Joy School

  I told my mother about Jimmy, don’t get mad! But I was so excited that you have an A+ boy friend. He has eyes like that Paul Newman. In fact I personally would say that he is better looking than Paul Newman, which is how serious I am that he is A+. Remember what I told you and victory is near. And also remember about when you walk through a storm you see a golden sky.

  I have to tell you something. My mother is what they call going through the change. How I found out is we were all of a sudden out of Kotex. Not a one. And I had to tell her to buy some. This never happened before. And then I saw how only I am using it. And she has been off sitting by herself which you know very well is not my mother. It must be a sorrow that her days of being a woman are over. But what can you do? Well, my father has been extra nice, I’ll tell you that. Which might help make up for Bubba, who has been his usual self. Today he came home from school and ate an entire steak for a snack that was for the whole family to eat for dinner. I pity the girl who ends up with him.

  I hope you can come this summer. Ask your dad when he’s in a good mood can you come just for a week. Anyway do you miss Texas?

  I am now being called to dinner. Which is probably two grains of rice and a pea because Bubba ate everything else.

  I hope everything is going well for you. Whew! is mostly what I have to say about me!

  Write back, duck, or you’ll have bad luck. I just made that up now. Duck is a word of affection in London, England, did you know that?

  Love,

  Cherylanne

  There is everything wrong with New Year’s resolutions. First, you make a list that is plain impossible because you are in such a good mood thinking you can turn over a new leaf just like that, just because the ball drops. Then you have to watch as each one does not work out, which makes you very disappointed and discouraged, which is the opposite of what the resolutions are supposed to do. I had down to lose weight, one. But all that has happened is I have gained. I got on the scale and saw the number and wanted to punch it. But it is my fault. And Ginger’s. I am getting some Metrecal.

  Next was to dress better, which you cannot do if your clothes are still the same thing on January 1 and your father says, What for? when you say you need more.

  Third, I have gotten nowhere fast with Jimmy. I visit him and he thinks, What a nice kid when I walk away instead of Oh, in my heart is a secret love and soon we will be together. Well, there is one thing, which is that I said to him on January 3rd, “The fifty-four Jaguar had a double overhead camshaft unit.” He looked at me like he didn’t quite know what to think about what he’d just heard. Then, quick, before he could ask any questions like “You know what a camshaft is?” I said, “Of course it wasn’t that much more powerful than the Corvette engine, only smoother.”

  “That’s right!” he said, smiling broadly, and he was so happy he forgot to think about whether I really knew what I was talking about. Which I of course did not. I found that stuff in a library book, memorized it like French vocabulary. Later when I have time I will find out what everything means for real. I would be willing to take a summer class in cars. But anyway my saying this about Jaguars did not really bring us closer. I would say in the end it was a failure.

  The one and only resolution I have lived up to is to be nicer to Cynthia. I went to see her last week and we actually had a good time and it made me see that you can have more than one friend in your life, and ones of many kinds, it is just a matter of scheduling. Nona is bad sick, even her voice is weak. She can’t yell at her daughter anymore and I think this is the thing she liked most in life since her husband died. I sat on a chair by her bed for awhile, I’d brought her a Hallmark card. I asked, How are you feeling? though it was plain to see the answer without her saying a word. “I’m-a death warm over,” she said. And then she said, “Well, whattya gon’ do, go complain-a city hall?” She is so funny even when she is sad. I have taken to writing down certain things that she says. She has a bucking-bronco spirit that I think Cynthia will inherit. It seems that as Nona fades, Cynthia gets brighter. Naturally her mother is fit to be tied. She is going around with her vacuum rubbing those carpets hard, thinking, How can I get that girl back under my thumb. But Cynthia is not going back to that old place, you can see it. She hung a picture from Photoplay on her wall with Scotch tape, Sandra Dee. When her mother said, Well now, Cynthia, do you remember what tape does to the wall? Cynthia hung up another one! Actually, it was Cynthia’s New Year’s resolution to ignore her mother when she acts crazy, which is about 90 percent of the time. I have to admit that I helped a little with this resolution, but it was already just lying in Cynthia waiting to get born. And Cynthia is doing just what she promised she would.

