The Warden's Daughter

  “Thir-teen,” said Missy.

  “Teen-ager,” said her mother.

  “Well, almost,” I said.

  “You watch Bandstand?” Missy asked me.

  “Sometimes,” I said. “My friend Reggie is going to be on Bandstand.”

  “Dig it,” said Missy. “She gonna”—she popped up, did a wiggle move I’d never seen before—“dance?” She sat back down.

  “Yep,” I said. And wondered if Reggie could do Missy’s move.

  The best part of “Get a Job” was coming. Missy called it out and rapped her knuckles on the table. Andrew climbed onto Missy’s lap and did it, too. So did I. Their mother beat the pot with the wooden spoon.

  Dip dip dip dip dip dip dip dip

  Mum mum mum mum mum mum

  Get a job

  Before we could finish laughing, the Cookies came on. This time I was the only one singing along.

  Don’t say nothin’

  Bad about my baby

  I must have stood up, because suddenly I was looking down on Missy and Andrew. Their mother had turned around at the stove, wooden spoon in hand.

  He’s good.

  He’s good to me.

  That’s all I care about.

  Their faces could barely contain their joy, and I understood why Reggie wanted to be a star. Stoking the finish, I poked my finger at each of them in turn.

  He’s true.

  He’s true to me.

  And then suddenly Missy was standing beside me and we were belting it out together.

  SO, GIRL, YOU BETTER SHUT YER MOUTH!

  The house went wild.

  We were too loud to hear the front door open, so the next thing we heard was a man’s voice booming: “Home from the salt mines!”

  I knew that voice. Into the kitchen came a short, stocky black man. He was dressed in the gray uniform of a Schuylkill Valley bus driver. Mr. Strong. My instructor at the park’s baseball school every spring. He taught middle infielders.

  When he saw me in his kitchen, he stopped dead. His eyes and mouth made a triangle of Os on his astonished face. Then the whole face went into smile overdrive. “Well, well, well—look who’s in my house. Miss Shortstop. Cammie O’Reilly.”

  At the mention of my real name, everything in the kitchen stopped but the DJ’s voice on Wibbage.

  Eventually—hours later, it seemed to me—Perfect Missy said in a voice of wonder, “It’s her?”

  And Mrs. Strong, as if waking from a dream, chili dripping from her spoon onto the floor: “The warden’s daughter?”

  32

  I pedaled into the setting sun, which hung like a tangerine from the underside of the P&W bridge. I was mesmerized, dazed by the events of the day. I discovered I was smiling. I hadn’t stopped smiling since my kitchen performance. Not even as I fumbled out an explanation about “Claire.”

  I was pumping up West Main before I realized I had gone a mile too far. I turned back for home.

  My father was in the living room, watching Milton Berle on the black-and-white Emerson TV. I was hoping to sneak past. No luck.

  “You’re late.”

  “It’s not dark,” I pointed out. The rule was I had to be in by dark. It was the same for most kids in town, even little ones.

  “You missed dinner.”

  “I didn’t. I ate somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “Friends.”

  “Who?”

  “You don’t know them.”

  “Try me.”

  “Mr. Strong.”

  “Your baseball-school coach.”

  “Yeah.” I was surprised he remembered.

  Milton Berle came out dressed like a clown. His preposterous shoes practically overlapped the stage. The audience was cracking up.

  “You have to call,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said.

  “If you’re not going to be home for dinner.”

  “Okay.”

  He turned from the TV. “You hear?”

  A surprising notion hit me: He was worried.

  “I hear,” I said.

  He turned back to the TV. “And stay off the battlement.”

  Huh? “That was ages ago.”

  “Statute of limitations never expires on battlement violations.”

  More years would have to pass before I would begin to appreciate my father’s sense of humor.

  “Tony ratted me out.”

  “Could’ve been anybody.”

  On some level I understood what he was saying: I love you. I worry for you. I have my people watching out for you. But I didn’t want to hear it. I did not appreciate that my father was giving me everything I wanted—the caring, the attention—because it wasn’t from him that I wanted it. I wanted it from Eloda Pupko. I said nothing and walked away.

