Worthy Witness

“Janie, Ja..nie, J..a..nie,” each time my mother called me, my name sounded different, the pitch changed and the urgency of her call was punctuated by the number of syllables.  I was hidden in the crotch of our old Apple tree, in the midst of perfumed blossoms permeating the junkyard air that May morning.  I had my book, The Boxcar Children, and was trying to concentrate on the story rather than the hum of bees around me.  It was a typical Saturday; all my sisters were helping with chores, and I was living a fantasy.  The boys were already out on the truck with Dad.

I thought about my long talk with Sister Mary Alice after school yesterday, and how she helped me to think of ways that I could get along with my sister, Regina.  So far, none of them had worked.  We share a room, and this morning Regina hung a sheet as a dividing line, saying she could no longer live with my mess.  Dad came running when he heard hammering on the plaster ceiling, and he blamed me.  I get blamed for everything.  My mother says it is my smirk.  I’ve tried to change it into a smile for months now, but it doesn’t work.

If the room incident wasn’t bad enough, at breakfast, my brother Larry told me if I took his bike again, he would murder me.  My mother didn’t even bat an eyelash.  I whined and said that my bike had blown a tire.  Looking him square in the eye over stacks of pancakes, I asked, “Why can’t I use it?  You’re going to be working all day.”  I must have hit a nerve, because that’s when he reached across the pancakes and tried to grab me.  I was a champion runner these days, mostly out of necessity, and I slammed out of the screen door, down the back stairs and disappeared into the adjacent junkyard, climbing into the tree for cover.  My book was already there.  My books were everywhere; always prepared for a hasty retreat.  I was sad, though, I hadn’t eaten any pancakes.

Hunger got the best of me, and when I thought Larry had left with Dad, I picked a bouquet of the apple blossoms, put on what I believed was a contrite face, and walked into the house.  I had forgotten that Regina was setting up the little May altar to the Blessed Virgin, and when she came towards me, I thought it was me and not the flowers she wanted.  Anticipating her wrath, I grit my teeth, holding the look I hoped was not a smirk, and offered her the bouquet.  She accepted, and we both went to the little sanctuary that already held deep purple, French lilacs.  We both knelt in awe and unity; our silence a source of temporary and blessed peace.