Buttons

By Carol Greene

She lay on her stomach sorting through her buttons. The sun coming through her little window lost itself in her dark hair. The empty coffee can she used for her buttons sat next to her elbow. She took off her glasses and rested her chin on her fist as she spread the pile out to one button deep. She felt the smoothness under her palm, like cool water. When they were all spread out and right side up, she saw the one that would match the others on her fathers workshirt. Finding just the right button usually made her feel better, but it had been a bad day. So much to keep inside. So full. All her soda bottles were broken. By the time her Mom had gotten home from work, she was ready for her little room and sewing buttons.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 11, 2007
• ISBN: 9781514480496

Carol Greene

Carol Greene was born a storyteller but it took her many years to become a writer. She has traveled many roads, from construction worker to ballet dancer, restaurant manager to hospital janitor, Method actor to community outreach specialist for breast cancer awareness, and along every path she has found stories to tell. Her first e-book, Buttons, is dear to her heart and will be followed by a collection of short stories.

Book preview

Copyright © 2007 by Carol Greene.

Cover design by Brooke Angell

Cover Photo by Rebecca Barrett Greene

Library of Congress Control Number:   2007905591

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4257-7420-2

   Softcover   978-1-4257-7419-6

   Ebook   978-1-5144-8049-6

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Xlibris

1-888-795-4274

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576997

Contents

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Buttons

Dedication

This book is dedicated to my daughters, Phia and Becca, whose pie-eyed faith in me has always given me strength in dark times, whose births softened my heart after 30+ years of Life’s hardening, who keep me close to the Source, challenge me daily and who I love so much I could just spit.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to acknowledge the indomitable Lin Boomhower, a relative by birth, a friend by choice. You always listen to my stories. And laugh in the right places. My Sistah, Quincy Russell-Greene, whose voice was kissed by angels with the power to scare off the Devil. Sing on! Verena Greene-Christ, my favorite Kraut and restless spirit who taught me you can be scared AND fearless simultaneously. And, finally, Peg Jensen, whom I have known and loved since before I was born. Your spine of spun steel is wrapped in good humor and intelligence and coated with a natural sweetness that has enriched the flavor of my life.

Thank you all for your wit, humor, hard words, and affection. I love you.

Carol

buttons

She lay on her stomach sorting through her buttons. The sun coming through her little window lost itself in her dark hair. The empty coffee can she used for her buttons sat next to her elbow. She took off her glasses and rested her chin on her fist as she spread the pile out to one button deep. She felt the smoothness under her palm, like cool water. When they were all spread out and right side up she saw the one that would match the others on her father’s workshirt. Finding just the right button usually made her feel better but it had been a bad day. So much to keep inside. So full. All her soda bottles were broken. By the time her Mom had gotten home from work, she was ready for her little room and sewing buttons.

Sounds floated up from downstairs and washed into her cul de sac. Sometimes she wished she had a door. She could hear the kids thundering around. Someone bumped a wall. The littlest one yelped. Mom’s tired voice came from the kitchen asking them all to slow down or go outside. Quiet for a little bit. Then giggles. The whoosh of a little car on the wood floor.

She made a door in her mind and closed it. She looked out her window. She’d never give up her window. Close to the floor with a deep sill, it was perfect for resting her elbows on and looking out.

When she first saw this room, she had begged for it. Even though it didn’t have a door, was a funny shape, had low ceilings, and barely enough room for her bed, she had begged for it. When her Mom said it wasn’t really a room, she knew it was hers. And later, when she heard Mom tell the younger girls that their sister was almost ten and old enough for a little privacy, she felt pretty good. It was real. Her own mouse hole. And even though a mouse hole doesn’t have a door, you really can’t see in. But those mice are seeing and hearing everything.

She had been wanting to do something for Mom and Dad for a while. Something to make things better. Having her own room seemed to help her think. She remembered the feeling that came over her when she’d thought of her present. A Day Away. Perfect. A privacy day away from the noise and the kids. And she would pay for it. A movie or a drive or dinner in a real restaurant. Something for just them. Maybe it would help. Maybe they could talk. Or laugh. It was perfect. She’d figured between collecting bottles and sewing buttons, she’d save enough by the end of summer.

