Frozen Peas

Her mother’s apartment in White Plains smelled of bleach and fried onions. June Bennett stood at the small counter beside the stove, wearing her faded blue cafeteria apron, scouring the yellow laminate with a wet rag. Her right hand moved in firm circles, round and round over the same strip of Formica.

Clara let the screen door click shut behind her.

“You’re home early,” June said without looking up. “Shift wasn’t done till six.”

Clara set the wet box on the kitchen table. It left a dark ring on the edge of the morning circular.

June stopped. The rag stayed pressed flat against the counter. She turned around, took in Clara’s wet skirt, the damp hem of her blouse, and then her eyes locked onto Clara’s cheek.

“Who did that?” June said. Her voice dropped flat and low.

“Mr. Whitlock,” Clara said. She swallowed to steady her breath. “Lily was in the pool. I pulled her up. He came through the glass door and hit me.”

June dropped the rag into the sink. She walked over to the table, took Clara’s chin between rough, calloused fingers, and tipped her head toward the bare ceiling bulb. Her thumb brushed the margin of the red mark with clinical care, the way she used to check Clara for mumps when she was small.

“They gave me papers,” Clara whispered. “They want me to sign an admission.”

“Nobody’s signing a damn thing,” June said. She pulled a bag of frozen peas from the freezer, wrapped it in a clean tea towel, and pressed it against Clara’s jaw. “Sit down. Drink some water. Then we’re calling a lawyer.”