A Life of Bright Ideas

by Sandra Kring

  “You serious? Right now?”

  “Sure! Why not?”

  So across the moonlit lawns we ran, holding hands like we did when we were kids, our giggles shooting like stars through the nippy night air.

  The living room light was on at Aunt Verdella’s, the TV flickering, which meant she was snoring in her chair, her crochet needle limp in her hand.

  Winnalee went up the tree first, me hesitating only a second as I thought of the last time I’d climbed it. “Come on,” Winnalee called, as she stepped long and lodged her foot into the small center between the fork. “Man, what happened to our floor? It shrunk.”

  “No, our feet grew,” I said, even though Winnalee couldn’t be more than a size six.

  Seconds later, we were in the tree, our bare feet pinching each other’s, our backs braced on the rough limbs behind us. The sky was smeared with stars that sparkled as brightly as my hope, that this might be a summer every bit as magical as the one of ’61.

  “Where you wanna go?” Winnalee asked.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. A city someday … I don’t know which one. Someplace bigger than Dauber. Just to see it, if nothing else.”

  “No,” Winnalee said, slapping my arm gently as she laughed. “I mean, where do you want our magic tree to take us?”

  I looked around, as if anyone was nearby to see us behaving like children. “Anywhere. You decide.”

  Winnalee bubbled her cheeks with breath as she thought. “To the best place there will ever be. To Woodstock!” she shouted, lifting her fist into the air.

  So off our magic tree spun us, me giggling as Winnalee made rocket sounds.

  Winnalee was as exuberant as if our game was real. She jumped down, dancing in circles, her T-shirt lifted up over her head, swinging her swaddled arms side to side, her body doll white as she danced across the moonlight-splotched grass, singing out, “ ’Scuze me while I kiss the sky … dar dar dar dar, dar dar dar, dar dar dar,” until I would join her.

  After we exhausted ourselves, we climbed back into our tree, our bare legs dangling over a thick branch, and we stared up at the sky and wondered out loud how nine years had passed, and how we’d gone from being little girls to women.

  Winnalee was sleepy from pot and too many hours on the road, so we crawled into bed before midnight, me lying on my right side, she on her left, our arms bent into pillows. “I’m so glad you’re here,” I told her.

  I loved all the things Winnalee was—gutsy, impulsive, high-spirited—so when her free arm, cooled from the early summer night air, came down to wrap around me, I wished for all of those traits to seep from her skin into me.

  “I missed you guys so much, Button. Especially you.” Winnalee sounded like she might cry, even as she smiled, but she quickly recovered. And then, as if we were in the middle of a game, she asked, “Okay, after I left … best moment ever …”

  She waited as I struggled to find something. “When I got my driver’s license,” I said. “And Dad handed me keys to a car. I was so excited at the thought of having my own wheels! Well, until I saw the Rambler—it’s so ugly! And, until I drove to Penny’s house, my friend after you left. She lived in town. I was so scared without Aunt Verdella in the car to help me watch for deer and to tell me when to signal, that I shook all the way there. And when I pulled into Penny’s driveway, I banged into her mom’s car, knocking out a taillight.”

  “You didn’t!” Winnalee giggled.

  “I did. Dad had a fit and told Aunt Verdella that if I was going to drive like a speed demon, he was yanking my keys. Speed demon? I didn’t drive over thirty-five miles an hour the whole way to Dauber, and was crawling when I pulled into Penny’s drive. But I stomped on the gas instead of the clutch.” Winnalee giggled. “Yours?” I asked.

  “Woodstock. Of course. But I already told you about that. You ask one.”

  “Most embarrassing moment?”

  Winnalee laughed. “I don’t think I’ve had one. You?”

  “I’ve had so many I can’t even keep track of them. But one of them would have to be Mardi Gras, 1963, when I was eleven. We were having a picnic down at the park and everybody was there … the Smithys, the Thompsons … about twenty of us. Us kids swam until it was time to eat, and when we got to the picnic table, Aunt Verdella looked at my bathing suit, plastered to my skin, and she said to Ada—but loud enough so everyone heard—‘Oh my goodness, look at that! Our little Button’s sprouting breasts!’ God, I thought I’d die right on the spot. I hadn’t even noticed, except that my chest had been hurting. But sure enough, there they were, sitting under my sailor suit like two plums.”

