In my bureau were three things of hers that I had taken from her closet after she left: a red, fringed shawl; a blue sweater; and a yellow-flowered cotton dress that was always my favorite. These things had her smell on them.
Once, before she left, my mother said that if you visualize something happening, you can make it happen. For example, if you are about to run a race, you visualize yourself running the race and crossing the finish line first, and presto! When the time comes, it really happens. The only thing I did not understand was what if everyone visualized himself winning the race?
Still, when she left, this is what I did. I visualized her reaching for the phone. Then I visualized her dialing the phone. I visualized our phone number clicking through the wires. I visualized the phone ringing.
It did not ring.
I visualized her riding the bus back to Bybanks. I visualized her walking up the driveway. I visualized her opening the door.
It did not happen.
While I was thinking about all of this that night after Phoebe and I crept into Mrs. Cadaver’s house, I also thought about Ben. I had the sudden urge to run over to the Finneys and ask him where his own mother was, but it was too late. The Finneys would be asleep.
Instead, I lay there thinking of the poem about the traveler, and I could see the tide rising and falling, and those horrid white hands snatching the traveler. How could it be normal, that traveler dying? And how could such a thing be normal and terrible both at the same time?
I stayed awake the whole night. I knew that if I closed my eyes, I would see the tide and the white hands. I thought about Mr. Winterbottom crying. That was the saddest thing. It was sadder than seeing my own father cry, because my father is the sort of person you expect might cry if he was terribly upset. But I had never, ever, expected Mr. Winterbottom—stiff Mr. Winterbottom—to cry. It was the first time I realized that he actually cared about Mrs. Winterbottom.
As soon as it was daylight, I phoned Phoebe. “Phoebe, we’ve got to find her.”
“That’s what I’ve been telling you,” she said.
31
THE PHOTOGRAPH
The next day was most peculible, as Mrs. Partridge would say.
Phoebe arrived at school with another message, which she had found on her porch that morning: We never know the worth of water until the well is dry. “It’s a clue,” Phoebe said. “Maybe my mother is hidden in a well.”
I walked straight into Ben when I went to my locker. That grapefruit aroma was in the air. “You’ve got something on your face,” he said. With soft, warm fingers he rubbed the side of my face. “It’s probably your breakfast.”
I don’t know what came over me. I was going to kiss him. I leaned forward just as he turned around and slammed the door of his locker. My lips ended up pressed against the cold, metal locker.
“You’re weird, Sal,” he said.
Kissing was thumpingly complicated. Both people had to be in the same place at the same time, and both people had to remain still so that the kiss ended up in the right place. But I was relieved that my lips ended up on the cold metal locker. I could not imagine what had come over me, or what might have happened if the kiss had landed on Ben’s mouth. It was a shivery thing to consider.
I made it through the rest of my classes without losing control of my lips.
Mr. Birkway sailed into class carrying our journals. I had forgotten all about them. He was leaping all over the place exclaiming, “Dynamite! Unbelievable! Incredible!” He said he couldn’t wait to share the journals with the class.
Mary Lou Finney said, “Share with the class?”
Mr. Birkway said, “Not to worry! Everyone has something magnificent to say. I haven’t read through every page yet, but I wanted to share some of these passages with you right away.”
People were squirming all over the room. I was trying to remember what I had written. Mary Lou leaned over to me and said, “Well, I’m not worried. I wrote a special note in the front of mine distinctly asking him not to read it. Mine was private.”
Mr. Birkway smiled at each nervous face. “You needn’t worry,” he said. “I’ll change any names that you’ve used, and I’ll fold this piece of yellow paper over the cover of whichever journal I’m reading, so that you won’t know whose it is.”
