Love, Stargirl

by Jerry Spinelli

  He pulled a second cup from his pocket. This was new. He held it out. “Come.” It was an order.

  “Okay.”

  He poured us both some. He pulled a blanket out from under the chair. This was new also. He already had a blanket over his legs. He didn’t need another. He laid it beside the chair and unfolded it once. “Sit.”

  We talked about small things. Somewhere along the way I said, “I’d like to hear about you when you were little. Before Grace. Just Charlie.”

  He blinked at me. I could see him making the effort. He gazed at the tombstone. He shook his head, gave up trying. “Ain’t no before Grace.”

  As if to confirm, a large crow settled boldly onto a head-stone only several plots away, cawed once loud and rudely, and flew off.

  I invited Charlie to come to Thanksgiving dinner with us. We’re going to Betty Lou’s. He said no, he’d rather stay here. He said his daughter will pack him a turkey dinner to bring along. It will include Grace’s masterpiece: sweet potato casserole with marshmallow topping. He grinned, wagging his head. “Won’t be the same, though. She knew how to do the marshmallows just right. Singe ’em. Brown, not black. Just crusty enough.” He closed his eyes. He was tasting it.

  November 28

  I was pedaling along Route 113 today when I saw Arnold. He had his new pet rat. On a leash! They were on the other side of the road. I practically crashed into a telephone pole. I stopped and stared. The rat was gray and white. What they call a hooded rat, because the gray covers its face and comes down over its shoulders. Someone—probably Arnold’s mother—had worked up a tiny harness (a collar wouldn’t do on a rat) and an ordinary dog-type leash. The rat was scooting along after him. Arnold’s shuffle seemed a little slower than usual. I finally started up again and wobbled giggling all the way into town.

  Days till Solstice: 23

  November 29

  Thanksgiving Thursday for me began at Calendar Hill. Since he wasn’t working on the holiday, my father took over sit-on-the-porch-and-keep-an-eye-on-Stargirl duties. For a milkman, getting up a little before sunrise must feel like sleeping in.

  I was less anxious about Perry this time. I didn’t really expect him to be there. He wasn’t. It was so cloudy there wasn’t even a hint of sun, so I had to guess about the marker placement. I stepped back to look at the arc of white markers. If time has to be measured, this is the way to do it. I felt a tingle of excitement. Only three more to go.

  As I did last week, I sat facing west and sent you my message. I’ll do it every week from now on.

  Betty Lou was a wonderful Thanksgiving hostess. No bathrobe on this day. She looked like a regular person in a skirt and sweater—well, regular if you don’t count the turkey headdress pinned to her hair. “I’ve worn it every Thanksgiving since I was six,” she said.

  She made everyone, including Cinnamon, sit in the kitchen while she bustled about and asked my father a hundred questions about being a milkman and my mother about costume making. She was so chatty and breezy that when she said, stirring the giblet gravy, “You know, Mr. and Mrs. Caraway, your daughter and Dootsie are my lifeline,” I almost missed it. My mother reached for my hand and squeezed.

  At the festive dinner table, printed name cards told us where to sit. Yes, there was a card for Cinnamon and a tiny antique dollhouse saucer with three candied cranberries. For Cinnamon’s vegetarian mother there was tofurkey, for everyone else turkey, and cheese-and-garlic smashed potatoes for all. It took us hours to eat because we spent so much time laughing. Betty Lou turned from inquisitor to storyteller. She re-created hilarious scenes from her school days and made fun of her agoraphobia and even lampooned her disastrous one and only marriage to Mr. Potato Nose. At one point my mother laugh-snorted coffee out her nose.

  Later, in the living room, the mood mellowed. Betty Lou enthralled my parents with her tale of the night-blooming cereus (back in the living room for the winter, thanks to her neighbor Mr. Levanthal) and the moonlit hours she shared with me. It was chilly in the house—Betty Lou left a back window open, “the better to hear my mockingbird.” Twice she held up her finger and whispered, “Let’s just listen,” and we sat there smiling, eyes closed, as the mockingbird entertained us and cups of hot mulled cider warmed our hands.

