Broken glass, all over the floor. Clyde and I didn't mean to do it, but a clean conscience meant very little in our house. Our mother works until five on Fridays, which leaves the two of us one hour and forty-five minutes of unsupervised shenanigans before she gets home. We are dropped off by the bus at 3:25 sharp, and mother pulls into the driveway at 4:40, bone tired and stinking of kelp.
Usually, she fries us eggs or microwaves cheese sandwiches when she gets home. Not today. Today, we put a hole in the window. Well, I put a hole in the window with Clyde's help. So, today we would have nothing to eat but dirt - wet dirt.
I don't know when forcing us to eat dirt as a punishment started. I know that we never had to eat it when dad was still alive. But he died before either of us were born., so I guess that doesn't mean much. I just remember hearing him play the harmonica while I kicked away inside my mother's stomach.
Clyde doesn't remember anything about our Father. That doesn't surprise me considering how dumb he is. Even mom says he's the dumbest stick on the log. She doesn't say that to hurt his feelings and it doesn't really bother him. She's just telling it like it is.
She'll tell it like it is when she gets home too, I'm sure. She'll scream and cry and tell us she wishes our father had never been born. Then she'll beat us senseless with her apron straps, and pull at our eyelashes with the little pair of tweezers she keeps in her purse. It could be worse, I guess. I just wish we could have cheese sandwiches for dinner instead of dirt.
Seeing the yellow hood of her Pontiac Sunfire turn the corner and roll toward the driveway went a long way toward helping me feel better. After all, she had never been mad for longer than a couple days. I made sure of that, trimming her toenails and squeezing her shoulders. Don't worry about it Clyde. Whatever happens can only be so bad.
The door slams, and the rush of air carries her scent to our sniffling noses.
"Clyde? Where are you?"
He's been trying for an hour to hide inside one of the kitchen cupboards, but he's much too large, especially with the egg cartons stacked inside.
"Clyde?!"
Her sound of her footsteps moves closer, and suddenly she's standing right above us. She takes one glance at the broken glass and then looks at us.
"What happened here?" she asks.
"The window broke," we said in perfect unison.
"Oh," she said. Then paused, thinking. "I'm not angry. So, don't worry."
"Aren't you going to beat us or something?" I asked, reaching across the floor for her calloused foot.
While I pick the dirt from underneath her nails, she looks out the hole in the window.
"No, it's really no problem," she says. "I'll make you dinner just as soon as the window is fixed."
"How should we fix it?" I ask.
Kicking my hand away from her toes gently, she replies: "Take the glass and place it between your teeth. Grind the glass to sand, slowly at first. Then, more quickly - rapid chewing will heat the glass enough for you to rebuild the window."
