An Offering

By Maura Lin

An Offering
By Maura Lin
How do we judge the worth of a person? What happens when we falter, when we commit acts that offend our own values? What effects do shame and silence have on our lives and relationships? An Offering examines these questions as it depicts the struggle of Alice and her daughter, Lucy, to confront troubling aspects of themselves and their pasts. Ultimately, it is a story about embracing our experiences, strengths, and weaknesses. It is also about sharing, forgiveness, and accepting what life offers.
The novel centers upon Alice and her daughter, Lucy. Alice grows up on a Minnesota farm during the Great Depression, and lives in metropolitan Minnesota during and after World War II. Lucy grows up with two siblings and her parents in suburban Ohio during the 1960s and 70s. An Offering depicts their separate experiences through the present day, as it examines Lucy and her mother's relationship, and relationships within the family. Against the backdrop of time and place, the effects of their personal decisions come to challenge their identities, values, and self-worth, all universal aspects of human experience.
An Offering may interest those who are beguiled by human behavior, especially within the family, and in the larger world. Why do people take the actions they do? How do environment, family upbringing, our individual psyche, ego, and childhood experiences affect us? What aspects of ourselves can we change for the better (or worse)? Can we only learn to accommodate flaws or weaknesses in our character so that we can cope better and persevere? If we understand human motivation and action, can we take steps to reduce individual suffering, or mitigate conflict within our community and beyond?

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798350900163

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Other books by Maura Lin

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Copyright © 2023 by Maura Lin

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Maura Lin

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eBook ISBN: 9798350900163

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

To all my family, then, now, and always

I wish to thank my sister, Annette, for her thorough and thoughtful editing of this book and my husband, Tony, for his diligence and dedication towards its publication