  His voice stopped me. “You’re welcome.”

  I turned. “What for?”

  “The key.”

  Since the key to the women’s yard had appeared on the breakfast counter, neither of us had mentioned it.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Can I go now?”

  “Who’s stopping you?”

  I went.

  —

  Behind the closed door of my room I was free to reflect on my day. And what an amazing day it had been. In the end, a wonderful day. It had begun with Eloda’s obstinate refusal to discipline me about the cigarette butts I’d planted in my room, or even to acknowledge that she’d found them. Then my ride to her house—just seeing it—at 428 Swede Street. And then the day’s grand finale, the undeserved blessing of my hours with Andrew and the Strongs. As I’d often seen Eloda do with the wash, I sorted out my thoughts and feelings.

  I was thrilled. For a million reasons I could not identify.

  I was surprised. That a little kid could turn a Tuesday into such a beautiful day.

  I was jealous. Of Andrew, for having such a mother.

  I was happy. For Andrew, for having such a mother.

  I was thankful beyond words. To the mother and the confrontation on the sidewalk. For in her ferocious eyes I had glimpsed a snapshot of my own mother twelve years before. Defenders of children. Sisters, of a kind. Would this Mogins Dip mama take a truck for her kid? In a second.

  I was glowy. Warm. In the moment of moments. When Andrew had let go of the handlebars and hung his arms out to the breeze and leaned his little body back into mine, it had given me a taste of something I had not known to exist.

  I was wishful. Chili and cornbread around the kitchen table with the family Strong, and thinking: I want that.

  And regretful. That Eloda would not cooperate in my mother quest.

  And hopeful. That maybe, after all, she already was cooperating. A little. Because I’d spotted the dinner setting—plate, glass, utensils, napkin—still on the table. Waiting. For me.

  I fell asleep still smiling.

  33

  I awoke to familiar pounding on the door. “Cammie! Open up!”

  Reggie had promised to show me the outfit she had chosen for Bandstand. Tomorrow was the big day.

  Minutes later I was sitting on the sofa in my pajamas. Eloda sat beside me, only because I had made her. Historic moments had to be shared.

  Reggie had rushed past me and into my bedroom. She was carrying a small suitcase. Now she came out of my room slinking like a model. She twirled. She vamped. She was perfect. She was seventeen. Heck, twenty-five.

  Pink cotton sweater, buttoned up the back.

  Silk neck scarf, a swirl of pink and charcoal, knotted at the side.

  Hip-hugging charcoal straight skirt.

  White socks.

  Black-and-white saddle shoes.

  It was as if the TV screen had delivered her into my living room.

  “Wow” was all I could say. Eloda grunted and got up and returned to her dusting.

  “And check this out,” said Reggie. She hiked her skirt and put a saddle shoe up on the sofa. She removed her white shoelaces and replaced them with pink o
nes. She admired the new laces. “You gotta do something to stand out.”

  “But you can’t see pink on TV,” I reminded her. Television was black-and-white then.

  She wagged a foot. “Dick Clark can tell.”

  I had seen Reggie excited before, but this was off the charts. Ball games at Connie Mack Stadium. Fireworks at the park. The entrance of Marvin Edward Baker. Those occasions had all had one thing in common: the excitement was generated by great numbers of people. But this…this excitement came from a single girl standing in front of me. It was the volume of a delirious stadium packed into a living room. The upholstery on the sofa seemed to crackle. In my memory she glows.

  I knew it was a risky question, but I had to ask. “What if they make you prove your age? You sure they’re going to let you in?”

  Reggie’s fist went to her cocked hip. She gave me her I can’t believe you just said that look. “Would you let me in?”

  My question slunk away.

  I tried again. “So do you think a talent scout will be there?”

  “Think, Cammie,” she said. “It’s Philadelphia. The place is swarming with talent scouts. Fabian. Frankie Avalon. All you have to do is get caught sitting on your front steps. I’ll probably be discovered before I even get in the door.”

