Finding Joy

by Laurie Woodward

  He cocked an ear and let the silence fill the room before whispering, “It’s Mom.”

  “Huh? Did Ronny…?”

  “No, no not this time. He’s off at the Club. Golf buddies.”

  I looked out the window at the steady rain. Ronny would not play in that. I gave Kyle a bewildered shrug.

  “She is in the living room, just staring at some picture.”

  “Of what?”

  “Not what, who.”

  “Then who?”

  “A lady. With lots of make-up.”

  “Another magazine? So.” Mom often got lost in her glamor mags. She’d thumb through them for hours until the astray was overflowing with cigarettes.

  “It’s a Polaroid. Has an X O written at the bottom.”

  Then I knew. It was Ronny. Even when he wasn’t there, he still left marks.

  I’d seen the way he was at their parties. Telling stories to ladies about the movie stars he met on the golf course. I thought that was pretty cool until he’d lean in close and whisper something in their ears that either made them blush or their faces go white.

  And Mom would glance over and then pretend to check a button on her blouse or if her necklace was straight, before going to our glass and chrome bar for another Seven and Seven.

  “Is she crying?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “Just staring.”

  Part of me wanted to check on her. Make sure it wasn’t too bad. Be the comforting daughter. But another part, the kid one, told me to stay in my room with my book and big panda.

  I am only thirteen! I thought, staring at the teddy bear Dad had given me three years before. Then I glanced at my baby brother’s face. And Kyle’s only ten so come on. Be brave. Like the Little Girl.

  “You stay here. I’ll check.”

  Kyle nodded, his face suddenly looking exactly like it had when he was three and off to preschool for the first time.

  In the living room, Mom was so deep in the suede club chair she’d become a part of it. I mean, if a stranger had walked in at that moment, they might not even have seen her and sat right on her lap. She was slumped over, both hands clutching a photo. I could tell she’d been holding it a long time because the edges were crumpled and her hands white. She didn’t seem to hear me when I approached.

  For a moment, I wondered if it was real. “Mom?”

  She still stared.

  “You okay?”

  Not even a blink.

  “Mom?”

  Without removing her gaze, she said, “She’s not very pretty, is she?”

  I glanced at the Polaroid. “No.”

  “Kind of cheap. Like K-Mart.”

  I didn’t know exactly what that meant but agreed anyhow. “Not like you. All my friends say so.”

  Now she slowly looked up. “They do?”

  “Yeah, they say you’re one of the pretty moms. You know, the kind all the dads smile at.”

  “Hmm.”

  “You okay, Mom? You been sitting here a long time.”

  “I have?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh.” She returned to the photo.

  I didn’t ask where it had come from. Or who it was. I knew. Didn’t want her to have to say the words. Thought about giving her a hug, but we weren’t real big huggers in this family. Searched my brain for something to say.

  No words came.

  Finally, I just went back to my room where Kyle was waiting with a did-you-find-a-magical-brew-to-fix-it look.

  But all my potions were in my mind, so I did what I always do, I lied.

  “It was nothing. She’s fine.”

  In our home, we had a sacred time every night. No, we didn’t bend our heads in prayer or listen to Mom read Psalms from the Bible; my parents thought that stuff was for holy rollers. But as soon as Mom brought Ronny his highball and his feet were propped up on the coffee table, Kyle and I knew to be extra quiet. And listen.

  In moments we’d hear, “This is the CBS evening news with Walter Cronkite,” and we’d settle down at the edge of the family room, our legs crossed like silent monks.

  “You kids pay attention,” Ronny would say. “He’s not called the most trusted man in America for nothing.”

  And we’d nod, not really understanding why these newscasts were supposed to be so important. I mean, who cared if Mao Zedong invited the U.S. Ping Pong team to China, or Henry Kissinger got the Nobel prize? We’d rather watch Star Trek reruns or cartoons. All these broadcasts were boring lectures to us.

