Hungry Hill: A Memoir

Chapter 31 - Sweet and Sour Times: Easter, the Election and (Step)Mother’s Day

162 H u n g ry H i l l 31. Sweet and Sour Times: Easter, the Election, and (Step)Mother’s Day Mary is quite proud, I can tell, of how she has put together a serving tray for Easter with jelly beans, mostly black and green, which I hate, marshmallow chicks, and chocolate aluminum foil-wrapped eggs. For neatness sake, she portions out the fake grass, which gives the tray a bare, skimpy look. “Joe, Michael, Carole, and Danny are just too old for Easter baskets so I thought I’d put together a tray for Easter,” Mary announces in a pleasedwith -herself voice to my father. “You’re in charge, Mary,” he answers flatly, barely looking up from his newspaper. The decision that I am suddenly too old for Easter baskets makes me want to yell, to stamp my feet and pound my fists. There must be a Peter Pan streak in me that does not want to grow up, that wants to cling to the threads of childhood. In my head, I want to beg for a springcolored basket with that shiny green grass. I hate being told I’m too old almost as much as I hate being told I’m too young. I remember when I was ten, and my mother told me I was too old to sit and cuddle in my dad’s lap, and how I felt ashamed but didn’t know why. Then, right after my eleventh birthday, my dad called me in from the backyard and told me I was too old to play football with my brothers. I did get him to give in, and he said I could play touch football every now and then, but no more tackle. I told him I was better than they were anyway. The Easter tray didn’t make any difference in the end, because, as the bigger kids, we all just stole our favorite candies, yellow and red jelly beans for me, from the baskets of the little kids when they were watching television . In our family, a lot of sugar sneaking goes on. As usual, Gerry is the best sneak, pointing to a nonexistent robin at the window to distract Bobby while he slips a chocolate egg from his basket, but Danny is the best liar, convincing Stevie that he would never go near his candy, while sugared marshmallow brushes the corners of Danny’s lips. * * * A Memoir 163 Danny’s blood, like mine, is fired with political ambition. On the first warm April night, with the sun still yawning in the sky, my dad is spooning fudge ripple ice cream into bowls for us when Danny announces to my father, “Yeah, I’m running for class president. The election’s in another week.” “My son, the candidate,” my dad beams, sealing the cardboard lip on the Friendly’s container. “The Kennedys are going to have to watch their backs,” he says with a smile. “After I’ve already paved the way for him,” I chime in tartly, vying for a niche on the family ladder. “You have hardly paved the way, since girls at Cathedral cannot run for class president,” Danny jeers with equal sarcasm, pointing his empty spoon at me. “The rule that girls can’t be president or vice president is just so unfair .” “A girl as president? That’s laughable,” Danny sneers. “Well, I’m running for student council treasurer,” I answer, peering at the stripes of chocolate fudge on the rim of my dad’s dish. “Which means nothing. Another job for a girl. Another job without power.” “Now how do you know that?” I ask in a confrontational tone. “Trust me, will you? I know a few things.” Danny always sounds so sure of himself I half-believe him, picturing Cathedral High School secrets tossed about the boys’ locker room after football practice. “I’ve got to make a few calls, get things rolling,” Danny says, striking a political pose, his arms outstretched, candidate-style. I flash the two-fingered “V for Victory” sign when he leaves and yell after him that the Kennedys are safe for now. “The Kennedys,” I say to my father, rolling my eyes. “It seems as if politics are flowing in the O’Malley blood. Maybe you did pick up a tip or two from that visit to Matty’s office. It should go easier for you, Princess, now that you hold a class office,” he continues, commenting...