  Winnalee laughed. “Bet Tommy had fun with that one,” she said, and I nodded and rolled my eyes.

  “But I don’t know if that was more embarrassing, or, when Penny and I used her mom’s Kirby vacuum cleaner hose to give ourselves hickeys.”

  “You what?” Winnalee rolled onto her belly and slapped the mattress as she laughed. “Why?”

  “It was Penny’s idea. She thought it would make us look cool. She practiced on me first. She didn’t know how long to hold the hose, so was experimenting. I ended up with a row of perfectly round, big ‘hickeys’ from under my jaw down to my collarbone. Even one above my jawbone. Right here!” I poked my skin to show her. “Who gets a hickey on their face? I thought I’d croak when Benji Tyler ripped the cover off the ketchup bottle in the cafeteria and shouted, ‘Hey Evy, your boyfriend’s looking for you.’ ”

  Winnalee giggled. “I hope you got her back and put one right on her forehead.”

  “I didn’t get the chance to. She saw how stupid I looked and decided it wasn’t a good idea after all.”

  Winnalee was still laughing. “I woulda taken her down and plastered her with them!”

  “Best kiss ever,” I said when she stopped laughing, because remembering that humiliation wasn’t exactly fun.

  Winnalee shrugged. “I don’t kiss,” she said, which totally threw me, because obviously, she’d gone all the way plenty of times.

  “You’re kidding? Why not?”

  “I don’t know. Different question … saddest mo—never mind. Sorry,” she said.

  “Your saddest moment?” I asked carefully.

  Winnalee hesitated, then her voice fell to almost a whisper. “When I stopped believing in fairies.”

  I wanted to protest. To insist that she could never stop believing in enchanted becks filled with fairies, and other magical things. But Winnalee rolled to her back, her wrist coming down over her forehead, so I didn’t say it.

  We lay there for a time, the game over, each of us lost in our own thoughts. And then I asked the question I wanted answered the most. “Winnalee, how long are you staying?”

  “I don’t know,” she mumbled, her eyes closed. “There any jobs around here?”

  I grinned. “We’ll find you one.”

  “Button?” she asked, turning back to me and peering out from half-closed lids. “Was your life good? I mean, after we left? Between you and your ma especially?”

  “Yes,” I said, blinking against the bittersweetness that suddenly stung my eyes. I scanned my mind to find a memory to share with Winnalee. Something that would show her that it got easier, better, after that summer. But I couldn’t think of any major ancedote, because the truth of the matter was, Ma, like me, wasn’t the kind to do outrageous things. All I had was memories of quiet, everyday moments. Like after Aunt Verdella’s comment about my boobs, when Ma found me in the park’s restroom, huddled against the cement wall crying, and hugged me. Then her teasing me into smiling by telling me that if anyone should be crying, it should be her, because she had boobs the same size as an eleven-year-old.

  Then there were the hours in the kitchen, trying new recipes that never looked like the photos in the magazines we pulled them from. And meandering through sewing stores looking for fabric for our latest projects. Some Sunday afternoons, when Ma was backed up with work, we’d drop Boohoo off at Aunt Verdella’s
and go to the boutique and leave the “closed” sign up, and sew together. Ma would catch me up on the week’s episodes of General Hospital and Days of Our Lives—she kept a little TV on in the sewing room at the store—and while we sewed, we’d fret over the villains’ latest antics and pity the victims as if they were real people. But I didn’t tell Winnalee any of this, because how could someone who went to Woodstock find any of that ordinary stuff interesting?

  “I’m glad things got better,” Winnalee said, and her eyes fluttered closed.

  I lay watching her sleep in moonlight that crawled over my shoulder and lit her like a princess. Kissed by the soft glow, the bends in Winnalee’s curls glistened like they were dusted with freshly fallen snowflakes, and suddenly I was ten again. Sitting in the Bel Air with Uncle Rudy, while Aunt Verdella ran into the IGA for a few things.

