Crazy-Woman Dance

         Although Indian Summer had extended its stay into November, by the week after Thanksgiving, winter decided to sweep into northwest Oklahoma. Since heat really made me miserable while I was pregnant, I delighted in the cooler, even cold weather. I pulled my winter coat, still in the plastic from the cleaners, from the back of the closet and laid it on the bed. Beside it rested the dark red dress I would wear to the kindergarten Christmas program that night.

         “Rene, hurry so I can fix your hair,” I called to my daughter as I walked into the bathroom to check on my sons as they washed their hair in the tub.

         By the time all three children sat on the sofa, dressed in their finest, my husband, only having to care for himself, demanded, “Why aren’t you ready? We need to leave now if we aren’t going to be late.”

         “I’m ready. I’m ready,” I replied as I slipped on my shoes. “All I have to do is put on my coat. Why don’t you help by getting the kids into their coats?”

         Finally the family piled into the car for the short trip to the church where our daughter attended classes. Back in 1968, most Oklahoma public schools didn’t offer kindergarten; parents had to send their children to private schools.

         “Momma, Bobby poked me!” Rene squealed.

         “I didn’t, not on purpose,” Bobby insisted. “I just moveded over.”

         “You’re such a baby,” his older sister informed him. “You’re supposed to say ‘moved’ not moveded.”

         “Momma, I’m not a baby. Tell her I’m not a baby.”

         “Bobby, don’t poke your sister. Rene, don’t make fun of your brother. Remember he’s just three, and he isn’t a baby.” I rested my head on the back of the car seat. The tiredness seemed to overwhelm me, and I wanted someone else to referee the normal sibling fussing for a while. “Robert, please, see if you can take care of the children for tonight. Right now I feel like I’m going crazy.”

         “Sure.” He continued driving as he announced, “You three will sit there and be still. Let your mother enjoy a few minutes of peace and quiet.”

         “Daddy?” two-year-old Randy asked from his corner of the back seat. “Why does Momma need piece? I give you a piece, Momma, if you tell me what you want. I got gum in my pocket.”

         “Thank you, sweetheart.” I sighed silently. I didn’t even want to think about gum in his pocket. “Daddy means that I would like to have some time without anyone arguing or fighting.”

         “Oh.”

         A few minutes passed before Bobby asked, “If we stay quiet, will you not go crazy?” A bit of a tear sounded in his voice. “I don’t want you to go away.”

         “Oh, honey, going crazy is just a, uh, a way of saying things are becoming too much to handle. I’m not planning on going anywhere without you.”

         “Okay.” With a sigh, he sat back against the seat.

         “Momma?”

         “Yes, Rene.”

         “I hope you like my song tonight.”

         “I know I will, sugar. You have a pretty voice, and you’ve practiced very hard.”

         “Your momma helped you learn the song, didn’t she?” Robert asked as he pulled into a parking place.

         “Uh, huh.”

         “Then I know you’ll do a great job.” He turned off the car and twisted in the seat to look back at the boys. “Now, Bobby, Randy, you’re going to go in the auditorium, and you’re going to sit still and listen. Okay?”

         Two boyish voices answered in unison, “Okay.”

         I had opened the car door and stepped onto the walk leading to the church when something stuck into my back. I jerked forward, doing as much of a back bend as a nearly nine-months-pregnant body would allow.

         “Owww!” I yelled.

         The sharp pricks started moving around the middle of me, where my waist would be if I had one. Around and around the jabs sped while I jiggled and twisted, trying to escape the pain. I stomped and spun, wiggled and shimmied, squirmed and shook. All the time, my family and a mass of unknown people stared at me as I gave an impromptu performance of manic action. Suddenly, with a plop, something hit the concrete between my feet, and a small mouse scurried away as fast as its legs could move. With its departure, the mad race of sharp sticks stopped, leaving me facing a large number of worried people.

         Peope laughed before starting toward the sanctuary where the program would be held. I wrapped my coat, and what dignity I could muster, around me as I joined the laughter. Before joining the movement toward the church, I shook my dress and coat in case any more surprises lurked in them. However, inside me I could feel the trembling fear and embarrassment fight for predominance, while my heart beat frantically. I never knew which won because my daughter slipped her hand into mine.

         “Are you okay, Momma?” she whispered. “I hope that mouse didn’t hurt you.”

         “I... I think I’ll be fine, sugar. I think it scared me more than anything. I’m sorry, though, if I embarrassed you in front of your friends.”

         “I don’t care what they say. I just want you to be okay.”

         I didn’t care any more either, not about what others thought of my performance or how a mouse found ‘refuge’ in my clothes. My daughter had her priorities in the correct order, so now I could relax and enjoy the night. But, I bet I raised many eyebrows with my display that night.

         “What in the world happened?” my husband asked as I straightened my dress and coat.

         “I think that mouse...” I started, half stuttering in shock.

         “I know,” Bobby interrupted. “Momma did a crazy-woman dance!”


(Note: This story appears in Hidden Lies and Other Stories, copyright 2005.)