The Rubber Scorpion

In the days when I was young, my family lived in a small town several miles outside of the big city. Once, every two weeks, my mother would be taken by our pastor, to the large supermarket in town. Life was very hard for her, as my father had left her a widow with four children, and her new husband was an alcoholic. Mom bought everything in bulk because there were five children to feed and there was very little money to go around.

On these trips, my mom would always bring home something special for us kids. In those days, a plastic bubble from a gumball machine with a toy in it was a really big deal. For us girls, she would buy those little plastic rings and other little baubles. The boys always got green army men, or those realistic-looking rubber insects.

My baby brother, Brett, was the apple of my mom's eye. He was a smart little kid, and he was cute as a button. It was my mother's opinion that he was the only good thing that her second marriage ever produced. Even though I was really little myself, I tried my best to entertain him so my mom could at least catch her breath. We did everything together, and until I had become a teenager, we were almost inseparable.

Brett loved his rubber bugs. I have to admit that I thought that they were really cool too. His favorite one of all was a delightfully hideous, blue-green Emperor Scorpion. In fact, he loved that critter so much, that it was the only bug that he wouldn't allow his big sis to play with. His bug collection was the admiration of all the little preschool kids who lived on our street.

Mom cooked for us every day, but since we didn't have money, mom always cooked large quantities of spaghetti or casseroles. These meals would last three or four days a week. Sundays were always set apart for special meals like pork chops, chicken and biscuits, or steak. She would also make it special by making one of her homemade desserts.

That Sunday, we were going to have steak. We all got changed out of our church clothes, had lunch, and the younger kids were sent to their rooms to take a nap. Mom often used this time to prepare her meals. The steak she would tenderize herself, using wax paper and a butcher knife. She would tenderize the meat, and then put it into the refrigerator until she was ready to fry it.

By mid- afternoon, my stepdad would already be three sheets to the wind, and it wouldn't be long before the fighting would begin. From our beds, we could hear the cupboards slam, and plenty of curse words were flying around. Never mind that it was Sunday. Whenever my stepdad had the time off, there was always a huge row. We weren't always aware of why they started, but they almost always ended with my stepdad staggering up the stairs to pass out in his bed.

This fight wasn't much different than the rest. I had wandered into the kitchen for a drink of water after my nap. I turned toward the table and Brett was standing at the end of the wax papered table tugging on my mom's apron. He had a horrified look on his face, and I suddenly became aware of what was wrong.

"Mommy!" he cried, "Mommy, please stop!" He was smart enough to keep his hands away from the edge of the table. The butcher knife came down harder on each cut of meat as she angrily addressed my stepdad. "Why do you always have to ruin every Sunday dinner that we have!" She screamed. "Look what you have done! You have made the baby cry! Go upstairs and pass out you drunken bastard! Leave us alone!"

Whack! The knife missed the cut of steak and struck the layers of wax paper instead. Unfortunately, on top of all her other hardships, my mom had very poor vision. She did not see that my brother had laid his most favorite critter, that rubber scorpion, on the edge of the table just before his nap. She laid down the butcher knife and lifted the layers of wax paper off the table.

Sure enough, there was that scorpion. The legs on the left side were chopped clean off. She glared an angry stare at my stepdad, who promptly waved his hands in the air, and started his slow staggering up the stairs. Mom held Brett in her arms and she picked mangled scorpion off the table. She said to Brett, "Honey, mommy is really sorry about your scorpion. I didn't mean to hurt it...but look, he still has a claw that is really sharp, and I bet he could still fight. If you want, I will try to find you another one. Do you want mommy to throw it away, or do you want to keep it until I can get you a new one?"

Brett dried his four year old tears with the sleeve of his shirt. "No, that's OK mommy, I will keep him; he is still the best." He did just that too. He never parted with that scorpion until he outgrew it. Mom tried, but she was unable to replace it. Our household remained quiet for quite a few days after the event. Years later, Brett would tease my mom about her leg amputation skills. One thing is for certain, we all learned some valuable lessons that day.