“Where’re you living … White Rock or The Hill?”
“The Hill,” I say. “The western area. How about you?”
“Bathtub Row,” she tells me. “Look, I’ve got to run now. I’ve got another class. I’ll meet you later and give you my notes, okay?”
“Sure. Okay.”
At dinner I tell Bitsy and Walter about Jane. “She lives on Bathtub Row.”
Jason laughs and spits milk out of his mouth and nose at the same time. “Is that near Toilet Terrace?” he asks. “Or Sink Street?”
Bitsy explains that Bathtub Row is the most prestigious area in town. The houses there are on the grounds of what used to be the exclusive Los Alamos boys school. In the old days, before Los Alamos became the Atomic City, the boys school was all that was up here. Then, in the 40’s, when Oppenheimer and the other famous scientists gathered to develop the Bomb, the most important ones got to live in these houses, which were the only ones having bathtubs.
“Your friend must be the daughter of someone high up in the Lab, to live on Bathtub Row,” Bitsy says. “What’s her last name?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
After dinner Walter wants to see my course schedule. He hits the roof when he finds out that I am not taking a science course. “How could they let you register without insisting on a science course?”
“I wanted to take typing instead,” I explain. “I can always take Chemistry next year.”
“Typing,” Walter says, angrily. “Ridiculous. And next year you should be taking Physics I. You’re going to fall behind.”
I feel like telling him that I have no intention of taking Physics I, not next year, and not ever.
“You have to think of your future,” Walter tells me. “You want to get into a good college, don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Of course you know.”
“No, I don’t! I don’t even know if I want to go to college.”
Walter pours himself a glass of brandy, sloshes it around in his glass, then takes a hearty drink. “What do you want to do with your life, Davey?” he asks.
“How do I know? I’m only fifteen!”
“It’s never too soon to start planning,” he calls, but I am already storming out of the room, with Minka at my heels.
I go straight to my mother’s room, to tell her that Walter is a pain and I don’t feel like discussing my life with him and she better do something about it, something to shut him up. But Mom is asleep, her mouth half open. Her breath sounds raspy. There are photos scattered across the bed. I feel so angry I want to shake her.
I go to my own room and flop down on my bed with a copy of Great Expectations.
I am on Chapter Two when Jason comes to my room. But I don’t remember anything about Chapter One and I can’t keep any of the characters straight.
“What’s wrong with Mom?” Jason asks.
“You know,” I tell him. “She has headaches.” He is wearing his football pajamas and looks very small and sweet. “Don’t worry. She’ll be okay.”
“Maybe not,” he says. “Maybe she’s going to die.”
“She’s not going to die,” I say.
“How do you know?”
“I just do.”
“If she does die will we stay here, with Uncle Walter and Aunt Bitsy?”
“She’s not going to die.”
“But if she does …”
“Yes,” I say, closing my book. “I suppose we’d stay here.”
“That’s all I wanted to know.”
“Jason …” I say. He has a loose tooth and he wiggles it with his fingers. He is so innocent, I think.
“Yeah …”
“Aren’t you going to kiss me goodnight?”
“Me … kiss you?”
“Yes. Come on …” I hold my arms out to him. “Pretend I’m not your sister. Pretend I’m some beautiful princess.”
He comes closer to my bed and I reach out and hug him. “It’s going to be all right,” I whisper into his hair. “It is … it is … it is …”
SIXTEEN
On Saturday I ride to the canyon. There is a chill in the air and I wear my fisherman’s sweater. When I look up into the mountains I see that the leaves of the aspen trees have turned color, making the whole mountainside a beautiful shade of gold against the deep blue of the sky. Tomorrow Walter and Bitsy are taking us for a drive into the mountains so that we can see the aspen up close.
I pedal hard and fast, anxious to reach the canyon.
Wolf is there, waiting for me. “Where’ve you been, Tiger?”
“School,” I tell him. “They made me go to school.”
“School,” he repeats, nodding. He doesn’t ask who made me go. He doesn’t ask why I haven’t gone until now.
We climb down into the canyon. I am able to climb much faster now. I have learned by watching and imitating Wolf. My hiking boots are comfortable on my feet, as if they belong there.
At the bottom we rest on a rock. “Remember the time you told me I have sad eyes?” I say.
“I remember.”
“It’s because my father’s dead.”
Wolf looks at me, shakes his head slowly, and says, “We have a lot in common, Tiger … because mine is dying.”
Later, when it is time to leave the canyon I say, “I didn’t make you laugh today.”
And Wolf says, “I didn’t feel like laughing.”
I ride home feeling very sad. I wish I could talk to my mother. But when I get back she is sound asleep again, the shades in her room pulled down, making it as dark as night. Sometimes I feel she has vanished from my life. And I miss her.
A few days later Walter presents me with a small card. “Keep this in your wallet, Davey. Now that you’re a member of this family there’s a space reserved for you in a bomb shelter.”
“A bomb shelter?” I say and I begin to laugh, half out of nervousness, half out of disbelief.
But Walter looks very serious and says, “Yes. The numbers are printed on the card. Try to memorize them.”
“Are we going to have a war?” I ask. “Are we going to be bombed?”
