TOUCH THEE NOT

To me, a curious eight year old, my mother’s dresser was a treasure chest. Many times when she wasn’t home I explored its drawers, its cabinet. It was my grown up Pretend Land, a place Mother didn’t know I visited. In the corner of a narrow drawer was a finely woven straw box that held her silk stockings, the ones that had runs in them. She thought Dad didn’t know she wore them under long skirts, but I did. Being careful not to rip them more, all I wanted to do was feel silk on my legs. It didn’t work out like I thought. My toe nails caught on it and I ripped a huge hole in the top. Rolled up, it fit into my panties so I could squeeze it into the outside trash can without Mother missing it. Whew, I felt relieved.

On top of her bureau, sitting like a queen’s crown, was Mother’s jewelry box, a box I could reach. The diamond clip that Mother wore on her only ball gown looked beautiful on my pink sweater–until the pin opened and the clip hit the wooden floor. I saw something glittery on the scatter rug next to Mother’s bed and knew it came out of the pin. I also knew I couldn’t fix it. Two choices were clear. #1 was admit I was in Mother’s room, playing with her jewelry, and I had an accident. #2 I could return the pin to the jewelry box and not say a word. Back into the box it went and out of the room went I.

Had that taught me not to snoop? NO. I had noticed a metal box underneath a long flannel nightgown that I had never seen before. What was in it? Why was it hidden? It made no noise when I shook it but I felt something move. My small hand was not strong enough to open it and I had to leave it alone.

It was an ugly, rainy day in April and Mother was out for her bridge game all afternoon. Marcelene, the day worker, was busy cleaning the ice box, washing the kitchen linoleum, not paying attention to me. Once in a while, she shouted up the stair well, ‘You o.k., Gloria?’ and I would yell as loud as I could. ‘Yes.’ On that rainy day I made a big mistake. Mother’s make-up drawer had tempted me for a long time. I gave in and slid it open. Her big box of bath powder was closed tight. There were brown and black pencils, an eye lash curler and a fancy box of her almost used up red, red lipsticks. ‘Marcelene,’ I called. ‘Can I play Indians?’ She gave me her permission as long as I didn’t break anything. I took the longest red lipstick I could find and 2 pencils and started making designs all over my face and neck. I zigged the pencils, made dots and circles around my eyes as I watched in the bureau mirror. I was ready. My war paint was on and I whooped and I hollered, I jumped on the bed and I fell down. Lipstick and black lines got all over the chenille bed spread.

Mother called to me. ‘Gloria, I’m home. Come down. Mrs. Goldman gave me a large ball of multicolored wool and two knitting needles for you. I’ll teach you how to knit.’ I didn’t answer Mother. ‘‘Gloria, come down here or I’m coming up!’ I didn’t answer. Mother’s scream brought Marcelene running up the stairs. Mother grabbed me by my pigtails without saying anything. She pulled me into the bathroom, took an old clean towel out of the linen closet, told me to hold it tight over my eyes while she scrubbed my face hard with yellow Octagon floor soap.It burned. My face was on fire. ‘Stop it, Big Chief Insane Child. Close that mouth of yours or the soap will go in there. Stop squirming! Wait until your father hears what you did. This wash is nothing compared to what he will do to you.’

Dad listened while Mother talked and I cried. He rolled up the morning paper and whipped my tush with it. With a stern face and his Papa Bear deep voice he took away my weekly 25 cent allowance for six months.‘Mother, Gloria didn’t mean to do damage. I’ll give you her allowance and you will have enough to buy a new blanket, and you, Child, stay out of our bedroom.’

Of course, I didn’t, but I was more careful. There was that one round metal box that I couldn’t open. It ate me up. I did open it when I was 11 and strong enough. There was a big rubber thing inside, wrapped in soft tan chamois. Why did Mother keep that thing hidden? What was it for? Carefullly I closed the tin box, put it back under a satin night gown, and still didn’t know what it was. I never mentioned it to my mother or to anyone but you.

If you can even guess, please put a 6 cent airmail stamp on a letter to me. If it sounds okay and logical, I may ask my old mother about it.My address is Mrs. Dru Ferguson, 1012 S. Michigan Dr., Michigan.

Thanks.