“Feeling better?” he asks, and she nods yes.
In some couples, each puts the other first.
TUESDAY AFTERNOON, Cynthia and I are playing cards on her bedroom floor. Gin rummy. Mrs. O’Connell is out of the house for once, gone to the beauty parlor, so Cynthia and I are alone. Before she left, Mrs. O’Connell gave me a little gift. A Girl Scout uniform. “Oh,” I said, “you shouldn’t have done this.” I meant it so much. “Well, you’re one of us, now,” she said, in a singsong, dancey voice, and I said, “Well, no, actually I am just going to come to the camp-out. I thought I’d try that first and see how it went. Remember?”
“You’re going to love it,” she said. “And I got you a beret and a sash, too, but they’ll take a little while—they’re so popular they’re out of stock!”
More like they’re so unpopular they gave up on making them, I thought, but I could feel Cynthia squirming next to me, and so rather than arguing, I just thanked Mrs. O’Connell. “You’re more than welcome,” she said, and then she looked at her bracelet watch and gasped, “Heavens! I’ve got to dash,” which no one but her would ever say.
“She ordered socks, too, you know,” Cynthia says now.
“I’m not taking them.”
“Ha. Like she’ll give you a choice.”
“I’m not. I’ll just leave them here with the uniform; I’m not taking that either. After the camp-out, we’ll just tell her Girl Scouts aren’t for us, and she can return everything.”
“We have to wear everything that night.”
I look up from adding the numbers on my cards. “What for!? You don’t wear dresses at a camp-out! She said she was going to make it like the woods.”
“After. First we have to have an official meeting, and everyone is going to wear their uniforms. Even she is; she got a leader’s uniform. She’s tried it on three thousand times.”
“Oh, boy,” I say, and I start to get in a bad mood, but then I just start laughing, and Cynthia does, too. We throw down our cards and lie on the floor, groaning as loud as we can, having such a good time with our suffering that we almost forget to watch As the World Turns. We eat sour pickles while we watch it. I don’t know why, really. We did the first time and then we happened to the next time and now we sort of have to. Like Christmas.
TWO MIRACLES HAVE HAPPENED. One is, Ginger won a prize for her jingle! Not Mrs. Webley, but she did win a mixer. She was so proud when she told us at dinner—she took off her apron to make the announcement. My father and I clapped, and then my father whistled between his teeth, which got the dogs fired up, and they had to be told to lie back down, and then everybody started laughing. It was one of those rare moments when I thought, Why can’t it always be like this? And something in me rose up and floated over the kitchen table, taking a kind of photograph to try to preserve everything: the three of us sitting there; the smell of dinner; the low slant of late afternoon sun coming through the window to make a patch of light on the floor; dust motes spinning like a million ballerinas. I want to remember that Ginger’s grin was lopsided, that the sternness in my father’s face fell away, that three freckles were in a line on my left hand, that the dogs lay nose to nose, like book-ends—just every single thing from this one moment. And then I can put it in the inside scrapbook, to look at when things are not going so well.
The mixer hasn’t arrived yet, but Ginger has already bought a cover to disguise it. The cover is made to look like a rooster. Which I don’t get, because what would a rooster be doing, sitting on your kitchen counter? But anyway, the rooster cover is lying folded in the corner, where the mixer will go. It is actually true that we are all excited for it to come, like a new person is moving into the house.
The second miracle is that the place where Mr. Randolph taught is the Bartlett School for Girls, and he wants to see if he can get a scholarship for me to go there. I cannot believe that this will really happen, but he talked to my father about it and I have an interview set up for next week. You have to have an interview to go to this school, like a job. I am already plenty worried about what to wear, how to sit, what to say. I will write to Cherylanne, because even though she’s lost her mind a little, she can still help with these things. She always knows what to wear.
After dinner I go into my room to listen to Fab Freddy and to think about all that has happened in a day. It’s so funny now, how when I listen to him, I feel I kind of know him. Like I could call and say, This is Katie Nash, and he might say, “Oh, yeah. How was Texas?”