Table of Contents

Prologue

Alice, Saint Paul, September 28, 1950

Lucy, Alice, and a letter from Rose, November 2004

Part I: Mostly Lucy, September 1960 to February 1976

Lucy - The Dixie Cup, September 1960

Lucy, First Grade, September 1962

Lucy, Remembering June 1968

Lucy, Junior High School, May 1969

Lucy and her Father, June, 1970

Lucy and Isabelle, May 1971

Lucy, Remembering December 1972

Lucy, Remembering February 1976

Part 2: Mostly Alice, July 1935 to December 1938

Alice, July 1935, Age 12

Alice, September 1970: Recounting Fall 1937

Dora, the Drive, November 1938

Alice, November 1938

Alice, December 1938

Edith, Christmas 1938

Part Three: Alice, Eleanor and Mark, March 1960 to August 1973

Alice and Mark: March 1960

Mark – The Puddle, April 1963

Eleanor, April 1963

Eleanor, November 1967

Alice, June 1973

Alice - The Lunch, August 1973

Mark, the Lunch, August 1973

Part Four: Alice and the Dance, February 1939

Alice - After the Snowstorm, February 1939

Alice - An Invitation

Alice - Saying Yes

Alice - Getting Ready

Alice - The End of the Dance

Part Five: Lucy, Spring and Summer of 1975

Lucy - Letters From Home. March 1975

Lucy and Laura, April 1975

Lucy and Laura - Dinner, April 1975

Lucy and Laura - The Beach, April 1975

Lucy - Home Alone, July 1975

Eleanor’s View, July 1975

Lucy - Bicycling, July 1975

Part Six: Dora, Alice, and Edith - Back on the Farm, Spring and Summer 1939

Dora, May 1939

Alice - Hanging Laundry, May 1939

The Meal, Late August 1939

Alice - After the Meal, Late August 1939

Part Seven: Alice, Edith, and Dora: St. Paul, October 1949 to March 1950

Alice - Washing Dishes, October 1949

Edith - Living With Alice, November 1949

Alice - The Elwood Room, December 1949

Alice at Work, February 1950

Alice - The Snowstorm, Early March 1950

Alice in the Kitchen, Early March 1950

Part Eight: The Aftermath, March 1950 to October 1950

Alice - The Rescue, March 1950

Alice - A Brief Hibernation, March 1950

Alice - Back to Work, March 1950

Alice - Confidence, April 1950

Alice - The Office Visit, May 1950

Earnest - The Letter, July 1950

Dora - The Cry, Late September 1950

Edith - The Birth, Late September 1950

Earnest, October 1950

Part Nine: Alice and Earnest, November 1950 to March 1952

Alice - The Fabric Department, Late November 1950

Alice - Defiance, December 1950

Dinner at the Elwood, December 1950

Alice - After the Proposal, Early January 1951

Beyond The Wedding, October 1951

Alice - Married Now, February 1952

Alice - A Letter, March 1952

Part Ten: The Whitley’s - Home Again, Summer 1977 to Spring 1978

Lucy - The Institute, June 1977 to August 1977

Lucy - Home Alone, February 1978

Lucy - A Shower, February 1978

Lucy - Mall Walk, February 1978

Eleanor - Dinner Time, March 1978

Alice - Dinner Time, March 1978

Mark - Dinner Time, March 1978

Earnest - Dinner Time, March 1978

Part Eleven: Lucy Again, August 1978 to December 1992

Lucy, August 1978

Lucy - Graduation, May 1981

Lucy, November 1981

Lucy, December 1981

Lucy - Night Work, April 1982

Lucy, May 1982

Lucy - A Party, July 1982

Lucy and Tom, August 1982

Chinese with Tom, September 1982

Lucy and Tom, June 1983

Lucy and Tom - The Birth, October 1987

Lucy, November 1990

Lucy, December 1992

Part Twelve: Eleanor and Alice, Fall 2002 to November 2003

Eleanor - New Paltz, New York, September 2002

Letter to Rose, January 2003

Alice and Earnest, October 2003

Alice - A Letter, November 2003

Part Thirteen: Motherhood and Memory, September 2004 to December 2004

Lucy and Eleanor -A Phone Call, Early September 2004

Lucy - Dinner with Family, Early November 2004

Letter from Rose, Late November 2004

Lucy and Eleanor, December 2004

Lucy and Alice - Shopping and Lunch, December 2004

Epilogue

Lucy, December 2006

Prologue

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Alice, Saint Paul, September 28, 1950

A searing pain forces her awake. Alice squeezes her eyes shut and digs her elbows into the mattress. A pull follows, sharp enough to take her breath away. The mound of flesh at her center heaves upward. Alice pushes against it with her palms, and her hands rise in tandem as the mound expands further.

She feels pressure then, a heaving pressure traveling from the center of her abdomen downward. Then a pull again. No, it’s not a ball, but more like a huge fist, loosening its fingers and pressing her insides, then contracting. With each expansion, she is reminded. She doesn’t want to believe it. She hadn’t believed it when the doctor told her. There had been a swelling of her belly, a very gradual swelling. And Alice had experienced some nausea for a while. But it had gone away.

She had been convinced that the doctor was wrong. She had been eating too much, lately, that was all. She had had some rich desserts. Apple pie one night. A slice of chocolate cake, another. Working at the Elwood Room had allowed her too many opportunities to sample the baked goods.

So she had stopped eating the desserts, and she found that her clothes weren’t nearly so tight. And yes, there actually had been a little blood after she had seen the doctor. So she hadn’t gone back. The doctor must be wrong. She must be having her period, after all. The blood had come now and again. She noticed that on her days off from work, it eased up. And usually, it was just a few drops. Still, if it was a period, it was lasting a long time. She had realized that. But she had shrugged it off.

A diffuse airy sensation fills Alice’s head, then passes through her body as if she is being lifted by a gentle breeze. She is dizzy, almost floating. Beads of sweat gather on her forehead. A drop trickles off her forehead, encircles her eye, and dribbles onto her cheek. Another runs down her nose, lingering on the tip before it falls on her upper lip. She licks it away. She tells herself that this is all in her imagination. There is nothing amiss here, she thinks. Just a little indigestion.