  Footsteps on the stairs.

  Reggie bolted to my room. My father came in, went to his bedroom for something and went back out. When Reggie reappeared, she was once again dressed for Two Mills. Her Bandstand ensemble was back in the suitcase.

  She swiped her brow dramatically. “That was close.”

  “Why did you run?” I asked her.

  “Nobody can see me before the show,” she said.

  “What about me?” I said. “I’m somebody.”

  “You’re not somebody. You’re Cammie.”

  For some reason, that made me feel incredibly good.

  “It’s like, nobody can see the bride in her gown before the wedding,” I suggested.

  She kick-tapped my foot. “Exactly. Except the mother.”

  “How’s that?” I asked her.

  “The mother helps her get dressed. Get everything just right.”

  “So I’m the mother,” I said.

  “You’re the mother,” she said.

  She went to the door. “When you see me next”—she flung out her arm—“I’ll be on TV!”

  From the landing I watched her go down the stairs. She stopped halfway, turned. “Keep watching me. When you see me tug my earlobe, that’s for you.” She clattered down the stairs and out the door.

  34

  The show didn’t start until three-thirty, but by three o’clock we were all sitting on the floor, staring at some dumb soap opera on my TV screen. Donna Holloway was wearing a pale gray T-shirt. By three-fifteen her armpits were black from sweat. Glenda Schmoyer knocked over her glass of soda. Twice. Gussie Kornichek and Rosanna Scotti babbled hysterically. I looked at my hand and found a bead of blood. I had ripped a cuticle from my thumbnail.

  In other words, we were excited. Not only for Reggie, but in a sense for ourselves. Reggie was an emissary into our own futures, which, even I conceded, would likely feature boys and dancing and romantic adventure. But for now we sat cross-legged in my living room, five girls-in-waiting.

  Finally the soap opera was over. Gussie and Rosanna shut up. The between-shows commercials ended, and suddenly there they were, the notes of the Bandstand theme song pinballing into my living room: ba-dopppa dop-dop…There was the teenagery, perfectly groomed face of Dick Clark and the bleachers full of teenagers behind him. While he was talking, Gussie gasped: “Donna!”

  We all turned.

  Donna Holloway was lying on the floor, looking as if she was asleep. Which was impossible.

  “I think she fainted,” said Glenda.

  At that point it got tricky. We had already taken our eyes from the TV for five seconds. More was intolerable. As one, we all turned back to the screen. Kids were pouring down from the bleachers onto the dance floor. “There’s Justine!” screamed Rosanna, as Donna lay among us, her face the color of her pale gray T-shirt. I knew something should be done. A brilliant solution fell upon me.

  “Eloda!” I called. “Eloda! Come here quick!”

  From that moment on, my memory is confined to the fifteen-inch black-and-white TV screen. I assume Eloda must have arrived and ministered to Donna, because our fainted friend was soon up and sitting among us.

  Whenever the camera showed the bleachers or dancing kids, we strained forward. There were many false alarms. “There!”…“There!” Our hearts sank when we saw Tommy D dancing with his usual smooch, Arlene Holtz. When the camera closed in on other famous regulars, like Justine and Bob, we barely noticed.

  Dick Clark poked the microphone into the bleachers, asking kids their names. None was Reggie.

  Jackie Wilson came on and lip-synched “Lonely Teardrops.”

  The Rate-A-Record poll came and went.

  No Reggie.

  The hour hand had long since passed four when we all jumped at Donna’s shriek: “There she is!”

  She wasn’t in the bleachers. She wasn’t dancing. It was better! She was filling up the screen. No Tommy D. No Justine and Bob. Nobody but Reggie and Dick Clark. She was beaming. She was gorgeous. She looked just like a South Philly regular. Our Reggie.

  “And we have with us today…,” Dick Clark said, and swung the mike to her….