During a commercial, I come out to the kitchen to get a drink of water. Out in the backyard, I see Ginger sitting on the porch steps, a cup of coffee beside her. I wonder if she’s feeling bad about not being the grand-prize winner. In the living room, my dad is watching television. He would not be the best consolation if she is feeling bad. He would stand beside her, stirring up the change in his pocket.
I come out and sit beside her and she doesn’t say anything, just pats my knee.
“It’s nice out,” I say.
“I think we’ve lost that terrible humidity for a while.”
“I guess so.” One thing adults like to talk about is humidity.
She points to a corner of the yard. “You know what’s coming up over there?”
I squint, trying to see something. “No.”
“Snapdragons. They took their time, but they’re coming.”
“What color?”
“Pink and yellow.”
“Oh good.” Pink and yellow are my favorite colors. The colors of cheerfulness and Easter.
“You know what I was just out here thinking about, Katie?”
“What?”
“I was thinking that I’m so glad I didn’t win Mrs. Webley.”
Sour grapes, they call this.
“I really mean it. I was sitting here thinking about what it would really have been like. Every morning, I’d have to get ready for Mrs. Webley. Would I have time for coffee first? Would I have to get dressed right away? You know, some days I just like to stay in my robe for a while. Sometimes I make the beds and dust and vacuum before I ever get dressed.”
“I know.”
“And how could I do that if Mrs. Webley was coming?”
“Well, she was supposed to do the cleaning, so you could go out.”
“Yes, but . . . go out where? Oh, it might be fun the first week or so, but then I’d feel like I was getting kicked out of my own house!”
“You wouldn’t have to leave. It’s your house.”
“But with another person coming every day, it’s like it isn’t your house anymore. And I realized . . . Well, I just realized how much I like my life, Katie. And how I’m so glad I’m going to get that mixer instead of Mrs. Webley.”
If this is sour grapes, they’re pretty sweet. I pick a fat blade of grass, rub it between my fingers. This makes the best perfume. “I wonder who did win. I wonder if they’re thinking, Uh oh.”
“Well, exactly,” Ginger says, laughing.
I lean back on my elbows, look up into the night sky. Sometimes I get this feeling of a wink coming down from the heavens to me.
After a while, the screen door bangs shut, and here comes my dad. He’s heard our voices. They’ve called him out. Seems like summer nights just do that to a person, make you kind of sociable. There you are, watching Rawhide, and the voice of your wife and your daughter curl around you like pie smells in the cartoons. All he does is sit down and light up a cigarette. But it is a lot.
ON SATURDAY MORNING, Cynthia and I go to the Hill of Truth. This is a place we found on our bikes, far away from either of our neighborhoods. It’s a fairly high hill; you can sit up there and feel like you’re away from everything. We decided that it is the place where we will never lie to each other, not even white lies, and where important decisions will be made, such as how far we will go if we ever get boyfriends. Sometimes we talk about dumb things, like who is best, Ricky Nelson, Elvis, or Pat Boone. But most times we talk about things like what scares
us the most, or what we have done in our lives that we are proud of. Moments of embarrassment, like the time Cynthia was shaking the hand of her pastor and farted. We imagine what our days will be like when we are grown women, what the furniture in our houses will look like. Who our husbands might be, and what it feels like to do it the first time, and how do you know how to do it; is it true that the sex hormones just take over and lead the way? Does it hurt so much to have a baby that you faint? We talk about what is the more important thing in a person, brains or kindness. Do plants have feelings? One time we tried to have mental telepathy with each other, but it didn’t work—we sat back-to-back with our eyes closed, and I was to imagine an object in a house and Cynthia was to guess what it was. Fork. I was thinking, Fork. Fork. Fork.
“Chair?” Cynthia said. “Television? . . . Curtains? . . . Oh, I know, I know! Rug!”