  It was early November, and a wintery mix was falling. Uncle Rudy must have gotten tired of listening to the whump, whump of the windshield wipers, because he shut them off and stared ahead. I thought he was watching people push carts to their cars, but he wasn’t. “Lookie this, Button,” he finally said. He pointed to a snowflake that had just touched down on the glass. “Watch what this little guy does.”

  I stared hard at the snowflake, which quickly started to melt. “See? There he goes. Slippin’ right across the windshield to join up with this other partially melted snowflake that’s hurryin’ to meet him. Now watch …” I scooted to the edge of the car seat as Uncle Rudy’s finger followed the wobbly trail of water gliding down the glass. “See that? They’re picking up more snowflakes as they go.”

  Then he told me to watch a raindrop. I folded my arms on the dashboard and leaned closer. When a fresh raindrop landed where I stared, I got excited. “It’s doing the same thing, Uncle Rudy. Look, right here,” I said, yanking my mitten off and bending my fingertip against the glass. “And here’s a raindrop going to meet him.” And sure enough, as they made a little stream and traveled down the glass, they converged with nearby raindrops. I watched another raindrop. Then another snowflake. Then another raindrop and snowflake. And not once did a raindrop join with a snowflake, or vice versa. I shared this marvel with Uncle Rudy, as if it wasn’t his observation in the first place.

  “Yep, that’s what I’m seeing, too,” he said.

  We were still watching the glass when Aunt Verdella opened the door, letting the cold air in. She prattled about the good sale on Maxwell House coffee as she shoved her bag into the backseat and slipped in next to me, brrrrrrring. She took off her crocheted hat, shaking it, sprinkling my skin. “Oh, I’m sorry, Button.” She giggled as she dabbed at my cheek with the cuff of her wool coat. When I went back to staring at the windshield and she saw that Uncle Rudy was doing the same, she leaned forward and looked out, asking what we were looking at. I told her, and she sat back. “Hmm, I always thought opposites attract. That’s what they always say anyway.”

  Ever since that day, when I met somebody new, they’d be talking, or smiling at me, or someone else, and I’d quickly determine if they were a raindrop or a snowflake. Because if they were a raindrop like me—colorless and soft, so ordinary that no one could pick them out of a crowd—then that could mean that maybe we’d join together and slip down the halls, two drops in the same stream.

  I stared at Winnalee as she rolled on her side and curled her legs up. She was a snowflake for sure. Intricate and sharp, sparklingly beautiful. So unique you’d never mistake somebody else for her. So I was confused. How was it that we—a snowflake and a raindrop—could defy nature as we were doing, melding together—twice—to slip down the same path?

  “It feels the same, you and me,” I whispered, and Winnalee stirred, and murmured, “Yeah … but I’m not the same, Button. Maybe I seem like it, because being back here is making me feel little again, but I’m not the same anymore. Not at all.”

  I tugged my pillow down, folding it over to tuck under my head, and stared at the dark smudges of vines on the wallpaper. Winnalee was half sleeping. High. And wrong.

  I was dangling on the verge of sleep when Winnalee flipped onto her back. “Shit,” she mumbled.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “I forgot to bring my plants in. They need water.”

  The plants that were in her van. Herbs perhaps. Or maybe some variety of flowers that, when they bloomed, would look so magical that you could believe fairies danced on them while you slept. “I’ll get them,” I told her, and she murmured a thank-you.

  I grabbed my new stationery to bring downstairs, knowing I was still too excited to sleep, then went out and grabbed the two heavy plants from the van. I lugged them into the spare room downstairs, the one with the bed that sunk in the middle, and put them under the window, alongside Aunt Verdella’s tomato starter plants. I watered them, then fingered the wilty long leaves in apology. I’d always pitied neglected plants. They were like children nobody bothered to pour milk for.

  Maybe it was the surprise and joy of having Winnalee back in my life, and the night of pulsing rock music and climbing our magic tree, that made me so bold. Or maybe it was just hearing about a world I wasn’t brave enough to enter, where people gave away their love without embarrassment or fear. Whatever it was, I wrote to Jesse—a snowflake for sure—without second-guessing every word I put down. I told him about the dress Boohoo ruined, and about Winnalee and her return. I told him about what loving a friend meant to me, and that, yes, I’d love to (pen) pal around with him. I even signed the letter, “Love, Evy.”