Ben asked if he could go to the bathroom. Christy said she felt sick and begged to see the nurse. Phoebe asked me to touch her forehead because she was pretty sure she had a fever. Usually Mr. Birkway would let people go to the bathroom or to the nurse, but this time he said, “Let’s not malinger!” He picked up a journal, slipping the yellow paper over it before anyone had a chance to examine the cover for clues as to its author’s identity. Everyone took a deep breath. You could see people poised nervously, waiting as tensely as if Mr. Birkway was going to announce someone’s execution. Mr. Birkway read:
I think that Betty [he changed the name, you could tell, because there was no Betty in our school] will go to hell because she always takes the Lord’s name in vain. She says “God!” every five seconds.
Mary Lou Finney was turning purple. “Who wrote that?” she said. “Did you, Christy? I’ll bet you did.”
Christy stared down at her desk.
“I do not say ‘God!’ every five seconds. I do not. And I am not going to hell. Omnipotent—that’s what I say now. I say, Omnipotent! And Alpha and Omega!”
Mr. Birkway was desperately trying to explain what he had enjoyed about that passage. He said that most of us are not aware that we might be using words—such as God!—that offend other people. Mary Lou leaned over to me and said, “Is he serious? Does he actually, really and truly believe that beef-brained Christy is troubled by my saying God?—which I do not, by the way, say anymore anyway.”
Christy wore a pious look, as if God Himself had just come down from heaven to sit on her desk.
Mr. Birkway quickly selected another journal. He read:
Linda [there was no Linda in our class either] is my best friend. I tell her just about everything and she tells me EVERYTHING, even things I do not want to know. Like what she ate for breakfast and what her father wears to bed and how much her new sweater cost. Sometimes things like that are just not interesting.
Mr. Birkway liked this passage because it showed that even though someone might be our best friend, he or she could still drive us crazy. Beth Ann turned all the way around in her seat and sent wicked eyebrow-messages to Mary Lou.
Mr. Birkway flipped ahead in the same journal to another passage. He read:
I think Jeremiah is pig-headed. His skin is always pink and his hair is always clean and shiny…but he is really a jerk.
I thought Mary Lou Finney was going to fall out of her chair. Alex was bright, bright pink. He looked at Mary Lou as if she had recently plunged a red hot stake into his heart. Mary Lou said, “No—I—no, it isn’t what you think—I—”
Mr. Birkway liked this passage because it showed conflicting feelings about someone.
“I’ll say it does,” Alex said.
The bell rang. First, you could hear sighs of relief from the people whose journals had not been read, and then people started talking a mile a minute. “Hey, Mary Lou, look at Alex’s pink skin,” and “Hey Mary Lou, what does Beth Ann’s father wear to bed?”
Beth Ann was standing one inch away from Mary Lou’s face. “I do not talk on and on,” Beth Ann said, “and that wasn’t very nice of you to mention that, and I do not tell you everything, and the only reason I ever mentioned what my father wore to bed was because we were talking, if you will recall, about men’s bathing suits being more comfortable than women’s and—” On and on she went.
Mary Lou was trying to get across the room to Alex, who was standing there as pink as can be. “Alex!” she called. “Wait! I wrote that before—wait—”
It was a jing-bang of a mess. I was glad I had to get out of there. Phoebe and I were going to the police again.
We got in to see Sergeant Bickle righ
t away. Phoebe slapped the newest message about the water in the well onto his desk, dumped the hairs which she had collected at Mrs. Cadaver’s house on top of the message, and then placed her list of “Further Items to Investigate” on top of that.
Sergeant Bickle frowned. “I don’t think you girls understand.”
Phoebe went into a rage. “You idiot,” she said. She scooped up the message, the hairs, and her list and stormed out of the office.
Sergeant Bickle followed her while I waited, thinking he would bring Phoebe back and calm her down. I looked at the photographs on his desk, the ones I had not been able to see the day before. In one was Sergeant Bickle and a friendly-looking woman—his wife, I supposed. The second picture was of a shiny black car. The third picture was of Sergeant Bickle, the woman, and a young man—their son, I figured. I looked closer.
I recognized the son. It was the lunatic.
32
CHICKEN AND BLACKBERRY KISSES
Gramps barreled through Wyoming like a house afire. We snaked through winding roads where the trees leaned close, rustling rush, rush, rush, rush, rush. The road curved alongside rivers that rolled and gabbled hurry, hurry, hurry.
