True to Form

  ONE THING I DO NOT understand about parents is how out of their mouths come two different things at almost exactly the same time. They are the true forked-tongue people of the world.

  Here is my father talking to me at the breakfast table this morning: “Katie, you’re thirteen years old. You’re really growing up, now, and I think it’s time you started working in the summers.” No complaint from me so far. A lift in my chest of pure happiness, in fact, that inside yip. Because one thing I would love is to have a job, maybe at the concession stand at the swimming pool where lifeguards join the crowd in asking for a Nutty Buddy. They stand so handsome and nonchalant, their whistle lying in the little valley of their chest, zinc oxide on their noses, their eyes sexy behind their sunglasses. Oftentimes they take a dip before they come to the concession stand and you can see the little rivers of water zigzag down their hairy legs. Their faces look like boys’, but their legs look like men, which gives you the inside shivers.

  Some of the lifeguards have actually saved lives, have knelt beside a bluish body and made it breathe again. I saw part of that one time. I was on the outside of a thick circle of people gathered around someone the lifeguards had pulled out of the pool. He was a fat man, and all I could see was one of his arms, lying useless beside him. But then he got saved. An ambulance came, the crowd parted, and he was carried off on a stretcher with a red blanket over him, an oxygen mask over his face. I remember thinking, If it were me, I’d be embarrassed about the oxygen mask. But the man wasn’t embarrassed. I guess he was in shock, his eyes all blank. I watched him pass by and I thought, For the rest of his life, he will tell this story, I wanted to go swimming.

  Anyway, if you work at a pool, you can develop a personal relationship with the lifeguards and get your own money to buy things besides. But working at the pool is not going to be my job. Because what my father said next is, “There is an elderly couple two blocks over who need help for a few hours on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. And I know Mrs. Wexler is looking for a sitter for her kids a couple of days a week, as well.”

  There is this sense of powerlessness that comes to me sometimes, and it makes my chest feel paralyzed, and it makes my stomach feel like someone is wringing it out. That feeling came to me then. I knew it was all over and there was nothing, nothing, nothing I could do, especially with my father who sometimes gets mad if you only say “But . . . ” Still, I tried. I made my face blank as a white towel, and I said, “My job is going to be baby-sitting?” Mrs. Wexler lives two doors down and has three kids, ages six, seven, and eight. All boys. I’ve baby-sat for her a few times. Trust me that it is not the kind of job you would say is fun. Or grown-up. I felt like standing in front of a wall and punching it again and again, but instead I had a little smile on my face, and I moved only to tuck my hair politely behind my ears.

  “You’re to start next Monday,” my father said.

  “But . . . baby-sitting for a couple?”

  “Yes.” He stood and looked at his watch. “The wife is apparently quite ill. They need some help.”

  Oh great, I thought, and right away I got an idea of how that place would be. I got the smell in my nose of the place. No offense, but when you’re around older people there is a smell, even when they’re not sick. It is like old closet smell. Not the thing you want to be around in the summer, when everywhere else is suntan lotion and grass clippings. Plus old people always keep their houses dark and they are kind of cheap about food. I have been invited inside old people’s houses, and when they ask if you would like some cookies, what they give you is two Vanilla Wafers or a Fig Newton on a saucer that is not the cleanest thing you’ve ever seen. It’s not their fault, I’m not saying that, but I just so much do not want to be a baby-sitter for my summer job.

  Here is how much my opinion counts: Zero. My opinion is called talking back. I can say things to my stepmother. Ginger will listen to anything, the calm look in her eyes a welcome mat to your feelings. But she would not be able to help me on this one. I was doomed for the whole rest of the summer, starting right at that very minute. It wasn’t fair. And it wasn’t right.

  “Tonight, I’ll show you where they live,” my father said. “Introduce you.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  My father kissed Ginger quickly on the mouth, and left. The screen door slammed. The car door slammed. The engine started. Next came the low whine of the car in reverse, backing out of the driveway. A pause, while he shifted gears. Gone.

