Free This One and Magic Life by Anne C. George Page A

Mae wouldn’t help with the parties and after Mama threw the knife at me, I wouldn’t either. So she would get some of the Cates kids or someone from the hotel who wasn’t working that day.
    The way I got cut with the knife really was an accident. At least, it was an accident that my arm was in the way. It wasn’t an accident she threw it. She was slicing a roast and I was peeling shrimp at the sink.
    â€œGoddamn dull knife!” And she threw it at the sink. I felt it slice my arm, but the funny thing was it didn’t hurt. And it didn’t bleed for about a minute. Mama and I stood there and looked at each other, surprised. And then the blood just spurted. She grabbed a dishrag and wrapped it around my arm. “Willie Mae!” she called. Willie Mae came to the door. “We have to go to Daphne to the clinic. Would you please put this food in the icebox?” That was when I looked down at the dishrag and saw it already getting red. And I fainted. The only time in my life. Willie Mae caught me just as I went down. She hollered for Donnie and he ran next door to get Mrs. Stuart to drive us to Daphne. But Papa drove up just then so he and Donnie took me to the clinic. Papa cried all the way there and back. Donnie cried, too. But I didn’t. “Hush,” I said. “Y’all hush. I’m okay.” And I was. Even when the doctor stitched me up, it didn’t hurt. It was like I was somewhere else. “Hush, Papa. Please hush.”
    Maybe the worst times are when she goes away, though. Papa always goes looking for her. Takes us with him, too. Someone will call and say they’ve seenher in New Orleans or Jackson and off we’ll go. Of course he sat us down a long time ago and explained manic depression to us. “She’s hurting as much or more than we are,” he said. But most of the time I find that hard to believe.
    She’s with a man at the hotel, probably Zeke Pardue. She was with a man in New Orleans and Jackson, too. Probably Zeke Pardue at least part of the time. Papa knows it. Donnie and I know it. Maybe Hektor doesn’t, but he’s the only one. Even Carl knows it. I’ve told him. Sweet Carl. He says, “It’s okay, Artie.” But it’s not. It never will be. She never even said she was sorry about my arm. And today’s my birthday. And Donnie’s.

FOURTEEN
Armadillos
    AUGUST MORNINGS, DAWN POUNCES EARLY AND HEAVILY ON Harlow. The air smells like coffee, bacon, tea olive bushes, and tidal pools. The fishing boats have already gone out; the automatic sprinklers at the Grand Hotel have shut off. By the time the first rays of the sun hit the water, most of the three thousand residents of the town have a start on their day. Nine women and two men attend six o’clock mass after which Father Carroll sits down with a bowl of cereal to watch Today . War, murder, and mayhem. Father Carroll spoons in cornflakes and watches them drag dead Bosnians away. Or are they Rwandans? Laotians? Kurds? Or maybe there was a blackout in New York. He should have listened closer. Well, he’ll pray for them all. He finishes his breakfast, takes his Lanoxin, Lopressor, and a vitamin, and hits the remote. Time to go to work.
    Â 
    Dolly awakens with a sense of loss. She has slept in her clothes and has a headache.
    â€œMy God,” she says when she looks in the mirror.She takes three aspirin and a shower. Her scalp feels sore as the water hits it. She may be getting sick.
    â€œTelephone, Dolly. It’s your mama,” she hears May calling as she steps from the shower. Dolly puts on her pink seersucker robe and goes into Artie’s room. She sits on Artie’s bed and answers the phone.
    â€œHey, honey,” Mariel says. “Now regardless of what you hear, we are on schedule. Rosary tonight. Funeral tomorrow at ten.”
    â€œOkay,” Dolly says.
    â€œJust act like nothing has happened.”
    â€œAll