CHAPTER 1

June 10, 1972

Saturday

It was summer, so there was no school, but Monday Wilkes was already out of bed. She never knew if she would be the first one awake, but her chances were better if she were. She stood in the middle of the bedroom for a few moments, listening for the sounds of her mother moving around. How many other nine-year-old girls have to do this? she wondered. Is she awake already, too? What kind of mood is she in? All the girl heard was the ticking of the hot water heater on the other side of the wall. She might be safe for now.

She turned quietly and made her bed. She tucked in the corners and placed the throw pillows just so.  Then she chose a dress from the closet that didn’t look too terribly worn, put it on, spit-shined her shoes, combed her straight black hair, and pulled it back with a green headband. Today wasn’t anything special. She just always tried to get everything right to start with.

She walked as quietly as possible past Peanut’s bed, but the floorboards were creakier than they had ever been. Peanut, just now five years old, was tangled in his bed sheets, one arm behind him, one hanging off the bed. He snored like an old man.

Monday walked out of the bedroom she shared with her little brother, down the short hallway, and turned into the kitchen. Her heart sank. Her mother was already up. She was standing at the counter, looking at a plate of scrambled eggs and toast.

"Well, well," her mother said without looking at her. "Look who’s finally up. What time is it, Little Miss Lazy?"

"Seven," she replied.

"No," said her mother, "it is ten minutes after seven. The day is half gone already." That struck Monday as odd, since her mother sometimes stayed in bed until early afternoon.  "Of course, you don’t care that I made you breakfast and now it’s cold." She dumped the eggs and toast into the sink. "If you don’t care enough to get up in time to eat what I made, I suppose you don’t want it at all. How’s that?"

"Yes, ma’am." It was all she could think to say. Now her mother looked at her.

"I suppose now you think I’m a terrible mother, because I just threw your breakfast away. Is that what you think?" She wasn’t yelling, but the words felt loud. "Is that what you and your father talk about after I’ve gone to bed? Well you can think that all you want, but you are the one who ruined my life, and I’m still paying for it. Nobody seems to care about that." She threw the empty plate to the floor, but it bounced off the kitchen rug and didn’t break. She stomped on it, and it cracked, and she went into her bedroom and slammed the door.

It was now 7:12 a.m., and Monday was already exhausted. She could tell by how clearly she could hear the birds that the front door was open. That meant that Daddy was outside on the steps. She walked across the hardwood floor of the living room and pushed on the screen door, but not on the screen itself, because that would make it come out, and it would be one more thing for Mama to be mad about. Monday’s father was sitting on the porch, his feet on the bottom of the three steps. She sat next to him.

"I heard," he said. He shook his head as he dug a good pinch of tobacco from a pouch of Middleton’s Cherry Blend and stuffed it into the bowl of his battered Dr. Grabow pipe. "I’m sorry, " he said. Monday knew there was nothing else to say. She remembered the days, a long time ago, when he would try to rescue her. It always made her mother even angrier, and then she would really “go on the warpath,” as her daddy said. Most of the time, like now, her mother blew up like an afternoon thunderstorm and it was over so fast that he couldn’t have saved her from it anyway. So, over the years, they had fallen into a defeated pattern of keeping their heads down as low as they could and trying not to aggravate the situations any more than they already were. It was a terrible way to live, but it was the only way they knew.

Her daddy tamped the tobacco down into the bowl with the head of a sixteen penny nail and repeated the process until the fragrant black and brown strings rose in a mound just above the brim of the pipe’s bowl. He struck a match, put the pipe to his mouth, and drew in as he moved the match around in a lazy circle over the tobacco. The tobacco rose a little as it burned red for an instant, then uncurled and settled back down. This was what Daddy called the "false light." He tamped it down again, and, using the same still-burning match, gave the bowl its "true light." The flame flipped downward with every intake of his breath, and then came Monday’s favorite part. The first billows of smoke that rose from the pipe and came from Daddy’s exhale were her favorite thing in life. The smoke rose and curled, creamy and blue, and in its burning cherry aroma, she felt safe.

Daddy watched the cloud move along, drew again on the pipe, and let it out slow. "I’m sorry you have to hear all that. No child should ever hear her mother say things like that. You okay?" Monday shrugged, watched the smoke drift into ringlets. "I wish you could have known her. Before,” he said.