It was late when we arrived at Yellowstone. All we got to see that evening was a hot spring. We walked on boardwalks placed across the bubbling mud (“Huzza, huzza!” Gram said), and we stayed at the Old Faithful Inn in a Frontier Cabin. I’d never seen Gram so excited. She could not wait for the next morning. “We’re gonna see Old Faithful,” she said, over and over.
“It won’t take too very long, will it?” I said, and I felt like a mule saying it, because Gram was so looking forward to it.
“Don’t you worry, Salamanca,” Gram said. “We’ll just watch that old geyser blow and then we’ll hit the road.”
I prayed all night long to the elm tree outside. I prayed that we would not get in an accident, that we would get to Lewiston, Idaho, in time for my mother’s birthday, and that we would bring her home. Later I would realize that I had prayed for the wrong things.
That night, Gram was so excited that she could not sleep. She rambled on about all sorts of things. She said to Gramps, “Remember that letter from the egg man that you found under the mattress?”
“Of course I remember. We had a wing-ding of an argument over it. You told me you had no dang idea how it got there. You said the egg man must’ve slipped into the bedroom and put it there.”
“Well, I want you to know that I put it there.”
“I know that,” Gramps said. “I’m not a complete noodle.”
“It’s the only love letter anybody ever wrote me,” Gram said. “You never wrote me any love letters.”
“You never told me you wanted one.”
To me, Gram said, “Your grandfather nearly killed the egg man over that letter.”
“Hell’s bells,” Gramps said. “He wasn’t worth killing.”
“Maybe not, but Gloria was.”
“Ah yes,” Gramps said, placing his hand on his heart and pretending to swoon, “Gloria!”
“Cut that out,” Gram said, rolling over on her side. “Tell me about Peeby. Tell me that story, but don’t make it too awfully sad.” She folded her hands on her chest. “Tell me what happened with the lunatic.”
When I saw the picture of the lunatic on Sergeant Bickle’s desk, I tore out of that office faster than lightning. I ran past Sergeant Bickle standing in the parking lot. No sign of Phoebe. I ran all the way to her house. As I passed Mrs. Cadaver’s house, Mrs. Partridge called to me from her porch.
“You’re all dressed up,” I said. “Going somewhere?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “I’m redible.” She tottered down the steps, swinging her cobra cane in front of her.
“Are you walking?” I asked.
She reached down and touched her legs. “Isn’t that what you call it when you move your legs like I’m doing?”
“No, I meant are you walking to wherever you’re going?”
“Oh no, it’s much too far for these legs. Jimmy’s coming. He’ll be here any minute.” A car pulled up in front of the house. “There he is,” she said. She called out to the driver, “I’m redible. I said I would be, and here I am.”
The driver leaped out of the car. “Sal?” he said. “I had no idea you two were neighbors.” It was Mr. Birkway.
“We’re not,” I said. “It’s Phoebe who is the neighbor—”
“Is that right?” he said, opening the car door for Mrs. Partridge. “Come on, Mom. Let’s get a move on.”
“Mom?” I said. I looked at Mrs. Partridge. “This is your son?”
“Why, of course,” Mrs. Partridge said. “This is my little Jimmy.”
“But he’s a Birkway—?”
Mrs. Partridge said, “I was a Birkway once. Then I was a Partridge. I’m still a Partridge.”
“Then who is Mrs. Cadaver?” I said.
“My little Margie,” she said. “She was a Birkway too. Now she’s a Cadaver.”
I said to Mr. Birkway, “Mrs. Cadaver is your sister?”
“We’re twins,” Mr. Birkway said.
When they had driven away, I knocked at Phoebe’s door, but there was no answer. At home, I dialed Phoebe’s number over and over. No answer.
The next day at school, I was relieved to see Phoebe. “Where were you?” I said. “I have something to tell you—”
She turned away. “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said. “I do not wish to discuss it.”