  It was the best Thanksgiving I’ve ever had.

  December 3

  I think of you in your college. I wonder how many roommates you have. You’ll be interested to know that your college is on the same latitude as my Pennsylvania town. Of course, you are still well to the west of me, but weather travels from west to east, and it’s nice to know that the rain and snow that falls on you in a day or two will fall on me.

  I sat down today and started writing out the guest list. I was shocked at how many. I asked my mother if the tent could be made bigger. She said no, there’s not enough time to order more Blackbone.

  I’ve put Dootsie and Alvina to work. I went to a crafts store and bought sheets of bright yellow foam and a bunch of bar pins. Then I made a sunburst pattern out of cardboard and gave everything to the girls. Dootsie’s job is to trace the patterns onto the yellow foam, then Alvina cuts out the sunbursts. Dootsie keeps begging to do the cutting, but Alvina has orders not to let her near the scissors. Alvina keeps complaining about Dootsie’s sloppy tracing.

  Days till Solstice: 18

  December 5

  Again I saw Arnold walking his rat, only this time I did something that surprised even me. I got off my bike and started walking along with him. I said hi. He said hi. I asked him the name of his rat. He said, “Tom.”

  “Nice name,” I said.

  “Are you looking for me?” he said.

  It was as if I were hearing his eternal question for the first time. Was I looking for him? Had I been looking for him all along and didn’t know it? What if I said yes? How would he react? I peered into his grizzled face. His eyes seemed empty, unfocused, but I knew that was not true. They were simply seeing another place, another time.

  “I’m not sure, Arnold,” I said. “Let me get back to you on that.”

  And then, surprising myself again, I started talking. I hadn’t planned to. The words just came gushing out. I started off talking about the Perry Problem. The Kiss. Stuff I hadn’t said to Betty Lou or my parents or even Archie. But pretty soon I veered away from Perry and on to you. Us. I told him about the First Day, when Kevin said, “Why him?” and I tweaked your earlobe and said, “Because he’s cute.” I recounted every moment of the First Night, when I came outside and you hid behind the car and I let Cinnamon loose to visit you and we had the sweetest conversation I’ve ever had in my life, me on the front step, you crouching behind the car, unseen to each other. Later, on the same sidewalk, the First Kiss. The Forever Kiss.

  On and on I gabbed to Arnold. I think I had discovered that the closest I could come to reliving the past was to tell my story to someone, the right someone.

  It was wonderful, the telling, the going back. When I returned to the present, Tom was on Arnold’s shoulder and we were on the other side of town. I climbed on my bike. I coasted beside him for a minute.

  “Arnold?” I said. He didn’t respond. “I think the answer is yes. Yes, I was looking for you. I’m glad I found you.”

  Arnold gave no sign of having heard me. I stayed behind as he shuffled on out of town. Tiny puffs of frosty air came from Tom’s nose.

  December 6

  The earth at Calendar Hill is really hard now and cold. I had to punch through with a screwdriver to plant today’s marker. Only two more markers to go. Two more Thursdays. Two more chances to send my question to you.

  Sudden thought: What if it’s cloudy on Solstice and there’s no sun? What if it snows? What if the snow is so deep it covers the paddles?

  “Sun schmun,” said my mother.

  “Snow schmow,” said my dad. “Qué será, será.”

  “Spanish?” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Means don’t sweat the small stuff.”
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br />   Alvina and Dootsie are into phase 2 of their job: attaching the self-stick bar pins to the backs of the sunburst buttons. Dootsie keeps missing the centers of the buttons. Alvina keeps telling Dootsie she’s fired, but Dootsie knows I’m the real boss, so she just sticks out her tongue at Alvina and goes on making a mess.

  Days till Solstice: 15

  December 10

  The town is in a tizzy. Or at least you’d think so if all you did was read the Morning Lenape.

