“Boy, she’s sure going to be disappointed not to visit the zoo this afternoon,” I overheard Mrs. Wella in the hallway.

“Wha’ zoo? Whose zoo?! I din’ give permission to go to no zoo!!”

My heart jumped at the recognition of my mother’s voice. Whenever she talked in public places, she assumed that everything she said was of great interest, and therefore spoke loud enough to share her wisdom with everyone present.

“I don’ give hardworkin’ money to Yuncle Sam so you drag my child to de zoo! I sen’ my chil’ren here to learn! To b’come sometin’ later in life!”

I hoped Mrs. Wella might promote the eminence of biology, but she referred back to the permission slip she was certain my mother had signed.

“Kate Lester. Mrs. Lester? Did you not sign this waiver?”

“Waiver of wha’!” accused my mother who when she did not understand something, converted rapidly into her pressure-cooker state of mind.

“A waiver of responsibility.”

“Le’ me see dat!”

I imagined my mother had just torn the slip out of Mrs. Wella’s hand. I would never be able to face her again.

After a menacing silence, my mother shouted, “No! Me, never in my life, I sign dat!” in a tone of righteous indignation, as though Mrs. Wella was insinuating that she had, but now for some reason was trying to get out of it.

The door opened. I stopped breathing, yet my heart wouldn’t slow down. In front of Mrs. Wella and Dorothy, my mother ordered, “De truth! You! You do dis?!”

What she was referring to was the forged scribble of her own signature.

In the meekest of voices I uttered, “I wanted, Mommy, just to be with the other ki … ”

My explanation was interrupted by the impact of her palm. It wasn’t a strong, impulsive slap, but she had the bad habit of doing it on the mouth and my front teeth had grown in at that unfortunate angle that made them buck.

One is always surprised in tasting one’s own blood how similar its flavour is to the juice of a steak. I tried to push my tongue back into my throat so I could avoid the somewhat salty flavour, but there was no getting away from it. I wasn’t wishing to be dramatic when I allowed, and somewhat helped, the crimson to dribble down my chin like baby-drool. Mrs. Wella’s gasp weakened me. I found myself crying as audibly as a baby in front of her.

“Please, madam, don’t be so hard on her, she’s only a child …” Mrs. Wella only wished to help.

“You mind you own oats! Who pu’ in a child’s head to go to de zoo?!” inquired my mother, both fists on her hips. Mrs. Wella remained speechless. I believe she was afraid of being struck, too.

Meanwhile, Dorothy applied cotton to my wound, and then a bandage, which wasn’t practical on a moist inner lip. She rolled her eyes at my mother’s every word.