I got up to hit the switch, but Momma said, “Just leave it off.” And she began to cry.
“It’s okay, Momma,” I said, finding my way to her side. “It’s okay.” Though we both knew it wasn’t.
At first I could only hear her sniffling and feel the thin terry cloth of her robe, but light from the dining room helped me gradually see her and the tears streaming down her face. I sat beside her and didn’t move, though my neck ached. When she wiped her nose with her sleeve, I uncurled my fist, not even realizing my hand had been in a fist, and inside was a sweaty puzzle piece, the slick side peeling away from the cardboard. Dad would have to mark another game box with masking tape and a note that said: Missing piece of sky.
We heard Dad move through the different floors of the house, heard him go out a side door and then come back in. Steadily, his pace picked up, opening and closing doors with more force, until finally I heard him grab his car key off the wicker table beside his bed. He burst into the living room and threw on the light.
“Tillie, get your jacket.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“I need your help finding Phil.”
Momma covered her mouth, her blue eyes wide open with worry as Dad walked out the door. I hurried behind him, forgetting my jacket, hardly able to keep up.
“I think you upset Momma,” I said, starting to jog.
“We can’t worry about that right now. I won’t have this kind of disobedience from your brother.” He unlocked my door. “Get in.”
We drove slowly past the school, the 7-Eleven, the small park with the bent basketball rim. We drove beside a boy who scuffled along the sidewalk in a hooded sweatshirt, hands in his pockets.
“Is that him?” Dad asked.
I rolled down my window. “Phil,” I called, and he walked faster.
We stayed with him and I continued to shout, “Phil!” until, finally, he turned around to give us the finger and to show we’d been following the wrong boy.
“What if we don’t find him?” I said, facing forward in my seat again.
“We’ll find him, and he’s not going to do this again.”
The sky, always true to my box of sixty-four Crayola crayons, had turned from Ocean to Midnight Blue. Dad drove slowly up and down the blocks Phil liked to walk, and then, as if an idea suddenly came to him, he sped up, drove through several stop signs and across and then below the Cabin John Bridge. He stopped the car so the headlights shone on the bank where Phil liked to fish. It was too dark to see anything at first and then our eyes found the shadow on a nearby sandbar.
“Phil!” Dad called, jumping out of the car.
Whoever it was on the other side of the river wasn’t moving. Dad started to cross the rocks toward the shadow, but his shoes slipped underwater. He shouted back for me to stay on the bank, but I followed.
Each slippery step brought us farther into the dark water, the shock of cold seeping into my shoes. I could barely see the shadow slumped against that huge rock, but I just knew it was him.
“Phil!” Dad called again, and there was no answer. “Tillie, go back,” he told me. Then, seeing how far I’d come, he said, “Okay, come with me. Stay close.”
“Is he dead?”
“Tillie, hush.”
“Oh no, I hope he’s not dead.”
Dad hurried across the rocks and jumped onto the sandbar. I could now clearly see Phil’s wet and motionless body, his knit cap with hair curling out of the bottom. Dad had just about reached him when my legs refused to go any closer. I didn’t want to see. I didn’t want to drive home with his body facedown across the backseat.
Dad slowly bent down to touch his shoulder, and my brother went wild, punching and screaming, “Get off of me!”
He’d only been sitting there, brooding. I almost wanted to laugh. My father grabbed him by the shoulders and rolled him on his back. “Phil, get control of yourself!”
My brother kicked again. “You can’t make me!”
Both of their voices were strange and high-pitched. I slipped off a rock and stood shin-deep in the water as they wrestled on the ground, Phil swinging his arms and Dad sticking his knee on Phil’s chest, pinning him there with all his weight.
“Get. Off,” Phil said.
You could see how much force Dad had put into his knee, my brother struggling for air. Finally, when Phil had stopped thrashing around, Dad stood up. And never taking his eye off of him, he said, “Get in the car.”
My brother didn’t move, except for he was shivering so hard. We all were.
“Phil, just do it,” I said, up to my knees in the river. “I’m freezing.”
Phil’s face showed how cold and exhausted he was. I knew he wanted to be in the car as much as I did; he just didn’t want it to be Dad’s idea.
Dad took my hand to help me back across the rocks.
“I’d rather stay here and freeze,” Phil said, but all the while, he followed behind us.
Dad seemed to understand that Phil’s cooperation counted on him being quiet and not turning around to look. He made no comment when Phil got into the back of the car and kicked the passenger seat as we drove past the black water. Dad only spoke when we pulled up to the house, telling us to shower before bed or we’d catch colds.
The house was dark, and Momma lay with her face to the back of the couch. I couldn’t tell if her eyes were open or closed. Phil and I sulked up the stairs, smelling of fish and mud. When we got to the hallway at the top, Phil stared at me with his mouth stretched tight so that his lips disappeared into a thin line. Then, with no change in his expression, he punched me hard in the ribs.
I gasped for air, trying to punch back, but he palmed my forehead so I couldn’t reach him. “This family’s a joke,” he said, shoving me to the floor.