Monday liked to hear what her Mama was like before. It helped her picture what life might be like if she was ever nice again. "Tell me again, Daddy."

"Sweetheart, your mama was something else. You look just like she did at your age, except with darker hair. I didn’t know her then, but I saw the pictures before she tore them all up. Deep red hair, flawless skin the color of fresh cream. Eyes so dark you could get lost in them. And a smile to change the world. She was always laughing. At first I thought she was too silly for me, but then I found that I liked myself better when she laughed, even when she laughed at me. And what was the silliest moment we ever had?"

"When you named me."

"When we named you." He struck another match and lit the pipe again. A fresh pillar of smoke rose out of it. Monday knew he would have to do that a number of times until the coals inside the bowl were burning on their own, but each time, the smoke was dense and smooth and sweet. "They called me in from the waiting room,” he continued, “and your Mama was holding you in her arms. Her hair was damp, she was whiter than ever, and there were tears in her eyes and this big old smile on her face. She was so beautiful." He put his arm around Monday, drew her close, and looked down at her. "’What are we gonna name her?’ she says to me. ’What do you mean?’ I said. ’Doris, after your mama, right?’ And your mama frowned and laughed at the same time. ’Naw,’ she says, ’Does she look like a Doris to you? No, she’s prettier than that.’ ’What, then?’ I said. And she said..."

"Monday."

"Monday. And why Monday?"

"Because it was a beautiful Monday in August, and I was a beautiful little baby."

"That’s it," Daddy said. "Simple as that. Monday Augusta Wilkes. Silliest moment ever."

"Until you named your son Peanut."

Daddy wriggled his fingers into Monday’s sides and she laughed and squirmed. "What? Such disrespect!" He smiled and spoke through the pipe clenched in his teeth. "What’s your brother’s name?" he demanded. "Tell me or I’ll tickle harder!"

"No!" laughed Monday. "Don’t! Ahh!"

"Vas ist ze leetle one’s name, small American spy! Vas is it?"

"Stephen!" Monday chortled. "It’s Stephen! You’re gonna make me pee!" Daddy stopped the tickling, but feinted toward her, pretending that he would do it again.

"Yep. But the first time you saw him, he was wrapped in a tan blanket, and all that was showing was his face, and it was kind of red cause he was trying to do his business, and you said he looked like a peanut."

"I was only four."

"Yeah, but you were a funny four. And that, my lady, was our second silliest moment."  He lit the pipe again, and when Monday looked up at him, she saw the tears brimming in his eyes. One broke out and rolled down.  He tried to hide it, but Monday didn’t mind. It helped her to not feel alone. He gazed through the pine trees and out at the lake, like he was looking into the past. "I miss her," he said. "I sure do miss her."

Monday linked her arm in his and followed his gaze to the lake.

“And one day, when I can walk better again, I’ll protect you and Peanut better. Swear to God.”"

At that very moment, a five-year-old boy launched himself directly onto his Daddy’s head from behind. Daddy yelled in mock surprise, grabbed him from over the shoulder, and flipped him upside down until the boy was sitting on the step between his knees. Peanut was barefooted, as usual, and all he had on was this month’s pair of overalls, with one strap buttoned over his left shoulder. None of the other buttons were serving any function at all. "Hey!" shouted Peanut. "What’re y’all talking about?"

"We are talking," said Daddy, "about what we are gonna do about a particular little boy who won’t take his bath before he goes to bed! You are stanky, little man!"

"Know what else I am?" asked Peanut.

"What?" said Daddy.

"I’m haaaungry!"

"You’re haungry? What kind of word is that?"

"It’s my kind of word!"

"Well, I guess that’ll just have to do, then.  Come on, I’ll fix you both some breakfast." He motioned to something on the other side of Monday. "Hand me my cane, there, honey, and you pull me up, Peanut, but don’t use all your strength or I’ll go flying."

Monday passed her Daddy his cane, and Peanut pulled with all of his might. Daddy didn’t really need it, but it made Peanut feel strong. He turned around and made his way up the stairs one at a time, with four small hands doing their best to help him.