Page 289 - What They Did to the Kid

What They Did to the Kid 277

Louisa threw her can in the sink. “Men!” she said and left the
kitchen.
Joe sat uncaring. As quickly as Louisa disappeared, he could not
remember why. Her gesture was already a joke to him. Even I had
heard to the fourth power, in my three months in their attic, Louisa’s
endless stories. Yellow legal pad, number 4, page 16. She should have
been a showgirl, she always said. Her mother had been in an act with
Marie Dressler and Polly Moran, but pulled out right before they hit
the big time in Hollywood. She could still turn an ankle with the
best she said, even though—without much connection—her father
deserted them leaving her with, cue the miniseries, no money or music
lessons and at the mercy of her handy curious brothers. She had
let Joseph Bunchek penetrate her secrets at the wake of one of her
uncles. I had visions of them doing it on the casket, they were so
open about everything. He knew she wanted what they all wanted,
seed and cash, but she was easy and Catholic, so he married her a
week later in Indiana. She followed him doggedly through the Navy
camps on the East Coast during the war, dropping three babies in
quick succession. She never forgave him for what it did to her hips
and rear.
“Kid,” Joe said, “you still looking for a job?”
“I got a test tomorrow.” I looked at the clock. “Really, I got to
study.”
He did not hear. “I heard of one through Lou Lou’s brother. You
can make good wages. Union, like that. ’Course, you’ll have to be
able to work. Get your hands dirty. You ain’t built like I was when
I was your age.”
He read my scar and rubbed it raw. He carried himself with
authority.
“When I was your age, I was married, with two kids and knew
what-for. I didn’t sit around schools all day. I took my back and my
pack and hired out for what I could get. Not for what I was worth.
I was worth a hell of a lot more than I got. Ask your daddy about
the Depression.”
“I have. Lard sandwiches. Snow. Six miles to school.” I looked at
my watch. “God, it’s late.”

©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
HOW TO LEGALLY QUOTE FROM THIS BOOK