半亩田不想长大

　　As I sat perched¹⁾ in the second-floor window of our brick schoolhouse that afternoon, my heart began to sink further with each passing car. This was a day I'd looked forward to for weeks: Miss Pace's fourth-grade, end-of-the-year party. Miss Pace had kept a running countdown²⁾ on the blackboard all that week, and our class of nine-year-olds had bordered on³⁾ insurrection⁴⁾ by the time the much-anticipated "party Friday" had arrived.

　　I had happily volunteered my mother when Miss Pace requested cookie volunteers. Mom's chocolate chips reigned supreme ⁵⁾ on our block, and I knew they'd be a hit with my classmates. But two o'clock passed, and there was no sign of her. Most of the other mothers had already come and gone, dropping off⁶⁾ their offerings of punch⁷⁾, crackers⁸⁾, cupcakes⁹⁾ and brownies¹⁰⁾. My mother was missing in action¹¹⁾.

"Don't worry, Robbie, she'll be along¹²⁾ soon," Miss Pace said as I gazed forlornly¹³⁾ down at the street. I looked at the wall clock just in time to see its black minute hand shift to half-past.

　　Around me, the noisy party raged on, but I wouldn't leave my window watch post. Miss Pace did her best to coax¹⁴⁾ me away, but I just stayed there, holding out¹⁵⁾ hope that the familiar family car would round the corner, carrying my rightfully embarrassed mother with a tin of her famous cookies tucked¹⁶⁾ under her arm.

　　The three o'clock bell soon jolted¹⁷⁾ me from my thoughts and I dejectedly¹⁸⁾ grabbed my book bag from my desk and shuffled¹⁹⁾ out the door for home.

　　On the walk to home, I plotted my revenge. I would slam the front door upon entering, refuse to return her hug when she rushed over to me, and vow never to speak to her again.

　　The house was empty when I arrived and I looked for a note on the refrigerator that might explain my mother's absence, but found none. My chin quivered with a mixture of heartbreak and rage. For the first time in my life, my mother had let me down²⁰⁾.

　　I was lying face-down on my bed upstairs when I heard her come through the front door.

"Robbie," she called out a bit urgently. "Where are you?"

　　I could then hear her darting frantically²¹⁾ from room to room, wondering where I could be. I remained silent. In a moment, she mounted the steps. When she entered my room and sat beside me on my bed, I didn't move but instead stared blankly into my pillow refusing to acknowledge her presence.

"I'm so sorry, honey," she said. "I just forgot. I got busy and forgot—plain and simple."

　　I still didn't move. "Don't forgive her," I told myself. "She humiliated you. She forgot you. Make her pay."

　　Then my mother did something completely unexpected. She began to laugh. I could feel her shudder²²⁾ as the laughter shook her. It began quietly at first and then increased violently.

　　I was incredulous²³⁾. How could she laugh at a time like this? I rolled over and faced her, ready to let her see the rage and disappointment in my eyes.

　　But my mother wasn't laughing at all. She was crying. "I'm so sorry," she sobbed. "I let you down. I let my little boy down."

　　She sank down on the bed and began to weep like a little girl. I was dumbstruck²⁴⁾. I had never seen my mother cry. To my understanding, mothers weren't supposed to.

　　I desperately tried to recall her own soothing words from times past when I'd skinned knees or stubbed²⁵⁾ toes, times when she knew just the right thing to say. But in this moment of tearful plight²⁶⁾, words of profundity²⁷⁾ abandoned me like a worn-out shoe.

"It's okay, Mom," I stammered as I reached out and gently stroked²⁸⁾ her hair. "We didn't even need those cookies. There was plenty of stuff to eat. Don't cry. It's all right. Really."

　　My words, as inadequate²⁹⁾ as they sounded to me, prompted my mother to sit up. She wiped her eyes, and a slight smile began to crease her tear-stained cheeks. I smiled back awkwardly, and she pulled me to her.

　　We didn't say another word. We just held each other in a long, silent embrace. When we came to the point where I would usually pull away³⁰⁾, I decided that, this time, I could hold on, perhaps, just a little bit longer.

