Mama knew how to sweet-talk people. Her magic had served her well in McAllen, Texas. And it seemed to be working in our new home in south Louisiana, where her opportunities as a switchboard operator were plentiful.
“You have to be fast and have a sharp memory, ” she bragged on the phone to her friend Marilyn, who’d also moved here with her family from the Rio Grande Valley. “And it doesn’t hurt if you can charm the pants off the meanest customers, ” she added with a laugh. But the image of an adult without pants made me chuckle, and I exposed my hiding place under the kitchen table.
At age seven, I had taken to spying.
“Out!” Mama’s right hand held the phone’s receiver and a burning cigarette, so she signaled me with her left trigger finger.
Close observation was how I discovered most things regarding the adults around me. On that day I learned about Mama’s new job at Oilfield Exchange, a twenty-four-hour answering service that offered oodles of overtime. She could clock sixteen-hour shifts, six—sometimes seven—days a week.
Which meant a mound of bills would be paid, but it doomed my two older sisters and me. We’d be stuck at home with our unemployed stepfather. So I devised a plan to find my real father, an always-traveling encyclopedia salesman, and send him a message to save us.
It’s why I had taken to spying. How else could I gather information about Daddy’s whereabouts? Mama never offered any news, even when outright asked.
“Was that Daddy on the phone?”
“Nope.”
“But you said Darrell.”
“How do you know what I said? You weren’t in the room.”
“No, but . . .”
“But what? Listen. Who I talk to is my business.”
I didn’t agree. So I found a better hidey-hole in a lower kitchen cabinet next to the pots and pans. I had to be extra quiet in my secret refuge because it was near the phone, which made it a valuable place for eavesdropping. It helped to be a small second-grader.
My sisters weren’t so lucky at twelve and thirteen. They were too long-limbed to squirrel away with me. Instead, during Mama and Roger’s hollering matches, Jeanne and Jane would flee to the bedroom we shared. Then they’d blast the radio and lose themselves in Top 40 countdowns.
I’d always freeze when my stepfather’s eyelids drooped and his voice amplified.
“I ought a smack you, ” Roger would slur to my mother, who’d stand toe-to-toe with him and push her face right up to his chest and say, “I dare you.”
And smack! He’d slap her, and I’d unfreeze and scuttle to my safe haven in the kitchen cabinet. I’d try to listen to the rest of their argument to make sure my mother was okay, but something always happened to me when their voices were raised. A constant buzz would fill my ears as though dozens of winged angels were fluttering about in the heavy air around me. I’d rest my head on the tops of my knees and fade away.
What saved me from disappearing completely was winter turning to spring, and my second-grade schoolteacher, a woman whose name I don’t even remember. Her efforts gave my family the only bright spot in our season of troubles when she put together a staged Easter Parade and made me a star.
Every night for two weeks my sisters took turns brushing my yellow hair a hundred strokes to make it shine. Then Jeanne would hand me a Britannica Book of the Year to balance on my head while she and Janie sang: In your Easter bonnet, with all the frills upon it, you’ll be the grandest lady in the Easter Parade . . .
Even Mama found time to take me shopping for a ruffled dress, a spring hat, ankle socks, and white patent-leather shoes. The clothes didn’t interest me in the least, but Jeanne and Jane unloaded the packages and delighted in my modeling for them back home.
“Twirl around, ” said Janie.
“Hold up your shoulders like this, ” said Jeanne. She demonstrated perfect posture and a walking grace I never learned. Even in the dull light that leaked through closed window shades, she looked beautiful, like the models in magazines she studied as if the ink would transport her onto its pages.
I followed my big sister and tried to imitate her every move. Then Janie stood behind me and adjusted my big, flowery hat with a wide, silk ribbon that tied under my chin. My middle sister put her hands on my waist, so I held onto Jeanne, and we pretended to be a chain. Then Janie started singing in her best Little Eva voice: Everybody’s doing a brand-new dance now. And Jeanne and I chimed in with Come on baby, do the Locomotion. We belted out “The Locomotion” as we circled the couch and swung our hips. Into the kitchen we danced past my stepfather and his dog. Gertrude perked up her ears and barked, and even Roger slapped his knee and whooped.
I would’ve sworn on a Bible if there’d been one in our house that I saw a flicker of light in my stepfather’s eyes. If so, it was a true Easter miracle. Not a full-blown resurrection of the dead, but a tiny glimmer of light. Its power wasn’t strong enough to ascend Roger to heaven. Or out of his favorite chair by a window. Or even to my school.
