Audrey

Photo by Tony Sebastian

“You've outdone yourself his time!” Mom snapped. She yanked a wad of khaki from her ironing pile and slapped it across a field of faded daisies. Matching inseams and creases, she spray-starched and burnished with her palms until Dad's work pants were flatter than tin foil. 

Sitting in the kitchen booth with a grilled cheese sandwich and a mouth full of pickle, I panicked. I felt the boa constrictor wrapped around my chest, squeezing the life out right of me each time I exhaled. It happened when Mom was mad about something; it could have been anything or at anyone. She didn't like slowpokes, crossword puzzles that didn't fit right, or if a spoon was put back with forks. If she knitted when she should've purled and found out four rows too late, I felt that snake squeezing while she complained. 

"What in heaven's name were you thinking?" she demanded.

Squeeeeeeze.

I stopped chewing and stared out the kitchen window, hypnotized by billowing sheets tethered to Mrs. Gillard's clothesline. Mom's voice dulled to muffled static.

What was I thinking? I was thinking about plums. I wanted one. The plum tree that hung over the fence in the playground by the swings was just low enough to pick one if I stood on my bike seat. I could do that. Every kid in Happy Acres picked plums from that tree and spat pits into the ivy behind my trailer row. Someone could plant an orchard with all those pits. 

I thought about peanut butter Space Food Sticks and when would be a good time to tell Mom I'd flunked my spelling test. Anchovies. I hated anchovies, especially on pizza. Only Dad and Poom liked anchovies. 

I considered stealing a dollar from Mom's purse and riding my bike to Shep's Liquor for a gigantic Pixie Stix®. But if I did, I'd have to hide out until dinner, waiting for my purple tongue to turn pink again.   

“You know what your problem is, little Miss Sweet Pants? You just don’t think!”

Squeeeeeeze.

I tore the crust of my sandwich and licked my fingers for cheese.

The best-grilled cheese sandwich in the world is made with flat cheese and Wonder Bread. Mom said her secret, besides two slabs of butter, was an old-fashioned sandwich press. Grandpa made hers out of a well-oiled two by six, the size of a paperback novel with a porcelain drawer nob screwed into one side. She'd set the press on my sandwich until the cheese oozed onto the hot skillet, and the bread turned golden brown and crispy. 

Burning squeeeeeeze.

Mom liked to iron and watch television at the same time. She said soap operas made ironing a more bearable chore. She'd set up her old squeaky ironing board at the end of the hallway, close to the swamp cooler vent. She'd turn the television around on the bookshelf, bend the antenna just right, and, for one hour, she’d iron and watch the residents of Port Charles implode in black and white.

"I swear to God, Audrey, you lost more than your unborn child in that car accident!There’s no way Dr. Hardy will take you back now!"

The light on the iron turned green.

"How's your grilled cheese, Petunia?" Mom asked. 

"Fine," I replied.

Suddenly, I could breathe again. This time, the drama didn't revolve around me; it was all about Audrey.

Mom kept one eye on General Hospital, and the other on the pant leg, pressing through clouds of steam until our trailer stunk of burning pants.

After lunch, I rode my bike to Shep's Liquor and bought myself a Pixie Stix®.