“No,” Walter says. “At least I hope not. But it’s always better to be prepared. The problem with this country is we never act until it’s too late. The Russians, on the other hand, have an outstanding civil defense program. If they’re attacked, chances are, they’ll survive. I wish I could say the same for us. It’s just like the energy crisis. This country is waiting until the lights go out. Then we’ll see how fast we accept nuclear energy. But by then it will be too late. Too late. Anyway, keep your card … chances are you’ll never need it.”
Walter is full of gloom tonight. And he is on his third glass of brandy.
SEVENTEEN
There are more than 250 clubs in this town and Bitsy belongs to nine of them, not counting morning walk, twice a week Jazzercise and batiking class. Her calendar is so full it looks like a doctor’s appointment book. Still, she always has time for the family, especially Jason, who is growing closer and closer to her and Walter. One night I hear Bitsy telling Walter that Jason reminds her of Adam, when he was a boy. I think Bitsy misses my father more than she lets us know.
There are a lot of clubs and associations at the high school, too. Danielle, a girl in my American Cultures class, is trying to get me to join the Society for the Preservation of Creative Anachronisms. She dresses in a toga and medieval type sandals that lace up her legs. She wears a fuzzy, hobbit-like creature pinned to her shoulder. During class she knits. I’ve never seen her take a note, yet I know that she is a straight A student.
“We have jousting matches,” she tells me on Wednesday after class. She stands so close I can smell the garlic on her breath.
I have no idea what creative anachronisms are or why anyone would want to preserve them. But I say, “Look … I’m not really into jousting.”
She shakes her head, clearly disappointed, and drops an arm around
my shoulder. “You could give it a try.”
I inch away, wondering if she is gay. “I’m overextended now,” I tell her. This is an expression I have picked up from Bitsy, who uses it on the phone whenever she is asked to volunteer for this or that community activity.
“How so?” Danielle asks, fingering the fuzzy creature on her shoulder as if it is alive. She is not one to give up easily.
“I’ve got a lot of family responsibilities,” I tell her. I don’t know why I am bothering to make excuses since I don’t owe her an explanation.
“Go on …” she says.
“And I’m a candy striper at the hospital.” This is not exactly true, but Jane has been after me to join with her and now, on the spot, I decide that I will. Anything to get rid of Danielle.
Danielle accepts this piece of information with a shrug. “I thought you were the unusual type,” she says, pulling a green cape around her shoulders. “But I see that I was wrong.” She swoops past me and out the door.
I have learned plenty about the dynamics of this school in just two weeks. For one thing, everyone is classified by groups. There are Coneheads, Loadies, Jocks, and Stomps. Coneheads are into computers and wear calculators strapped to their belts. They are carbon copies of their fathers, grinding away for the best grades so that they can go to the best colleges. Loadies are into booze and drugs and there is plenty available. You can buy whatever you want out of the trunk of a car in the parking lot. Jocks are jocks. Every group makes fun of every other group. Coneheads laugh at Jocks. Jocks laugh at Loadies. Loadies laugh at Stomps. Stomps dress in ten gallon hats and cowboy boots. They chew tobacco and spit and ride around in pickup trucks, looking for fights.
I know that I will never fit in here. Of course, there are other kids like me, other kids who don’t fit in either. There is a girl, Ann, who screams in the hallways. I can’t figure her out. Maybe she realizes the futility of trying to fit in, just as I do.
There are guys who aren’t really Coneheads, but who aren’t anything else either. And it’s tough on them. Because the kids here are very into putting down anybody and anything that is not exactly like they are. I sometimes think it would be terrific if all of us who don’t fit in formed a group called the Left-overs. Then we could get together and laugh our heads off at the Stomps, Loadies, Jocks and Coneheads.
There are only one or two blacks in the school and one night I ask Walter how come.
“To tell the truth, Davey,” he says, “there are very few black scientists in this country. We’re trying to recruit more. We’re trying to encourage bright black boys and girls to get into science. There are scholarships available.”
“My friend, Lenaya, wants to be a scientist,” I remind him.
“Yes, I know.”
But it’s not only blacks who are missing. In New Mexico there are three cultures: Hispanic, Anglo, and Native American. When I was in third grade we studied Native Americans, except we called them Indians. And what we learned about them then, embarrasses me now.
My family is Anglo. White. Caucasian. And we are in the minority in this state. But not in Los Alamos. Los Alamos is an Anglo town. Absolutely. And in our high school there are no Native Americans and there are only a handful of Hispanic kids, who happen to live here because their fathers work at the Lab, doing maintenance.
I head for my Geometry class but the teacher doesn’t show. This isn’t unusual. He has missed five classes since I came to school. And we’ve never had a substitute which means he isn’t absent for the day, but just for our class. When he doesn’t show he arranges for us to see a film, usually having nothing to do with math. Most kids settle back and go to sleep. Someone almost always snores. A couple of kids use the darkened room to make out. But I don’t mind the films. I find them more interesting than geometry.