But Mama managed to change shifts with another operator, and she and my sisters were in the audience when I paraded around the stage in my Easter bonnet. I held up my shoulders and lifted the hem of my dress when I stepped off a small staircase to begin my stroll down the aisle. And that’s when Janie stood up and yelled, “That’s my little sister!” And everyone roared with laughter.
We rode the happiness of that night for three days. Then Roger guzzled too much Budweiser, and every ugly thing inside him rose to the surface. He all but grew a coat of fur and sprouted fangs when Mama’s sweet-talk turned sour and she called him a “lazy-ass drunk.”
They were in the kitchen.
I was in there, too, stretched out on the linoleum floor with the dog. I couldn’t slip into my hiding spot unnoticed, so I just sat up. And I watched Roger raise his right arm. But this time, his open hand curled into a fist, and he busted Mama’s bottom lip.
After that, I began hiding again. I’d fold up, close my eyes, and conjure Daddy. His broad shoulders. The way he’d swim with me on his bronzed back. Or throw me in the air with the sun behind me, pungent chlorinated water below, and his outstretched arms ready to catch me. My father would never miss. Or hit Mama. With him, I felt safe.
By the time my mother’s fat lip healed, my powers of concentration worked.
I was tucked away in the kitchen cabinet near the phone.
And Mama was talking to Daddy.
I listened to her explain that the school year was about to end. “I’m working sixteen-hour shifts, ” she said. “Can the girls stay with you for the summer?”
I held my breath.
Then Mama said, “I’ll see you in a few weeks.”
Still holding my breath, I heard my mother replace the receiver onto the base of the phone. She then flung open the cabinet door and said, “You can come out now!”
I ran right past her and straight to my sisters to blab the good news.
Photo by Annabel Farley, Creative Commons license via Flickr. Post by Darrelyn Saloom, co-author of My Call to the Ring: A Memoir of a Girl Who Yearns to Box.
Read more of Darrelyn’s story: The Worst Kind of Luck and Too Close for Comfort
Browse more Memoir Notebook
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- Memoir Notebook: Sweet Talk - July 24, 2015
- Memoir Notebook: Too Close for Comfort - July 17, 2015
- Memoir Notebook: The Worst Kind of Luck - October 31, 2014
Shirley Hershey Showalter says
Wonderful, sensory-rich, understated writing, Darrelyn.
We are there in that cubby hole with you.
And when we are finished reading, we want to blab about it.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Thank you, Shirley. It was difficult to revisit my cubby hole, but wonderful to dance with my sisters.
Dave Malone says
Hard to put it better than Shirley. 🙂 Amazing piece, Darrelyn.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Thank you, Dave, for your (how many?) edits and suggestions. We worked on this one a long time. You’re the world’s best writing partner. xo
Dave Malone says
Aw shucks. Right back at ya. Your diligence shows. Moving, heart-wrenching, and strong. With enough humor to remind us that life is strange in all its complexity. And shows how resilient you–and most of us–are as children.
Darrelyn Saloom says
I’ve always found humor in the most unexpected places. Though it’s hard to find on this sad day in Lafayette. Thanks again, Dave.
IBarbara Weibel says
Gosh Darrelyn, I hardly know what to say. It made me cringe, especially when your step-father made a fist. Any writing that can do that is inspired. I know how hard it must be to call up those memories, but I’m grateful that you do. Sending you lots of love from Eastern Europe. Xoxo
Darrelyn Saloom says
Sending love back to you, Barbara. Always wondering where you are. Thanks for stopping by and leaving a comment. Thrilled you enjoyed. xo
Jenny F says
This is a beautiful piece, Darrelyn. Your words brought chills, tears and huge smiles.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Aw, thank you, Jenny. xo
Sally G says
Quietly written, spare and very moving, the little girl tucked away in the cabinet fleshed out beautifully. I loved it. Great job my friend.
Darrelyn Saloom says
And you’re a great friend, Sally. Thanks for stopping by. Glad you enjoyed. xo
Laura Brown says
You are an amazing writer. I found myself holding my breath at one point. The details about Roger’s eyes … Wow. If I ever teach writing again, this is a piece I might use to discuss writing about childhood.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Such a nice comment, Laura. Thank you! I worked on this one a long time. So glad you enjoyed.
Fred says
My favorite piece to date. What a heartfelt story. It really made my day!