  Until I was around ten. That’s when the Vietnam broadcasts became more graphic and my cousin Jeffrey from Grants Pass up in Oregon got drafted. Even though it made Ronny mad because the phone bills were going up, Mom started to call Uncle Scott more. I could always tell when she was asking about Jeffrey because she’d turn away, lowering her voice to a whisper.

  Around that time, the anti-war songs on the radio really began to make sense and I started to see why the hippies were doing what they were doing. Even though Jeffrey was eight and a half years older, he’d played with me in the pool when we’d visited a couple summers back, even showed me how do that thing with your hand to turn it into a squirt gun. Every time I cleared the surface, he’d squeeze a stream of spray into my face. And, giggling, I’d try to shoot back, but Jeffrey was too fast and ducked down before my stream could connect.

  The idea of such a good squirter facing real bullets gave me a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  So, instead of wishing for cartoons, I started to look earnestly at the mustached man’s face flickering on the screen. And listen as if he had a special message for me, thinking he might help me define who I’d become.

  “What does mired in stalemate mean?” I asked during the commercial.

  Ronny took a long draught and swirled the ice cubes around in his glass. “It means, kiddo, that no one is winning.”

  “Like tic-tac-toe?”

  “Yeah, like that.” He emptied the rest of his drink and held it out for Mom to refill.

  “Then why don’t we leave?”

  “I guess we don’t know how.”

  “If I could talk to President Nixon, I’d tell him—” I didn’t finish, because the commercials were over and Ronny had already turned the sound back on.

  But while Walter Cronkite reported on soldiers the same age as my cousin dying in Vietnam, negotiations coming to a stalemate and protesters getting arrested, I imagined sitting down with the president and telling him that love was the answer. That because he was smart and good, he could find a way to peace. Then he’d look in my child eyes and a revelation would come over him.

  Light rays from Heaven would shine down. And the next thing we knew, the war would be over.

  But when the newscast ended with, “And that’s the way it is, March 6th 1972,” the war raged on. Mom still stared into space while Ronny downed another highball. And that conversation with the president? It remained a dream.

  Fourteen

  Joy

  September 7. Can’t deal. Every day I’m all alone. I dream of friends, but there’s no one to hang with.

  In the darkness of the pre-dawn

  A reflecting pool waits

  For dual images to lap at its liquid

  Another summer gone by, BFD. Oh, I went to Grandma’s, saw the cousins and my sweet aunt who laughs all the time, returned to camp and almost ruled in the second-to-the-oldest cabin. Learned how to sail better, that was cool. Even mastered the double half-hitch. Ronny didn’t get mad all July, and only once in August.

  But all summer there was this weight pressing on my chest. Like a vice or a Twilight Zone-y room squishing you. Why? Because I knew that when summer ended, I was going to high school. And it was going to suck. Whereas in junior high kids called you names and snapped your bra, maybe a rubber band on your arm, I heard that high schoolers threw you in trash cans and beat you up if you so much as looked at them.

  I was going to be dead meat.

  This time, I’d
only bring lunch money; I didn’t want to blow it like the first day of junior high. No one can laugh at you for that. Mom had gotten me a few new pairs of jeans and shirts the week before. The Dittos my skinny butt didn’t quite fill out and a surfer top would be my first day outfit, topped with a white puka shells necklace to show off my Catalina tan.

  I looked almost good.

  “Can’t you give me a ride?” I asked. “Just for the first day?”

  Blowing a cloud of smoke, Mom shook her head. “I have to take Kyle.”

  “Why does he get a ride when I have to take the bus? It isn’t fair,” I protested.

  “You’re older. Anyhow, we took you to orientation. You know where to go.”

  Just then, Ronny came into the kitchen straightening his tie and Mom handed him the steaming cup of coffee she always had ready. He looked a little cranky, so I returned to slurping up the last of my Frosted Flakes. Kyle, who was sitting across from me, curled a mocking lip as if to say, “Ha! Ha! I got a ride, but you didn’t.”

  I wanted to punch that little creep in the head. Instead, I scooped up my bowl and tossed it in the sink.

