The Rose pitcher was discovered in the cupboard

In the last installment, I served lemonade to my Dad on a hot summer day, using Mom’s rose pitcher. At Thanksgiving, she couldn’t find the pitcher and blamed innocent me. I later found and returned it to the kitchen cupboard, and didn’t say a word.

It was the spring of ’52, and Mom and I were doing “spring cleaning.” Everything came out of cupboards and closets to be inspected, dusted, washed, and put away. Mom was in a good mood, and we were having fun. Then she pulled out the pitcher, and I could feel her mood change. I looked down at the floor, hoping she wouldn’t guess my secret. But she saw that shame. I felt her anger. Red-purple anger. She threw the pitcher to the floor where it shattered into little pieces. Little ivory pieces with roses on them.  

But this did not vent her rage. She grabbed me by the arm, and began spanking me. And spanking me. My bottom, my legs, my arms, my face. Anywhere she could land her hand.  I didn’t feel any of this. I only felt my burning shame. And the hot, salty tears rolling down my cheeks. Then she let go of my arm; I ran to my room, crawled under the covers of my bed and cried myself to sleep.

Daddy never knew anything about this. But one day in the bar he was telling the story of the lemonade with a customer. He was a good storyteller, and I loved listening to him; and the different voices he used for each character. Mom was listening; a shadow passed across her eyes. She didn’t look at me, but I knew. She had found the buggy in the driveway and put it into the basement, and then forgot about it. I rolled my anger into a tight ball and buried it deep within my gut. I leaned against my Dad, and felt his warm, caressing hand on my shoulder.