Darrelyn Saloom says
Welcome back, Fred. So glad you enjoyed. 🙂
Richard Gilbert says
Love it, Darrelyn. Perfect moments caught that add up. Truth in the body: “A constant buzz would fill my ears as though dozens of winged angels were fluttering about in the heavy air around me. I’d rest my head on the tops of my knees and fade away.”
Darrelyn Saloom says
And I remember it vividly, Richard. You quoted the hardest lines to write, because I’d feel the memory in my body with every edit and almost plucked it out. So thank you for your comment. Means the world to me.
Elizabeth "Beth" Westmark says
That’s the line that I read, too, and went “whoa.” The entire piece was wonderful, but those are the lines that elevate and make it sing. I’ve learned some new things about my own Daddy recently, and am trying to process it. I think in many respects, we’re all still that little child in the hidey-hole (or looking for one).
I feel sorrowful about the awful events in Lafayette, and other small towns that felt safe until now. So sorry the peace and so many lives have been shattered.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Great to hear from you, Elizabeth. Glad you enjoyed the piece. You’re right about the theatre shooting here and its affect on the community. I know two of the victims (a married couple) still in the hospital. One was shot twice and the other once, but both are going to be fine. Thanks for your kind words. I’ve missed you. xo.
Daniel J says
Since I know you’re mother, I must say, you captured her dialogue perfectly.
Daniel J says
Whoops, I meant “your mother.” So don’t correct me. 🙂
Darrelyn Saloom says
Ha! I can’t believe you left a comment, so I won’t correct you. Though I find it an interesting error since most people mess up on “your” for “you’re.” You did the opposite. 🙂
Cyd Madsen says
A day late and a dollar short in catching this one, but I’m glad I finally found it. I do not like the stark reality you’ve left standing for the reader to experience on their own, but I love the writing. It must have hurt like hell writing it.
Darrelyn Saloom says
This was a tough one, Cyd, but I’m writing through a child’s pov, a young observer, unaware of any stark reality (that comes much later in my life). Here I’m just honing survival skills and missing my father. I’m working to craft my stories to show the reader more than tell. And I feel the best way to do that is to show you what I saw and experienced at the time. Hope that makes sense. Sorry you had a tough time accessing the site, but i’m thrilled you took the time to load the page, read, and leave a much-appreciated comment. xo
Brian says
“What saved me from disappearing completely was winter turning to spring, and my second-grade schoolteacher, a woman whose name I don’t even remember.” I love this line. I think you have a terrific writing voice Darrelyn. Your diction flows in a very pleasant way. This was a real joy to read.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Music to my ears. Thanks, Brian. 🙂
Megan Riley says
The imagery in this story is palpable. It’s amazing how you’ve taken these private memories and created such a mystifying experience for your readers. I read this story yesterday and still can’t stop thinking about it. Thank you
Darrelyn Saloom says
Aw, that is wonderful to know. Thanks for coming back to leave a comment. xo
Rick Maxson says
There is nothing wasted in your writing. Every line keeps the reader focused and in this amazing story of survival. You capture the truth that, when the need arises, children are very capable and inventive in wending their way through the complex and confusing world of adults.
Yesterday I started telling my wife about having read this memoir and she had already heard of Darrelyn Saloom and was equally taken with your story.
Brian’s favorite line above is also mine. So terse and powerful. .
Darrelyn Saloom says
Wow! Such a great comment, Rick, I burst into tears. It’s the inspiration I needed at this busy time in my life while caring for Mama, now 88 years old. Time for writing is scarce at the moment. So thanks for your kindness and motivating words. xo
SimplyDarlene says
Your balance of simple with descriptive is amazing. As I work on some of my own stories, your TSP memoir notebook pieces serve as great examples.
Thank you for sharing them here.
Darrelyn Saloom says
My pleasure, Darlene. I always enjoy your posts, so that makes me happy to know. :).
LeAnne McBennett says
Your writing always strikes a chord with me… you have a way of capturing emotions so quickly and keeping me reading!
Darrelyn Saloom says
Thank you, LeAnne. Congratulations on your upcoming wedding. xo
cynthia newberry martin says
Darrelyn, despite its scary moments, this piece was such a pleasure to read. It’s so well crafted with scene, summary, description, and detail. You grab the reader, whoosh her in, and spit her out at the end–we pop out of the cabinet with you! That final scene is wonderful.
Darrelyn Saloom says
Thank you, C. So glad you enjoyed. 🙂