Some Luck Read Free Page A

ma.” The kitchen door flew open. Rosanna said, “What did you say, Frankie?” She stepped into his enclosure and came down to him. She said, “Say it again, baby. Say ‘mama.’ ”
    But he said something else, who knew what. It was just noise for now. When she stood up, he did another thing, which was to look up at her and raise both of his arms toward her. It had the desired effect: She said, “You are the most beautiful baby!” And she picked him up,sat down on the cane-seated chair, then opened her dry, hard front to reveal the desired warm, soft object beneath. Frank settled himself into her lap.
    It was not the same as it had been, though. There had been a time when her lap was enough, the crook of her arm was enough, the breast itself and the lovely nipple were enough to envelop him in pleasure. Now he was half distracted even while enjoying himself. His gaze rolled around the room, taking in the top corners of the doors, the moldings, the pale light floating up from the windows, the design of the wallpaper, Mama’s face, and then around again, looking for something new. Mama absently stroked the top of his head. Her body relaxed and she slumped against the back of the chair. In the quiet of the room (quiet because Frank himself was making no noise), other sounds manifested themselves—the howl of the wind curling around the corners of the house, the clattering of ice against the house (muffled) and the windows (sharp). Sometimes the wind was so strong that the house itself creaked. Just then there was a loud cracking noise followed by a longer, higher sound. Mama sat up. She lifted Frank more toward her chin, said, “What was that?” and stood. They went to a window.
    There was nothing more surprising than a window, and you could not get to them on your own. You might have looked out a window many times, and even though the window was right where it was the last time you looked through it, each time there was something different. Sometimes, there was nothing, only flat blackness, but this time there was only flat whiteness. And its smoothness was terrible—when Frank reached out and laid his hand on it, Mama cupped his hand in hers and brought it back to her chest. She said, “Oh, a big branch off the hickory tree. Right into the yard, too. It must be ten below out there, baby boy, or worse. That’s cold for this time of year. I hate to think what it’ll be like when winter actually gets here.” Her shoulders shook. She said, “And more sleet! I hope your papa and Ragnar got all the cows in, I hope they did!” She kissed him again, this time on the forehead. “Goodness me, what a life—and don’t tell him I said so!”
    They sat down again, this time on the other side of the confinement barrier, in the big chair, and Mama put him to the other breast, the one he preferred, the one with more milk. And then, the nexttime he knew where he was, he was in his cot on his back with a blanket up to his chin, and then he didn’t know where he was again.
    AFTER THE UNION SUIT , Mama smoothed the socks she had knitted over his feet, sat him up, and lowered the shirt over his head, carefully avoiding his nose and ears. She buttoned the shirt. Then she straightened his knees and pushed his feet through the legs of his pants. The toes of his right foot were bent upward, and he gave a squawk. She pulled down the pant leg and pointed his toes. Soon she was buttoning the trousers to the shirt.
    Frank felt strangely passive through all this. Once the pants were on, he went even more limp, so that she could barely slide him into his heavy, stiff snowsuit, first the legs again, and the suspenders, then, when she sat him up and he slumped forward. Papa said, “It’s going to take us an hour to get there, and it’s nearly five.” Frank felt Mama’s grip tighten around his shoulders. It was impossible to get his arms down the sleeves of the snowsuit, and when she did, they could no longer bend. She put on his