Determined, Alice sits up, her head swimming, and dangles her legs over the bedside. She reaches for the window shade and tugs on the crocheted pull. As the shade rises, she sees that the horizon is black. Yet, below, the corner of 8th and Selby is illuminated in a halo of amber light, warming the brick façade of the Farmers and Merchants Bank. A Muncie’s Dairy truck turns the corner. The white truck and its sweeping green script "Just say m m m … Muncie’s … ." flash yellow as the driver passes through the halo of light and guides the truck down 8th Street. The engine churns, roars, and fades into a hum as the truck disappears.

For a moment, comforted by the familiarity of the scene, Alice reassures herself that all is normal, as she had expected. She is all right. She stands, but a wave of nausea follows, reaching into her throat, and then encroaching on the back of her tongue. She tastes bile. A jab in her middle forces her to sit down. She spreads her fingers over her abdomen again, her concentration drawn to the unfolding fist. She pulls her knees to her chest in an attempt to contain it, to keep it from pressing and pushing, and she pivots her body ninety degrees so she is facing the foot of the bed. She lies back against the damp sheet. The squeezing is expanding further into a wide arc, moving from her pelvis back through to her vertebrae. The fist, pummeling her lower back, now turns, opening its fingers forward in jagged waves. The fingertips dig at her pelvis.

She will try to keep the fist in the center. She will try. Alice tightens the muscle between her legs, but to no avail. The fist is stronger now, and gaining momentum. It won’t let up. It is going to split her apart.

Warm liquid trickles then surges between Alice’s closed legs, forcing them open. She reaches for the cool bars of the iron headboard to brace herself. As the flow subsides she senses something between her legs, and she reaches down to touch it. It is round, slick, and waxy. The form is propelled forward in another wave, and it moves outside her body. And then behind the roundness her fingers brush something slippery, spongy, with contours, valleys and hills. Underneath, it is solid. 

Curious, Alice runs her fingers over it. There is no doubt now.

Resigned, her labored breathing narrows, then slows. For a few moments, the only sound inside the room is the movement of her own air drawn in hungrily through her nostrils, and then out in grateful sighs through her parted lips.

Later, Alice finds that she remembers the sound of her breathing most of all, up until the first lonely wail.

Lucy, Alice, and a letter from Rose, November 2004

My mother, Alice Eleanor Whitley, is a tiny lady. She is about my height, just under five feet, and she is lean, too, nearly all muscle and bone. These days though, I feel unwieldy and oafish standing beside her. Despite our similar heights, I feel like I tower above her. Has she shrunk, I wonder, or have I grown larger?

I think about my parent’s visit about three months ago, in late August. That was before I knew anything at all about Rose. That was before I received the phone call from my sister, Eleanor, in September and before my talk with Mom as we strolled around the block after dinner. Back in August, I was ignorant. In some ways, that was easier. 

We had invited them for dinner that August evening, not too long after their return from the Finger Lakes, where my parents spend summers in the decades-old cottage inherited by my father’s extended family. My parents had plans to travel again soon, out west, this time to visit my brother. We hoped to see them before their departure. 

When they arrived, my father went straight downstairs to talk with Tom, my husband. Tom, who has a booming baritone voice, is the only one in our family my father can hear without his hearing aid. Besides, Tom has a broad range of interests, like my father, and he can discuss almost anything, unlike me. So, while my father was downstairs talking with Tom, my mother visited with me in the kitchen while I puttered away. That’s what I usually do when my parents visit. Putter. Especially when I’m in the same room with my mother. 