“Forget it,” I said.
Once we talked about what would we tell our children if we knew we were dying. This is something I brought up because my mother never said too much to us, and it has left me in a constant state of wondering. Cynthia said she would tell her children that she was not afraid, even if she was. I said that I would admit if I were afraid, but not in a way to make them afraid. Cynthia said that would be hard to do, and I said I knew that, but that I would find a way.
Once Cynthia said that sometimes she wishes her mother would die, and I just nodded, because I do understand how that can happen. I had a teacher once who used to paddle kids with a smile on her face, and she would never let you go to the bathroom, unless you had to throw up. “Did you ever wish your mother would die?” Cynthia asked. “I mean, before she got sick?”
I shook my head no.
There was a long pause, and then Cynthia said, “Katie? Did I hurt your feelings about your mother by telling you that about my mother?” I started to say no, but we were on the hill, so I said, “In a way. But only because it reminds me that it was a luxury to have her, and I didn’t know it. And now it’s too late.” I looked over at Cynthia, shrugged.
“Do you think it’s bad that sometimes I wish my mother would die?” Cynthia asked, and I said, “Not unless you kill her.” Then we both started laughing and got on our bikes and went to eat butterscotch-dipped cones at Dairy Queen, which is what we always do after being on the hill. It makes you feel good to be so honest and to feel so safe about telling whatever you want, and also it makes you hungry, I don’t know why.
We sat at one of the wooden tables, our bikes resting against a nearby tree, and I was watching Cynthia eat her cone and I was thinking, This is the first time I have had a friend I was equal with. I wanted to reach across the table to touch her hand, but the time of serious talking had passed, we were only eating ice cream, so I kept the thought to myself. Also, I kept to myself the sigh feeling that I wish we weren’t such duds, that we would be going home and getting ready to go somewhere really good.
WHEN I GET HOME, I find a letter for me on the kitchen table from Cherylanne. It’s the fastest response I’ve ever gotten from her.
Dear Katie,
Okay, first, about your interview. Wear solids. Simple earrings or no earrings at all, and I hope I do not have to tell you that things like bangle bracelets are a no-no as they are vulgar. Do not wear those white socks, your father is going to have to let you wear nylons, and be sure there are no runs. Comb your hair really well and tie it back loosely at the nape of your neck. Not a ponytail, I cannot emphasize this enough, ponytails scream NOT SERIOUS. Flats with no scuff marks. And posture, remember to keep that back straight and head held high but not conceited as I have shown you about one billion times.
Just answer the questions in the best way you can but do not go on too long because the Be Mysterious thing holds no matter what. And smile, smile, smile. But not like an idiot, just at the right places. All the time be thinking, I will succeed! because your insides must match with your outside. Keep eye contact with the interviewer but not too bold. You can best achieve this by occasionally looking away in the modest fashion, which is you look down a little.
Oh Katie, I just have to tell you something. I can’t give my full attention to your question because something bad has happened which is that I am in trouble. You know. In Trouble. I have told my mother and the thing we are going to do is I am going to get married sooner than I thought. My father is hardly speaking to me and Bubba runs around saying, “I’m an uncle, I’m an uncle,” which of course he isn’t even, yet, and you would think he could for once in his life think about something besides himself. Darren says he still loves me but I must say he is not exactly acting like it. Like does he call every night anymore? NO. And if he did, I could tell him things like my plan of how every Friday we will have a special dinner with candles and I know that would make him feel better.
Anyway, so much is happening as you can imagine and I can’t tell you all of it now. But I do ask you to keep me in your thoughts and prayers because I realize you really were a friend to me.
Well, I started out writing this letter under a cloud of gloom but it felt good to tell you things and now I feel better. Everything will work out. I hope you will let me know if you really go to a private school, which who would have thought it. I need things now to take my mind off things so I hope you get in that school and then you can gossip to me all about what rich girls are really like. I believe for one thing they all dye their hair. Plus flying off to Europe is nothing to them, believe me.
