennifer. Madeline had just turned ten and had lots of friends. She was tired of playing with me, because I wouldn’t be six till November.
    When Mom finished cleaning the kitchen and putting Jennifer to bed, she sat down at her typewriter, slipped off her shoes, and stretched her legs. I sat next to her, kicked off my shoes, and wiggled my toes. The stack of discarded pages—translucent onionskin paper with Mom’s red ballpoint pen cross-outs, and waxy carbon copies with pale blue