  But not me. I started out grand but now I feel like I am just sitting at an empty desk, fingers drumming and drumming. And also nervous, like I am about to explode.

  Today is the day. He is getting stuffed angel cake. I cut a generous piece, put it smack dead center on a nice paper plate, silver foil over it. I was going to tape a pretty picture from a magazine on top of the foil, but it doesn’t pay to push too hard.

  The walk to the station is nice today. The sky is full of puffy kinds of clouds that don’t seem to go with winter, but there they are. It is bright enough to wear sunglasses, which I don’t have. When Cherylanne was here she advised me to get some because they add a sex appeal. But I don’t know. When I wear a hat or sunglasses I feel stupid. Same thing with nail polish. I am more a plain type.

  Jimmy is not in his office, and I don’t see him outside either. I put the cake on his desk, go to look for him in the garage. And there he is, sitting in his Corvette. The top is down. It looks nicer with the top down. You want to get in.

  “Hey,” I say.

  He startles, which makes me feel so tender toward him like he is a little boy.

  “Sorry,” I say. “It’s just me.”

  “Is anyone else out there?”

  “No. But guess what, I brought you a surprise.”

  He climbs out of the car, closes the door as though it were made of glass. Well, Corvettes are made of Fiberglas, he told me, and I said, Uh-huh, I see, even though it seemed like a stupid idea to me to make a car out of glass. He stands looking at the car for awhile, and then he looks over at me. “Hey, Katie,” he says. There is mystery fun in his voice. Diane used to sound like this sometimes before she did bad things. Well, dangerous things. Sometimes it comes like a pinch to the heart how I miss her. Letters are not the same as when you are hip to hip watching television in the gray light and sharing a box of Good & Plenty. Plus one thing Diane does not like is writing letters or anything else.

  “Want to go for a ride?”

  “Me?” I say, pointing to myself. I wish, I wish, I wish I would stop this, but it comes out like a hiccup and there you are, it is too late.

  “Yeah. You.”

  “Well…It’s still winter.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s pretty slushy.”

  “I’ll wash it after. You can help, if you want.”

  “Sure!” I feel like a happy dog, who goes nuts just because you say the word walk. But Jimmy would not let just anyone touch his car, I know it for a fact. This is a real step up the ladder.

  Jimmy goes out front to put a note on the door and lock up. Then he comes back into the garage, smiling, his jacket on and zipped high. “Button up,” he says, pointing with his chin to my collar.

  He takes care of you, it is in his nature. If he came to a dying flower dropped on the street he would still move it so it wouldn’t get stepped on. I button the top button of my coat, which chokes me to death but who cares.

  “Okay!” He opens my door for me like the coachman for Cinderella herself. Then the garage door opens, and we back out slowly. The sound of the engine is so cute and mumbly. He puts it into gear and we take off. We are way low to the ground. I love this car. It is so bright on the inside like lipstick. I wish I could watch us from the outside, going down the road together. br />
  It’s cold with the top down, but it’s fun, too. The heater will not exactly win any awards, but when you know in a little while you’ll be warm again, you’re all right. I love the sight of Jimmy’s profile, his bare hands on the wheel. The wind is whipping his hair around, his ears are bright red. We go up and down streets, turn left, turn right, go wherever we want. People look at us, especially men. The women look like, Oh isn’t that cute, but the men stop and stare till we’re gone and I would bet one million dollars I know what they’re thinking, which is, Boy, I wish I had one, I want one too. Yes, I say back a little snobby, it’s a ‘54 Corvette, it’s a Blue Flame 6. When we head back to the garage, I am disappointed. I know he has to work, but I wish we could stay out till the sun went down and then some.

