A Guinea Pig Is Dead

In 1985, we had three daughters. They were 5, 10, and 11. So life was fun, of course. Each daughter had a gerbil. Flopsy, Crumbone and Taylor. Don’t ask me which is which. They are rodents. I broke my leg on a Thursday. In 5 places, trying to ride a bike to the day care Center to pick up the 5-year- old because my Husband had the car, and the police will come Pick up the 5-year-olds who are left after 6. This is California, where everything is weird. My mom who had never flown on a plane, Flew out wearing wings pinned to her bosom on Saturday. It’s a wonder I wasn’t already dead. I was expecting that actually. By evening she had fought the dogs For their cooking pans full of water. These dog-food pans were soon sterilized and cooking spaghetti. And there was garlic bread too, hot, piping, out of an oven or something. Home-made food! My daughters were astounded. They thought food came from Styrofoam with restaurant Names on it. On Tuesday Mom was doing the 18,482 Pieces of laundry we had used the week Before, and she said, “Caren, come over Here.” I hobbled over on my crutches, Which was not easy. “I think a guinea pig is dead,” she whispered. I poked it with a hoe. It did not move. I poked it with a broom. Nothing still. We have to announce this Delicately, my mother said in Hushed tones of reverence. We did not mention it during breakfast. We did not mention it during lunch. My mother kept looking at me expectantly. By supper time after yelling for the three Girls to come downstairs, and being ignored I lost it and yelled, “A GUINEA PIG IS DEAD!” Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. Wailing and keening began. “That was subtle,” my mother told me. Yes, it was.