Love,
Cherylanne
P.S. No perfume. And no garlic or onions the night before. Or cabbage, good grief. And thank them for taking the time to interview you as you are leaving. One smile over the shoulder. Demure and mature.
I hold the letter in my lap and imagine Cherylanne sitting in her room, writing it. I think of how she is not a child any longer, how inside her a baby is growing. I wish I could help her, but I can’t. It is so scary how all of a sudden, there you are, smack in a life of your own making. My sister, Diane, got pregnant early too, but she lost the baby. I have a feeling Cherylanne will have a strong and healthy baby, and then there she will be in some little house with Darren going to work and her staying home and looking out the window. Patting the baby. Saying, Don’t you cry.
I suppose it might be a bad thing about me that next I just move back in the tips part of the letter again and start imagining my outfit. I have a matching skirt and blouse, light blue. I think of sitting there at the end of the interview, saying, “Well, thank you, I know I will love being a student here.” That’s because the head guy has just said “Ordinarily, Miss Nash, we take a while to decide whether or not we will admit someone. But I’m sure I speak for all of us here [he looks around at the smiling committee] when I say I would like to extend our invitation to you immediately. Am I not right, colleagues?” They all nod, clapping.
But then I think of being dropped off for the interview and walking up to a desk in the reception room of the school and a blond secretary wearing glasses on a string says, “You’re who? To see whom? . . . I’m sorry, there’s nothing on the calendar. Are you certain they wanted to see you?” And to herself she is thinking, “This has to be a mistake. For heaven’s sake. This is the Bartlett School.”
I go over to my closet, tell myself to stop thinking such things and just find the outfit. I put my hand on a hanger and then I just stand there, thinking, Oh, Cherylanne, I remember how she looked one day at the swimming pool, standing perfectly still on the high board before she dove off it. How her stomach was perfectly flat, just a girl’s.
WHEN I RING THE WEXLERS’ doorbell at seven o’clock on Wednesday night, Mr. Wexler answers in his pajamas. I step back, embarrassed. And I think he is, too. And then we both start apologizing. “I forgot all about you,” he says. “I’m so sorry. The boys aren’t here. They’re with my sister.”
I start to say I’ll just come back on Friday, but he asks me to come in, it’s like he’s glad to have some company. I step into the hall, and
he says, “Why don’t you have a seat, I’ll be right back.”
He goes upstairs, and I start for the kitchen, then stop dead in my tracks. The sink is piled high with dirty dishes, there are beer bottles everywhere, and the garbage is overflowing. You can smell it: coffee grounds and something like cheese. On the table are newspapers and coffee cups.
I go into the living room and quickly arrange myself on a chair, so he won’t know I’ve seen the kitchen. Not that the living room is so perfect, with his socks lying around, an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts, the blinds pulled to make for a dreary dimness.
When Mr. Wexler comes down, he is dressed in a plaid, short-sleeved shirt and khaki pants, no shoes. No belt. He comes into the living room and sits in the chair opposite me. “Well. You must be wondering what’s going on.” He laughs a little.
I don’t know the polite way to answer, but finally I just say, “Yes, sir.”
“Mrs. Wexler is . . . she’s on a little vacation. And I sent the boys to stay with my sister for a while. Just for a while, until I . . . ” He sits there, staring straight ahead. Then he looks at me and says, “Until I decide what to do. The vacation may last a while. It may last quite a while. I think the boys will be better off staying where they are maybe until school starts. So I guess we won’t be needing a baby-sitter.”
“Oh, okay,” I say. I think of Henry, my favorite, lying in a new bed and thinking about the last number. But probably he is not thinking about that, probably he is thinking, Where is my mother? This pinches my heart so hard I have to change my position on the sofa.
“Now, I know we hired you for the summer,” Mr. Wexler says, “and I’m going to pay you what you would have earned if you’d worked for us.”
“Oh, no,” I say. “That’s okay.”