The Accident
I am roused from sleep by a frantic pounding on our kitchen door. I hear Mama get out of bed, and shuffle towards the insistent rapping.
"Who's there?" she asks in a trembling voice.
A mumbled response comes through the door. I get out of bed to see who it is. Mama opens the door to her disheveled and wild-eyed sister Irene. Tia has run the mile between their two houses, and is breathless and choking with tears.
"Agnes, Agnes," she wails, "there's been a terrible accident at Firestone. Joe lost part of his foot in a machine!"
Whether in her nervous excitement or in a flustered effort to soften the injury, she says foot instead of hand. Mama's face blanches, and she shivers. A horrified moan escapes her lips. I feel scared, and run back to bed to wake Mary.
. . .
I remember vividly the day Papa returned from the hospital. Uncle Mac, one of the few relatives with a car, brought him home. The car door slammed twice. I bolted from bed and ran to the window where Mama stood peering from behind the curtain. We could see Uncle Mac's hand dart out to steady Papa, but he quickly pulled it back, as if he changed his mind. It was then that I remembered the accident.
"Quick, come away from the window and stand over here by me," said
Mama.
She hurried towards the kitchen table, resting one hand on a chair and one on my shoulder. Her jittery fingers pressed through my thin pajamas and made me feel anxious. Papa's and Uncle Mac's shoes clomped on the wooden porch steps then paused in the entryway before entering the kitchen. Cold night air, clinging to their coats, brought a chill into the room. I heard rustlings in the bedroom and knew Mary and my brothers were awake, but they didn't venture out of their rooms.
Like a photograph, Papa stands framed in the doorway dwarfed by Uncle Mac. His face is gray and drawn, but he attempts a brave smile. Next to the dignified height of Uncle Mac, Papa looks shrunken, as if his spirit has been sucked out of him. His left coat sleeve hangs empty and I shudder. Poking through his partially open winter coat is a thickly, bandaged stump. I stare at the bandages, and a sinking thought flees through my mind "How will Papa play his guitar, and make beautiful music without his fingers?"
I think I see tears in Uncle Mac's eyes, but it could be the gusts of wind and blowing dust that make his eyes water. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, absently brushing the tears across his cheek. I am mesmerized by his fingers.
Mama clutches her swollen belly, as if protecting it, and I edge nearer her side. I feel like I'm living a nightmare, but I am fully awake. I want to cry, yet understand I must be strong. Mama hesitates then steps forward.
"Joe," she cries, a mixture of fear and relief cracking her voice. I follow her lead and move closer to Papa. He is finally home from the hospital. For a brief moment I think life will return to normal. I am wrong.
Life will never be the same.