Today’s film is about hemophilia. The narrator has a deep voice and says, Hemophilia is a hereditary plasma-coagulation disorder, principally affecting males but transmitted by females and characterized by excessive, sometimes spontaneous bleeding. I already know this because in eighth grade I read Nicholas and Alexandra. Still, I am not prepared to deal with a film on bleeding. My heart starts to pound and I can’t catch my breath. Halfway through the film I have to leave the room, afraid that I am going to pass out.
Reuben, who is somewhere between a Conehead and a regular person, comes out into the hall after me. He is in three of my classes and I have caught him watching me since the first day I came to this school. This is the first time he has spoken to me. “Can’t stand the sight of blood, huh?” he jokes.
I know that he means well but as soon as he says it I feel a wave of nausea and am sure I am going to throw up. I press my head against the cool concrete wall of the corridor and count slowly to twenty. The nausea passes.
“You want some water?” Reuben asks.
“No.”
“What can I do?”
“Nothing,” I say. “Go back to class.”
“What about you?”
“I’m going home.” And I walk right out of school. No permission. No excuses. I just take off and walk home.
When I get there the house is quiet. Bitsy is at the museum, giving her tour. And this is the bomb that we dropped on Nagasaki … and this is the bomb that we dropped on Hiroshima …
I go upstairs, passing my mother’s room. I look in and see her sprawled across the bed. She is holding a couple of photos.
“Mom,” I say, “what are you doing?”
She looks at me as if she doesn’t know who I am.
“You have to stop taking that headache medicine,” I tell her. “Do you hear me … you have to stop!”
She nods. “Yes,” she says. “I have to stop.”
I get this feeling that my mother and I have changed places and I don’t like it. That she is the little girl and I am the mother. I don’t want this kind of responsibility laid on me and I am glad that Walter and Bitsy are around.
Yet I remember that when I fell apart and wouldn’t get out of bed, Mom was there, to help me get back on my feet. And something inside of me tells me that I shouldn’t be angry at her now. That I should be helping. But I don’t know what to do.
It is more than the headache medicine though, more than the headaches themselves, and this time, when Bitsy takes Mom to the doctor, he recommends therapy. He sets up an appointment at the family counseling center for Mom. She is to see someone named Miriam Olnick tomorrow afternoon.
“I have to get myself together,” Mom explains that night at the dinner table. It is the first time in a week that she is joining us for dinner.
Jason taps his fork against the table, as if he is keeping time to some marching tune in his head.
“I have to get myself together,” Mom says again.
Walter reaches over and covers Jason’s hand with his, silencing the fork.
“I’m not myself,” Mom says. “I’m not the person I used to be before Adam …” Her voice trails off and there is a heavy silence at the table. It is the first time she has said his name out loud in front of us. “Before Adam …” She tries again, but her voice breaks.
“Died,” I say.
Everyone looks at me. I feel my cheeks flush. Then everyone looks away as if I have broken some deep, dark secret. Jason goes back to tapping his fork against the table.
“Well …” Bitsy finally says, trying to sound cheerful, “you know how quickly food cools off in the high altitude …” and she serves each of us a healthy portion of chicken tetrazzini.
EIGHTEEN
I tell Jane that I have decided to join candy stripers with her.
She says, “Terrific … it’ll look really good on our college applications.”
I think about explaining that that’s not the reason I’m joining. That college is about the farthest thing from my mind right now. That I don’t even know if I want to go to college. But I decide to say nothing. I don’t feel like getting into another hassle over my future.
We
walk to the Los Alamos Medical Center together. We go to a room marked Director of Volunteers where we listen to a lecture on the duties of all after school helpers. There are about fifteen of us, and three are boys. I try to picture them dressed in candy-striped jumpers and I begin to giggle. Once I get started I can’t stop. Jane looks over at me and raises her eyebrows. I look away and try to control myself.
“Basically,” the director says, “your duties are to assist the nurses and the aides. You’ll be delivering mail and flowers, making sure that the patients have fresh water, and helping to serve the evening meal. You may not, under any circumstances, administer medication to the patients, nor can you bring them anything to eat or drink except what has been ordered for them. Occasionally, one of our volunteers runs into a troublesome patient. If that happens, report directly to me.”
Jane leans over and whispers, “When my sister was a candy striper she had a patient who flashed her.”
I mouth the word gross at Jane, then go back to listening to the director.
“We certainly appreciate your time and assistance,” she says. “And now, if you’ll come with me, we’ll see about your uniforms and you can get to work.”
I don’t have to worry about the boys walking around in jumpers after all. They are issued white shirts and candystriped ties.
My first job is pushing the water cart down the hall, stopping at each room and filling the patients’ pitchers with fresh water and ice.
I go into a semi-private room. There are flowers all over the place. Both patients are middle-aged women and neither one looks especially sick. They are sitting up in their beds, reading—one, a Harold Robbins novel; the other, Atlantic Monthly. They barely glance my way as I fill their water pitchers.
The next room is also a semi-private but there is just one patient. An older man. He is bald, very thin, and his skin is a grayish color.
“Hello,” he says. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
He speaks in a lyrical New Mexican accent. I’ve been listening to the Spanish radio station in my room at night. I love the sound of the language, even though I don’t understand a word. And the same musical sound carries through to the Hispanic’s English.