?Oh, Rebecca,? I say, ?Relax. You just got your period.?
?That?s all?? she says, dazed. ?Is that all??
She starts to smile, and then she actually laughs a little. I help her stand up outside the car and we survey the damage: her bathing suit is covered with a spreading brown stain and there is some blood on the vinyl MG seat. I wipe this clean with a rag from the trunk, and then Rebecca and I take a walk further into the flatlands on the side of the road. There are no cacti or brush to hide behind here, but then again there aren?t many passing cars either. We take my pocketbook, which Rebecca, thank God, had remembered to grab in San Diego, and rummage through it for a tampon or a sanitary napkin. I am hoping for a napkin; I don?t want to have to explain the use of a tampon. When I find one I help Rebecca position it in the bottom of her bathing suit. ?We?ll get you something else to wear at the next store.?
?This is disgusting,? Rebecca says. ?This is like a diaper.?
?Welcome to womanhood.?
?Listen, Mom.? Rebecca looks at me sidelong. ?Don?t give me any of those talks about how I?m growing up, all right? I mean, I?m fifteen and I must be the last girl in school to get my period, which is bad enough. I know all about sex, so I don?t want the responsibility lecture either, agreed??
?No problem. But if you get cramps again, let me know. I?ll give you Midol.?
Rebecca smiled. ?I?ve been wanting this to happen for so long, you know? So I could get boobs. I can?t believe this is what I?ve been waiting for.?
?Someone should tell you when you reach twelve that it?s no great shakes.?
?I feel like an idiot. I thought I was dying.?
?When it happened to me I said the same thing. I didn?t even tell my mother. I just went to lie down on my bed and folded my arms across my chest and expected that I would die before the day was out. Joley was the one who found me, and got your grandmother, and then she gave me all those lectures you don?t want me to give you.?
We reached the car and Rebecca hesitates before sitting down. ?Do I have to sit there?? she says, although it is clean.
?You?re the one who wanted the sports car.? I watch her climb in and adjust herself in her seat several times, getting used to the sanitary napkin. ?Okay?? I ask, and she nods without looking at me. ?Let?s find a place to go shopping.?
Rebecca leans her head against her arm, propped on the open window. There is so much I wish I could warn her about; the chain reaction that is a consequence of this event. The acquisition of hips, for example, and the discovery of men, and falling in love, and falling out of it.
Rebecca, suddenly self-conscious, sifts through the glove compartment she has already inventoried. She is looking for something, or pretending to look for something, that isn?t there at all. She closes her eyes, letting the wind unleash her hair and blow the garbage twist-tie in the direction of Montana.
30 REBECCA July 18, 1990
The people wearing white T-shirts marked CREW ask us to join the line of cars. It stretches like a snake along the dock in Port Jefferson. While we are waiting my mother makes up stories about the people she passes in surrounding cars. A woman with a baby beside her is going to visit her long-lost aunt in Old Lyme, the one for whom the baby is named. A businessman is really a government spy, checking on the U.S. Coast Guard. Sometimes I wonder about my mother.
?This way,? a man yells. My mother puts the car into gear. She rolls it up a side ramp and into the hinged mouth of the ferry. It is like we are driving right into the jaws of a great white whale.
We are beckoned by another crew member and told to park the car halfway up a steep ramp on the side. There are two symmetrical ramps, and cars are parked on them and beneath them. I had been wondering how they would fit us all in.
It is a one-hour-and-fifteen-minute ride. We spend it on the upper deck, lying on our backs on the compartment that holds life jackets. Between this and the convertible I am starting to get some color. Even my mother is looking tan.
?Well,? she announces, ?we?ll be in Massachusetts first thing in the morning. We should get to Uncle Joley?s by noon.?
?It?s about time. It feels like we?ve been gone forever.?
?I wonder what it is he does on an apple orchard?? my mother says. ?We didn?t even have a garden as kids. Well, we tried, but everything kept dying. We blamed it on the New England soil.?
?How did he get it??
?Get what??
?The job. How did he get a job, without any experience farming??
My mother flips onto her back and shields her eyes against the sun. ?He didn?t quite tell me. Something to do with a visit, I think, and this guy hired him. The guy who runs the place. Supposedly he?s younger than Joley, even. He took over from his father.? She sits up. ?You know the types. The real ambitious ones, who?ve wanted to be farmers ever since they were knee-high to a beetle.?
