Picturesque

Chapter 12: Western Electric

I spent the rest of the week teaching French to Holly and Judd in the mornings and hanging out with them in the afternoons. After dinner, I would go to my room, desperate for some alone time so that I could collect my thoughts. The good thing about being surrounded by people, especially children who demand every second of your attention, was that it did not leave room for any other thoughts. The bad thing about it was that I could feel things start to build up inside me. Like scum in a pipe, all the bad things were fossilizing inside of me and constricting my airways.

Marty demanded that I have weekends off to myself, both for my own sake and so that the kids could also enjoy their summer. On Friday night, after I had another zealous dinner with the Donnelley's, I retired to my room in hopes to spend the evening reading my books and writing in my journal that I had bought solely to document my summer in California.

Exhaustion melted my body as I plopped down at the desk in my room, leaning forward to lay my forehead against the cool wooden surface. I was beginning to burn out, and since I could anticipate this feeling, it brought anxieties within me about how well I would be able to do my job this summer. Alone in my room, without Holly tugging at my arm or Judd throwing his football at me, I could think.

Rubbing my face against my arm that cradled my head, I sat my chin on my arm and looked blankly at the desk. There were my books, my papers, my pens, and there also was a telephone that Marty installed for me. It was a shiny black Western Electric 1500 that had push buttons instead of rotary.

I wondered how Mama was doing. In college, I would call her nearly every day, even if it was only to talk about the weather. Despite my introversion, I was apt to become lonely. It's only human nature, isn't it? We are destined to need each other. Part of me believed that Mama might change her mind about the fight we had last weekend before I left. Perhaps she was only angry in the moment, and a week of not hearing from her daughter might induce her to be fond of me again.

My teeth gnawed on my thumbnail for several minutes as I stared at this telephone under the yellow light of the desk lamp. I wanted to call someone—anyone, really, but the only person I had to call was Mama. I couldn't call Greg. I couldn't call Georgia. I couldn't call Daddy.

Slithering forward, I kept my chin on my arm as I slowly picked up the handle of the telephone and tucked it between my ear and shoulder. The sound the buttons made as I dialed home was soothing. Once the number was dialed, I placed my hand over my forehead and waited with held breath. My brain was flooded with all the different things Mama could say, and my forehead grew hot under my hand.

"Hello?"

It was Mama's croaky voice. I glanced at the clock on my wall and saw that it was very late in Louisiana, just about her usual bedtime.

I opened my mouth to speak, but my voice caught in my throat. Never had I not had something to say to Mama. Never had I been afraid to speak of her, afraid of what she would say back.

"Hello?" she asked again, firmer this time but still polite. For all she knew, I could be some stranger who got connected to the wrong line.

"Hey, Mama," I whispered, hoping she could hear me over the static.

When she was silent, I knew she could. I wrapped my finger around the phone cord and bit my lip so hard that it stung.

"Becky?"

"How are you, Mama?"

She was silent again, but silence had never felt so loud in my ear. Something swelled up in my chest, biting at my throat and piercing the tear ducts in my eyes.

"I made it to California," I whispered, hoping that I could start blabbering on to wear her down so she would speak to me. "The Donnelley's are real nice. Their house is huge—the biggest house I've ever seen, Mama." I waited for a moment. "They have a six-year-old daughter named Holly, and she's taken to me quite a bit. Sometimes she kinda reminds me of Greg. I mean, not really. Greg was kinda quiet, and Holly never stops talking—but still."