Torey Hayden - The Sunflower Forest

That was the good thing about Megan. She was young but she wasn’t stupid.

When my father came home and saw that Mama was still wearing her bathrobe, he went up into the bedroom and stayed there quite a while with her. Later, when she came out, she was dressed and had her hair pulled back in a rubber band, the way it always was when Dad brushed it for her. She made us pork chops and French fries and green beans for supper, and while we were eating, she started joking with Dad about Mrs Beckerman, who lived across the street. Mrs Beckerman’s main activity seemed to be standing behind the net curtains in her living room and watching what everyone else on the block was doing. Mid-meal, Mama, carried away with the pleasure of her story, was on her feet, waddling across the floor precisely the way Mrs Beckerman waddled, imitating that suspicious, beady-eyed expression Mrs Beckerman had so exactly that we all were in hysterics. Megan laughed so much she choked over her milk.

While we sat around the table after the meal and ate ice cream, I told my family about Paul. Or rather Megan did. But once the beans were spilled I elaborated willingly.

Mama was pensive. ‘This boy, you know him from school?’

‘He’s in my history class.’

‘Is he a good student?’ she asked. She was stirring her ice cream around in the bowl. The coldness bothered her teeth, so she always stirred ice cream into milk-shake thickness before eating it.

‘Yes, he’s a good student. He’s practically a genius in physics. He takes honours physics, would you believe. And he won this prize at the science fair last fall. It was for this contraption that even Mr Wallace, our physics teacher, didn’t understand.’

‘So, will he go to university?’

‘Yes, Mama. He’s going to Ohio State. To study statistics. His dad says that’s a really good field for jobs now.’

Mama lifted her spoon and sucked the ice cream off. ‘What is his other name, this Paul?’

‘Krueger.’

A frown. ‘Is he German?’

‘No, Mama, he’s American.’

She nodded. Briefly glancing in my father’s direction, she turned back to me. ‘Very well. You may go out with him.’

‘Thank you, Mama,’ I said and looked down at my bowl. I hadn’t realized I was asking.

On Thursday, my mother was not home when I returned from school. This came as a surprise because during the previous weeks Mama had become increasingly anxious about leaving the house. When Dad came home from work at 5.30, he was just as surprised as I was. Did I know where she’d gone? he asked, and I could tell he was concerned. No, I said. No, said Megan. So we waited.

Mama returned just as I was beginning to worry that she’d forgotten about supper. I was standing on a chair and rummaging around in the top cupboard for one of those macaroni and cheese dinners in a box, when the back door burst open and there was Mama.

‘Ho!’ she said cheerfully to me. The winter air had reddened her cheeks and nose. Snowflakes fell out of her hair as she shook it. Setting down a bag of groceries, she came over to me. ‘Here, come down from your chair. I’ve bought you something.’ Excitement edged her voice. Her lips pulled back into a grin that showed all her teeth. ‘Come on. Come with me upstairs, I’ll show it to you.’

Still wearing her jacket, she went on through the kitchen and into the hallway. Jumping off the chair, I galloped after her.

‘What is it?’ I asked. She climbed the stairs ahead of me and would not say.

I sat down on my bed, and Mama, brown-paper-wrapped parcel in her hands, sat down beside me. She put the package in my lap, but before I could undo it, she reached over and broke the tape and pulled back the paper. Inside was a shawl. It was a deep, rich turquoise.

‘Oh Mama, it’s gorgeous!’

Gently, she lifted it up and laid it on my shoulders. ‘It’s for your date. When you go out with this boy, Peter.’

‘Paul, Mama.’

‘Well, Paul then.’ She smiled. ‘See how soft it is? One hundred per cent wool. It’s made in Guatemala. Feel it. Isn’t it soft?’

I touched the shawl. Rising, I wrapped it around myself and stood in front of the mirror. It was magnificent. Not exactly the thing to wear with jeans to a party, but still, it was beautiful.

‘Remember, I told you about Hans Klaus Fischer, the baker’s son?’ Mama asked.

I nodded.

‘The night I went to my first dance with him, I was wearing a white dress. It was cut like so in front. Like this.’ She gestured. ‘It was very much a little girl’s dress, and I hated it. I was so embarrassed to have to wear it. But there were shortages because of the war.’ She smiled. ‘So you know what Tante Elfie did?’

‘What?’

‘She saw me standing in the hallway at the mirror and she brought me her shawl. Her white one. Made of crocheted cotton. I’ve told you about it, ja ? Anyhow, she gave it to me to wear that night. I was very touched. You see, I thought she was still böse – angry – with me for wanting so badly to go out with Hans Klaus. But she said, “This is to make you feel beautiful, Mara, because now you are a woman.”’

Mama rose from the bed and came to stand behind me. She touched the soft material of the shawl on both my shoulders. ‘It meant very much to me, that she understood. I thought I would want it that way for you.’

I was watching her reflection in the mirror. She was smiling. Her hands remained on my shoulders. ‘This is a very good colour for you. When I saw it, I was thinking, this colour will make my Lesley very beautiful. This will make this boy know how lucky he is to take her dancing.’

‘Thank you, Mama. It’s really super. Thanks for thinking of me.’

For several moments she continued to stand there. The smile played itself out on her lips to be replaced with a more thoughtful expression. Still she studied my face in the mirror. Her head tipped to one side. ‘This boy, this Paul,’ she asked, ‘is he a virgin?’

‘ Mama! ’ In astonishment I whirled around to look her directly in the eye. She could do that to you, Mama could, just ask you those kinds of questions. ‘Mama, how on earth should I know that? I just met him. I hardly even know him. Cripes, Mama, what a thing to ask!’

She smiled pleasantly. Turning away from me, she went over and gently closed the door of my room. She leaned back against it. ‘I will tell you something about men,’ she said. ‘I want you to know how important it is to be very gentle with men who are virgins. You must be good to this boy.’

‘Mama, for Pete’s sake. I’m just going on a date with him. I’m not planning anything else.’

‘Men are very different from women.’ She tapped her chest. ‘In here, they are. You see, in here they’re different. Not as strong. Men hurt more when they love. They give themselves more. Women don’t. Women always keep a little piece of themselves back just for themselves. Women are more complicated in that way. But men, they aren’t. They just love. And you see, they get hurt.’

The shawl still around my shoulders, I walked back to the bed and sat down. Mama continued to lean against the door, hands in her pockets. She was still smiling slightly, her eyes going dreamy.

‘O’Malley, he was a virgin,’ she said. She called my father O’Malley. His first name was Cowan but I never heard my mother ever call him that. When I was young, I thought my father had only one name, rather like Ann-Margaret. ‘He was a boy still. You know. With a baby face.’ She grinned. ‘And me, I was no winner either. I was just over typhus, you see. I was skinny as a toothpick. My hair stuck out. It was only this long.’ She measured with her fingers. ‘But O’Malley, he thinks I’m beautiful. He was so afraid. Of me. Men, they have many fears. You must be very gentle with a man, because if you let him love you too much and then hurt him, he’ll never get over it. A woman will. But not a man. He’ll be afraid. He will never be able to love as well again, if you hurt him. It gives you power over him. You must remember that.’