  So now I am lying on my bed with my door closed at ten in the morning, like I am a sick old person myself. I know if I went outside there would be the cheer-up sight of roses in gardens and clouds puffed up in the sky like they are pure proud of themselves. Little kids riding their bikes down the street full of the freedom of no homework. But I don’t want to be cheered up until I am done with feeling mad. Here comes Ginger down the hall with the vacuum cleaner, which shows no respect at all.

  I open my door and stand there, my arms crossed. She looks up, turns off the vacuum. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Can I come in?” This is one thing I like about Ginger, that she does not assume your room is hers just because she is the woman of the house. I stand aside, and she comes in and sits on my wrinkled bed. I sit at my desk and get the bright zing! that I don’t have to do homework here for a long time, but that is of no help at the moment.

  “You’re feeling bad about working?” She has her hair up in a French twist, some spit curls on either side. She wears a peach-colored housedress, tight at the waist. Loafers. As for me, I am still in my shorty pajamas. They do not look on me the way they looked on the model in the Sears catalog.

  “I want to work,” I say. “But baby-sitting is not a real job.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s . . . ” I shrug, look down. There are my fat knees.

  “You get paid, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that’s a job. You do some work and you are paid. And you know, when you are thirteen, your choices are somewhat limited.”

  “But who wants to be a baby-sitter? Especially for old people!”

  “I can understand your feelings. But I think you might like the Randolphs. They’re very nice.”

  “How do you know them?”

  “Your father and I see Mr. Randolph when we take our walks after dinner. He’s got a garden he likes to putter in. And he always comes over to say hello to us, and to pet the dogs. Last night, he told us he needed some help, and your dad volunteered your services.”

  “But he didn’t ask me.”

  “No. You’re right. He did not.”

  “Not that he ever does.”

  “Well. Not often enough. I agree with you there.”

  We stare at each other. Finally, I say, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “How can you . . . why do you like my dad so much?”

  She smiles. “Well. You know he’s not nearly as tough as he acts.”

  “Yes, but . . . ”

  She comes over to me, puts her hand on my shoulder in a way that I like. “I guess it’s what I’ve told you before, I like a challenge. I always have liked men that others find difficult.”

  I think of the last time my father took Ginger out for dinner, how the clothes she was going to wear were lined up on her bed while she was in the shower, singing. Her blue crepe dress, her lacy slip, her nylon stockings. Her high heels on the floor, dusted with baby powder and waiting for her to step into them. I think of how he put his hand to the small of her back as they walked out the door together that night. He is a scary man, but she finds other things. I guess this is her thrill.

  “For you . . . ,” Ginger says. “Well, I know it can be awfully hard.” She bends down, looks me in the eye. “But you know what? He loves you, Katie. Oh, he really does.”

  I swallow hard. One thing I hate is crying in the morning.

  “You do know that, right?” Ging
er asks, and I nod. Then I say, small, “But I wish he would do it different.”

  “I know you do. I wish he would, too. I wish he would be easier on you. I think he is getting better, but it will take a while for him to . . . In the meantime, I want you to know that you can come to me, Katie. For anything.”

  I draw a circle on my knee with my finger. I hear the ticking of my bedside alarm clock, the rumble of a truck going down the street outside. My mother is so far away, she is too far away forever.

  Ginger straightens, kisses the top of my head. “How about some breakfast?” And I nod, because there is nothing else to be done. You might as well eat. I’ll give Bridgett my toast crusts and then take her out in the yard to play ball with her; it’s not her fault. Bones will lie sleeping in the sun as usual; that’s all he ever does when I take him out. He’s probably as old as Mr. Randolph in dog years.

  So this is the beginning of my glamorous summer. It doesn’t matter that I’m only thirteen; even if I were seventeen, I would still have to do what he says. Would you like to work at Famous Barr and see the latest clothes for fall? Oh, no thank you, I’m going to baby-sit. Would you like to work at Dairy Queen and get to see the long lines outside your little window while you make the curl on top of every cone? Oh, no thanks, I would much rather baby-sit. Would you like to come to Hollywood and be the assistant to Rock Hudson and Doris Day and get paid a thousand dollars a day? Oh, certainly not, not when I can hang around some house that isn’t mine playing wrestling match with three boys from hell.