  The garage door shuts, and I climb out of the car, close the door gently, push my hair out of my face. I feel like I’ve been on a good ride in an amusement park. Exhilarated, and a little out of breath. Jimmy sits behind the wheel saying nothing. He doesn’t look like he feels the same way. Finally he gets out, grabs a rag, throws one to me. “I’ll just get a bucket,” he says. Something is wrong. His walk is too heavy.

  “Want me to take the sign down off the door?” I ask.

  “Oh, man, I forgot. Yeah, would you? Thank you. Unlock it, too, okay? Keys are in the door.”

  While I’m in the office, I dump old coffee out of his cup, then wash and dry it. I put it upside down on his desk so he’ll know it’s ready to go. This is something I’ve seen in restaurants and it always made sense to me. I straighten his books and papers, line his chair up even with his desk. I take the broom and give the floor a little sweep. This is all the house we have for now.

  Finally, I take the foil off the cake. And now my flying spirits take a dive. The whipped cream is all thinned out and melting. The cake doesn’t look delicious at all. It looks like garbage, the kind you don’t want to pick up because it will give you the willies to touch it. The pretty colors it used to have, a red-pink mixed with white, have now blended together to look like an accident. It’s is a good thing I got here first or Jimmy would think, That girl is not ready for anything. I throw the cake in the garbage. Well, you would think they would say something in the recipe about this, do not leave out too long.

  When I go back into the garage, Jimmy is done with his side of the car and starting on mine. “I got it,” he says. “I’m almost done.”

  He finishes, stands up and stares at the car again, one hand on his hip. Watching him, I feel as though I can see the car with his eyes: its smooth, rounded lines, its tires with their whitewalls and red stripe and decorated hubcaps, its shiny dashboard dials lined up neat, the little wing off the taillight just to be fancy. It reminds me of when you watch a person who knows a lot about music listen to a record, how they close their eyes like they’re in a good kind of pain, and all of a sudden you hear things you never heard before, just from the love way they move their eyebrows. Oh, you think. I get it.

  Jimmy sighs. “Well, say good-bye to it.”

  “To the car? Why?”

  “I’m selling it.”

  “Why?”

  He walks past me into his office, slumps into his desk chair. “My wife found out about it. We really can’t afford it. She’s right, I never should have bought it. Guy’s coming tonight to pick it up.”

  “But you really like it.”

  “I know. But it was wrong. I shouldn’t have kept it from her, that I had it.”

  “Jimmy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I think you should keep that car.”

  “I know you do.”

  The bells rings, and he gets up to take care of a pickup truck, which takes about a hundred years, I hate when trucks come. “How you doing?” I hear him say friendly to the driver, even though his heart is plumb breaking. I watch him, my forehead up against the glass. I will someday buy him two Corvettes. One exactly like the one he is selling and one of whatever else he wants. “Go ahead,” I’ll say, waving my arm out over a sea of Corvettes. “Pick whatever you want.” “Katie!” he’ll say. Although by that time it will be Katherine. “Katherine!” he’ll say. “No,” I’ll say. “I mean it.” “Well, all right,” he’ll say, “but then I’m going to buy you something.” “Never mind,” I will say. “I don’t need a thing.”

  When Jimmy comes in, he is different. “Tell you what,” he says. “After I get the money, I’ll take you out for a Coke. Hell, I’ll take you out for a whole dinner.”

  Well, look what has dropped right here.

  “I… Okay.” I always thought it might happen when I was not expecting it, that it would all of a sudden just be here. I will wear something very simple, but tasteful. A whole dress, not a skirt and sweater. The pearl earrings, of course. I will order something easy to eat and with no garlic. Diane told me shrimp was good, fried shrimp, you can just daintily pick it up, give a little dip in the catsup and put it quietly in your mouth. We will have a long, serious talk. “It’s all right,” I will say about how guilty he feels about leaving his wife. “You didn’t plan it.” I will put my hand lightly over his, I am here for you. I have to get some lotion.

