The Wrath of God

"Somebody better be dead." my grandmother said grimly as she reached for the telephone. It was just after three on a pitch dark Sunday morning in July and Nana didn't take kindly to having her sleep interrupted. She answered but there was menace in her tone and her voice was just shy of a growl. "What?" she demanded into the receiver.

She listened in silence and too curious for my own good, I crept out of bed to the dining room. She was standing by the window to the sunporch, the telephone to her ear, shoulders hunched over and her glasses dangling from one hand. Barefoot and still, she said "All right." and slowly hung up the telephone, cursing under her breath. "Who's dead, Nana?" I asked and she looked at me as if in a daze, then abruptly came back to herself. "Nobody, " she said sharply, "Go back to bed."

She padded to the kitchen and lit a lamp. I heard familiar sounds - wood being added to the stove, water pouring into the coffee pot, a match being struck to light a Kent 100. After a little while, she walked back into the dining room and sat in the semi darkness, silently smoking and drinking coffee. I had almost fallen back to sleep when she came into the bedroom and drew her rocking chair up to my bed. The sky was beginning to lighten and I could hear the sounds of birds beginning to sing as she talked to me about my mother.

"Your mother didn't come home tonight." she began. I didn't understand a lot of what she told me but the pain on her face and the anger in her eyes came through only too clearly. She spoke for a long time, about how hard it could be to be an only child, about how easily they could be to spoil, about liquor and quick fixes and unhappiness, about getting even, about hate and tolerance, about living with hopelessly misery-loving people. She didn't shed a tear and when she was done, she said simply, "It's not your fault."

My mother had gone to the dance the night before, gotten drunk, and left with a carful of equally drunk fishermen. In the early hours of Sunday, the car had been found in a ditch, its occupants passed out cold and reeking of liquor and vomit. Several hours later she stumbled back home looking, as Nana described it, "like the wrath of God". She came through the back door and got as far as "Mother, I can explain...." when my grandmother turned from the kitchen sink and in a tone I'd never heard her use before said flatly, "You are a married woman with children, " and my mother had the decency to look down, "And I never. Want to hear. Another word about it." Each word was said coldly and emphasized with a stab at the glass she was washing. Hungover, sick and caught, my mother began to protest and shaking with rage, my grandmother smashed the glass on the counter where it shattered and shouted "Not one word! Not ever!" and my mother fled in tears.

Matter of factly, Nana brushed the broken glass off the counter and into her apron then carefully carried it to the waste basket in the corner. The sound of it falling reminded me of china clinking together. I could hear my mother wailing from an upstairs bedroom but if Nana heard, she gave no sign. Instead she untied her apron and wearily hung it on a hook, then stood at the counter and stared out at the yard. When she saw my reflection in the window, she turned to face me with a tired half smile. "Mind what I told you." she said quietly. "It's not your fault."

In a few days, the whole incident seemed to have been forgotten. Nana kept a watchful eye on the liquor as well as on my mother's comings and goings and though the hostility between them was always there, it didn't break through to the surface again. Both mother and daughter had a knack for pretending all was well between them and life returned to normal. Each went about their days alone and in silence.