My Mother Is Now Earth

17. A View from Fields

I get to leave home just in the nick of time. Last night my other older brother Jerry showed up at the farm when my mother was helping me pack for camp. He never even sent a letter to let us know. Dennis just happened to be uptown cashing his check at the Red Owl when he saw him getting out of a chip truck, waving goodbye to the driver. When Jerry walked in the house in his brand-new leather shoes, tight jeans, and a yellow silk shirt that showed off his chest, my mother asked where his bags were. Jerry smiled and clapped his hands. “You’re looking at it.” She told me to hold my finger on the knot while she tied some twine around the cardboard box filled with my camp clothes. “So you’re broke, huh?” she said to Jerry. “Mom, I just got here,” he said. “Can’t you even say hi to me?” Jerry didn’t stick around the farm to visit very long last night. He talked Dennis into going back uptown, down to the Bible camp to hang out. I’m sure he didn’t even come home last night, or he would have gotten everybody up by trying to cook a hamburger or scrambled eggs. My mother tells me I’d better finish eating my toast because Mrs. Sheehy said she would be by the farm early because it’s a long drive f17g A View from Fields 163 164 1973 to Camp Buckskin. Mrs. Sheehy is our new social worker. When my mother spots a car turning off the highway, she says, “That’s probably her. Where’s your box?” “It’s right there, by the door,” I say. But it’s not Mrs. Sheehy coming down the dirt road. The car just keeps going past the farm. I sit by the big picture window and watch. It’s still pretty dark out. Normally Mrs. Sheehy’s car is easy to spot. It’s a shiny brown, almost-orange color. She usually sends a letter letting my mother know what day and time she’s going to stop by for a visit to see how things are going. My father always goes to the barn or garage. He doesn’t like social workers. Dennis says they remind him of what a lousy job he’s doing in providing for his family. My mother comes to the dining room table with a cup of coffee and her McCall’s magazine. One of her sisters sent her a subscription for her birthday last year. She asks me why I’m looking at her and not watching for Mrs. Sheehy. “Are you still gonna be visiting Frankie and your sisters when I get back from camp?” I ask. “That check isn’t here yet,” she says, turning pages. “But I heard Dennis telling you that if your check doesn’t come by next week, he’ll borrow you the bus money.” She shakes her head and tells me to keep my eyes on the window. “I wouldn’t care if you’re still gone when I get home,” I say. “I just don’t want to be here alone with that Jerry. You know how he is. Just like it was in Milwaukee. He’ll always be telling us we can’t go upstairs with Dennis and him. He’ll only cook just enough food for himself. And then he’ll start stealing, too. Remember that time A View from Fields 165 when he stole some of your money from washing dishes at the restaurant in Milwaukee?” “You remember that?” “Of course I do. Don’t tell him about your Indian check, Mom.” My mother tells me I shouldn’t be worrying about her. She says I’ll forget all about this place once I get to Camp Buckskin. “And that’s the way it should be. You’re going to get your chance to learn how to swim just like Philly. And you’ll have a lot of fun canoeing around the lake.” I can’t stop staring at her while she reads her magazine and continues to talk about other things I’ll get to do at camp. All of a sudden , I don’t want to leave home. I want to stay with my mother. I want to go with her to Milwaukee, but I know there...