The Glass Castle_ A Memoir - Jeannette Walls [87]
One Saturday morning not long after Mom started wearing her new diamond ring, her mood was on an upswing, and she decided we’d all clean the house. I thought this was a great idea. I told Mom we should empty out each room, clean it thoroughly, and put back only the things that were essential. That was the one way, it seemed to me, to get rid of the clutter. But Mom said my idea was too time-consuming, so all we ended up doing was straightening piles of paper into stacks and stuffing dirty clothes into the chest of drawers. Mom insisted that we chant Hail Marys while we worked. “It’s a way of cleansing our souls while we’re cleaning house,” she said. “We’re killing two birds with one stone.”
The reason she had become a tad moody, she said later that day, was that she hadn’t been getting enough exercise. “I’m going to start doing calisthenics,” she announced. “Once you get your circulation going, it changes your entire outlook on life.” She leaned over and touched her toes.
When she came up, she said she was feeling better already, and went down for another toe touch. I watched from the writing desk with my arms folded across my chest. I knew the problem was not that we all had poor circulation. We didn’t need to start doing toe touches. We needed to take drastic measures. I was twelve by now, and I had been weighing our options, doing some research at the public library and picking up scraps of information about how other families on Little Hobart Street survived. I had come up with a plan and had been waiting for the opportunity to broach it to Mom. The moment seemed ripe.
“Mom, we can’t go on living like this,” I said.
“It’s not so bad,” she said. Between each toe touch, she was reaching up into the air.
“We haven’t had anything to eat but popcorn for three days,” I said.
“You’re always so negative,” she said. “You remind me of my mother—criticize, criticize, criticize.”
“I’m not being negative,” I said. “I’m trying to be realistic.”
“I’m doing the best I can under the circumstances,” she said. “How come you never blame your father for anything? He’s no saint, you know.”
“I know,” I said. I ran a finger along the edge of the desk. Dad was always parking his cigarettes there, and it was ribbed with a row of black cigarette burns, like a decorative border. “Mom, you have to leave Dad,” I said.
She stopped doing her toe touches. “I can’t believe you would say that,” she said. “I can’t believe that you, of all people, would turn on your father.” I was Dad’s last defender, she continued, the only one who pretended to believe all his excuses and tales, and to have faith in his plans for the future. “He loves you so much,” Mom said. “How can you do this to him?”
“I don’t blame Dad,” I said. And I didn’t. But Dad seemed hell-bent on destroying himself, and I was afraid he was going to pull us all down with him. “We’ve got to get away.”
“But I can’t leave your father!” she said.
I told Mom that if she left Dad, she’d be eligible for government aid, which she couldn’t get now because she had an able-bodied husband. Some people at school—not to mention half the people on Little Hobart Street—were on welfare, and it wasn’t so bad. I knew Mom was opposed to welfare, but those kids got food stamps and clothing allowances. The state bought them coal and paid for their school lunches.
Mom wouldn’t hear of it. Welfare, she said, would cause irreparable psychological damage to us kids. “You can be hungry every now and then, but once you eat, you’re okay,” she said. “And you can get cold for a while, but you always warm up. Once you go on welfare, it changes you. Even if you get off welfare, you never escape the stigma that you were a charity case. You’re scarred for life.”
“Fine,” I said. “If we’re not charity cases, then get a job.” There was a teacher shortage in McDowell County, just like there had been in Battle Mountain. She could get work in a heartbeat,