　　那天下午，当我坐在我们那座砖砌的校舍的二楼的一个窗口时，我的心开始随着驶过的每一辆车一点一点的下沉。这天是几周以来我一直在盼望的日子：佩斯小姐四年级班的年末聚会。整个那个星期，佩斯小姐都在黑板上做着倒计时。等到这个盼望已久的“星期五盛宴”终于到来的时候，我们班这些九岁的孩子已近兴奋地要“造反”了。

　　当佩斯小姐要求提供小甜饼的志愿者时，我高兴地推荐了我的妈妈。妈妈做的巧克力小甜饼在我们那个街区可是绝对的有名，我知道它们一定会让同学们吃得直流口水。可都两点多了，还是不见妈妈的身影。大多数同学的妈妈早都来过了又走了，留下了她们提供的饮料、饼干、纸托蛋糕和果仁巧克力蛋糕等食品。可我的妈妈却还没有来。

　　“别着急，罗比，她很快就会来的。”当我绝望地盯着楼下的街道时，佩斯小姐说。我看了一眼墙上的时钟，刚好看到它的黑色分针走过半小时的地方。

　　
　在我的周围，“盛宴”热热闹闹地进行着，可我不愿离开我的窗口观察位置。佩斯小姐竭尽所能想哄我离开那里，但我固执地坚守着，希望我家那辆熟悉的汽车会从街道拐角处冒出来，上面载着我那理应感到不安的妈妈，她胳膊底下还夹着一罐她那著名的小甜饼。

　　
        三点钟的钟声很快把我从沉思中敲醒，我垂头丧气地从课桌上抓起书包，慢吞吞地走出教室，回家。

　　走在回家的路上，我设计了我的报复计划。我要在进家门的时候，狠狠地摔响前门；在妈妈冲过来抱我的时候，拒绝让她抱我；并且发誓再也不和她说一句话。　　

　　可当我到家时，屋里空无一人。我在冰箱上寻找可能解释妈妈为何没去的字条，但却什么都没找到。我的下巴因心碎和愤怒交杂在一起而颤抖个不停。生平第一次，妈妈令我非常失望。

　　当听到妈妈从前门走进来的时候，我正在楼上脸朝下趴在自己的床上。

　　“罗比，”她急切地呼唤着我的名字，“你在哪儿？”

　　接着，我能听到她从这个房间冲到另一个房间寻找我的声音。我一声没吭。过了一会儿，她上了楼梯。当她走进我的房间，挨着我坐在我床上时，我动也没动，反而茫然地注视着自己的枕头，拒绝承认她的存在。

　　“我很抱歉，宝贝，”她说，“我只是忘记了。我一忙就给忘了——就是这样。”

　　我仍然没有动。“不原谅她，”我告诉自己，“她让你丢脸了，她忘了你的事，要让她付出代价。”

　接着，我的母亲做了一件完全出乎我的意料的事情。她开始大笑。我能够感觉得出她大笑时身体的颤动。它开始的时候很轻，接着就越来越猛烈了。

　　我简直无法相信。在这样一个时刻，她居然还能笑得出来？我翻过身，面对着她，准备让她看看我眼睛里的愤怒和失望。　

　　但，妈妈根本不是在笑，她是在哭。“我很抱歉，”她抽泣着说，“我让你失望了。我让我的小男孩失望了。”

　　她倒在床上，像个小女孩一样哭泣起来。我吓懵了。我从来没有看见妈妈哭过。按我的理解，当妈妈的是不应该哭的。

　　
　    我拼命想回忆起过去我磕破了膝盖或者碰伤了脚趾时，她曾不止一次地说起过的那些安慰的话语——她总是知道在那个时候该说些什么。但在这个泪流满面的时刻，我却一句含义深刻的话也想不起来。

　　“没什么，妈妈，”我伸手轻轻地摸了摸她的头发，结结巴巴地说，“我们甚者不需要那些小甜饼。那里有许多好吃的东西。别哭了。没什么。真的。”

　　
    　我的话，虽然在我自己听起来都是那么的不管用，却令妈妈从床上坐了起来。她擦去眼角的泪水，一个不显眼的微笑弄皱了她那满脸泪痕的脸颊。我不自然地回了妈妈一个微笑，她把我拽入了怀中。

　　
        我们没有再说什么。我们只是静静地拥抱着。当到了我通常会挣脱她拥抱的那刻时，我决定，这一次，我会抱着她，也许，只是多抱那么一小儿。