Taken, Not Given

I lay in bed, staring up trying to make out the pattern of fine cracks in the ceiling's plaster, planning how I'm going to fix it over the Easter holiday. Mother will fuss because she says that Sunday is the day of rest, and to work on the day of the Ressurrection... But when else can I get it done? I have my job working at the store on Saturdays and afternoons. It needs to be done. The cracks are widening and spreading. I've stared at them so often that my eyes can trace their path, even in the present dark.

Joey doesn't like the dark, but Mother says we can't afford to leave any of the gas jets turned up. One spot of blue burns by the door, and another on the wall beside Joey's bed, but it isn't nearly enough to chase away the shadows that pool in the corners and make my little brother so nervous. Mother isn't unsympathetic, but I think she's getting a little irritated that he's still begging for a night light. He's almost six now. Mother says he'll be starting school soon, and such a big boy shouldn't be afraid of the dark. I think Mother wonders why I don't tease him about this. I can't. I don't like the dark either--I'm just not as honest about it as Joey.

Mother's given him permission to leave the curtains open on one of the windows, to let in the starlight and moonbeams. It helps a little on a night like tonight. There's a three-quarter moon, and its glow lights the room dimly. There's enough light for me to easily make out Joey sleeping in the other bed. Joey's hair is the color of corn silk, and just as soft. It's so pale that it almost glows in the darkness. It's already beginning to darken a little. It used to look almost like cotton fluff. In a few years it'll probably be dark blond, like mine. Mother says mine looked like that when I was his age. I've seen the one picture of our family back then--Mother, Father, and myself. I'm about two, sitting on her lap, and yes--my hair is that light. Mother says that it will probably deepen to brown by the time I'm a man. I don't bother to remind her that I am a man now. Well, almost.

It'll be sunrise soon. The sky outside the window has gone from black to navy blue, and is edging over into grey. I reach out and pick up the clock sitting on my bedside table and bring it close to my face. Almost five o'clock. Mother will be up soon to begin fixing breakfast for the lodgers who go to work early. Normally I'd go back to sleep for at least another hour, but my mind is churning. I have that algebra test today, and I haven't been able to study as much as I'd like. I have to keep my grades up, or Mother will make me quit my job and we need the money. I decide to get up and get in a little cramming.

I laid out my clothes for this morning across the foot of my bed. I get out of bed and unbutton my pajama jacket. I was glad when Mother finally decided I was old enough to graduate from nightshirts. None of my friends wear them. I find myself smiling. Joey is so jealous. He's complaining because Mother won't let him wear long pants till he starts school. She says he should be happy--his grandmother kept our father in skirts till he was almost seven. She finally capitulated to his demand for more adult clothes when he came home in his union suit with a black eye and a bloody nose. He'd won the fight with the boys who were teasing him, but he'd also ripped his skirts to shreds.

I strip down and get quickly into my union suit. I wish I could go without it--the weather's getting warmer, and I know that I'll be feeling smothered in a couple of months. But if Mother found out I was going raw under my clothes... She's never spanked either of us, but she'd look at me, and I'd feel like I'd let her down. I'm willing to be a little uncomfortable to avoid that.

I put on my trousers and sit on the bed to put on my socks. I'm going to need new garters soon--these don't grip well any more, and I don't want to end up with my socks creeping down into my shoes. I hate to dip into my earnings for something so trivial, but I have to keep up my appearance if I want to keep the job. Ironic. At least I don't have to bother Mother about such things any more.