  At the bus stop, the only other kid was some older boy from over by the park who I’d seen around, but whose name I didn’t know. He was huddled inside his black hoodie, which I didn’t get because it wasn’t that cold; a little foggy, yeah, but not hunch-inside-to-keep-your-breath-from-clouding cold. Two strands of stringy hair that probably were making grease marks on each cheek hung down either side of his face. Didn’t anyone tell him that can cause pimples?

  I thought of saying ‘hi’, but he was so far inside his shell, I didn’t think he’d hear me. Then a thought occurred to me. Maybe he had drawn inward because kids were so cruel that the only escape was to hide.

  Terrified of what tortures awaited me, I started pacing back and forth. A smiling mom in curlers passed by in her blue station wagon, followed by Comb-over Kaminski, on his way to sell used cars. No other kids arrived. I checked to make sure my purse was closed all the way. Just my luck, I’d started the day before and now, in addition to navigating through the land of the giants, I had to deal with stupid tampons that might fall out in front of everyone.

  With a whoosh of brakes, the bus pulled up. Empty? Well, there was one saving grace. At least I wouldn’t have to beg someone to let me sit next to them.

  Letting Lurch go ahead, I tiptoed aboard and plopped into the first seat. Even though we made seven stops, the bus stayed pretty empty. I guess not everyone has a little cute brother who rates so high, he gets the one mom ride. I didn’t really see anyone I knew, so I kept my face glued to the window, pretending to be fascinated by the passing trees.

  It might have been pretty quiet on the bus, but the school? Oh my God! Have you ever gone to a baseball game at a big stadium? Where there are hordes of people pushing and shoving to be first in line and tons of cars jamming the parking lot? Well, the first day of high school is like that. Tons of people crowding the halls. And I couldn’t tell which ones were the teachers and which were the kids. I mean, some boys actually had beards!

  Crazy.

  Maybe I wouldn’t stick out like in junior high and could avoid The Clique. Maybe even find one to fit into. I craned my neck, looking for a friendly face, but in this sea of bobbing heads it was impossible.

  Homeroom was okay, I guess. The teacher, Mr. Benton, went over the rules, explained how to be successful. Blah. Blah. Blah.

  First period was in 417. Now, I got to homeroom in 221 just fine and thought I’d mapped out the school in my head, but when I exited toward what I thought was Algebra, I found myself in the Zero pod.

  39, 40, 41.

  Wrong way. I jogged in the opposite direction, passed my homeroom, made it to the 300’s and then? A parking lot. What the fuck? The 400’s should come next. By the time I retraced my steps, the bell had rung, and the halls were empty.

  Running a hand along the wall like a blind girl, I counted each door. Got to the end of one hall, turned right, and still didn’t find it. Now the tears were threatening to take over. I know, a girl of thirteen, almost fourteen, shouldn’t cry like a little kid, but ten minutes had already gone by and I still hadn’t found my class.

  Just about the time I was ready to duck into the nearest bathroom and sit on a toilet all first period, some giant boy, if you could even call him that since he had full-on sideburns and looked about thirty, passed by.

  “Lost?”

  I couldn’t speak, just nodded.

  “Let me see your schedule.”

  After sniffling twice, I passed him my now crumpled class list. He glanced it over and told me that the 400’s were down the hill by the gym.

  “Just go down those stairs and you’ll find it,” he said, pointing.

  I croaked out a ‘thank you’ and then dashed down the stairs two at a time. Maybe I wasn’t as late as I thought. Maybe no one would notice if I slunked inside. I could just quietly find a seat in the back and nod at the teacher’s first day spiel.

  No such luck.

  When I arrived at 417, the door was not only closed, but locked. I tried jiggling it a few times, but it wouldn’t budge. A timid knock or two, okay seven, later, a strict-looking lady with chained glasses on her nose yanked it open.

  “You’re late,” she stated flatly.

  Yeah, as if I didn’t know. Tell me something new, I thought, but said, “Sorry, got lost.”