?A grasshopper. Knee-high to a grasshopper.?
?Whatever,? my mother sighs.
?How can you pass judgment,? I say to her. ?You don?t know the man, and you don?t know anything about growing apples.?
?Oh, Rebecca,? my mother laughs. ?How hard could it be??
The ferry is gushing a backwash and slowly turning 180 degrees. That way, when we dock, we can drive right off. From what I can see, Bridgeport does not look like someplace to write home about.
It seems as if every other line of cars gets to drive off before we do. Plus, since we are halfway up a ramp we cannot see if the line is moving. We cannot see anything but the Ford Taurus in front of us. It is very dusty and someone has etched ?WASH ME? on the back window. Finally a man wearing a CREW shirt points to the car and motions that we can move ahead. But the Taurus in front of us, instead of pulling forward, has shifted into reverse. It slams us squarely on the front fender. I can hear the metal crunch.
?Jesus Christ,? my mother says. ?It figures.?
?Well, aren?t you going to stop?? The man in the CREW shirt is yelling something I can?t hear. The overall gist of it is: Move, lady. My mother pulls off the boat with the fender hanging half on and half off. She drives to a spot out of the way, on the right, where the Taurus is waiting.
She gets out of the car and walks in front to see the damage. ?We can drive. We just won?t look very pretty.? She tries to bend the fender back into place with her bare hands. ?I suppose you can?t ask for much when you?ve paid five hundred dollars.?
The driver gets out of the Taurus, which hasn?t been damaged. ?Oh, dear,? he says. ?I?ll certainly pay for this. I can give you cash, right now, if you like. Or we can exchange licenses.? He wrings his hands in front of himself, so upset that it is almost funny.
?Well,? my mother says, ?it would probably cost at least four hundred dollars to fix. Don?t you think so, honey?? she calls to me.
?At least. And the car being brand new, and all.?
?Brand new?? the man gasps. He doesn?t notice all the rust spots, apparently. ?I am so sorry. I can?t tell you how sorry. I didn?t mean to put it into reverse. Stupid, stupid me.? He bends down over our twisted fender and smooths his fingers over it. ?I don?t have the money on me, but if you follow me I can get it. And I don?t mind giving the cash up front, not at all. Less points on the old insurance, after all.?
?We really don?t have a lot of time,? my mother says.
?Oh, it?s just up the road. I?m Ernest Elkezer, the curator for the Barnum Museum on Main Street here. It?s after hours, but I?ll let you look around while I open the safe. It?s the least I can do.?
My mother gets into the driver?s seat and starts the ignition. ?Can you believe this? The car was free, and now we?re getting a bonus four hundred dollars.? She turns her face toward the sun. ?Rebecca, baby, the gods are smiling on us today!?
The P. T. Barnum Museum is next door to a modern city building.It is strange, walking up to this huge door which is locked and being let inside. I feel like I am doing something I shouldn?t. ?You know Bridgeport was the birthplace of General
Tom Thumb,? Mr. Elkezer says. ?Full-grown he was only twenty-eight inches tall.?
He switches on the lights-one, two, three-and the dark hall comes to life. ?Make yourselves at home. Plenty of interesting circus memorabilia here. You won?t want to miss the third floor.?
The third floor is almost entirely covered with a miniature display of a big top. Three red rings sit in the sawdust center. Suspended over one is a net for the trapeze artists. There are heavy drums tucked into the corners for the elephants to stand on. A thick, knotted tightrope is stretched overhead. ?If it was a little bit larger, I?d try it out,? my mother says, one foot already in the display. When I close my eyes, I can see the audience. Red flashlights on lanyards, circling over the heads of kids.
I leave my mother and walk around the perimeter of the mock circus. There is a display about Jumbo the elephant, whose skeleton (it says) is on display in the Museum of Natural History in New York City. Now that would be something interesting. I lean closer to see the photograph taken of the huge skeleton, which has a man standing beside it as a reference measure. The man is Ernest Elkezer himself. Just as I am reading the caption, Elkezer approaches with a wrinkled manila envelope.
?Jumbo was my favorite,? he says. ?Came over a century ago, on a ship called the Assyrian Monarch . Barnum paraded him up and down Broadway, with a big brass band and all the fanfare you could imagine.?
