gulped it down and then just stood there with his face getting redder and redder, until finally he exploded. Except he didn’t really explode; the blast was only inside him, so he felt it but he was still walking about when it was all over. The way things are going, I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that when I finally get someone to understand how I feel, it’s a little guy with a red face in a cartoon show. It’s like I’ve swallowed everything that’s happened to me since the day I was first laid off and I can get the words to describe it as far as my throat and not any farther, no matter how hard I try. And lately, I haven’t been trying too hard, because I keep thinking if I don’t keep quiet, I really will explode. The really bad part is that the words about how much I love Sandy and what I owe her for keeping us all together the past two years are stuck down there with the rest of it. I just can't do anything about it right now, but some day I will say the words out loud. For the rest of it—I’m not a drunk, but I know now what they mean when they talk about one day at a time. That’s exactly how much I can handle right now. Bamboo Shoots AA^e’ve known for months we couldn’t stay unless Mark could find permanent work. We’d talk about it sometimes late at night, but then it would be another day and we’d be doing anything we could to stay. I could write a book about that— about things we never thought could happen to us. Like going on welfare this winter, when Mark couldn’t find any work at all for six weeks. Or my going to work at the Traveler’s Motel three days a week, cleaning rooms. Two years ago, when Mark first got laid- off, he and I would have fought about my working at any job, much less as a maid. But not anymore. I know he’d do it instead if he could. When I come home those days, he and Molly make me sit at the table while they bring me dinner like it’s a hotel. “Madame perhaps desires the macaroni?” Mark will say and Molly, who’s started to swallow the beginnings of words, will punch me on the arm with her little Pretty soon everyone but me was competing to see who could have the weirdest dreams. I just said I couldn’t remember mine, because I didn’t want to talk about waking up once or twice a week, convinced I was falling a long way down. fist and say, “Caroni, Dame?” I am never sorry about anything when they’re carrying on like that. And as long as Mark is talking, I know we’re all right. So we’ve been doing whatever we had to—until two weeks ago. That was when Mr. Petersen told me there’s not enough business at the motel and they don’t need me anymore. We’ve been using that money, and what we can earn doing odd jobs, to eat, and drawing out the little savings we have left to pay the utilities. My parents made the June house payment. We let them do it because it looked like there might be a buyer if we just hung on. There are some older people up here looking for retirement homes. But nothing’s happened and we can’t wait anymore. So we’re leaving August 1; we’ve worked out a deal with the bank that will let us keep the house at least two more months, paying what we can on Clinton St. Quarterly—Fall, 1988 Lynna Williams has been a political reporter in Texas and Minnesota. She was a participant in the Iron Range Community Documentation Project in 1985 and 1986 with poet Carolyn Forche. Lynna currently is in a masters writing program at George Mason University. Sharon Brown Is a Twin Cities illustrator. Gail Swanlund Is a free-lance designer in the Twin Cities. the mortgage. The Staleys—they lost their house earlier this summer—are going to stay in ours and show it when they can. Mark has an uncle in Minneapolis who will let us live with him until we find jobs. I’m not thinking about what it will be like. I can’t. I just have to get things ready here, and keep Mark and Molly as happy as I can. I think Mark’s glad. Even though he loves it here, I think it’s a relief to finally have to go. It’s like since we’ve tried everything, he won’t feel any shame when the day comes. I was in the hall outside the living room a minute ago and heard Mark telling Molly about Minneapolis. I had stopped to listen when I noticed the wallpaper in the hall is pulling away from the wall. We bought that paper about a month after we got married, and I have hated it since the day we put it up. I started in to the living room to tell Mark we’d have to start watching the garage sales for somebody’s left-over wallpaper—and if he ever so much as looks at a pattern with bamboo shoots in it again, I’ll kill him—when I realized it didn’t matter anymore. Tiny Flags I’ve been trying not to be sad about leaving, or at least not to show Mark how I feel. But it’s been hard this morning walking around the house knowing it’s the last time I’ll ever stand at the kitchen sink or make a pencil mark on Molly’s door to show her how much she’s grown. Deb next door kept Molly most of the morning, while Mark and I were loading the car. We had two garage sales last week to get some money together for our first few weeks in Minneapolis, so we’re really only taking our clothes, some kitchen stuff and Molly’s furniture and toys. We sold the china cabinet, but the papers and things that had been in it were still on the living room floor after everything else was in the car. I was going through them throwing old bank statements away, when Molly came rushing through the front door with her Mickey Mouse suitcase to tell me Daddy was leaving without me if I didn’t hurry. I went out to tell Mark I need 10 more minutes and when I got back, Molly had found a shoebox full of white gauze strips rolled like bandages. I had forgotten they were there. I tried to throw them away, but Molly started to play, tossing them in the air and laughing. When she ran to the car, the breeze picked them up and waved them like tiny flags. 35
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