  She ordered me to the one seat that was left in the class. Was it hidden in the back? The middle? Nope. The only seat left was in the front way off to the right, so I had to pass by the whole class to get to it. And yes, you guessed right. I did trip over one kid’s big feet, but you’re wrong if you think I fell.

  Instead, I grabbed the nearest desk and caught myself just in time. I would have sighed in relief if it hadn’t been occupied by one of the scariest looking girls I’d ever seen. She lifted one shaved and painted over eyebrow while glaring at me through thick eyeliner that swept all the way into her hair.

  “Sorry,” I whispered.

  She lifted one corner of her blood red lips in a sneer and scattered sniggers bounced around the room.

  Welcome to high school, Joy.

  Fifteen

  Joy

  Can’t figure out high school. It’s so strange. I mean, in junior high there was one group that pretty much controlled everything. They were on Student Council, did cheer and sports, dominated every dance and decreed who was in, who was out, from their fortress in the middle of the soccer field. There they sat, like royals in an elevated castle, while the lowly peasants grouped in clusters around them.

  Everyone knew that the closer to them you sat, the higher your station. Lots of kids made it to inner keep, but even though I spent close to a year trying every scheme and strategy I could think of, the closest I ever got was the moat two walls away.

  But in high school there wasn’t just one preeminent spot. Kids hung out in lots of places, although there were three areas at the top of the amphitheater separated by sloping walkways that certain groups controlled. The ranch kids in their blue FFA jackets and John Deere baseball caps kept vigil over the Aggie Wall. On the Jock Wall next to them lounged the Socials; guys flexing their neck muscles and girls ready to break out into a peppy cheer. Seriously? The Chicanos; Pendleton plaid boys and Count Dracula widow’s peaks, coupling with chicks in cat-eye make-up and big, hooped earrings, made up the third area.

  Other factions hung out in quiet corners here and there. Band kids, Stoners, Hermits, Book Arms. But where did I fit in? I mean, I was too shy for the Socials. No way was I about to lead an assembly by screaming ‘rah rah rah, sis boom bah’. I only played guitar, and never in public. I’d only tried pot once and had never raised a dog, much less a farm animal.

  Who was I?

  Those first few weeks I just wandered. Barely talking to anyone. I mean, I did say ‘hi’ if someone I knew passed by, but I didn’t stop and shoot the shit. What would I say, anyhow? Ag
ree that high school sucks donkey dicks? Tell her how cute her Dittos were? I didn’t know.

  I took to hanging out in the library just to avoid having to talk to anyone. Here, I could escape to places like New York in the 1950s or the Alaskan Yukon at the turn of the century. Inside these books, I was no longer a timid girl wandering the halls, but a witty Holden Caulfield off on a party adventure.

  Nobody bothered you in the library. No dirty looks. And since you weren’t allowed to talk, no one called me ‘dog’ here. On the way to and from, though, the same mean girls from junior high barked their insults. I tried to keep an eye out for them, lowering my head to hide behind my long hair, or ducking away whenever they approached. Sometimes it worked, but most of the time I was too late. They’d grin, elbow each other, and start to woof.

  I hated them.

  One day, I was sitting at a corner table of the library when a girl that’d gone to my junior high came in. Her eyes had a hunted look that reminded me of that impala being pursued by lions on the Wild Kingdom TV show last week.

  Then I remembered that there’d been this rumor about her. Supposedly, she’d ratted out some chick when she’d been caught shoplifting at K-mart, saying the other girl made her do it, or some shit. They’d grabbed the other girl, took her into the manager’s office, and called her parents. The next week, a huge group had surrounded her, and called her snitch, narc and other mean stuff. One even slapped her. I didn’t see it, but I heard it was gnarly, with Lisa crying rivers while the kids all yelled at her.

  Messed-up.

  I’d never do that. I believe in peace like the Beatles. I know, they broke up years ago, which is why people at this stupid high school don’t have a clue about what they stood for. But my Catalina camp counselor Gail played Give Peace a Chance all summer and told me about activism and the protests she’d been in. She even got arrested. Full-on cool!

  Someday, I’m going to do important things like that.