  SAY SANTA CLAUS WENT ON a severe diet: Bingo, Mr. Randolph. There he is before me with twinkly blue eyes and a mouth that really is like a bow. White hair and a white beard. But skinny as can be, with his shirt tucked into his pants and sort of drowning there. His suspenders ought to be paid double for the work they’re doing. “Hi, nice to meet you,” I said, when we were introduced, but what I felt like saying is, “Whoa! Did anybody ever tell you you looked like someone?”

  “Ah, Katie!” he says, stepping aside from the door. “I’m so happy to meet you. Won’t you come in?”

  He leads us into the living room, which is a really nice room, two blue sofas with lots of triangle pillows on them. A couple of comfy chairs and a fireplace. Pictures on the wall in gold frames and nice drapes held back fancy. He points to one of the sofas and says, “Have a seat.”

  I sit at the edge of the sofa with one foot tucked behind the other, which is how you’re supposed to so you don’t show what’s up your skirt even when you’re wearing shorts, which, of course, it being summer, I am. My father sits beside me, his big hands in his lap.

  Mr. Randolph clears his throat, and I all of a sudden get that panicked feeling because what if I’m the one who is supposed to say something first. But then Mr. Randolph says, “I guess your father must have told you what I’m looking for.”

  I look at my father, who is staring straight ahead. I am on my own. “Yes, sir. He said you had a wife who was sick and you needed some help.”

  “That’s right. Elsie has been ill for some time, and it’s gotten difficult for me to take care of her by myself. What I need is some help bathing her, preparing meals, and maybe you could read to her a bit when I run out for errands.”

  “Oh, okay,” I say, though what I am feeling is, Oh, no.

  “Why don’t we go and see her?” Mr. Randolph asks.

  My father stands as though he’s going to go with us, but then he all of a sudden says, “I’ll tell you what, I believe I’ll just let the three of you talk. Katie, I’ll see you back at home, all right?”

  Mr. Randolph looks a little surprised, but I think I know why my father is doing this. I think he is remembering my mother lying sick in bed before she died, and the memory is like holding something too hot.

  “Okay, Dad.” I smile at Mr. Randolph like I am fine-and-dandy ready to meet his wife, even though I would rather be doing math. We make our way down a hall and into a bedroom, and what do I come face-to-face with but Mrs. Randolph’s hiney. She is lying on her side, the covers pulled off, and her blue nightgown is hiked up clear to her shoulder blades. I have never seen an adult’s hiney in real life, except once a part of Ginger’s when I accidentally opened the bathroom door on her. Hers did not look like this. This is a hiney like a balloon all deflated. And there is Mrs. Randolph’s knobby backbone and her hair all white and see-through sticking out all around her head like she has her finger in the socket. I take a step back. In my mind, I see my room, all my normal things waiting for me when I get home.

  Mr. Randolph rushes forward and gently pulls the nightgown down and the sheet up. And the whole time he’s doing it, he is talking in such a dignified voice, saying, “There we go. That’s better.” He straightens, clasps his hands before him. “Now. Dear? We have a visitor. I’d like you to meet our neighbor, Katie.”

  Sometimes it seems like a little moment brings a whole world with it. I mean that I see Mr. Randolph cover up his wife like she is made of thin glass, and I hear him speak in a voice so kind and low but also full of a shy pain, and all of a sudden I really want to help him. Mr. Randolph has no fear of showing how much he loves someone, even though she is pure disgusting. I saw this kind of thing once before, when I was on my way into a store, and coming out was this really big kid sitting in a wheelchair. He was drooling and all twisted up like a human pretzel, and he was making a sound between moaning and laughing. I saw that kid and I felt scared of him and also sort of sick to my stomach as I looked at him, looking up at me. Then I saw how his mother leaned down and spoke to him and very gently wiped at his face with her flowered hanky and I felt so ashamed. I remember I watched her wheel him away, his head bent to the side all strange, and he was just her son with a crewcut like the other boys. I got tears in my eyes, but they were not the crying kind, they were just the kind that show you your body agrees so much with what your mind just said.

