TIME BETWEEN TIMES

	by 

	KATHLEEN SPECK




	My mother sits at the sewing machine.  Sun shining through the window,
 turns her cigarette smoke into a golden glowing column.  Another column, less
 dense, rises from the blue clay coffee cup beside the ashtray.  The machine chugs
 through the patches and knees of my brother's pants; grass stains and holes of
 freedom hidden in their little patch tombs.  
	I stand at the ironing board, pins and iron at the ready.  First, I fold
 1/4 inch down all around the bottom edge of my new babydoll pajamas, pinching the
 material hard between my fingers to keep it in place.  Then, I open the three
 previous seams and iron them flat, iron the 1/4-inch fold all the way around.  
 Mistakes are not allowed.

	She gets up to turn on the TV.  It is noon -- time for "General Hospital."
 Steve Hardy, Jessie and the crew provide an interesting distraction to her boring
 life. 
	Pins.  All in a neat little row along the hem of the tops of the pajamas. 
 I am careful to keep everything precise.  It is essential.
	The bottoms lie in a small neat pile of pieces next to me.  They are my
 next project.   
	The phone rings.  I know it's my dad.  At twelve o'clock, it's always my
 dad.
	"Well, get it!" she barks.
	I walk over to the phone and answer it.  "Hi, Dad."
	"How did you know it was me?"
	"Well, you always--"
	"Hey!  Let me talk to your mom, will you?  I've only got a minute."
	"Mom, he wants to talk to you."
	She pushes back her chair in irritation, it screeches across the linoleum. 
 She stands and snatches the phone from my hand.
	I walk back to the ironing board, and stare at the TV.  I don't want to
 hear what she is saying.  Her voice gets louder, she is angry.  I retreat to the
 bathroom.  I don't want to be accused of eavesdropping when they fight.  The
 toilet flushing drowns out her voice.
	After I'm sure it is safe, I open the door and listen.  It is quiet.  I
 come out to get a glass of water.
	Suddenly, my mother yells, "Okay, I'll do it!" and the phone slams down.
 Startled, I drop the glass.  It shatters.
	"Now what?" my mother growls.
	"I dropped my glass," I call over my shoulder.  "I'm cleaning it up!" 
 I dig the broom out of the closet, and glimpse a shadow moving toward me.
	She sighs.  "This is just what I need.  I'm never going to get anything
 done," she grumbles.
	Instantly a sheen of sweat covers me, my stomach lurches, and I turn back
 to the mess.  Picking up the large pieces, I throw them into the trash.
	"Get it done," she says in a low, cold voice.
	"Okay."
	"Now!" 
	I already know I'm going to get hit.  The only thing I can do is put it
 off for a short time.
	As I sweep, I apologize.  "Mom, I'm really sorry.  It just slipped out of
 my hand."
	Quickly, I sweep a pile ready for the trash.  When I reach for the dustpan,
 my mother snatches away the broom.  
	"You're ten years old!  By now you should know how to clean up a mess." 
 She starts to sweep.  I can't decide whether to leave or stay; both are perilous.
 The broom handle swings and smacks me on the cheek.  It knocks off my glasses. 
 They fall to the floor.
	"Oh, dear.  I am sorry," she says putting her hand to her cheek with mock
 sincerity.  "Here.  Let me get them for you."  She bends and suddenly kicks them
 out into the living room.  They spin across the floor coming to rest next to the
 ironing board.  "Oh, I seem to have missed.  I guess you'll have to get them
 yourself."
	Squeezing against the counter, I slide by her, trying not to step on the
 shards.  I don't want to be accused of tracking the slivers of glass.  
	I cross the living room and bend down to pick them up.  I hear my mother
 come out of the kitchen.  I start to stand, but her foot plants itself in my
 crotch, and flying forward, I knock down the ironing board.  The iron crashes to
 the floor, breaking.  Hot water spurts out, burning my hand and the linoleum.  
	"You stupid girl!" she screams.  I scramble up, run into the bathroom, and
 hold my scalded hand under the cold water, all the while listening for her to come
 down the hall.
	Footsteps...then nothing.  She listens at the door.  I wait, terrified for
 her to go.  Footsteps.  Is she gone?  Is she in her room?
	I open the door and wait.  She's not there, but I feel her rage.
	It pulses.
	Thick and hot, heavy through the air.   
	Throbbing through the house, it enters my veins and my head.  Giant
 heartbeats, wave after wave, chase me down the hall.  I rush to the kitchen and
 the escape of the back door.
	Oh, God!  She's right in front of me.  I freeze.
	"So.  You thought you could run away.  Did it help?"
	I shake my head.
	She mimics me and speaks.  "No!  It didn't.  I thought you would have
 learned by now.  Running only makes it worse."  She stops, lifts her chin and
 looks away, just for an instant.  Suddenly, she swings back to me and thrusts
 her face up to mine.  She opens her mouth, and I flinch from the caffeine- and
 nicotine-stained teeth at my nose.  Starting low, her voice builds to a deafening
