Our newest home was an apartment on Fifth Street that smelled like cabbage. I didn't think it was all that attractive, but apparently, I was alone in that. (It begs pointing out, I think, that everyone else likes cabbage but me--I guess that'd explain the difference in opinion.)

It was small, of course, but there were two bedrooms this time, which pleased me. I had spent the last year sleeping on the floor of the living room with my brothers and sisters because there was only a bedroom for Ma and Dad. We had a proper room to ourselves, this time, and that was exciting--even if it meant five children in a bedroom.

Six, eventually, because Ma couldn't lie to save her life, and it was clear her stomach was rounding out again. That'd make ten of us in all, spread out between twenty years.

But it was five at the moment, and I didn't really care. I'd get lonely if there were three bedrooms, because then we'd be split up, girls and boys. I'd miss having Michael snoring into my ear so loud that he drowned out the noise on the streets below. Truth be told, I'd be scared. I sat up at night once, secretly, and there were people yelling at each other and shouting up a storm. It was much more comfortable to be surrounded by my family.

"Ruthie," my mother called one morning in our new place. "Ruthie, breakfast!"

I woke groggily, staring at the lace curtains in our window, currently the only decoration in our room. It was otherwise empty, with sheets and blankets covering the floor we slept on; there wasn't quite enough money to buy the promised bunk beds yet. Through the little holes of the yellowed lace, the sun burned blindingly, like a torch held up outside our room by a giant.

"Ruthie!" Ma's voice was shriller now. She sounded much more impatient. I imagined her, arms crossed and foot tapping, in the kitchen with my siblings. Dad would have already left for the factory. "Ruthie, you're going to be late for school!"

"I'm coming, Ma," I called back sullenly. When I stood up in the room, I felt like the imaginary giant outside it; if I raised a hand, I would be able to touch the ceiling without standing on tiptoe.

There was a bowl of nameless cereal--we never bought any with a recognizeable brand--waiting for me at the table. The yellow walls of the kitchen made me feel a little cheerier. Standing in the kitchen in the morning was like standing in the sun: very bright, very busy, and very hot.

I took a seat between Michael and Suzanne. It was where I'd usually sat in our old apartment, since that kept us in age order. Mike was fourteen, the olderst of all of us who lived with Ma and Dad. Then there was me at twelve, Suzie at nine, Andy at five, and baby Marie at three.

"Suzanne, stop playing with your food," and, "Ruth Annette Thomas, we don't talk at the breakfast table," were the only things we heard for the remainder of breakfast. "Andrew, we do not leave the table until everyone is finished."

That last comment was accompanied by a glance at me. I was the only one still eating; Suzie and Andy were fidgeting; Mike was waiting patiently like he always did, and Marie giggled over something only a toddler would find funny.

---

There wasn't really much of a plan for this story. It was going to be set in the fifties, centered around a family that was cheerfully large--you know, nothing you haven't seen before. I like Ruthie, though; she's fun to write as. Kind of reminds me of Annabel from Mary Rodgers' Freaky Friday. If you're curious, these are the names of all the siblings:

Holly, age twenty (married to Dave, age twenty-three)
John, age eighteen
Louise, age seventeen (Laura's twin)
Laura, age seventeen (Louise's twin)
Michael, age fourteen
Ruth, age twelve
Susan, age nine
Andrew, age five
Marie, age three

I never had a name for number ten.

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