It was a stifling hot day, the usual for August. I remember feeling immersed in the cloyingly muggy kitchen air while my voice drowned in the whipping of the ceiling and window fans. I had turned them on to help move the air, an absolute necessity without the air conditioner. The portable fan in the window at the other end of our kitchen-dining room was turned to face the outdoors to exhaust the hot, damp air. Avoiding the use of our air conditioner was my nod to energy conservation, something I’ve probably picked up from my mother. Masochism can be inherited, I guess. And I admit that I may have wanted to impress her that day.

Mom stood alongside me at the kitchen counter, a yard or so from where I washed the dishes at the stainless steel sink. Her lean arms, lined with their prominent cord-like veins, hung loosely at her sides, her hands fumbling to find a comfortable resting spot and finally meeting front and center along her waistline. She lifted her loosely laced fingers on occasion, alternately poking the air as if hoping to jab a fresh topic of conversation. Finally, she asked, Well, is there anything I can do to help, Lucy?

She looked especially tiny that day, a miniature of her younger self, frailty spiking her features and leeching vitality from her head to her toes. Mom was growing old. She was showing it, finally. Her once light-brown hair had turned to gray and white, the fine strands hanging down in feathery wisps, just softening her lean jaw line. Long creases etched her forehead, and tiny wrinkles studded the corners of her eyes. A crescent of her right eyelid drooped, serving, it seemed, as a protective hood for the brown iris, as if to shield her vision from the harsh realities and indignities of advancing age. Falling, failing flesh. But my mother was too practical to accept her aging body and too proud to use the weak excuses common to those her age.

Mom reached for the torn brown paper ice cream bag on the counter and thrust it towards me. Here, Lucy, she said. I thought you might like some homemade strawberry jam.

That bag, I figured, was probably fifteen years old by now. The Grand Union trademark and its motto, Makes Shopping More Enjoyable, in its dark green lettering were still readable. Grand Union had gone out of business about ten years ago.

I scrutinized Mom’s face expectantly, waiting to hear about the details of the jam-making and the origin of the berries. Thanks, Mom, I replied, taking the bag and setting it on the counter.

Your Dad and I picked just over four pounds of berries, Mom began. By the time we got around to picking them, they’d gotten scarce. It was the end of June, and they had been pretty well picked over before. We went to that new organic fruit and vegetable farm … . I can’t quite remember the name. Oh yes, it was Crowell’s Farm. Mom paused briefly while I rinsed an aluminum saucepan and set it on the dish rack. Your Dad and I took nearly three hours to pick them. You had to look carefully. I had to show him how to check under the leaves, close to the ground. It was a lot of work. But they were a good buy at ninety-nine cents a pound.

As usual, I didn’t know what to say other than umm hmmm. Mom and I had never been good conversationalists. Mom talked while I listened. She was a stickler for details, and often her conversation would meander, straying far from the original topic. In my younger years, I would grow irritated and encourage her to get to the point. But now I watched myself, trying to be attentive. Here, I was in my late forties now. Time to grow up and forget. Unfortunately, I had gotten so accustomed to her dominating the conversation I still hadn’t learned how to talk to her. So, I waited for her to speak again as I dabbed at a coffee mug with my sponge. It was easier to listen.

My mom continued, This jam is made with strawberries and sugar, that’s all. No pectin…  So … Mom suddenly stepped forward, unlacing her fingers and stretching her arms out to stiffly embrace me. How have you been doing, Lucy?

I hugged her back, just as awkwardly, with a little bird touch, barely grazing her back and shoulders. I noticed that Mom’s clavicles jutted out like bony wings beneath her blouse. At age 82, she deserved extra patience. And she needed some tenderness, I realized, something that didn’t come easily to me.

After all, Mom was acting as she always had. Nothing had changed between us yet. She was still all pretenses, all superficial chatter. That was Mom for you. Her chatter, I guessed, provided subterfuge for her discomfort and perhaps for the experiences she wanted to put behind her.

I have since thought about that August evening before I learned her secret. I thought about our walk in October when my sister Eleanor and I suspected she was hiding the truth. I am amazed that Mom was so convincing. 

