The Bedspread

THE BEDSPREAD

by Joseph Registrato

         It was early in the morning, still dark and cold, and I was under the bedspread, the big white George Washington bedspread that smelled like my mother, when I first heard whispering out in the hallway of our big old house on Long Island.  I couldn't make out the words, but I recognized the voices of my father, brother and sister, and I could tell that whatever was going on, it was not good. This wasn't a fun kind of whispering, this was more like a keep-Joe-in-the-dark kind of whispering.

         Another thing was they weren't pushing me to get out of bed.  Usually at this time of morning in November it was 'get up, get up, you'll be late for school.'  I'm sure this was a school day.  But that day they were letting me alone in the dark and they were out there whispering.

         After a while, my father came in the room and didn't say a word, he went right to his big closet and started dressing.  But he was putting on a white shirt, and a suit and tie, which was very strange, he never dressed up in a suit and tie on a work day.  My father drove a truck and wore green work pants, thick black socks and heavy work boots with leather laces.  The only time he wore a suit, a black mohair that a tailor made special for him, was when he took my mother dancing at Roseland in New York City and to church on Sunday.  He never wore a suit to work.  He wasn't his usual chipper self, either, whistling and making jokes.  He looked bad.

         After he finished dressing he went back out to the hallway and they started whispering again, but this time I heard my brother, who was eight years older than I was, start crying.  It wasn't like my brother to cry.  In fact I don't think I ever saw him cry before that day, but there was no doubt in my mind, I heard him crying. Then I heard my sister say, "Stop it. He'll hear you."  She was trying to muffle her voice, but she lost the whisper on that line and it came out in a voice I could hear.

         In a few minutes my sister came in the room and stood over me.  She was ten years older than I was and sometimes she acted like she was my boss.  She was always nice about it, never pushy no matter what kind of mess I'd made, but still, sometimes she acted like an adult, although she was only 15.

         She reached one hand down and touched the spread where it covered my arm, just barely touching me.  Then she sat down next to me and rubbed my back gently through the spread.

"You okay, Joe?" She said.

         I was pretty sure something bad had happened, the way they were all tiptoeing around and whispering and crying and all, and I guess I figured I'd learn more if I feigned sleep, so I didn't move of say anything, I acted like I was still sleeping.  It was still dark, although I knew for sure it was morning and getting to be light out.  I must have put on a pretty good sleep act because in a few minutes, she just stood up and walked away without saying anything else.

         The next thing that happened, I heard somebody at the back door.  It was pretty quiet, but then the door slammed shut and in a few minutes, I heard more crying.  I wasn't sure who it was, but there was no doubt it was a woman and the woman was sobbing, big, deep sobs, pretty much out of control. The woman, who I suspected was one of my aunts, one of my mother's sisters, was talking, shouting really, but it was so mixed up with the sobs I could not make much sense of it.  I made out a few words.  I heard her scream out, "So young."  Then, "How?" And "Can't be."

         Again I heard my sister's voice trying to be quiet, but no doubt about the words, "Stop crying, please, he'll hear you."

         After a long time, I heard my father's voice, this time not in a whisper, but a voice I heard loud and clear.

         "We have to stop this.  It's no use.  I have to tell him," my father said.  "There's no other way. He'll have to make up his own mind about it.  Of course he's a baby, I hear what you're saying about that.  But there's no other way.  I've got to tell him."

         I laid still and heard my father's steps as he came into the bedroom and sat down next to me on the bed.  He pulled the bedspread back a little so he could get a look at me, and put his hands on my arms.  His hands were big and strong but he was always gentle and kind and when he touched me that morning, I could feel the warmth in his fingers and palms. There was no fooling my father about being asleep, there was no way I would try that trick on him.  He was way too smart for that, and I was pretty sure he knew I'd been awake and listening to what was going on the whole time.

         "Joe," he said, "I have to talk to you."

         I didn't say anything.  I just opened my eyes and looked at him.  I'm pretty sure he could tell I was scared to death about how they'd been acting, and just lying there still and quiet was all I could do.

         "Do you want to see your mother for the last time?"  He said.

         Well, this puzzled me.  Why would it be the last time?  Just the day before we walked out to the chicken coop in the big backyard and picked up eggs like we did whenever she wasn't working at the knitting mill. 

         "Your mother is gone, Joe.  She died.  You can see her one last time if you really want to, but she's really not even there, not the mother you know, anyway.  It might be better if you just remember her the way she was."

         He didn't need to do any more convincing.  I wasn't sure what happened, but all the whispering now made sense. My mother was gone, and would not be back, not ever.  They were all worried about how I would get along without her, I suppose, that was the main thing to them.  But I kept thinking about other things, little things that they had no idea about.  She would pick me up off the ground and prop me up on her hip like a giant, one arm around my belly, and hike up my pants in the back.  She was small herself, not much over five feet tall and frail, but I was 5 and tiny so it was easy for her to sling me around.  Then she'd sit me down on the white porcelain top of the washing machine and tie my shoe laces good and tight and then pat the soles of my shoes before swinging me down to the floor.  I was usually under the kitchen table when she and my father had fights.  She would say to him, "Don't you tell me that, Manuel," or, "You know damn well, Manuel."  She hardly ever had to yell at him because her voice was calm and patient, as though she was in charge of whatever the fight was about.  My father seemed to know it, too, he always let her have her way.  I was glad he did, because that would end it.  After he left, she would say, "I know you're under that table, Joseph.  I know you're under there just soaking it up like a sponge."  She talked gently and soft, and she was right about just about everything.

They left the house then, and I stayed wrapped up in that bedspread for a long time.  The thing I remember about it was it had these little nubs or tufts in it, and it smelled like my mother, just like her.

-end-