Paulina

By Kathleen Slippy in honor of her grandmother, Paulina Telgarsky. Birthdate: 1886

The early winter wind whips the cold wet sheets across Paulina's face as she fumbles with the clothespins. Hanging sheets is proving to be difficult; her hands, cracked and chaffed, are snagging on the sheet's ends, reopening old wounds. The combination of white dry skin and bright red blood across the pale sheets halts Paulina's actions. As she stands staring at her weathered hands, she is reminded of something her mother used to tell her: "A lot can be said from a person's hands." As Paulina wonders what can be said from the appearance of her hands, she realizes she is probably thought of as an old woman at the earnest age of forty-one.

She isn't beautiful as beautiful is known. Her long, mousy-brown hair, always pulled tightly away from her face and bound in a bun, is just starting to show signs of graying. Her plain face is ruddy and newly wrinkled. Black horned-rimmed glasses conceal the deep black-brown of her eyes. On any given day, Paulina dons a worn housedress and the same beige sweater over it. And on the rare occasion she does venture out, aside from weekly mass, covering her head is the familiar babushka most Slovaks wear.

As she hangs the last of the sheets, she can hear her children coming home from school. Their English talk is foreign to Paulina and frustrates her. Although she has been in he states for twenty-three years, she barely speaks any English. John, Paulina's husband, his English still thickly accented, is understood well enough by his co-workers and children. They have six children: Lou, Stephan, Joseph, Ray, Anna, and Catherine. They would have had nine, but the first three died as infants. Paulina can't seem to stop her habit of counting children every time they come home and often wonders when she will stop trying to add the missing three.

Smells of cabbage, onions, and butter fill the kitchen. The children don't have to tell Paulina how hungry they are. She knew as she sent them to school earlier that morning, with only boiled potatoes to keep their hands warm and to eat later for lunch, they would be famished. As they take their boots off, she has to remind them not to throw the plastic bread bags away that keep their feet warm and dry. The bags are almost as important as the boots are; neither of the two would do the job without the other.

The children have to wait for their father to come home from work before they can eat. John's job at the steel mill usually brings him home at the same time every day, but he isn't always able to get a ride and must walk. Paulina is relieved to hear him come through the door; she can now get the family fed and tend to the rest of her chores. Tending to the chickens is hard work and leaves her feeling weary way before the day's end, but it is a welcome distraction to occupy her mind.

On her way to the chicken coop, she hears two women chattering excitedly. They give her a quick nod as she passes them. She starts to attempt a hello, but quickly holds her tongue. She knows her lack of English and their lack of understanding makes conversation futile. These uneasy feelings of loneliness and isolation have become familiar to Paulina. But as she enters the chicken coop, her mind settles and easiness comes over her. She has become quite good at this task. She raises the ax and feels the swishing of the air as it passes her face.

It is here in the chicken coop, among the dry birds they consume, that Paulina has some bit of peacefulness about her. The sharp blade comes in contact with the neck of the chicken. Blood spills from its neck. The image of her cracked hands enters her mind. She wonders if the same is true of chickens; does it matter if their feathers are smooth or ruffled, and do they too hear the cries of their dead children?