              But now it is November. I have just read the latest email from Rose. And I feel elated and bewildered at the same time. My mom is an expert at covering more than I had ever realized.

Part I: Mostly Lucy, September 1960 to February 1976

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Lucy - The Dixie Cup

September 1960

It’s peculiar what we remember. Lucy had forgotten many things over the years, but the memory of the clandestine chocolate Dixie cup stood out. As an adult, she wondered why. It was a small incident, all told, but it violated her golden rule most blatantly. And it followed a certain pattern that she had experienced later, many times over. Maybe this was the seed, the beginning of that pattern, at least according to memory. Maybe this was the beginning of her inner turmoil.

The sequence went like this. First, there are good intentions, then selfish acts followed by regret, and then sometimes pleasure, sometimes guilt. She considered how much of her life was a version of this sequence peppered with particulars of circumstance, trends unique to the times, and a perspective based on development, experience, and knowledge of the world. Lucy concluded that we live the same episode many times over. We are given many opportunities to get it right, to find what works best for us, and to adhere to our own rules.

Her most basic rule, as far back as she could remember, was simple and maybe a little naïve: Be good. That was all. She strived for this. And she was a good girl, wasn’t she? So it was unlike Lucy to sneak money from her mother’s purse at such a tender age. She was not quite four at the time. Lucy had surprised even herself. This might be something that her sister Eleanor would try. But Lucy?

Well, there was justification. After all, the ice cream man had appeared in the cul-de-sac outside their house in the late morning hours, announcing his arrival by jingling his bell. Lucy was all alone in the kitchen that morning, her mother being occupied elsewhere in the house. She was sitting on the yellow-cushioned step stool at the kitchen table coloring, a boxful of crayons and a coloring book in front of her. Upon hearing the bell, a jolt of pleasure passed through her. She put down her crayon and bolted into the living room. She looked through the bay window to see the ice cream man standing alone beside his Good Humor truck. He was waiting and surveying the area, his hands in his pockets. Didn’t he know that school had just begun? No children would be running towards him, no shouts from doorways, not now. Lucy felt sad for him. At the same time, she could taste the cool, sweet chocolate ice cream on her tongue.

Lucy gazed at the ice cream truck and the man dressed in his white Good Humor uniform. Lucy supposed that he was very disappointed. He stepped back into his truck to ring the bell again. It occurred to her that her mother had gone down in the basement a few minutes ago. She would go find her. Maybe, just maybe, she would let her buy some ice cream.

Lucy rushed towards the basement. She switched on the lights at the top of the stairwell and flew down the steps. Mom! Mom? The basement was empty, dismal, cast in a sallow hue, thanks to its brown and beige floor tiles and the yellow knotty pine paper lining the walls. The cheerful green Whirligig at the far end of the room, which sat vacant underneath the dusty window, deterred Lucy momentarily. This four-seated pedal-powered merry-go-round was like a bright star in the murky basement. Lucy and her best friend Joanne, and sometimes even her older sister Eleanor, had whirled around on the contraption, giddy, cruising at dizzying speeds over the course of the summer. 

But the ice cream! Lucy didn’t want to miss out. She had an idea. She ran back up the steps, entered the kitchen, and dragged the step stool across the linoleum to the hallway closet. She climbed up and reached for her mother’s beige vinyl purse on the closet shelf, pulling it down and unsnapping the clasp. She eyed loose Kleenexes first, then lipstick, then an amber compact. She dug beneath it all. There. She drew out a green oval change purse. Guiltily, she scanned the surroundings for her mother. No one. She wriggled her fingers through the slit and gathered some coins, pressing them together tightly. She released them into her open palm. A nickel, a dime, and two pennies. That would be enough.

