by Mary Amato
It’s very hard to have a heart attack and remain perfectly quiet, but I struggled to control my breathing so that they wouldn’t hear me on the line. “Next time,” she continued, “give me a little warning, and I’ll cook you a homemade vegetable curry.”
Dad laughed, but his voice was hushed. He didn’t want us to hear. “Sounds exotic. We don’t even have Chinese food here. We have two restaurants. There’s the Hilltop when you want to go fancy. That’s where the tourists go. And there’s Mae’s for everything else. Mae makes mashed potatoes that stick with you for a week.”
The woman laughed. “I’d like to try those.”
“You should! Maple County isn’t exciting, but it has its own quiet charm. Like I said, people from all over Indiana come to Pepper Blossom this time of year just to see the trees and to come to the festival I told you about. Right now it’s like the hills are on fire, there’s so much color.”
“Maybe I’ll surprise you and show up.”
Dad laughed. “That would really get the peppervine going!”
“What?”
“The gossip channel. Usually it’s called the grapevine. Gossip is so big in Pepper Blossom, we call it the peppervine. If you sneeze in Pepper Blossom in the morning, by noon everybody will hear that you’ve got a cold.”
She laughed. “Next time you come to Washington, I’ll have to take you to the Shenandoahs—you’d love Skyline Drive.”
They were talking about seeing each other again! I wondered what they had talked about before I picked up the phone. I bet she ratted on me and told him about me reading his e-mail and e-mailing her back. Now I’m going to be in big trouble.
I held my breath and listened to the rest of the conversation. Dad tried to convince her to take up the mountain dulcimer, saying how easy it is to learn. He says the same thing to everybody, but the way he said it to her was different. And the way she laughed at everything he said made my stomach burn. As they said good-bye to each other, I put down the phone very gently, even though what I really wanted to do was slam it and scream.
When I got back into bed, I couldn’t sleep. Their voices kept talking to each other in my mind. Dad had sounded like he was crawling to her through the telephone line.
So I got up to write.
It’s not fair. She’s all the way in Washington, D.C., and Dad’s here in Indiana, and all those miles should keep them apart. How can he fall in love with a rat who calls when she was told not to bother us anymore?
Why isn’t Mom here? Why can’t it be the way it’s supposed to be? Now I don’t know what to do. I feel like I can’t even talk to Beth about it. She wouldn’t understand. I guess I have to figure it out for myself.
To:
Ayanna Bayo
From:
Robert Wallop
Sent:
Saturday, Oct. 18, 7:05 A.M.
Subject:
Phone Call
Dear Ratlady:
Don’t ever call again. When my dad wakes up, I know I’m going to get into trouble for reading his e-mails. He’ll probably take away all my computer privileges forever and lock me in my room. Do you like being a troublemaker?
—Frankie Wallop
To:
Ayanna Bayo
From:
Robert Wallop
Sent:
Saturday, Oct. 18, 9:05 A.M.
Subject:
Secret
Ms. Bayo:
When my father woke up, he didn’t mention anything about the e-mails. If you kept it a secret, then please ignore the e-mail I sent you earlier. Except I don’t want you to ignore the first sentence. Please don’t call again.
Thank you,
Frankie Wallop
To:
Robert Wallop
From:
Ayanna Bayo
Received:
Saturday, Oct. 18, 11:58 A.M.
Subject:
Re: Secret
Dear Frankie:
I honestly don’t want to cause trouble. I believe that correspondence between two people should be private. That’s why I didn’t tell your father that you e-mailed me. I wouldn’t read a letter addressed to someone else, and I wouldn’t allow any other person to read a letter addressed to me. I would hope that you would do the same.
I really enjoyed meeting your dad. Human beings are social animals. Grown-ups enjoy making friends just as kids do.
Truthfully yours,
Ayanna
P.S. Do you have one best friend or lots of good friends?
P.P.S. I hope the big audition went well. I admire you for even trying. I am a very shy person and terrified of being onstage. When I was your age, I enjoyed working backstage on a number of plays. One of the things I love about my job is that I get to work “backstage” at the zoo. The naked mole-rats are the stars. I guess I am the stage manager. I take care of all the props and scenery.
To:
Ayanna Bayo
From:
Robert Wallop
Sent:
Saturday, Oct. 18, 12:12 P.M.
Subject:
Dirty Rats
Ms. Bayo:
I know what you’re trying to do. You’re trying to get all chummy with me. Well, it’s not going to work.
As for your job, it sounds like a nightmare for the nose. I’ve been to the small mammal house at the Indianapolis Zoo, and it smelled horrible. My guess is that anyone who works there smells horrible, too.
I, for one, wouldn’t want to be stuck inside all day with rodents for company. What can you possibly get out of watching a bunch of dirty rats who aren’t even smart enough to grow fur?
—F. W.
