[DOWNLOAD] "Milk Teeth." by New Orleans Review * Book PDF Kindle ePub Free

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eBook details

• Title: Milk Teeth.
• Author : New Orleans Review
• Release Date : January 01, 2007
• Genre: Language Arts & Disciplines,Books,Professional & Technical,Education,
• Pages : * pages
• Size : 156 KB

Description

Then it is spring. After Easter Faye and Dolorie say, We have made up our minds, we are going to fetch Brother Fig from San Francisco to bring him back to Nazareth and set him on the straight path. There's nothing we can do about your momma but there's someone we can save and that's Fig. They send us to stay with their church friend Molly for those two weeks and we learn what it is to be poor: outhouse--poor, dirt--floor poor. Molly brushes our hair and says kind things about Lise, who she knew at Nazareth Junior High before Lise ran off with that joiner to Eufaula, the joiner that is Poug's father and my maybe--father, but we are so miserably hungry, us five, so sticky and filthy in the sudden May heat that we can hardly stand it. We whine softly like dogs, for doughnuts like Dolorie makes on Sundays, for a real toilet, to go back to our own house for the night, until Molly cries. Not out and out cries, but stands over her kitchen sink and doesn't hide it from anyone as the tears stream silently down her fat cheeks. The twins, who are five, go to her and wrap their arms around her sausage shaped legs and beg, sorry sorry, but Poug and I, who are older and cunning, sit back and watch, holding hands tight from our place in the corner, and wait. And sure enough, Molly leads us back to our house and puts Poug in charge for the last three days and makes us promise not to tell Faye and Dolorie, and we have won. In my bag is an Elvis record stolen from where I discovered it in Molly's gospel music collection. That night we put it on the record player and set baby Rose on the floor, draw the curtains tight, and dance. We have never danced before for dancing is the devil's work, Dolorie says, it leads to sin. But the rhythm sews into our bones and we say to one another, since there are no men there can be no sin and we grip our hands together and spin, pumping our toes against the floor. That night the living room is a blur of lamp--light and bleeding color, with the sweet voice from a stolen Elvis record soaring above our heads.

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