Free A Fistful of God by Therese M. Travis Page A

Roth, our landlady, started yelling. She yelled at a lot of people, though it seemed she yelled the most at Mom. Either Mom was late with the rent, or she’d done something to tick off one of the other tenants.
    The gardener argued back. I rolled over, deliciously knowing this one time, Mom wasn’t the problem. But Mrs. Roth’s heels rang on the stairs and then our bell sounded, and before I could crawl out of bed to let her in, Mom answered. I pulled the pillow over my head, but no matter how I stretched my legs and arched my toes, I couldn’t shake the jumpy fear. I sneaked into the kitchen to listen.
    “All right, then.” Mrs. Roth shuffled a pile of papers on the table and sent some of them flying to the floor. I scrabbled them together and handed them over then rummaged in the fridge for some juice.
    “Thank you—ah—dear,” she said.
    I looked over my shoulder. Mom didn’t look at all worried, so I relaxed. Still, I figured I had to stand sentinel, to protect us from the wicked landlady who’d love to kick us out.
    “Even so, Mrs. Pierce,” Mrs. Roth said. “Even so, I want it done in the morning. Not too early. But in the morning. You understand?”
    Mom caught my eye and grinned. So what was so important that Mom had to do it in the morning, probably because Mrs. Roth figured she wouldn’t be bombed yet? Hadn’t Mrs. Roth ever seen her with a hangover? Probably not, I decided. Mom liked to stay in bed for those, or just get drunk all over again. I saw nothing in that to share a joke over, though.
    “What’s your best time?” Mrs. Roth asked.
    Mom shrugged. “Midnight? I don’t suppose you want the weed eater going then, though, do you?”
    Mrs. Roth dragged in a hard breath and held it. Mom smiled, and it wasn’t a nice smile, either. “Sorry. Actually, early Saturday morning is good for me.”
    “Not too early.” Mrs. Roth turned to me. “You’ll remind her if she forgets, won’t you?”
    “Remind her about what?”
    “The yard work,” she said. “The garden. You won’t let her forget unless it’s—um—better if she forgets.”
    “You mean if she’s drunk?” Why I asked, I don’t know. I’ve never thought Mom’s alcoholism funny. But Mrs. Roth looked like a lemon getting ready to lecture, and I didn’t want to hear it. I wanted her to leave.
    She ended up coughing and spitting all over the papers on our table. I thought Mom might choke from holding in her laughter.
    “Child! Have you no respect?” Mrs. Roth stood and glared at Mom, wiping slobber off her chin as she stalked to our front door. “I suppose it’s no wonder she’s so disrespectful, but you’d think she’d not want to be like you.”
    For the first time in years, I was glad to know I was like Mom. After Mrs. Roth slammed the door Mom collapsed on the kitchen counter, laughing so hard I thought she’d fall. I watched her for a moment, decided she was laughing, just laughing and not bombed, before I turned back to the fridge. “You want some pancakes, Mom?”
    “Sure.” She gulped, choked again and finally straightened to wrap her arm around my shoulder. “You almost lost me a job, baby, but it would have been worth it.”
    I twisted to face her. “What happened to your job with Toni?”
    “Nothing. This is extra. She’s giving me a break on the rent, and we can use it.”
    “I thought…I thought we had more money now.”
    She held out her hands. “We’re OK, but I had to take off a lot of days these last few weeks. Going through withdrawals doesn’t make working easy. And it’ll help to have something to do. I get…um…restless.” She ruffled my hair. “I’ll do whatever it takes to get through the day.”
    I shrugged, still not understanding but not expecting to. Mom handed me the beater, and I cracked an egg over the bowl. “I didn’t…I mean…I never noticed you weren’t at work or anything.” I looked up. “I never noticed you were sick.”
    “That’s all right.”
    I poured