As she climbed down the stool, she heard the familiar chirp of the kitchen door opening and the dull smack of it closing, followed by the rattle of the doorknob. Her mother must have been in the backyard! Now she was in the kitchen. Lucy scuttled to the front door, exiting just as she heard her mother call, Lucy! She didn’t even turn around.

Where was he? For a moment, Lucy thought that the ice cream man had left. He was no longer in front of the house. But then she saw his truck turning from the cul-de-sac onto the main road. She ran after him, breathing hard and calling weakly, Hey, stop!  She continued along the curb, past three split levels, past a telephone pole. She noticed that he turned again onto the next side street, slowed, and stopped. A tiny boy with black curls and a woman holding his hand crossed the street to meet him just as Lucy reached the intersection. She drew close behind the two, gasping, as the ice cream man handed two Popsicles to the woman.

The woman turned around to look down at Lucy, her mouth pinched in annoyance. The little boy gazed at her with his big brown eyes, fascinated, it seemed, by her breathlessness.

Lucy felt a familiar twinge of remorse just then. Maybe the woman sensed that she was being bad. Maybe she knew Lucy had stolen the money from her mother’s purse. But how? Well, it was too late to turn around now. As they walked away, she looked at the ice cream man straight into his crinkly gray eyes. A chocolate Dixie cup, please. She picked the dime off her open palm, holding it up to him. He took it, nodding, and slid it into the silver coin collector latched to his waistband.

There you go, young lady. You must have really wanted that ice cream! You enjoy it now!

Lucy skipped away, heartened. Well, she had made him happy, anyway, and she had her ice cream. Lucy pulled the paper lid off the cup and dipped the wooden spoon into the mushy brown contents. She raised the spoon to her mouth. The stuff melted instantly, deliciously on her tongue. She consumed the ice cream on the way home, occasionally stopping to draw in great gulps of air.

When she stepped back into the house, she held the empty cup and the spoon behind her back. She passed her mother, who was standing at the kitchen sink, rinsing dishes. Why you little piglet! her mother said, glaring at her sideways. Lucy threw the cup and spoon into the wastebasket and stole away upstairs, aware that her mother’s piercing brown eyes followed her.

What surprised Lucy the most was that her mother had nothing else to say. Not even later on. This was unexpected and somehow unsettling.

Funny what stays with you.

Lucy, First Grade, September 1962

Lucy is sitting at the desk in the front of Miss Bledsoe’s first-grade classroom. She is always assigned to the first row, she knows, because she is so short. Miss Bledsoe told her she would see the blackboard more easily here.

Already, it is the second week of school. Lucy is trying to concentrate on the arithmetic lesson. Next to her sits Jimmy, who is wriggling back and forth in his chair and humming softly. It’s hard to ignore him.

Miss Bledsoe has one of those felt boards, a large square of black felt inside a wooden frame. She’s set it on an easel at the front of the classroom. There are felt numbers and letters, and different shapes, even felt apples and oranges. Miss Bledsoe is putting red apples onto the black felt. Now, class, she says, tell me how many apples I have in all.

Lucy knows there are five, but she doesn’t raise her hand. She doesn’t want to talk out loud. She whispers five to herself so softly only she can hear it. 

Five, five! Jimmy shouts, raising his arm in the air and leaning forward. 

Right, Jimmy. But remember I need to call on you before you answer. Now, I’m taking away three of the apples, announces Miss Bledsoe, and she removes them from the board. How many are left? 

Lucy gazes at Miss Bledsoe. She is so young and pretty, with her wavy dark hair and her pale smooth skin. She reminds Lucy of Snow White.

Miss Bledsoe is wearing a tailored white blouse edged in lace. It’s tucked into her trim red skirt. There is a thin ribbon matching the color of the skirt, tied into a loose bow underneath the collar. She wishes her mother would dress up like Miss Bledsoe and that she could be gentle and pretty like her. She wonders if her mother had ever been at all like Miss Bledsoe… . . Now Mrs. Bledsoe is looking straight at her, and she is saying something. Lucy startles and looks up at Miss Bledsoe’s soft brown eyes. 