P.S. Beth Jamison used to be my best friend (and she still wants to be), but I’m having doubts. There is a lot about life that she doesn’t understand. I have lots of other friends, but they aren’t good ones. They get jealous of my talents. I’ve gotten the lead role in every play I’ve ever tried out for. Some people are just born “star material,” and some people are born stagehands. I know that once the play starts, I’ll find a new best friend—probably whoever gets the role of Helen Keller, since I’ll be Annie Sullivan.
To:
Robert Wallop
From:
Ayanna Bayo
Received:
Saturday, Oct. 18, 12:20 P.M.
Subject:
Re: Dirty Rats
Dear Frankie:
The small mammal house does have its own particular smell. It smells like home to me. Is that disgusting? I do take a shower and wear a clean uniform every day, in case you were wondering.
As for naked mole-rats, they are actually smart and clean in their own way.
It is smart for them NOT to have fur. They live in underground burrows in deserts (in East Africa). Their underground home stays warm all year round, so they don’t need fur. In fact their thin, bare skin helps them to change their body temperature to suit the temperature changes in their environment. In this way they’re similar to reptiles—who are also thin-skinned—like chameleons.
They are remarkably clean, too. Did you know that they have what we call a “toilet chamber”? This means that they have created a special room just for peeing and pooping. That way diseases don’t get spread around. Isn’t that smart?
Attached is a sketch of the tunnel system I have created for the naked-mole rats here at the zoo so you can picture it. (I like to draw.)
I should mention that from time to time they do roll around in their own pee and poop. That may not seem so smart, but they have a good reason for it. They identify colony mates by smell, so rolling around in their own poop is a way of labeling their colony membership.
Naked mole-rats, like a lot of animals, are very territorial. That means if an intruder digs into their burrow, the naked mole-rats will attack.
One
of the things I’ve learned is that you can’t really judge an animal by its appearance or actions before getting to know it. Most often, there’s a good reason why an animal acts the way it does.
Zoologically yours,
Ayanna
P.S. It’s funny that you should talk about how some people are “star material” and some people are stagehands. In naked mole-rat colonies, each mole-rat has a job. There are breeders, soldiers, housekeepers, and even a queen! One of the things that biologists are trying to discover is why mole-rats take on these jobs. What does it take to become queen, for example? Can you tell I’m fascinated by all this?
To:
Ayanna Bayo
From:
Robert Wallop
Sent:
Saturday, Oct. 18, 12:31 P.M.
Subject:
No Phone Calls
Ms. Bayo:
Your naked mole-rats sound disgusting. If you like them, then I guess you’ve chosen the right profession. Just don’t expect everybody else to like them.
I don’t have time to send any more e-mails today. I am sending you this last one because I forgot to tell you something. Our house is very small. We live in a trailer, actually, and sleep on little bunks next to each other. It’s all we can afford because Dad hasn’t been selling very many instruments. So if anybody is talking on the phone late at night, it wakes everybody else up. My poor brothers really need their sleep on account of their illnesses. The doctor said that if their sleep is interrupted, their health will rapidly detonate.
You should also know that this time of year is the busiest time of all for my dad’s shop. If you bother him there, he might not be able to sell any of his dulcimers and then we won’t be able to afford all the doctor’s bills.
Seriously yours,
Frankie
P.S. Since you believe that correspondence between two people should be private, does this mean that you promise not to tell my dad that I am e-mailing you?
To:
Robert Wallop
From:
Ayanna Bayo
Received:
Saturday, Oct. 18, 12:35 P.M.
Subject:
Re: No Phone Calls
Dear Frankie:
I promise not to tell your dad about our correspondence, if you promise to be honest with me from now on.
Honestly yours,
Ayanna
Saturday, October 18, 8:00 P.M.
Dear Diary:
Today I woke up early and e-mailed Ratlady before anybody else was out of bed. The good news—miracle of miracles—is that Ratlady promised not to tell Dad about the e-mails. The bad news is . . . where to start?
After e-mailing, I cocooned myself in a sleeping bag on the couch in the living room with a copy of The Miracle Worker to practice my lines. I tried to practice all the Annie Sullivan lines, but Skip and Nutter were spying on me with Skip’s camera and binoculars. They thought it was hilarious that I was talking to myself, so they secretly tape-recorded me and played it back very loudly. Ha-ha-ha.
Beth called, but I was too busy. Kept checking e-mail (and deleting Ratlady’s messages to me so that Dad won’t see them) and rehearsing. After a while, I locked myself in my room and decided to work on the Helen Keller character, just in case. Helen Keller doesn’t have any lines because she can’t talk, so I put a paper grocery bag over my head and wandered around my room, feeling the darkness and the confusion and the fear. My room is small, so I opened my door and walked carefully down the stairs, gripping the banister dramatically. I’m quite sure nobody else in Maple County Junior High School is creative enough or dedicated enough to work this hard.
As I was walking between the kitchen and the living room, I heard some giggles, and I should have taken the bag off my head right then and there. But I was trying to feel deaf as well as blind, so I ignored the sounds and took another step, and tripped.