I couldn’t figure out what was the matter with her. It was a terrible day. We had tests in math and science. At lunch, Phoebe ignored me. Then came English.
Mr. Birkway skipped into the room. People were gnawing on their fingers and tapping their feet and wriggling around and generally getting ulcers, wondering if Mr. Birkway was going to read from the journals. I stared at him. He and Margaret Cadaver were twins? Was that possible? The most disappointing part of that piece of knowledge was that he was not going to fall in love with Mrs. Cadaver and marry her and take her away.
Mr. Birkway opened a cupboard, pulled out the journals, slipped the yellow paper over the cover of one and read:
This is what I like about Jane. She is smart, but doesn’t act like she knows everything. She is cute. She smells good. She is cute. She makes me laugh. She is cute.
I got a prickly feeling up and down my arms. I wondered if Ben had written this about me, but then I realized that Ben didn’t even know me when he wrote his journal. A little buzz was going around the room as people shifted in their seats. Christy was smiling, Megan was smiling, Beth Ann was smiling, Mary Lou was smiling. Every girl in the room was smiling. Each girl thought that this had been written about her.
I looked carefully at each of the boys. Alex was gazing nonchalantly at Mr. Birkway. Then I saw Ben. He was sitting with his hands over his ears, staring down at his desk. The prickly feeling traveled all the way up to my neck and then went skipping down my spine. He did write that, but he did not write it about me.
Mr. Birkway exclaimed, “Ah love, ah life!” Sighing, he pulled out another journal and read:
Jane doesn’t know the first thing about boys. She once asked me what kisses taste like, so you could tell she hadn’t ever kissed anyone. I told her that they taste like chicken, and she believed me. She is so dumb sometimes.
Mary Lou Finney jumped out of her chair. “You cabbage-head,” she said to Beth Ann. “You beef brain.” Beth Ann wound a strand of hair around her finger. Mary Lou said, “I did not believe you, and I do know what they taste like, and it isn’t chicken.”
Ben drew a cartoon of two stick-figures kissing. In the air over their heads was a cartoon bubble with a chicken saying, “Bawk, bawwwk, bawwwk.”
Mr. Birkway turned a few pages in the same journal and read:
I hate doing this. I hate to write. I hate to read. I hate journals. I especially hate English where teachers only talk about idiot symbols. I hate that idiot poem about the snowy woods, a
nd I hate it when people say the woods symbolize death or beauty or sex or any old thing you want. I hate that. Maybe the woods are just woods.
Beth Ann stood up. “Mr. Birkway,” she said, “I do hate school, I do hate books, I do hate English, I do hate symbols, and I most especially hate these idiot journals.”
There was a hush in the room. Mr. Birkway stared at Beth Ann for a minute, and in that minute, I was reminded of Mrs. Cadaver. For that brief time, his eyes looked just like hers. I was afraid he was going to strangle Beth Ann, but then he smiled and his eyes became friendly enormous cow eyes once again. I think he hypnotized her, because Beth Ann sat down slowly. Mr. Birkway said, “Beth Ann, I know exactly how you feel. Exactly. I love this passage.”
“You do?” she said.
“It’s so honest.”
I had to admit, you couldn’t get more honest than Beth Ann telling her English teacher that she hated symbols and English and idiot journals.
Mr. Birkway said, “I used to feel exactly like this. I could not understand what all the fuss was about symbols.” He rummaged around in his desk. “I want to show you something.” He was pulling papers out and flinging them around. Finally, he held up a picture. “Ah, here it is. Dynamite! What is this?” he asked Ben.
Ben said, “It’s a vase. Obviously.”
Mr. Birkway held the drawing in front of Beth Ann, who looked as if she might cry. Mr. Birkway said, “Beth Ann, what do you see?” A little tear dropped down on her cheek. “It’s okay, Beth Ann, what do you see?”
“I don’t see any idiot vase,” she said. “I see two people. They’re looking at each other.”
“Right,” Mr. Birkway said. “Bravo!”
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