An Unwelcome Intrusion

The earliest recollection I have of my life is the day I got a red balloon.  I don't recall the date.  I was probably four years old.  That would make it nineteen fifty-two.  I rarely got gifts.  That's likely why it stays so clear in my mind.  I remember scrambling out of the station wagon as soon as my mother stopped in our driveway.  I was eager to run through the piles of dry leaves while the beautiful sphere tugged at the ribbon attached to my wrist.  The red and gold hues accumulated in restless piles that stirred even as I rushed to scamper through them.  The wind grabbed at my treasure.  I held on tightly.  The shiny gift was mine.  No one was going to get it away from me.

"Lucy," my mother called.

I was too busy to answer.

"Come on Lucy.  We're running late.  Daddy will be mad."

That got my attention.  I looked toward the stoop.  My mother was struggling with the storm door.  The bundles she was juggling were about to topple.

"I'm coming Mama."

I was anxious to get to her and help.  I knew how angry papa could get if we were late.

My short legs propelled me along as quickly as they could.  It wasn't fast enough.  Just as Mama pulled the door open both grocery bags fell.  I reached the top step as the sound of glass breaking told me we'd be in big trouble.  Trembling took over.  Tears came to my eyes.  I pushed my way past my mother.  In my haste I tripped.  My balloon escaped.  It floated into the living room.  I skittered after it.  The floor lamp was directly in my path.  It didn't matter.  My precious gift was in danger.  I had to reach it.  I jumped to snare the ribbon.  I missed.  The lamp went crashing to the floor.  The tinkling noise the breaking globe made actually sounded pleasant.  Then came the heavy footsteps.  I froze.  As the thudding came closer I turned frightened eyes to my mother.  I saw her standing frozen.

Gertrude Grumbach didn't bend to retrieve the groceries.  She didn't move to help me.  She held her breath.  We hadn't gotten home from shopping before Herman.  Now we'd be punished.

The thumping of Herman's heavy steps stopped as Gertrude raised her foot to step over the debris left from the accident.  His rumbling voice was amplified by the length of the entry hall.  "What the hell's going on?  Why weren't you here when I got home?"

Gertrude remained silent.

Only my whimpering answered my father.

"Shut up," Herman growled.

I tried to stop sobbing.

I watched Mama sink to her knees to retrieve the purchases that were now sopping up the milk as it formed puddles around the bags.

Herman's large form seemed to fill the hallway.

To me, he appeared like an ogre from a fairy tale.  I squeezed my eyes tightly shut trying to erase the sight of him.

I heard my mother whisper, "I'm sorry.  I dropped the groceries."

Herman moved toward the door.