That was before.

She reached for her pin cushion and yanked out a needle that was already threaded. She jabbed at the material, pushing the needle up through the hole in the button, almost—but not quite—wishing it was an eye in the face of her brother. ‘Why’d he have to be such a brat?’ she thought. ‘Why’d he have to smash all my bottles? All of them.’

Holding her father’s workshirt close to her nearsighted eyes, she thought about the summer afternoons she’d spent collecting her bottles. Almost everyday for—she counted Saturdays—three weeks. It was hard work, and it took a sharp eye. Before she got her glasses, she had to find them by sun glint or shape. She’d push through the tall grass growing in the ditches on the side of the road or dig out bottles half buried in the muck pouring out of the culvert. Sometimes she found them full of pee or cigarette butts or dead bugs floating.

She cut the thread and, using the same over-under as tying a shoelace, carefully took her time tying a triple knot.

She always washed her bottles before bringing them to the store. She knew the groceryman liked her for that. After counting out her two-cents-a-bottle reward, he’d place a piece of Bazooka gum on top. And he always paid with pennies. Lots of pennies. Real money that sat heavy in a pocket and filled up a money jar fast.

It was just this morning when she walked into the barn and found all that glass broken and scattered. She was barefoot. She usually was and so were all her little brothers and sisters. The first thing she saw in her mind were the kids running across the floor, bleeding and hurting before they even got to the other side. She turned and ran back to the house. She returned to the barn breathless, carrying a broom, a dustpan, and a paper bag. Starting right at the door, she began sweeping towards the center of the cavernous room, moving slowly so’s not to shoot the glass out from the curl of the broom.

She swept over the thick, heavy bottom of a soda bottle and stopped. Until then she had thought the broken glass was just glass. She felt very sad and heavy. ‘My bottles. My bottles are all broken.’ Raising her eyes, she looked over to the far side of the barn. The light was bad. She could barely make out the grocery bags she had stacked her bottles in, side by side then one atop the other like two six-packs. Some of the bags were torn. But some were not. She would have to sweep across the whole room before she could find out how many bottles she had left. She sighed, bent over and picked up the thick chunk of glass, and dropped it into the paper bag. She pushed her glasses up and began sweeping again.

Shadows joined the dust swirling in front of the door. She looked up to see three, maybe four little faces peering in at her.

Stay back. There’s glass everywhere.

The littlest girl started to come in anyway. What happened?

I said stay back. Someone broke my soda bottles.

They all stepped back except one, so she knew who did it. ‘Why did he have to look so much like Dad?’ she thought.

How come you broke my bottles? She stared at him hard, daring him to lie. He didn’t. He dropped his head and started swinging one foot.

I dunno.

They were closer in age than any of the rest, but it sure didn’t feel it. Are there any left? He shook his head and swung his foot harder. She felt like whacking him with her broom but knew it wouldn’t make any difference. Sometimes he just broke things. And he really didn’t know why.

Well, at least you can help clean up. I should make you do it all by yourself. Go get the other broom. She knew the rest of the kids wanted to help. They were all jumping up and down and one started towards the dustpan. No. No. We only have two brooms. You guys go in the house and get all the newspapers and take them out to the shed for the paper drive. She watched them skitter up the lawn towards the house and wished she could run along with them.

She started sweeping again, this time trying to make a direct path to the grocery bags. Maybe he missed some. Three of the bags weren’t torn. Once the bottles were washed and stacked, each bag meant twenty-four cents. Maybe she had three twenty-four cents… or two. Maybe she had empty bags.

She could hear her brother coming. He was dragging his broom. It made sh-sh-shhhhh sounds as it bounced on the grass behind him. She was almost to her bags when he ran into the room.

I got the broom—ahhh… Bang! went the broom handle on the floor as he grabbed his foot and hopped. Blood was already pouring out from around the embedded glass by the time she traced her cleared path back to