 roar.  "I want you to know that I'm REALLY ANGRY!  I'm so angry I could beat you
 to within an inch of your miserable little life!"  Her voice turns my bowels to
 mush.
	I try to watch her eyes, blue - splinters of ice radiating from the pupils;
 her eyes are the keys to it all.  Our eyes lock for a moment.  She yells again.
 "Don't you look at me like that!"  I'm stuck, locked in a gaze I can't break.
 She can stop it, though.  She slaps my cheek, forcing me to look away.
	"Who d'you think you are?  Trying to throw guilt at me?"  A muscle jumps
 beneath her right eye.  "Well!  It's not going to work, you little piece of shit.
 All your sneaky tricks--and I haven't even hurt you--yet."  Glancing away, she
 reaches for the nearest weapon -- a metal spatula.  I take an involuntary step
 back.
	There is no pain yet.  I will not feel that for a long time.  Fear keeps it
 away.  Tears form in my eyes - a fatal mistake.  She peers at my face.  "Crying?
  I'll give you something to cry about."  She raises her hand, the one with the
 spatula.
	It seems to come up slowly.  Like all I need to do is reach out and pluck
 it from the air.  I know I can move much faster.  My hand rises, but I'm moving
 just as slow.
	Escape!
	My head turns towards the curtains on the kitchen door.  The words printed
 on the orange and yellow fabric jump out at me.  "Never Underestimate The Power Of
 A Woman."  I don't.
	My eyes close.  I hear the whistle of the spatula through the air on its
 downward journey.
	Standing there, I begin my escape.  The only escape possible.  The whistle
 of the spatula changes.  It's transformed into the whisper of wind through the
 branches of trees.  My hair flicks across my cheeks as damp, cool breezes waft
 around me.  Suddenly, there is more light.  Shadows dancing on my eyelids tell
 of trees around me.  Cool slickness of linoleum gives way to cool yielding
 softness of winter rye grass.  The sun warms my face as I stand and wait for the
 blow.
	Time seems to have slowed.  Cautiously, very carefully, I open my eyes. 
 First just a slit...the light is golden!  The needles on the cholla in front of
 me glow in the light of a slowly setting sun.  As I turn, I see cottonwoods
 clinging to their last few leaves.  A jackrabbit crouches nearby.  He watches,
 waiting to see if I am going to give chase, then goes back to his nibbling,
 unconcerned.  In the distance, the gentle music of water running over rocks calls
 to me.  Heedless of the stickers and thorns lying on the ground, I walk toward the
 sound.  As I crawl over a small embankment, the sound and smell of the water grow
 stronger.  
	Below, the coppery water slides and giggles over smooth river stones.
 Jumping, I float down to the water.  My feet enter without causing a ripple.  It's
 cold, soothing to the touch.
	The sun's last golden rays light my way.  I wander along the edge of the
 little river, kicking up small waves.  There are no fish, but little water bugs
 skate in the shallows.  They scatter as I approach.  As I walk by, doves startle
 out of the sage bushes, filling the air with whickering in their flight.
	"Pay attention!"  Her scream slices the air.  I shake my head.
	Pain erupts.  Grabbing my ribs, I stagger and fall into the water. 
 Caressing me, it carries me along.  Somehow, the pain fades.  
	The water tugs me.  Gentle, insistent, the river pulls me, moving me down
 the stream.  I float on my back, ears under the water.  Gurgling, then roaring,
 the water pushes and pulls until I am jammed against a rock.  I lift my head.
	"I said pay attention!"  The words shrill across the valley.  I dive.  The
 ribs on my other side explode in pain.  The cool water soothes them.  I swim to
 the far side.
	I float for a long time.  All my fears and pain slide from me into the
 water.  I want to float forever.  
	The river broadens, the water moves much faster.  Between them, the current
 and the cold are too much for me.  I swim for shore.
	Getting out, I walk to a stand of mesquite, sit under the low-hanging
 branches and rest my head on my knees.  I'm wet.  The breeze gets stronger, and
 my body chills as the water evaporates from my clothes.  Suddenly, the spatula
 lands.  My right shoulder is on fire.  Blood seeps down, warming my arm.
	Smack!  My head jerks to the side.  My ears ring and my head hurts.  I
 start to dry out, but the cold has numbed my shoulder. 
	The light fades.  I lift my head and open my eyes, hoping to stay; I don't
 want to go home.  I am disappointed.  I am sitting on the kitchen floor.  I can
 see my mother's back.  She turns and points to the doorway.
	"Go.  Get out of here."  She slumps, clearly tired.  "I don't want to see
 you anymore." 
	I lurch to my feet, and stumble towards the door.  My head aches, and I'm
 dizzy.  I slam into the doorway, and run to my room.  I lie curled up on the bed
 and silently, I cry.  I'm dry, and my body hurts.  
	From a distance, I hear my mother attaching little patch tombs to the knees
 of my brother's pants.  I fall asleep dreaming of cottonwoods.