"Luuuu–-cy are you listening? I asked you a question," says Miss Bledsoe in a smooth, honeyed voice.

Lucy realizes that Miss Bledsoe is irritated. It is easy to guess; the way she said her name, the Luuu, stretched out like that. She is trying to cover it up, though. She is trying to be nice. Somehow, this makes Lucy feel even worse.

Lucy stares back at Miss Bledsoe, her eyes wide, but she says nothing. Then she looks down at her lap. Her cheeks flush pink, and a lump forms inside her throat. 

Now, Lucy, How many would I have left?

Lucy doesn’t know what Miss Bledsoe is talking about. She had been thinking about Miss Bledsoe and her mother but not listening. She stares back at her teacher. Lucy feels her eyes getting heavy and watery - but she won’t dare cry.

Can’t you answer me, Lucy? If you can’t, then maybe Sally can. Mrs. Bledsoe averted her eyes from Lucy and addressed Sally, a girl with black hair on the other side of the room. 

Lucy looks down again at her lap and the pattern on her dress, a dark green plaid that her mother had ordered from the Sears catalogue. The blue and the red lines intersect with the dark green ones, running back and forth and up and down the fabric. Lucy follows the lines across her skirt, first the blue, then the red, then the green. It helps to have something to look at, something that is hers. She had tried on the dress at least two times before school started. She is familiar with the intersecting lines. Back and forth, up and down. They are predictable and somehow comforting. 

She is aware that the other kids have been looking at her. They probably think that she is stupid. Even Jimmy stared and stopped wriggling when Miss Bledsoe spoke to her. Lucy is so ashamed that she can’t concentrate for the rest of the afternoon. Miss Bledsoe and her classmates seem far away. Lucy is alone, clinging to her desk as if it were an island in the Atlantic Ocean.

When school is over, Lucy starts for home with an odd feeling in her stomach. It’s a gnawing, hollow feeling. It’s so uncomfortable that she can’t wait around for her friend, Joanne. Joanne could be bossy sometimes, besides. If she sees Joanne later, she will tell her she was sick. Is that Joanne waving at her? The girl looks like she might have red hair, like Joanne. But Lucy can’t wait today. Instead, she pretends she doesn’t see her.

She turns and runs. Her green tights feel warm and wet suddenly. An errant drop of urine trickles down the inside of her left leg. But the ruffled hemline of the plaid dress flounces in rhythm to her every step.

Lucy, Remembering June 1968

I was eleven, I think, or thereabouts. School had ended the day before, and I was beginning my first day of summer vacation. I must have awoken early. Even then, I enjoyed the quiet early hours of the morning. With a faint thrill, I realized that today belonged to me. No school. With a light heart and in good humor, I descended the stairs to the kitchen after washing my face and combing my long brown hair. Dressed in shorts and a short-sleeved polo shirt, I was neat, clean, and fresh, anticipating a leisurely breakfast. I would plan my day as I ate.

I entered the kitchen and pulled open the refrigerator door. We had one of those new modern models with skinny, vertically aligned side-to-side doors. It was finished in avocado green. I scanned the contents, searching for the jam.

First, I looked behind the gallon jug of Dutchess brand 2%milk on the top shelf and then slid three quart-size Bell jars to the side. No jam. The jars held an unidentifiable opaque beige liquid. Behind one of them, I spied a block of cheddar cheese wrapped in the waxed paper saved from a box of cereal. The cheese must have been misplaced, I figured. Usually, it would have been deposited in the egg container on the door to avoid scavenging children.

I turned my eyes to the middle shelf, where I looked past sundry plates and bowls covered in other assorted pieces of rescued waxed paper. The plates probably held unconsumed tablespoonfuls of the week’s various dinners. I didn’t bother to peek underneath the wrappings. My eyes then traveled to the