Little O
Oscar Fischer took the corner a hair under 35 just as the firefighters were coming out. He rnade a sharp left
onto the gravel drive and skidded into the lilac bush. "Are they all right?" he shouted. "I’m their son. What
happened?"
"Take it easy. Everything’s okay. They’re fine," the nearest firefighter said as he pulled lilac branches
away, allowing the car door to open. The acrid smell of burnt wood clung to his uniform and his face was smudged
with soot.
Another continued, “You know, it’s really sad when folks get like this. It seems your mother put a frying
pan on the stove and set the dial to HIGH. It probably was the grease that started it. When we came, we found her
sitting in the living room with the door closed. The smoke alarm in the hallway was blasting. She told us she shut
the door to stop the nuisance noise. She insisted she hadn’t put anything on the stove. Your father was asleep on the
sofa. His hearing aids were on the end table. There really wasn't much damage to the house, mostly smoke, and that
was confined to the kitchen.”
Oscar oferred his thanks and quickly moved inside. He found his mother sitting tall and proper in her
brocade covered chair. Her silvery braids wreathed her head. The TV was on but she was staring at the yellowed
wedding photograph on the TV cabinet. His father, in turn, was staring at her from the sofa.
Thoughts jumbled though Oscar’s head but all he said was, "Hi, Mama, Papa. Are you both okay?"
"Of course we’re okay. Why wouldn’t we be?" she replied, her words like hailstones on a tin roof. His
father lowered his eyes and reached for his walker. He motioned with his head for Oscar to fllow him to the assess
the damage. The wall behind the stove was scorched and some of the studs were charred.
Oscar phoned Emma. “Honey, there’s been a fire in Mama’s. No, they're okay. Yes, I'll tell them. We’ll
see you." He turned to Papa. "Emma's making up the spare bed and wants you two to come stay with us until the
kitchen gets fixed up."
"Son, I thank Emma for the offer, but you’d better check with Mama."
Mama entered the kitchen and Oscar passed on Emma’s invitation. "No, I'm staying right here. I’m not
leaving my home ever.” Her double chin quadrupled.
Oscar dialed. “Hi, Honey, it’s me again. Mama thanks you but said she’d really rather stay put. I’m going
over to Wanda’s Diner for take-out and then I think I'll stay with the folks for a while. Don’t wait up. Maybe I’ll
stay the night. It just depends. I love you, too."
On the way back from the diner, Oscar knew he couldn’t duck the issue any longer. His folks were losing
their ability to be independent. Certainly Mama was becoming a real problem and needed supervision. The big
question was what could he do about it.
A month passed before the contractor finished the repairs. The day the new stove was delivered, Oscar
unplugged the stove fuse. He couldn't admit, even to himself, what denying Mama the use of her stove would do to
her.
That evening, he came with a pot of veal stew that Emma had made. All he needed to do was heat it and
leave. He opened the door and the aroma of chicken soup teased his nose. As far back as he could remember, the
smell of Mama's cooking and her fresh bread made him ache in his chest. Once when he was about eleven, he told
her how he felt. She squeezed him and said, "Why, that's called a love-ache, just for me, Little O."
He felt that ache now, before he remembered the stove shouldn't be working.
He strode into the kitchen and saw Mama sliding dollops of dumpling batter into boiling chicken soup.
Loose ends of moist hair curled on her neck, and her cheeks were splotchy pink. She was humming.
"Mama! What are you doing?"
In a butterscotch voice she said, "Oh, hello, Little O. How was school today? There's still time to do some
homework. Supper's late because the stove wouldn't work. Papa called the repair man who didn't come until threethirty, and when he did, it took him a long time to figure out what was wrong. But now it's working like new. He
was such a nice young man."
With his head pounding, Oscar stormed into the living room where Papa was asleep and snoring. Oscar
grabbed the yellow receipt off the end table. The description of parts looked like chicken scratchings but the
amounts were clear enough-parts $20.00, labor $20.00, service call $30.00, tax $3.85, total $73.85. PAID IN
FULL/CASH. Oscar kicked the ottoman.