There was no point in getting up. It would just encourage him to knock me down again. I stayed there, level with his soaked jeans and shoes, until he walked away, each step oozing water. I waited to hear the clanging of cans, and when it was finally quiet, I crawled to my room and into bed with my wet clothes. I could still feel his fist in my ribs, and it felt good, like the truest thing that had happened in months.
26
Hush Now
ALONG THE SIDE OF the house, I sat on one of the stone steps, pitching rocks into the ivy. If the ivy ever died back, you would see the many things I’d buried there: school exams with disappointing scores; Halloween candy I refused to eat—Almond Joys, caramels, Raisinettes; even silverware I didn’t want to wash because something gross was stuck on it.
“Well, there you are,” Dad said. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“I’ve been here.” I pitched some small rocks and let them disappear into the green.
“I’ll get right to it,” he said. “Your mother and I are having trouble making this work, and we have some difficult decisions to make.”
“Dad, no. We just got her back.”
“I’m sorry, Tillie.”
“I’m going to go see her,” I said, rising to my feet.
“No, you’re not.” He tugged me back down by my belt loop. “I need to go to the office to get some work done, and you’re coming with me.”
“I want to stay here.”
“Your mother needs some time alone,” he said, and mumbled something about the complicated world of adults. Then he picked up a rock. Pitched it. Picked up another, and so did I. As soon as he released his, I tried to hit it down. The next time, I threw a whole handful.
“You’re just going to give up on her?”
“We haven’t made any decisions yet, but we’re running out of things to try.”
“You never even tried being nice,” I whispered.
“What? I didn’t hear you.”
“Never mind,” I said, throwing another rock.
“Okay, then. I’m going to get my briefcase, and I’ll meet you at the car.”
As I stood by the Volvo’s back door, Phil rode down the cul-de-sac on a plastic skatebo
ard, banana shaped and neon yellow.
“Where did you get that?”
“When your friend moved, they dumped all kinds of stuff on the curb,” he said, hopping off and scooping it into his hand.
I reached out to touch the nicks, spin the wheels. It felt good to have something of Hope’s.
“Want to ride it?” he asked.
I remembered how it tickled the bottoms of my feet when I rumbled down Hope’s driveway, always jumping off before I got going too fast.
“I can’t. I have to go to Dad’s office,” I said.
“Too bad. I’ll be riding this down to the school.”
“Why don’t you have to go?”
“I guess he’s not worried about leaving me with a crazy lady.”
“Shut up.” I tried to stomp on his foot, but he moved it.
“Don’t get so touchy,” he said.
“Did Dad tell you?”
He hunched one shoulder toward his ear. “Doesn’t surprise me.”
Phil changed after that night on the Potomac and not in the way I expected. I thought he’d start blasting his music; he played it softer. I thought he’d skip meals; he was there right on time, then cleared his dishes afterward. In some ways, he seemed more agreeable than ever, except there was always a twist: He’d clear the dishwasher but put things back in the wrong places. Or Dad would suggest we eat a vegetable for snack, and Phil would bite into a head of iceberg lettuce.
Dad closed the front door, hurrying down the steps with his briefcase in one hand and a blazer draped over the other arm. “Why doesn’t Phil have to go?” I asked him.
“Oh, he’s coming, too.” Dad turned the key in the driver’s side door. “Come on, Phil. We’re going to spend a few hours at my office.”
“I’ll be ready in just a minute,” Phil said. “I just have to clean off my shoe. I stepped in something pretty bad.”
I didn’t see anything on his shoe, though he scraped the bottom of one across the grass. Dad checked his watch and opened the door to his perfectly clean car.
“I’ll just give it a quick rinse with the hose,” Phil said, and when he turned on the water, he made noises like the smell was killing him.
“Why don’t you stay and clean it right?” Dad said, just as Phil knew he would.
“Are you sure?” Phil asked, pretending to hurry, but Dad was already in the car, reminding me to buckle.
Phil bent over by the hose until we backed out of the driveway. But before we’d even driven around the corner, he was rolling down the street, pumping his arms in the air.
I didn’t mind spending the day at the Pentagon because once Dad shut himself in his office I had Anne’s work area to myself. Her chair had wheels, and when I lay my stomach over the seat, I could race across the floor until Dad told me I was making too much noise.
I moved along to Anne’s desk, peeking through all her neatly organized supplies: colored paper, Wite-Out, index cards. I made a chain from the paper clips I found in her drawer and was about to turn it into a necklace when a voice startled me from behind.
“Comfortable?” I turned around to find Anne with her hard-to-read smile. “How about just use three paperclips? That way I can still do my work on Monday.”
I began to unhook the chain while she moved every single item on her desk, even the things I hadn’t touched—turning the paperweight and the letter holder as if correcting a wrong I had done.
“I see you’ve been enjoying the typewriter, too.”
She usually kept it covered, but I liked typing my name so fast on the noisy electric keys that it sounded like gunfire.
“My dad’s going to replace the ribbon,” I said, trying to explain why there were parts taken out. “He was trying to figure out how to do it but had to get the phone.”
“It’s a good thing building missiles is so much easier than fixing typewriters,” she said, finding a new ribbon and inserting it into the machine.
“I’ll put these back,” I said, hurrying to detach each link.