My mother walks over, and Elkezer hands her the envelope absentmindedly. ?Back then, most people had never seen an elephant. So it wasn?t really that he was so tremendous, but that he was here . And then three years later he was hit by a speeding freight train. Other elephants that were crossing the tracks got knocked out but survived. Jumbo, though, well, Jumbo didn?t make it.?
?He was hit by a train?? I say, stunned. ?
You lived through a plane crash,? my mother points out.
?Barnum carved up the beast and gave pieces to different museums. He sold the heart, even. To Cornell University, for forty dollars. Can you imagine??
?We?d better be going,? my mother says.
?Oh, all the money is there,? Elkezer says. ?You can count it if you like.?
?I?m sure that isn?t necessary. Thank you.?
?No, thank you .? We leave him standing on the third floor, lightly touching the photo of Jumbo.
As we close the heavy door of the museum behind us, my mother rips open the envelope. ?We?re rich again, Rebecca,? she sings. ?Rich!?
We get into our car and pull out of the parking lot. The fender scrapes like a rake against the pavement. We pass little boys playing handball and a fat woman with skin the color of molasses. We pass a deal going down on a street corner: a man in a leather cap unfolding a small wrinkled square of paper. In spite of this I can still picture the heavy dance of a motorcade, the oompah of a tuba, the slow-foot sashay of those elephants down Main Street.
31 JANE
We celebrate Rebecca?s birthday at the geographical center of North America. Right outside of Towner, North Dakota, I give her a Hostess cupcake with a candle stuck in it, and I sing Happy Birthday. Rebecca blushes. ?Thanks, Mom. You didn?t have to.?
?Oh, I?ve got a present too,? I say, and I pull an envelope out of my back pocket. We both recognize the envelope-the scruffy manila one that held the money under the MG?s seat. Inside, on motel stationery, I?ve written an IOU.
Rebecca reads it out loud. ?IOU anything you want (within reasonable limits) on a shopping spree.? She laughs, and looks around. We?ve pulled over at a road sign that announces this geographical center, and with the exception of a superhighway beside us, there is nothing as far as the eye can see. ?I guess I?ll have to wait till we hit civilization again to go shopping,? she says.
?No! That?s the point. Today?s driving is going to be wholly devoted to finding a suitable place to buy clothes. God knows we need them.? The old shirt of Oliver?s I?ve been wearing is covered with engine grease and food stains. My underwear can stand by itself. And Rebecca doesn?t look much better; the poor kid didn?t even take a decent bra along. ?So how does it feel to be fifteen?? I say.
?Not much different than it felt to be fourteen.? She hops into her side of the car: she has this down to a science by now. Me, I still have to crawl over the door, and I usually jam my foot on the handle.
?Okay,? Rebecca says, settling herself with her feet swung over the passenger door. ?Where to??
Towner, I suppose. It?s the place that Joley had directed us towards, although I have discovered that even a filling station and maybe three wooden houses can be classified as a ?place? in North Dakota.
Rebecca guides me down a dirt road. We drive for a mile without seeing any signs of life, much less commerce. Finally a dilapidated barn that leans decidedly to the right looms into view. On it is a hex sign, two lovebirds in all the primary colors. ?Eloise?s?? Rebecca says.
?This can?t be a store. This doesn?t even qualify as a home.? But there are several cars parked outside, cars so old and faded I have the sense I have arrived in a 1950s movie set. Tentatively, I pull over and climb out of the car.
The barn doors are propped open by long poles burning citronella candles. Inside are rows of barrels with flip-up tops. They are labeled: FLOUR, SUGAR, BROWN SUGAR, SALT, RICE. There is a strong sheet of smell that hits you when you cross the threshold, like molasses being burned. In a pen to one side of the barn is a tremendous sow collapsed on its side, most likely from its own weight, and ten spotted pigs jockeying for a better position at her teats. Next to the pigpen is a long, planed board propped on makeshift trestles, and on the board is a cash register-the silver kind where the buttons pop into the window: 50¢, $1, No charge .
?May I help you?? a woman says. She has been bent into the pigpen so neither Rebecca nor I noticed her. Rebecca is deeper into the barn, exploring darker corners, so that leaves me to answer. ?Well, actually,? I say, ?we?re looking to get some new clothing.?
The woman claps her hands together. She has stiff red spitcurls and a triple chin. She cannot be more than four and a half feet tall. When she walks, her shoes squeak as if her socks are wet. ?You have come to the right place,? she says. ?We have a little bit of everything.?