In the kitchen he set three places and phoned Emma. "Honey, I'm not coming home for supper. I'm eating
here." Emma's stinging words, that his behavior was ridiculous and that it would have to stop, stunned him, but that
she slammed down the phone made him angry. Oscar sucked in air between his teeth and thought how wrong Emma
was, always complaining about the time he spent with his folks since the fire. She was unreasonable and selfish. A
nag. He started for the living room, but the sound of the soup kettle lid falling to the floor brought him back to
reality. He went to the basement and removed the fuse. Leaning against the cool cement block wall he muttered,
"Em's right, but what should I do? I'm all they have. I'm the only one to take care of them."
Throughout supper, Mama chattered about the soup and dumplings. Oscar thought they didn't taste right,
strange in fact. And what about all that black pepper settled at the bottom of his soup dish? He was sure this was
something new.
"Little O, I'm talking to you. Pay attention. How do you like the soup? Papa says it's the best ever."
"Yes, I agree," he mumbled.
After supper, while his mother took her bath, Oscar said, "Papa, I have to tell you something. I took the
stove fuse out last night and I did it again tonight."
His father's eyes watered. "Son, is that really necessary? What will Mama do? You know that her cooking,
and our appreciation of it, is her whole life."
"I know. I'm sorry. It's necessary. Some days, Mama's just too confused. Not all the time, but more and
more. Some days she doesn't recognize me at all and other days she calls me Little O and treats me like a child.
Papa, I'm going to hire a woman to come in and help."
"Oh, no, she'll fight it all the way. This is her home. It's been for sixty years since I brought her here as a
bride. Believe me, she won't put up with another woman taking over. It'll destroy her."
"Nonsense. You've got to get her to understand she needs help around here. Tell her how we both
appreciate what she's done for us all these years, and now we want to do something for her. She'll listen to you."
Before his father could respond, Mama appeared from the hallway smelling of lavender soap, but it didn't
cover the faint odor of urine from her soiled housecoat. Oscar noticed her toe nails were dried-corn color, long and
curling back under and into her toes.
Deep folds of anger hung above the bridge of her nose as she yelled, "What are you staring at? Who are
you? What do you want here?"
"It's me, Mama. Oscar. I just waited to say goodnight to you before I left for home."
"So say it and go."
"Goodnight, both of you. Sleep well." Papa said nothing. His eyes and his lips formed tight straight lines.
Oscar tripped over the curled edge of a scatter rug in his hurry to escape.
The storm-clouded morning fit Oscar's mood as he entered the repair shop. He showed the manager the
receipt for the new stove from Harold's Electrical Appliance Store and the receipt for repairs claimed by his
repairman. The manager said, "Well, this is what I'm willing to do. My man made a service call and that item stays.
Same for the parts and tax. I'll reimburse you for the labor. Fair enough?"
"Absolutely not. Refund the entire amount or I’ll report you to the State Attorney General's Office for
cheating old people."
The manager opened the cash drawer and handed him $73.85. "There you are. No hard feelings, okay?"
Oscar simply turned and left.
That evening, he found Mama standing at the window staring into the garden. She was rocking herself in an
embrace and didn't seem to notice him when he greeted her. He went downstairs to put in the fuse. When he came
up, he took Emma's pot of stew from the fridge and lifted the lid. The stew was a brilliant red color and smelled
liked strawberries. Oscar glanced around the kitchen. On the counter were two pencil lead-like lines moving from
the caulking to a tiny pile of red powder and back again. He checked the trash pail and found a strawberry gelatin
box swarming with more ants. He dumped the stew into the pail, set three places, scrambled some eggs and made
toast.
"Mama, Papa. Time to eat," he called.
Papa clunked his way to the kitchen with his walker. Mama followed. During supper the silence was
thicker than the stew he had discarded.
Two mornings later, Oscar arrived with a mid-fiftyish woman who smiled kindly when he said, "Mama,
this is Mrs. Schmidt. I've asked her to be your helper. She'll do the laundry and some light cleaning. She'll also get
breakfast and lunch for you and Papa."
"I don't want that woman in my house. I can take care of it myself. Send her away!"
"No. She stays," he replied.
Mama stood tall, turned her back to them, marched to the bedroom and slammed the door repeatedly. The
wall clock rattled and chimed off schedule. "I’m sorry about that, Mrs. Schmidt," he said, leading her to the kitchen.
"Please, use the food that's here, and let me know what else is needed. I'll pick it up on my way from
work."