  CHAPTER

  8

  BRIGHT IDEA #6: If a little kid named Elroy tells you he bites people when he gets mad, believe him. If you don’t, you’re going to end up with tooth marks on your hand.

  When morning came, Boohoo was the one who announced it, bouncing on his knees at the foot of our bed and crowing like a rooster.

  I grabbed him and pulled him down between us, whispering my best rendition of Foghorn Leghorn—one of Boohoo’s favorite cartoon characters—into his ear. “Hey boy, I say, I say, quiet down, Winnalee’s still sleeping.” Boohoo giggled and squirmed in protest as I popped kisses on his cheek.

  Boohoo pushed my head back to stop me. “Aunt Verdella says to get up and come eat because she made a big breakfast … ’cause she’s here,” Boohoo said, jabbing his thumb toward Winnalee. “She’s downstairs.”

  “Aunt Verdella is?”

  Boohoo nodded. I made the shush sign and lifted Boohoo out of bed. I closed the door almost shut and we headed downstairs.

  Aunt Verdella was standing in the spare bedroom, the door ajar. “Good morning, honey,” she said, giving me an affectionate hug. “I’ll bet you girls were up half the night, talking.”

  “Yeah,” I said, and Aunt Verdella beamed.

  She bent and peered down at Winnalee’s now-perky plants. “What on earth are these?”

  “I don’t know. They’re Winnalee’s.”

  “Some kind of hybrid tomato, maybe?” Aunt Verdella said.

  “Yeah, that’s what they are. Hybrid tomato plants.” We turned to see Winnalee shuffling into the room, yawning.

  “Morning, sweetie,” Aunt Verdella said, giving her a morning hug. “That’s what I thought.” She sized up the plants. “Boy, you sure do have a green thumb. These tomatoes are a good four inches taller than ours.

  “Uncle Rudy wants to plant this week. Yours can go in our garden, too, Winnalee. Rudy will mark them so you know which ones are yours.”

  “That’s okay,” Winnalee said. She turned her back to Aunt Verdella. “This variety does better indoors.”

  “Really? I never heard of keeping tomato plants indoors the whole time.”

  “Well, these are special,” Winnalee said, giving me a sly wink.

  And then I got it.

  I widened my eyes at Winnalee, then herded Aunt Verdella out of the room.

  • • •

  That morning, Winnalee tagged along to the bridal shop with me. I didn’t say anything ab
out the marijuana plants, even if maybe I should have.

  I carried the apricot bridesmaid’s dress, sheathed in a clear garment bag, holding it high so it wouldn’t drag, while Winnalee carried in the box with Jo’s ruined dress. Linda was sitting at the desk, taking an appointment over the phone. I could hear Hazel talking with a customer in the big back room where the sewing machines and fabric were kept, and the gowns hung and the girls got measured. Winnalee plunked the dress box on the counter, then wandered off to inspect the front room. When Linda finished her call, I introduced her to Winnalee, who by this time was at the metal cabinet where the patterns were kept in neat rows, sliding the drawer back and forth as if the smooth glide itself made her happy.

  “Oh,” Linda said, “I heard Jewel talk about you and Freeda so often, I feel as if I know you already.”

  “Yeah, well in spite of what you heard, I hope you’ll like me anyway.”

  Linda laughed lightheartedly, though I wasn’t sure Winnalee was kidding.

  When I had no reason left to stall, I sheepishly told her what happened to Jo’s dress. Poor Linda already looked like she hadn’t slept in a week, which she probably hadn’t. This was a busy time for the boutique, with dozens of dresses waiting for final fittings, and more orders coming in. And that meant having to deal with nervous brides who insisted that the waist that suddenly needed to be taken in or let out had nothing to do with nerves that either kept them from eating, or caused them to eat too much. Plus, Linda’s husband, Al, had gotten laid off indefinitely and she was worried about how they’d make ends meet once the store quieted in the fall. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” I kept repeating.

  Linda’s face contorted with panic, but she instantly tried to hide it behind a tight smile. I opened the lid so we could examine the damage together. “Oh no,” she said. “I was hoping the dirt would be contained to the overlay. Still, Hazel is a wiz at removing stains. She got blood off of satin once.”