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We woke up before the
sun, Hazel, Howard and I. The palm trees had stopped singing in the early
morning hours and with the humidity moistening our sheets, we began the
journey across our beds, trying to find a cool place to doze. To the top
of the bed and now the bottom, to the left and the right, from edge to
edge we'd move. But after a while there was no cool place left in our beds
and the day began even without the sun. Mom was already up. Sometimes,
I thought she didn't sleep. She sat in the platform rocking chair, her
coffee within arm's reach and she greeted us like we were Christmas presents.
"Well good morning, sleepy-heads!" Her voice was deep and her smile inviting and we would go to her for our morning hugs, feeling her warm coffee breath on our necks as she kissed us.
"Has the milkman been here yet?" Howard asked.
"No, he hasn't." Mom answered.
We ran lickety-split back to our bedroom, pulled on our shorts and tops, grabbed our flip-flops and headed toward the kitchen. Mom was already there, opening the refrigerator and setting the table with margarine and grape preserves.
"We have toast
and jelly. You may have cereal but there's only apple juice to pour over
it or would you like pancakes?"
Pancakes were a favorite of mine, but it was too warm for them. "Do we have raisin toast?" I asked.
"Yes, would you like cinnamon on it?"
"Oh, yes!" I replied.
Howard and Hazel made their choices and we ate in relative silence. We were listening for the milkman. His brakes squealed at every stop and the closer he came the more shrill the sound became. He came twice a week and we waited for him, anticipating his arrival, excited about the adventure he brought.
We had finished our breakfast and the milkman hadn't arrived. Howard asked again if he had come while we slept and Mom assured him that he hadn't.
"Maybe he forgot." Hazel mumbled.
"No, he hasn't. He always runs late in the summer, you know that," said Mom.
The house was warming up as the sun crested the house next door so we went outside. Sitting on the steps we felt disgruntled; nothing caught our interest but our own misery. Howard was the first to hear him turn on Macy Street.
"He's coming,
he's coming!" he yelled.
We jumped from the steps and ran. The ficus tree lived in the boulevard at the front of our house and we lined up under its maternal branches at the edge of the curb. We stood at attention, backs straight, eyes forward, trying with all of our might to breathe slowly and quietly. The milkman stopped. The door of his truck was positioned so that he could step out without stepping on us. He didn't speak to us and we never uttered a word.
He had the bottles of milk in a metal rack and walked to the front door to make his delivery. We didn't turn to watch him, but maintained our positions.
He returned to the truck and placed his now empty rack on the floor next to the crates of milk. Only then did he turn and look at us, staring at us, turning his head from side to side. This was our inspection. Had we held our positions? Had we followed the order of the day? My toes were curled around the cool cement comprising the curb, hoping it would keep me from wobbling. I was holding my breath as his gaze settled on me.
"Yes," he said at last, "today you've earned your wages."
We
still didn't move, didn't speak but we cupped our hands in front of us
and moved to the left, in front of the truck door. He turned his back to
us. In what seemed like only seconds the three of us had a large mound
of crushed ice in our hands. The prize, yes, we had won the prize. The
milkman was on his way. But there was always next time, always a chance
to win again.
And summer had just begun.
...