The Secret Lives of Dresses (12 page)

It started out as a hard day. The pilot light had gone out, and she had to relight it while holding her youngest, who was crying. The two older ones were howling over some toy they both wanted. The laundry had to be done, and it was the day when she usually washed the floors, too. And they were out of milk. She’d forgotten to put the bottles out the night before.

Finally she got the pilot lit, and the boy, after catching her eye, had decided it was in his best interest to be magnanimous in the matter of the toy. The baby condescended to be put down and ran on his fat legs after his sister. She turned to the sink to scrape and stack the dishes while waiting for the boiler to heat up. There was a nasty, sour smell in the drain.

She opened the window a crack to let in some fresh air, but instead of the icy draft I expected, there was that cool, delicious smell of wet earth and new green things—the smell of spring. She stopped filling the dishpan and hung the dishrag over the spout.

“Danny!” she called up the stairs. “Come down here, please.” She was using her no-nonsense voice. He made it down in double time. (He might have slid down the banister; I’m not sure.)

“Honey, go down to the cellar and find me the oilcloth, will you? The red-and-white one? Do you know it?” He nodded, perplexed, but he didn’t ask any questions.

She turned to the icebox and pulled out the bread and butter, the jam, the leftover slices of the roast, and some cheese. There was an apple and a slightly squishy pear; she pulled those out as well. She cocked an ear. The girl was playing house with her little brother, who was playing the daddy. She was telling him not to worry. The icebox door closed with a slam, drowning out what the little girl said next.

She reached up behind the flour canister and pulled out a small bag of peppermints, which she must have kept back from Christmas.

The boy came back with the cloth. “Thank you, sweetie. Put it in the basket in the hall, will you? And then go put on a warm sweater. Tell your sister to do the same, and dress the baby. Not in nice clothes, in his blue overalls. And then you all should put on your rubber boots.” Wide-eyed, he ran off with the bundle. She called after him: “Wear your warm socks, all of you!”

Quickly, working with the ease of long practice, she made bread and jam, and roast-beef-and-cheese sandwiches. She wrapped them in waxed paper. She cut up the apple and pear and wrapped the slices in a scrap of clean cheesecloth. She put the peppermints in her pocket.

She looked in the scrap of mirror on the inside of the pantry door. She pushed at her hair. “Oh well, can’t be helped.” She took her sweater from the hook and put it on.

The children were in the hall, hopping from foot to foot, trying to pull on their boots. The baby was banging his on the floor. She put the sandwiches and fruit in the basket, under the oilcloth, then put the baby’s boots on. He stood up and started clumping up and down the hall. She put her rubber boots on, too.

She darted back into the kitchen and grabbed two clean dishcloths and an empty milk bottle. They went into the basket, too.

The boy knew something was going on. “Mama?”

She smiled at him, and bent down to kiss the top of his head. She swept up the basket, and took the girl’s hand. The boy automatically took his brother’s hand.

“It’s the first day of spring! We’re going on a picnic.”

“A picnic!” The children hopped up and down. “A picnic!”

“Yes. And we’re going to stomp in every single puddle on the way to the park.”

“Puddles!” Their eyes were wide. They’d never been told to stomp in puddles—just the opposite.

“And we’re going to pick crocuses, if we can find any, and the first one of you to see a robin will get a peppermint!”

“Pepmint!” The baby crowed approvingly.

And that’s exactly what they did. She stomped along with them, laughing until she held her sides like they hurt. They stopped by the dairy, mud-splashed to their elbows, and the woman there laughed so hard that she cried, and then gave them raisin buns to go with their bottle of milk.

They stayed at the park, splashing through puddles until they had nearly exhausted the available store, then ate their buns and sandwiches and drank their milk. She and the baby were the only ones who sat on the oilcloth—the boy and the girl only alighted for brief moments to eat, like hummingbirds. The children picked their crocuses (three, one each, which wilted immediately in their grubby hands) and then spotted robins for peppermints until nearly dark.

The girl was almost asleep on her feet as they stumbled home, and her brother was not much better. The mother carried the baby. Then it was hot baths all around (the pilot light having stayed lit, by some miracle), and bedtime. She tucked the boy and girl in their beds, already half asleep, and went to put the baby in his crib. When he was safely settled, she went back to distribute good-night kisses. The girl was already asleep, her damp hair curling around her face. She kissed the girl’s plump soft cheek. The boy stirred, eyes fluttering, as she kissed his forehead.

“Love you, Mama,” he said. “Thank you for the puddles.” She stood by their beds for a moment. Then she went and did the dishes and set out the bottles for the milkman. I was put in with the rest of the laundry to soak. All the mud came out.