“I do, do, do,” said Mom.

Mom complains that she does a hell of a lot for me and my thankless sisters. I don’t quite get what she does for me. I always do a lot for her. At least, it seems that way to me.

I’m in a dark devil place.

I scowl at a sickly-yellow-colored food stamp with an image of General Washington, Benjamin Franklin, John Adams, and Thomas Jefferson, as they proudly sign the Declaration of Independence.

I wish I could sign my independence from Mom’s power over me.

I hate, hate, hate this inner commotion of devil and angel where I can’t disobey her.

I wish the government’s Secretary of Agriculture and the Welfare department could figure out something else for Mom besides these stupid food stamps that we use to put food on our lousy table.

Food stamps. Mom’s safety net to make sure we eat well, except, well, she proudly hates using them. She hates, hates, hates, being on Welfare. She works under the table, in an Italian restaurant’s kitchen in Darien. At the same time, she collects Welfare. She got the job through her cousin Lucia, and does this so she can pay for our Catholic school tuition at St. Mary’s, and to get the hell off of Welfare. God forbid if the Welfare department found out. I worry about that.

At eleven-years-old, I know what food stamps can buy. Wonder bread, Cheerios, a gallon of milk, a dozen eggs, bananas, a head of lettuce, and chop meat for meatballs. It doesn’t cover the red carton of Pall Mall cigarettes with the rich flavor that rolls down the
check-out counter, but Mom needs those. Good thing Uncle Pippi’s garden subsidizes our table with tomatoes, peppers, green beans, squash, basil, cucumbers, and sweet corn.

“Here, Jeanne, pay the lady,” said Mom. She hands me the food stamp coupon book, then turns away to pack the groceries in brown, paper bags. Mom won’t give the food stamps to the cashier at Grade A Market, where we grocery shop, in Shippan.

Scrutinize, evaluate, judge her poverty level, wonder how she made a poor choice in a husband by saying “I do.” She worked too damn hard to hold a bad marriage together, made a poor choice to have four children, a poor choice that put her in this embarrassing spot of her battle.

Now, it’s subsidize your food, your rent, your life.

Mom’s black, wavy hair falls to the side of her face as she works. She won’t look at me. I don’t look at the cashier as I hand the book over.

“Put the eggs on top, Barbara. So they don’t break,” said Mom as my sister helps pack.

“Okay, Ma,” said Barb. She sniffs a loaf of Italian bread with her D’Arrigo nose.

“Don’t make such a commotion,” said Mom to my little sister, Maria, as she squabbles over who gets to open a bag of lollipops.

We carry the groceries to the car. I carry Mom’s fear, shame, sadness. Pain is the rent I pay as it permeates my skin, like a tomato turned black, with putty peel as flesh turns to rot.

St. Mary’s towers catty-corner, across the street from Grade A Market. I feel better just seeing my church and school. In church, at my next confession, I’ll pray for God to forgive my dark devil. As I sit on a wooden pew, I’ll look into Mother Mary’s eyes on the icon hanging above my head. Mother Mary will look right back at me.