“Got ya, Baghead!” Skip yelled and laughed so hard his skinny arms and legs looked like they were going to fall apart.
It is impossible to be a serious actor while living in a zoo. Of course, because weekends are Dad’s busiest time right now, I’m stuck at home with The Animals.
Dad came home at 6:30 in the best mood.
“I sold ten instruments today!” he sang as he walked in the door with a box. “And guess what?”
“You brought us presents?” Nutter asked.
“No, Mae brought this to the shop for Frankie.” Dad pulled a devil’s food cake out of the box. In blue frosting it read, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, FRANKIE.
I thought: Boy, word sure travels fast here in Pepper Blossom, Indiana. But I didn’t say anything.
“Mrs. Holmes told everybody it was Frankie’s birthday yesterday,” Dad said.
“Hurray!” Nutter exclaimed, and hopped on a stool to get a better look.
Dad looked at Skip and me. “Did one of you guys give her that idea?”
“I didn’t!” Skip protested.
I shrugged as if I had no idea; but Dad looked like he really needed an explanation, so I added, “I’m pretty sure I heard that Mrs. Holmes has that disease that makes a person confused about things.”
“Alzheimer’s? Really? Where did you hear that?”
I was actually thinking about amnesia. But Alzheimer’s, whatever that is, would work, too, so I nodded. “Remember when I went over to borrow the eggs last week? I heard her talking on the phone to her doctor. And then I saw the pills.”
“Are you sure?”
I had to nod some more.
Dad sat down. “That’s terrible. I should call her son in Indy and assure him that we’ll keep an eye on her.”
“No, you don’t have to do that.”
He shook his head. “It’s a serious thing, Frankie. She must have a mild case, now, but it will probably get worse. Sometimes Alzheimer’s patients get very confused and wander off.”
“Mrs. Holmes hardly ever leaves her house,” Skip said.
Dad laughed a little. “Well, that’s true.”
I jumped in. “I don’t think she has the wandering kind of Alzheimer’s. I think she has the kind that makes her confused about dates and people. The other day she thought Nutter was a puppy.”
I swear I don’t know where these ideas are coming from. I start with a kernel of an idea—like giving poor Mrs. Holmes a disease—and the next thing you know, she’s confusing Nutter with a long lost puppy.
“Hey, Rover.” Skip swatted Nutter on the head. Nutter, perfectly happy to be a puppy, sat on his hind legs and yapped.
Sunday, October 19, 10:00 P.M.
Dear Diary:
Oh, what a tangled web we weave when the telephone doth ring!
After church today Beth wanted to come over. I let her be Helen so I could practice Annie.
In the middle of my dramatic miracle-working, Bill Holmes called. He’s the grownup son of Mrs. Holmes. Dad must have called him about the Alzheimer’s.
“Hi, Frankie. Is your Dad there?”
Thankfully he was not. He always opens Heartstrings right after church. “No, can I take a message?” I asked.
“Your dad left a message for me,” he said. “Do you know why he called?”
“Oh, I think he meant to call Dr. Holmes. He’s a new dentist. A special one that we have to take Skip to because his teeth are so crooked. . . .” (Skip heard that and punched me.) “My dad’s been getting confused lately. Maybe he has Alzheimer’s. . . .” Bill Holmes laughed. “I’ll tell him you called, Mr. Holmes. If he doesn’t call you back, you can assume it was just a mistake.”
Not bad for thinking “on the fly,” as Ms. Young used to say, although it cost me another buck to keep Skip quiet.
Beth wanted to know what was going on, so I explained about the birthday cake and the Alzheimer’s. Then she drove me nuts because she acted like I was doomed to eternal flames for lying. “On top of all that, I can’t believe you’re going to fo
rge a note!”
I said: “Why don’t you just wear your choir robe all day long since you’re such a goody-goody?”
She left in a huff.
There was one good thing: no messages or phone calls from Ratlady. My latest (and hopefully last) lie about the trailer must have done the trick.
After dinner the Red Beet Ramblers came over to rehearse. The Red Beet Ramblers is a group of a dozen people on dulcimer, guitar, fiddle, banjo, etc., who squash into our living room to play every Sunday evening. My mom and dad and their friend Ozzie Filmore started it before I was even born. I play certain songs with them on special occasions. We’re doing “Give Me Your Hand” at the Fall Festival.
During rehearsal I tried not to think about any of my worries, and I just let the sound of my dulcimer and my voice melt into everybody else’s. It was so beautiful I almost started to cry. Whenever the sixth-grade chorus would sing really well, Ms. Young used to always say: “Music has charms to soothe the savage beast.” (It’s really “savage breast.” But the boys couldn’t handle it when she said that, so she changed it to “beast.”) Anyway, I think that’s true about music.
This savage beast is hereby going to bed. I need my beauty sleep, for tomorrow is the big day. I want to look my best when everyone is congratulating me for getting the part of Annie Sullivan.
Monday, October 20, 3:15 P.M.