"I’ll take good care of them. Don't you worry, Mr. Fischer."
Before he left for his office, Oscar went about putting locks on the cupboards and gave Mrs. Schmidt the
keys.
That evening, Mama complained, "That woman stole my shoes." The next night she insisted, "That woman
stole a thousand dollars I won in the lottery. I had it hidden under the lining paper in my dresser drawer. She also
took my favorite hairnet!"
Oscar noticed dark shadows and deep circles beginning to frame Mama's eyes, and her face always seemed
puffy. Mrs. Schmidt reported to him that Mama spent more and more time alone in her room, and when she did
come out she barely talked. She also told him that one day she picked up an umbrella from the stand, and
brandishing it like a sword, threatened Mrs. Schmidt saying, "You leave my house or you'll be sorry."
Mrs. Schmidt had managed to calm her by telling her she would be leaving in a few minutes, but when
Mrs. Schmidt returned on schedule the next morning, Mama began her week of silence toward everyone.
One of Oscar's greatest fears finally happened. After Mrs. Schmidt had left one day, Mama must have had a
temporary return to clear-headedness, and when she heard the clock chime three, she carne out from her room and
headed for the kitchen to start supper as she had for so many years. When she found only eggs and milk in the
refrigerator, she wrote a lengthy shopping list, got her pocketbook from the entrance closet and walked to the
grocery six blocks away. The clerk kept her occupied by showing her the new tropical fruit features in produce
while the owner, a long time family friend, phoned Oscar at work. He arrived within minutes and drove her home.
Oscar watched her cower close to the car door while she traced the floral design on her dress with her shaking hand.
He tried to calm her by patting her hand, but she began to whimper and then to cry.
That night after she went to bed, he installed deadbolt locks on the front and rear doors. His father stared
right through him when he tried to explain. "I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry, Papa, but it had to be done for her safely.
She's no longer capable of going out on her own. This time we were lucky."
He left the house and sat in the car clutching the steering wheel. "Why? Why, God, did You let it come to
this? Where is Your mercy?" he sobbed.
Oscar saw his Mama deteriorate more each day. Outbursts of anger were heaped on Mrs. Schmidt and Papa
during the day, and on Oscar at night. Finally Mrs. Schmidt called him and said Mama's behavior was getting too
difficult to handle, and something needed to be done. That night, Oscar asked his father what Mama had done that
day.
"Well, when she wasn't yelling, she mostly sat and stared at the wall, until she started talking to it. I heard
her ask it where her mother and Sara were. 'Wall, where is my little sister Sara? Where is Sara? I want to play with
her.' It really upset me."
As Oscar tried to swallow the painful knot plugging his throat, Mama came in from the bedroom,
screaming at him, "Go away. Go away. I hate you. Get out."
He fled from the house, threw himself on the hood of his car and pounded it, crying out, "I hate you, too,
Mama!" He lay there, his face twisted. Finally, he saw the lights go off one by one in the house. Her bedroom light
went out last. He got into the car and drove home. Emma was already asleep. He slipped into bed and lay there
awake until five, then pushed in the clock's alarm button so Emma wouldn't be disturbed later.
All day at work he wondered what to expect that evening. He stopped at the florist and bought a flowering
plant. He stopped at Wanda's to pick up the take-out order. It was Thursday. Swiss steak night. Mama wasn't
standing at the window. Papa wasn't on the sofa. The TV was silent. Oscar only heard the loud ticking of the hall
clock. He set the food and plant down and walked softly to her bedroom.
Mama was lying on her bed, her face like gray stone. Papa was sitting on the edge of the bed holding her
outstretched hand.
Oscar rushed in and located a thready pulse in her neck. He grabbed the phone and dialed 911. Papa tried to
stop him, imploring, "Let her be, Son. Let her be."
In a tight squeaky voice he barely was able to say, "Hello? Is someone there? Hello? My name? It's Little
O. Please come and help my Mama."
He let the receiver fall and drew Mama's hand to his cheek.
The 911 operator kept asking, "Little O, is your Daddy there? Is there any grownup there? Do you know
your address? Please, Little O, answer me. Is there any grownup there? "
Oscar retrieved the receiver and placed it on its cradle. Papa bowed his head, and with his vein-signatured
hand stroked his son's silver-streaked hair.
© Eve Shy