Sleepover (standard:drama, 704 words)
Author: Maureen Stirsman	Added: May 28 2003	Views/Reads: 3760/1	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
“Mama, Mama, can I sleep over at Maryann’s? Please, please, please? I begged.” It was 1944. A war was being fought overseas. And I was invited for a sleep over at my best friend’s house.

SLEEP OVER 

Mama, Mama, can I sleep over at Maryann's?  Please, please, please?  I
begged. 

Maryann lived with her grandmother and grandfather within sight of my
house.  If she stood out on the blacktop in front of her house and I 
stood in front of mine we could see each other. 

Maryann's mother, Millie, lived in Indianapolis with her husband and her
new family, Maryann's half-sisters.  We never worried much about what 
had happened—my girl friends and I.  It was just the way it was.  Now 
and then the Indianapolis family came to see Maryann and her 
grandparents, but it was only on rare occasions. 

“Mama, please?”  I begged. 

“Okay, honey, but did Mrs. Novak ask you?”  Mama wasn't about to have
two little girls cook something up and surprise the grandmother. 

“Yes, Mama, can I?  Can I?” 

“Okay, let's get you ready.” 

Two hours later Mama walked me up to Maryann's house just to make sure
everything was as I told it.  I never lied but Mama always wanted to 
make sure. 

When my mother left, Maryann and I went out to the barn to watch her
grandfather milk the cows.  The warm, strong, country smell of the barn 
clung to the coat that Mr. Novak hung on a nail on the back of the 
door, when he was in the house.  In the barn he was in control and his 
coat dragged on the floor as he sat on the three-legged stool, milking 
Daisy.  Each cow had a name.  Maryann and I brought out cups that Mrs. 
N. gave us.  Mr. N. squeezed warm, sweet country milk into each one.  
He spoke a few words of Polish to us and then we went out into the yard 
to play in an old apple tree before we went in for the night. 

Maryann slept in a small, front bedroom that held a double bed and a
simple dresser that held her underwear and a foggy mirror on top.  On 
the wall above the white, chenille cover was a crucifix and on the 
other wall a religious picture.  The heart of Jesus was on the outside 
of his robe and He looked very sad.  It was a difficult picture to 
accept.  The bedroom was cold.  Mr. and Mrs. Novak slept upstairs and 
Maryann's uncle Stanley, under the eaves.  Uncles Mike and Ed were away 
in a far off place none of us had every seen, fighting the in BIG WAR. 

Just before bedtime Maryann and I stepped outside the back door, afraid
to walk in the dark to the distant outhouse and dropped our drawers.  
Quickly we both came back into the house and Mrs. Novak tucked us in.  
In the bottom of the bed, between two flannel sheets, she had placed a 
tightly sealed Mason jar filled with hot water for each of us. The 
comfort of the jar and of Mrs. Novak herself made me sleepy.  Maryann 
and I played the ‘movie stars initials' game, and talked about the 
fourth grade boys. Before I knew it, it was morning. 

The smell of pancakes cooking filled the house.  Mrs. Novak was at the
big, black, wood, cook- stove. Hot maple syrup sat on the table.  Mr. 
Novak was already in the barn.  The cows wouldn't wait.  Mrs. N. poured 
us each a glass of milk and herself a big mug full of hot, strong 
coffee. 

After breakfast Maryann and I played in her Uncle Mike's black car.  We
couldn't move it even if we had a key.  It was out behind the house on 
blocks—for the duration. 

Maryann walked half way home with me.  I waved goodbye to the little,
blonde girl with the goldilocks curls and ran the rest of the way. 

“Did you have a good time, honey?”  asked my mom. 

“Yes, Mama.”  The smell of the maple syrup clung to my coat and the
memory of the warm Mason jars lingered in my mind. 

I can see it all now—almost 60 years ago—like it was yesterday; Maryann,
her grandmother at the woodstove and grandfather next to the cow.  Life 
was good in Pennsylvania, even though the war raged a world away, when 
the only problem I had was understanding fractions. 


Tweet