what mommy knew

+++When Apple was told how babies got made, he stared at Father Piano wide-eyed a moment, then demanded incredulously: “Does Mommy know about this?”
+++All through dark January, Cady kept her FM radio playing as she went about her tasks, straining for lightness of heart. She expected joy in greater increments, in this present time and not some future promised state only. She kept returning to her memory of Baryshnikov in the film Turning Point, soaring in arcs of gravity-free grace.
+++Once a month, lady visiting teachers from church would settle into her living room armchairs with nothing much to say. Cady posed polite questions to draw them out, but when the answers were brief and followed by further silence, she began talking herself, only to feel chagrined later that she had spoken too forcefully about women’s issues. “You talk to relieve the tedium,” Pen complained, “but that just makes them stay longer.”
+++At a women’s gathering in Boston, she spoke briefly to Sonia Johnson, now locked into remorseless dispute with priesthood leaders over her militant feminism, and urged her to accept what was true and eternal in their shared beliefs, and distinguish that faith from the sometimes disappointing church and its leaders.
+++She mailed a clean version of her play Saints in Boston to Stake leaders, but when they called a meeting to discuss major re-writes requested by a potential director for the show, Cady thought about it, discussed it with Pen, got mad finally and refused to work with this theater man who felt unkindly toward her work, and ended up agreeing to direct the play herself. Pen contemplated this new call on his time, as he struggled to finish graduate school, but remained strongly loyal to the project. Cady woke one Saturday night and heard him ill and vomiting in the bathroom, but the next morning he dragged on to Church to teach his Elders Quorum lesson as scheduled.
+++At home, Cady’s notions of housekeeping were relaxing, as she came to accept halfway states of orderliness. She felt a ping of joy at just tossing a threadbare blouse missing a button into the trash. She moved her papers and diaries and play script to a second desk in the room Pen used for a study, no longer willing to feel limited to the traditional caring role, ready again for a room with an additional view.
+++As time brought its inevitable changes to her family, Cady felt a sharp pang to realize that it would soon come time to wean Weez. Every morning still she lifted from the crib the tense little body in its wet diaper and morning hunger, erect and outraged and clutching at the rail with tiny furious fingers. She plucked that stiff little flower, smelling less than delicate, arranged her under the covers beside her own body, the small bald head and delicate hands quilted and close, and let her nurse contentedly for a half hour. Cady would doze off and then start awake to find the bright flower quizzically studying her face. It was with only regret that she contemplated offering up this companion daughter to the rowdier breakfast forum of oatmeal and common hubbub among the bigger Pianos.
 
JUNIOR PIANO
+++All day, Mother Piano rushed from job to job. She drove everyone to lessons, taught Sunday school class and weight watchers, kept house. The boys wanted to make applesauce, so she helped them peel, core and mash. There was a lonely woman in the Ward, so she made enough tuna casserole for supper to take over an extra plate and visit a while. She gave the family home evening lesson amidst a ruckus of hollering when Father Piano determined to crack down on errant hijinks and force-held Cam in her chair.
+++She worked on the play and each night ran new edits of scene re-writes over to Viola to type. When the pages came back torn by ill-fitted keys, Cady rented her a better typewriter. She borrowed stencils and tried lettering several posters professionally enough to advertise for auditions. One morning after packing the boys off to school, she bundled the three girls and hurried to the downtown library to hunt old photos of Boston street scenes for building an authentic stage set. She took the first pictures that looked usable and raced for the car with baby in arms and Cat and Cam dragging behind, fearful that Fox would arrive from morning kindergarten to a locked house. If she zoomed home, she would be just a little late and would make up to him for hurt feelings. Stomping on the gas, she flooded the engine. In a panic, she imagined a tearful Fox. Unbuckling the girls, she jogged them to a pay phone up the block to call a neighbor. No answer, so back they rushed, strapped in again, and retried the ignition. No start. Back to the phone booth at a run. This time the neighbor answered, kindly stepped next door and after a moment reported back that she had located Fox, hanging around the Piano yard but without a care in his heart at being locked out.
+++January crawled on, sometimes seeming cold and cruel, until Cady had to remind herself: “I know that old feeling of brightness is still somewhere inside.” She pushed on.