“That’s a good girl,” she said, now using her friendly voice. “I heard Phil had a little flare-up this week. Is that right?”
I paused, feeling trapped by the question. Slowly, I nodded as I slipped the paper clips back into her desk. Even after I shut the drawer, I kept my eyes to the floor.
“Well, I’m glad he pulled it together. I’m sure your situation at home hasn’t been easy on him.”
I felt tight all over, wondering just what Dad had told her, and knowing she would only have heard his side of the story. She put her hands on my shoulders. I started trembling, and was angry my body had given away that something was wrong.
“Hush now,” she said, though I hadn’t been crying or whimpering at all; she only seemed to fear that I might.
She pulled the other chair close to hers and said, “Here. Let’s have a little chat.” We sat with our knees touching like I’d seen the popular girls do at school. “I know your mother hasn’t been well. That it’s a delicate situation.”
I wondered which delicate situation she knew about. “She’s just tired,” I said, immediately wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.
“That’s a very generous way for you to phrase it,” she said. “We certainly hope she’ll get better, but that just may not be the case. Your father’s tried all he could.”
“He hasn’t!” I said, clenching my teeth together and standing so my toes pressed against hers. “He’s mean to her.”
She tipped her head upward just a little. “It’s not easy to help someone who’s uncooperative,” she said. “But I know your father will find the best solution.”
“My mother’s not going anywhere,” I said, my nose so close to the top of her head, all I smelled was hairspray. “If she does, I’ll go with her.”
“Well, these are not things to be decided by a seven-year-old.”
“I’m eight.”
“Watch your talking back.”
“Eight isn’t a bad word.”
“Tillie,” she said, standing, so I was shorter than her again, “you don’t have to trouble yourself with any of these decisions. They’re for your father to make so you can be free to enjoy school and talk on the phone and ride your bike.”
I almost laughed, trying to imagine myself waving to kids in the hallway at school and then running home to chat on the phone. Sometimes I noticed my bike leaning against the porch, but I hadn’t ridden it in weeks.
When Anne grinned again, I recognized it as the same expression she had when she accepted Momma’s invitation to dinner almost a year ago.
Sometimes when I thought about Anne, she seemed the easiest to blame for all that had happened. If I’d fought harder to get out of her car, I could have run back to Momma. I could have fallen asleep under her arm and ridden in the U-Haul to our new house. I could have been there to stop the big fight.
She pointed for me to sit back down. “Here now,” she said, sitting in her own chair again and placing her hand on my knee. “You know you can talk to me about anything that’s bothering you.”
It was so hard to keep it all down. I didn’t like or trust Anne, but I longed to confess something, and finally blurted out, “My friend just moved. My best friend, Hope.” I could tell Anne this because she wouldn’t question whether Hope was still my friend.
“You’ll make another,” she said, pleased, as if she’d solved my problems just like that. “Tillie, look at me. You’re a soldier’s soldier. Whatever happens, you won’t dwell on the past when you can march forward.”
My face heated up before I even realized I was mad. In the other room, I heard Dad load his briefcase and then snap the locks.
“Well,” he said, coming through the door. “Here’s a surprise.”
“We were just discussing bike riding and making new friends,” she said, and he gave an approving nod.
Dad put on his blazer and said, “I just had a productive phone call with a congressman who thinks there’s some potential backin
g for our missile project.”
“Now that’s very good news,” she said and patted my head.
“I just have to send over a proposal, renaming it a navigation project and exploring some nonmilitary uses for the technology.”
“Must appease the zealots,” she said, “or they’ll get busy with their signs and petitions again.”
“I’m going to start on the proposal as soon as I get home,” he said, buttoning the jacket at his waist. “I think,” he continued quietly, as if talking only to himself, “if we add NUDET sensors to the payload, that would satisfy the DoD’s need for a joint program.”
“It’s all very exciting, don’t you think, Tillie?” She put her hands on her knees to speak closer to my face. “One day, I’ll bet you’ll be a famous scientist, like your father.”
“I’m going to be a poet.”
She paused for a minute as if trying to figure out if I’d just told a joke, then said to my father, “I’ll be ready to type up your proposal the moment you need me.”
“Can we go now?” I asked him.
“Yes, yes, Pest, we can go now.”
I was almost out the door when Dad called me back. “Remember your manners.”
And eyes on my sneakers, I muttered, “Thank you for a very nice time.”
“You’ll have to come closer,” Anne said. “I didn’t hear you.”
Standing in front of her chair, I repeated, “Thank you for a very nice time.”
“It was my pleasure, Tillie.” She brushed my hair behind my ears. “You’re a soldier’s soldier,” she whispered. “No more feeling sorry for yourself. It’s time for you to march forward.”
All through the cement hallways of the Pentagon, I walked with my fists clenched, remembering Dad’s words on nights he cooked lasagna. Swallow, Tillie. Just swallow! It was a food I could hardly force myself to put in my mouth—it was just too many flavors at one time—and I’d try holding my breath and swallowing without chewing it first. Most times I could get it down, but I wasn’t at all sure that it would stay down.
27
Apple
Up from the Blue Page 19