?So I see.?
?My motto is, buy one only of each item. It helps the customer make up his mind more quickly.?
I am wary of buying something at Eloise?s. True, she has one of everything, but not necessarily things you would ever want.
?Mom,? Rebecca says, sweeping towards us. She is holding a sequined evening gown. ?What do you think? Pretty sexy, huh??
It has spaghetti straps and too much lycra. ?Wait till you?re seventeen,? I tell her. She groans and disappears behind a bolt of calico.
?Excuse me,? I call to the woman who is leading me on this serpentine journey. ?Miss??
?Call me Eloise. Everyone else does.?
Rebecca, who is still holding onto the sequined black evening gown (where do you wear that in a place like Towner?), has culled a pile of clothing. ?You finding what you want, dear?? Eloise calls. Then she turns to me. ?Are you two together??
?Very much so,? I say, and I walk over to Rebecca?s pile.
Rebecca peeks at the tag on a pair of red walking shorts. ?Check out the prices, Mom.? She holds up the shorts. ?Do you have these in a three??
?What we have in stock is on the sales floor. I?d be happy to move these items to a dressing room for you.? She waddles around a corner, led by a sixth sense, I imagine, since the clothes are piled over her head. ?You?re in room number six,? she calls to Rebecca. I peer around the corner at the fitting rooms. Cow stalls.
?Mom.? I walk over to where Rebecca stands, eyes shining. ?This-? she holds out a pair of designer jeans, ?-this is only three dollars,? she says. ?This bathing suit is made by La Blanca, and it?s only one-fifty.?
I finger the white price tags. The numbers are written in crayon. ?Maybe we?ll come here to do all our shopping from now on.?
I beg
in to leaf through the racks myself. At these prices, what have I got to lose? Eloise is a prudent businesswoman. She orders her stock in one of each size. So the bottom line is, if a pair of striped Liz Claiborne trousers come in, you can expect to find one of each size: 4, 6, 8, 10, 12, 14 and 16. If you happen to be a ten, and another ten has gotten here before you, you are out of luck. This is what happens in several cases for items that catch my eye; I?m an eight and I guess in North Dakota that?s a popular size. Those, and the sixteens, seem to be selling the best. Rebecca has her pick of the racks, still sporting a preadolescent figure.
Eloise crosses in front of me holding out a cute yellow jumper. ?I saw her face and I thought of this. You said size three, dear??
?What she really needs is a bra and some underwear. Do you stock that as well??
Eloise leads me to another row of barrels, marked by size. I reach into the bin marked Four and pull out a handful of panties in pink, fuschia, black lace, and white with green flowers. ?
Wonderful,? I say, taking all but the black lace. As I am looping them over my wrist for safekeeping, Eloise returns with a neatly packaged bra. I take these over to Rebecca. ?You might as well put on some underwear,? I tell her. ?Since we?re going to buy it anyway.?
?Ma . . .? she says, hanging her head over the swing door of the stall. ? You know.?
?Oh.? I rummage in my bag for anther maxi-pad. There are no garbage pails to be seen. I lean close to Rebecca. ?Just bury it under the hay or something.?
Rebecca puts on a fashion show for me and Eloise. We are sittingon the underwear barrels with our legs crossed when Rebecca comes out in the yellow jumper. ?Oh, how darling!? Eloise says.
Rebecca does look cute. She has braided her hair to get it out of her face, and it swings over the Peter Pan collar of the matching striped jersey shirt. The straps of the jumper criss-cross in the back and are secured with buttons in the shapes of crayons. She is barefoot. She twirls around, letting the skirt fly up.
?Let me guess.? Eloise says, pointing to Rebecca?s feet. ?Size seven?? She shuffles off in another direction, back towards an area where an Old Town canoe is suspended from the rafters.
Rebecca ends up with six pairs of shorts, eight casual tops, a pair of jeans, a pair of white cropped pants, crew socks, black shoes, white shoes, various and sundry items of underwear, a nightgown covered in teddy bears, a pullover cotton sweater, a blue polkadotted bikini and two grosgrain ribbon barrettes for her hair. ?I can?t believe this,? she says, coming out and seeking the stack of clothes Eloise has neatly folded. ?This is going to cost a fortune.?
I doubt it; I?ve been keeping a mental tab and I don?t think we?ll even break fifty dollars. ?Well, it?s your birthday. Enjoy.?