  Here’s what happened:

  Every Christmas season Grace Lutheran Church erects a nativity scene on the lawn out front. The figures are life-size, the barn plenty big enough for Joseph, Mary, and the manger and cows and sheep. The straw is real. You can smell it. From the street you can’t see the doll that represents Jesus, but you can see the sky-blue blanket falling over the sides of the manger. With the spotlights, even on the coldest nights the scene seems warm and cozy. Cars going past slow down. Some stop.

  Last Friday the church secretary discovered that the blanket in the manger was gone. The baby Jesus doll was naked on the bed of straw.

  CRECHE VANDALIZED;

  DOLL LEFT IN COLD

  read the headline in the Morning Lenape.

  Today’s paper did a “From the Sidewalk” segment, where passersby are asked about a burning local issue of the day.

  One person said, “It’s an outrage. Isn’t anything sacred anymore?” Another said, “When they find out who did it, they should put him in jail and throw away the key.” And another: “This is a black eye for the whole town.” And another: “Hey, it’s not really Jesus. It’s a plastic doll. Hello? Get a life.”

  I’m pretty sure I know who did it. But I can’t figure out why.

  Meanwhile, the manger has a new blue blanket.

  DTS: 11

  December 11

  The long-range weather forecast says it’s going to snow on December 21—Solstice. Indians in the Old West did rain dances. I called Dootsie and Alvina over and we did a no-snow dance. Dootsie went wild. At first Alvina said it was “stupid,” but five minutes after Dootsie and I stopped, she was still going.

  My father keeps trying to calm my weather anxiety. He said even if it’s too cloudy to see, the sun will still rise, it will still be there.

  “But that’s the whole point,” I said. “Seeing it.”

  “Is it?” he said.

  DTS: 10

  December 12

  The town tizzy has gone the way of all tizzies: it fizzled. But I still think about it. I still wonder why.

  DTS: 9

  December 13

  I planted the sunrise marker at the calendar this morning. One more marker to go. One more chance to send you the question.

  Later I saw Perry walking downtown. Nothing unusual about that, just another one of his “sick days,” except…he was pushing a baby carriage! I nearly crashed my bike into a curb.

  We stared at each other. He looked perfectly normal, like this happened every day. He also looked different—new, older. My first thought was: He’s a father!

  Then: Which Honeybee is the mother?

  Then: So why was he putting the moves on me?

  At long last he laughed. “You should see your face.”

  I mumbled out something I don’t even recall.

  “Well,” he said, turning the carriage so I could see the face of the sleeping baby, “meet Clarissa. My sister.” He pulled a doll-size arm out from under the blanket—the sky-blue blanket— and waved a tiny hand at me and said in a peepy voice, “Hi, Stargirl.”

  Tears filled my eyes. I waved back. “Hi, Clarissa.” I hope I smiled. Slowly my wits were returning. “How old?”

  The answer came at once, without calculation. “Twenty-two days, seven hours.”

  I reached out. I stroked the tiny fingers. “You never said.”

  He just shrugged. He returned her hand to the blanket. Passersby were slowing down, peering into the carriage, smiling. A few glanced at Perry, at me.

  “Perry—” I said, just to fill the awkward silence, when suddenly something clicked into place. Followed by more somethings clicking into place. Baby blanket…pregnant lady…Perry in Margie’s with…

  “Perry—” I stammered. “Neva?…From Margie’s?…Oh my God…is she…your mother?”

  He smiled. He pistol-pointed at me. “Bingo.”

  I must have stared like a moron for an hour. A thousand questions clamored, but in the end all I said was, “Nice blanket.”

  He looked at it, gave an impish grin, knowing I knew. “Yeah.”

  “Got to have a nice warm blanket for a new baby sister to keep her warm on cold winter days, right?”

  He walked off, called back, “You said it.”

  It took Margie a full minute to finish laughing. “Jail?” she repeated. “Boot camp? Criminal?” And she sat on a counter stool and laughed some more. “Who told you that?”

  I pushed an answer past my stupidity and embarrassment: “Alvina.”

  “Well,” she said, “you should have asked me. He was off with an aunt in Scranton. Making money to help his mother. Had himself three jobs.” She wagged her head. “Boot camp.”