  “I should tell you, too … I’m going to be moving.”

  “When?” Things are going fast. He is getting his own place, which will have things like only two towels and he will have to make scrambled eggs in a pot.

  “In about three weeks.”

  “Where?” Maybe close to my house!

  “Up to Iowa. My wife has a brother there, willing to hire me. He’d pay more than I can make here.”

  Oh, now, No. No.

  He is looking at me like he expects me to say something.

  “Well… do you like Iowa?” I ask.

  Where is Iowa? Where is Iowa? How far?

  “I don’t know,” he says.

  I know that feeling, of moving somewhere you know nothing about, where you don’t really want to go.

  I am in a kind of panic. He is looking down in the defeated way. His eyelashes make little shadows on his cheeks. He is a beautiful man, fit to be used as a model for the artist Michelangelo. I don’t think he has any idea. And now he is leaving.

  “You are a very handsome man.” My voice is wearing boots and marching.

  He looks up, smiles. “Well, thank you. And you are a very attractive young lady.”

  “I think I love you.”

  His look freezes.

  “No. I do. I can tell.”

  “Oh, Katie. I didn’t know … I didn’t mean to—”

  “You didn’t do it. You didn’t do it. It just happened by its own self.”

  We stare at each other, still as stone. And then I leave. I walk home somehow. Somehow, I do. On the way I am thinking, he loves his wife. He wants so much to please her. He will do anything to please her. He told me that she was in love with his best friend, Chris, who broke up with her when they were all seniors in high school, and she went out with Jimmy just to get back at Chris. She did everything with Jimmy to get back at Chris. At the time I thought Jimmy was saying, See how I got roped in? But he wasn’t saying that. He was saying God, I love her, I wish she loved me. I didn’t want to see that then, but I see it now. It was in his voice every time he talked to her on the phone. It was in the way I saw him kissing her. His love is pure and direct and longing and the beam goes straight to her. As mine goes to him. I think, all in the whole world, there are just lines of people with the one in front never turning to see the one behind, and the one behind too shy to give a small tap on the shoulder. Well, at least I did that. At least I told.

  Ginger knocks at my door.

  “Not now,” I say.

  She doesn’t come in, but she doesn’t go away.

  I raise my head off the pillow. It is heavy with the snot of crying. “Not NOW!” I say.

  I hear her walk away. There is a slice of me saying, Oh now don’t. The rest of me is saying, Who cares when I know now, I can’t ever see him again. And he was th
e one. He was. It is the truest thing about me. It will never change. When I am fifty, I will say fast and automatic, “Jimmy.”

  I clear my throat so Mr. Spurlock will look up from his newspaper and see my raised hand.

  “Yes, Katie?”

  “I can’t read what you wrote.”

  He stands up, walks over to his chicken scratches on the blackboard. “Which part?”

  I am really so sick of him and his half-bald head, which he tries to disguise by combing long sides over the top, but it does not work at all because the sides slip down. Mostly he looks like Clarabelle.

  “See the first line?”

  “Yes, that says, ‘The New Deal—’”

  “No,” I say. “I mean, if you take the first line and go all the way to the last line, that is what I can’t read.”

  He stands there, blinking. He reminds of a chimpanzee I once caught the glance of. We stood there staring at each other. “Yes?” we were both thinking.

  “So what you are saying, Katie, is that you can’t read any of this.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A king-sized miracle has happened. The students in Mr. Spurlock’s class are sitting up, interested and alert.

  “Well, do you need glasses?”

  “No. A teacher would do.”

  “Pardon me, young lady?”

  I say loudly, “I said, ‘A teacher would do.’ All you are is a newspaper reader. You don’t teach anything. All you do is put Sanskrit on the board.”

  He is not listening. He is over at his desk writing out the hall pass. Guess where I am going. Well, bingo, it’s exactly what I wanted.

  “Your school called,” Ginger says, when I get home.

  I say nothing, head out to the kitchen to fix a snack.