  “Elsie?” Mr. Randolph says, and a little sound comes out of the Mrs.

  “It’s Katie, the girl I told you about,” he says, and Mrs. Randolph turns over. “Oh! Hello,” she says, and her voice sounds crackly, like a bad phone connection. She doesn’t smile. She looks like the FBI photos at the post office.

  I shrug. “Hello.”

  “Can you come closer?” she asks.

  I walk up to the bedside, one of my hands holding the other tightly, and she stares into my face. “Aren’t you nice,” she says, and I don’t have any idea what to say back.

  “Sweetheart, can you get my glasses?” she asks, and Mr. Randolph digs in the drawer in the bedside stand and carefully puts them on her. “Ah,” she says, “Now.” She looks at me again, and then she does smile, and her face looks almost pretty; you can see how she maybe used to be.

  One thing I feel bad about is her glasses are all greasy. When I am the one taking care of her, first I’ll wash her glasses. It’s odd, but when I think of that, I start to get kind of excited about the job. I get an idea that on the way here next time, I’ll pick a little bouquet of flowers she can keep on her bedside to remind her that no matter what, those flowers are still there. Maybe I can take her outside to see them—there’s a wheelchair all folded up over in the corner. But first things first. I shake her hand, with all her veins sticking out like little blue roads, and when she says, Are you going to be coming over to relieve my darling Henry? I say, Yes ma’am, I am.

  BEFORE I GO TO SLEEP I like to listen to the transistor radio. I put the volume on low and let it rest over my ear. Sometimes I fall asleep like that. Tonight I am listening to Fab Freddy, as usual. He’s the deejay I like best. He has such a friendly attitude, and I like it when he talks to people—you can call in and he actually puts you on the air. Once I tried calling, but then I hung up before he got to me. I started getting a chest ache, waiting for him to say, “HI! You’re on KOOL radio, with Fab Freddy! What’s happening, baaaaaaby?”

  Tonight Freddy is saying, “Don’t forget, now, next Friday night between nine and ten P.M.,
we’ll be announcing the winner of our ‘Trip of a Lifetime’ contest! Send us a postcard with your name, address, and phone number. If we announce your name, all you have to do is pick up the phone and call us, and TWA will send you to the city of your choice! So get those postcards in here. Remember, only one entry per person.”

  My eyelids pop open like cartoon window shades. No way could I win, but if I did, I know where I’d go: back to Texas, where I moved here from. I would really like, for once in my life, to go back to a place I used to live, which I have never been able to do. Sometimes it seems like I just made those places up. Also, I would like to see my friend, Cherylanne, one more time. We are not as close as we used to be, but I would like to see her anyway, because unbelievable things are happening to her.

  I get out of bed, write, ENTER CONTEST!!! on a piece of paper and put it smack in the middle of my desk. Then, from the back of my drawer, I pull out a letter from Cherylanne, sent to me about a month ago. I’ll read it again to get her fresh in my mind, just in case.

  I prop up both of my pillows so that I can lean against them and read in the luxury way, and begin.

  Dear Katie,

  You are going to flat out die when you hear what is happening with me. I, Cherylanne, am completely in love with the boy I am going to marry and soon. His name is Darren McGovern and you never met him, he just moved here. Instant attraction is what it was, and with one thing leading to the other, all I can say is, picture me in white. I have not told one soul about the marry part except you, not even Darren, but when it is meant to be, it is meant to be. I am so excited I can hardly sleep at night, wondering where we will live as man and wife and all the other things such as how many children will we have and also of course the intimacy part. Some girls have told me it hurts so much like a broomstick through a keyhole but they are just guessing unless they are more sluts than I thought. Anyway, here’s what I’ll bet you are dying to know: black hair, blue eyes, and tall, tall, tall. His own car and he can sing and accompany himself on guitar. Elvis is probably what you’re thinking and you are just about right! If you still lived here, you could see him when he picks me up but that was not meant to be.