  For the next hour Margie filled me in on the Life of Perry Delloplane:

  He came back from Scranton because his mother—Neva—missed him too much.

  His mother suffers from depression. Hence the mood swings. She takes medicine for it.

  His mother has an incurable weakness for his father, whose name is Roy.

  Roy has an incurable weakness for gambling. Roy gambled away all their money at the casinos in Atlantic City. Then he got loans from sharks that he couldn’t pay back, and the sharks came after him for their money and he took off for good. This was when Perry was five.

  Except Roy doesn’t always stay away. Every now and then, when he feels like it, he comes knocking. And much to Perry’s displeasure, Neva always lets him in.

  Roy is baby Clarissa’s father.

  Not Ike. Ike lets them stay behind his repair shop for free. He gets to be Neva’s boyfriend when Roy isn’t around.

  Perry hates Roy. When Roy stays overnight, Perry sleeps on the roof. Not because it’s too hot in the house.

  And Margie told me there’s something even Perry doesn’t know: he thinks he’s stealing, but in many cases he’s the only one who thinks so. Some of the merchants downtown are aware of Perry’s situation—“thanks to my big mouth,” says Margie with a laugh—and they make a point of looking the other way when they see him reaching for a lemon, a notebook, a bar of soap.

  Like me, Margie knew who had taken the blue blanket as soon as she heard about it.

  DTS: 8

  December 15

  My poor fingers. I spent all of yesterday handwriting the invitations. The guest list includes just about everyone I’ve mentioned in this endless letter. If they all come, the tent won’t hold them. But that will never happen. Why did I ever make so many buttons?

  Here’s what the invitation says:

  Come To A Celebration

  of

  WINTER SOLSTICE!

  Rte. 113 and Rapps Dam Road

  December 21

  Before Sunrise!!!

  I’ve decided not to call it Solstar, as Perry suggested on the roof that night. Who am I to change its name?

  DTS: 6

  December 17

  I spent most of the last two days delivering invitations. Alvina and Dootsie helped. My father too, on his milk route.

  When I handed Charlie his invitation at the cemetery, he read it and handed it back to me and said, “I gotta be here.” I stuffed the paper into his pocket. I leaned down from my bike and kissed him on the cheek. I reached into his pocket and got the hearing aid and inserted it and whispered into that ear: “She won’t be here that day. She’ll be there.” I rode off.

  It was almost dark when I delivered the last of the invitations. I pedaled up the bluff overlooking the old steel plant, to the spot where legend says
the Lenape maiden leaped to her death. With a whisper of apology to Perry for violating my own anti-litter beliefs, I set her invitation on the ground and rode home.

  DTS: 4

  December 18

  I kept to myself all day. As the time draws near, I feel the need to be alone, to get myself ready. I’ve composed a song, to be accompanied by ukulele. I will just pluck an occasional string—no strumming. I’m working on a dance. I’ve made a red and yellow wreath of bittersweet berries to frame the sun spot. I’ve written some words.

  Still, I have the sense that something is missing, that I’m overlooking something.

  The only person I’m tempted to visit is Betty Lou. I’m dying to know if she’s coming to Solstice, if she’ll leave her house for the first time in nine years. But I don’t want to put pressure on her. If she comes, it should be of her own free will.

  I’m trying to ignore the fact that it’s snowing in Chicago.

  DTS: 3

  December 19

  I’m afraid nobody will show up. Well, not exactly nobody. I know Dootsie and Alvina will be there. And my parents. And Margie. And Cinnamon. But I’m not sure about anybody else.

  I’ve rehearsed the song.

  And the dance.

  And the words.

  It’s snowing in Pittsburgh.

  DTS: 2

  December 20

  Except for putting up the tent, I expected today to be mostly a day of seclusion and contemplation, the soul’s quiet preparation before the big event.

  It didn’t turn out that way.

  Because today happens to be a Thursday, my mother staggered down the stairs before sunrise, muttering, “One last time…one last time…,” and for one last time she sat on the rocking chair and watched me trek down the aisle of frosty porch lights to Calendar Hill.