  Many kids at this point said their name while gaping at the mike in Dick Clark’s hand. Many mumbled. Some had to stop and think. Not Reggie. As the mike swung to her, her chin went up. She gave not a glance to the microphone. She turned not only her face but her whole bountiful body to the camera, and the camera, sensing the moment, edged out Dick Clark until Reggie’s face alone filled the screen, and she said—no, she proclaimed—as boldly as a name had ever been proclaimed: “Reggie Weinstein!”

  Pride paralyzed us, but only until Dick Clark’s next question: “And tell our viewers what color your shoelaces are, Reggie Weinstein.”

  And Reggie giggled: “Pink.”

  “And where do you live, Reggie?”

  And Reggie’s right fist shot in the air, and she shouted to the world: “Two Mills!”

  There was no audible reaction from the studio bleachers, but a certain living room above a certain jailhouse in Hancock County went off-the-charts bananas.

  In our delirium we missed whatever Dick Clark said next and Reggie’s energetic reply, and then he was gesturing to the bulletin board and Reggie was pinning up a pennant that said, even though none of us had yet set foot in the building: STEWART JUNIOR HIGH.

  And then Dick Clark was sweeping his arm over the dance floor and music was rising in the background and Dick Clark was saying, “So now, m’lady, if you would be so kind, please lead us into Lloyd Price’s coast-to-coast sensation…‘Personality!’ ” And there was Reggie, heading for the regulars standing around the floor, and…

  “Oh my God!” shouted Gussie Kornichek…

  “Oh my God!” screamed Rosanna Scotti…

  …and there was Reggie walking right up to Tommy DeBennedetto, plucking him out from the evil glare of Arlene Holtz and leading him by the hand onto the dance floor, into the heart of afternoon TV America, jitterbugging away, doing the push step she’d practiced with me—with none other than Tommy D himself.

  35

  The spotlight dance turned out to be her only one with Tommy D, but for the last half hour of the show she was never off the screen. Slow dances, fast dances—one cute, ducktailed boy after another claimed her as his partner.

  Unlike the regulars, she didn’t pretend she didn’t know the camera was watching. She smiled right through it and into twenty million TV screens. It was during the final dance, a slow one—“Donna” by Ritchie Valens (Donna Holloway swooned but stopped short of fainting)—that Reggie caught the camera’s attention one last time. She let go of her partner’s hand for a second and, grinning straight in
to the eyes of the twenty million, tugged her earlobe. I could hear Ritchie Valens—“where can you be?”—but I could no longer see Reggie for the tears in my eyes.

  She could have gone straight home after the show. Instead she took the subway and the P&W high-speed trolley back to town, ran from the terminal to the jail and came stampeding up the stairs into the apartment. Fortunately, I had left the door open or she would have crashed through it. I already had the record player going.

  We cheered. We screamed. All five of us danced with her at once. She gave us the paper strip that certified her entry onto the show. We each tore off a postage stamp–size piece as a lifelong remembrance.

  We stormed, screaming, down the stairs and into town. (My father dined alone that day.) We jittered down East Main to Linfante’s, where we crammed into one booth and stuffed ourselves with zeps, Two Mills’ distinctive type of hoagie. At one point during the onion-spiked gabble, Reggie winked across the table at me and tugged her earlobe. I winked back and silently mouthed, Thank you.

  By nightfall we had scattered to our homes, but the phone calls continued till midnight. We could barely wait to reconvene the next day, the Fourth of July.

  36

  Cap pistols snapping in the streets. Cherry bombs booming in stairwells. Whistlers in the sky. Sparklers in the grass.

  But inside the women’s yard the Fourth seemed like just another day. Deena sunbathing. Helen and Tessa squabbling over badminton. Cigarette tips kissing.

  In the Quiet Room, Boo Boo’s story on this day was about the time she won the Fourth of July sack race at the park. She was ten at the time. Her partner was a little boy named Raymond. She snatched him from the crowd. “Raymond was about five,” she said in a whisper, as if park officials were listening. “But even then he was small for his age. He looked three. And he weighed about as much as a peanut.”