So B. It: Chapters 1–9

When she first explained it to me, I thought she said she had angora phobia.

Later on I learned that what Bernie had was actually called agoraphobia, not angora phobia, but it still boiled down to the same thing—she didn’t go outside.

If she was reading about Africa, she wouldn’t tell me something boring about irrigation ditches—she’d tell me, “Elephants are the only four-legged animals that can’t jump.”

“I’ll be hornswoggled,” Bernadette said.

She opened the door a crack and saw Mama standing there in her raincoat, her bare legs spattered with dried mud.

There I was, lying on a pillow in the middle of the kitchen floor still wearing that soggy tea towel, bawling with my little fists clenched tight as crab apples, Mama curled up in her raincoat next to me sound asleep.

After each whopping fib, he’d say, “It’s the God’s truth, swear on my mother’s spit,” and I would solemnly nod to let him know I believed every word he had said.

It got easier along the way, except that it was always hard to predict when Mama was going to cook up a rimple or hoist a foible, as Bernie also sometimes called it.

“Exactly,” said Bernadette. “So be it. The end. In my mind the beginning of a life, especially if it seems destined to be a challenging one, deserves the most promising name you can come up with. A beginning kind of a name. Like Dawn. Or Hope. Or Aurora.”

Bernie would stand by the door wringing her hands the whole time we were gone, but Mama and I loved the Double D. We liked to push the cart down the aisles, and to taste the tiny sample cubes of yellow cheese or muffin they sometimes put out on the counters.

On the way home Mama and I held hands and laughed out loud at the pigeons scurrying away from us as we walked.

Bernie was reluctant, but I badgered her until finally she showed me out the window where the bus stop was and gave Mama and me enough change for two round trips.

Bernie was reluctant, but I badgered her until finally she showed me out the window where the bus stop was and gave Mama and me enough change for two round trips.

My search for the truth began in earnest after I had that film developed. The day I came home with the pictures, Bernadette was sitting at the dining-room table looking at a library book about marsupials.

His eyes were beautiful—dark blue, almost black—but his head seemed balanced at an odd angle on top of his thin neck, his mouth contorted in a grimace, which could have been either pain or pleasure, it was hard to tell.

His eyes were beautiful—dark blue, almost black—but his head seemed balanced at an odd angle on top of his thin neck, his mouth contorted in a grimace, which could have been either pain or pleasure, it was hard to tell.

The Santa was extremely tall and thin, and he hadn’t bothered to pad the suit, so it billowed out loosely around the middle.

“You make Mama try. That’s why she can open cans, Bernie, and comb her hair. You make me try too. Cursive, Bernie. Shakespeare, you made me try. That’s all I’m asking you to do. Try.”

After that everything changed. He would never be fat, or dim-witted, in my eyes again. I was only just beginning to see how powerful the truth could be.

“Bernadette, I’m going to Liberty,” I said.
“You? You mean alone?” she said incredulously. “That is totally out of the question. You’re just a baby.”

Judi—she told me she was Judi with an i—didn’t even flinch; she just stood there snapping her gum, saying, “Hey, money is money, man,” and waiting until he finally shoved the ticket through the window at her.

When I told her what I’d done and showed her the ticket, she was livid.

At dinnertime Bernie finally came over and heated up a can of stew. She spooned it onto plates for Mama and me, but she took her own plate back to her place. This time she left the door ajar.

Mama came out of her room still in her nightgown, her hair tangled and matted with sweat.

“Tea, Heidi?” she said, looking at me expectantly.