“I loaned all my money to Mr. Papadopoulos on Saturday night,” I say.
“That’s not smart, Marjorie. My parents didn’t give him a single dime because even though those hillbillies in West Virginia pop out babies left and right, it’s just plain wrong to sell them to any old person.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Papadopoulos? They aren’t just any old people.” I can’t believe she’s saying this. Mom was so happy about them finally being parents. I haven’t seen the baby yet. They picked him up when he was only three hours old and drove him back home. They named him Alexander. “My mom says as long as the baby winds up in a home where he’s loved, then that’s okay.”
“Just because your mom went to college does not mean she knows everything. My mom’s going to ask her prayer circle to beg forgiveness for them because who does and doesn’t get babies is God’s business and Mr. and Mrs. P. are going straight to H-E-double hockey sticks. And that baby of theirs is nothing but a bastard.”
“Bernadette!” I can’t believe she said what she said. Bad words are definitely not allowed in Mrs. Ferguson’s house. But something tells me home is exactly where Bernadette heard that bad word about the Papadopouloses’ new baby. I don’t say anything else.
The outside stairs to our school are worn down into soft dents. As we scuff up the steps and into the school, Inga appears at my side, quiet as a shadow.
“You’re new,” Bernadette says, looking at Inga. “Is this the girl you have to sit with now?” she asks me. Inga blushes as red as the scarf Grandma Mona knitted for me. The scarf I’m not wearing. The scarf that I buried in the bottom of the mitten basket so it wasn’t hanging on the hook, begging Mom to tell me to put it on.
“This is Inga,” I say. But Bernadette doesn’t seem to hear, either because of the layers over her ears or because she’s too busy calling out to friends. I enter the double doors of the school walking a tightrope between Inga and Bernadette, trying not to edge too close to either one of them.
My mind churns like a washing machine with all the things I could say: Hey, Bernadette, remember that spy in the black hat? Funny thing. I’m pretty sure it was just Inga’s dad, not a commie at all. And this is Inga. Doesn’t she have pretty hair? She doesn’t speak English that well, but she likes Curious George and she knows the story in French. Yes, she speaks German, too. No, I don’t know what her dad did in the war—my mind is babbling like my mother’s mouth did when she met Inga’s mom.
As I watch Bernadette reaching out to all her friends, I realize there is no way I can communicate what I know about Inga to Bernadette. She wouldn’t understand. When it comes to Inga, it’s like Bernadette and I don’t even speak the same language. I say nothing.
At that moment, I wish more than anything that Inga could be as popular as Bernadette. Then she would have plenty of friends and it wouldn’t be so important whether I was her friend or not. But the truth is, I am Inga’s only friend, and I wish I could bury that fact as easily as I did my red scarf.
CHAPTER 19
“Bernadette, so glad you could join us today.”
“I’m so happy to be back, Mrs. Kirk,” Bernadette answers with a smile.
“Could you be so kind as to come to the board to write the answer to this morning’s word problem?”
“Certainly.” Bernadette pops up from her desk and fluffs her circle skirt before she starts up the aisle. She’s wearing her circle skirt with the sombrero on it and at least three crinoline, stick-out petticoats. Kirk has a strict three petticoat rule and she’s not shy about lifting up girls’ skirts to count. She says any more than three is a hazard in our crowded classroom. I’m pretty sure that Bernadette is over the limit, since her skirt sticks out like an open umbrella, and when she swings her hips it swooshes from side to side. I feel the jolt when her hip hits Inga square in the shoulder as she passes by. I look up at Mrs. Kirk, but she has her back turned and is studying the board. Bernadette has perfect timing.
“So sorry,” Bernadette says with a sniff and a little smile.
Only she’s not sorry. She wants Inga to know who’s boss.
Inga rubs her arm and looks at me with a question in her eyes. I fix my eyes on the board.
Bernadette writes, The farmer has six sheep to sell at the market, on the board. Mrs. Kirk’s so excited that the answer’s in a complete sentence that she claps three times and jumps up to underline the words on the blackboard. Her back’s turned again when Bernadette swooshes back down the aisle to her seat. Inga’s ready for her this time, and when Bernadette swings her hip, Inga leans in and gives her an elbow. Bernadette sprawls across Mike Tomaszeski’s lap and all of his books dump on the floor. Bernadette whoops as she goes down with the clatter of books.
Mrs. Kirk spins. “What’s this?” She sizes up the situation and asks, “Inga, did you just push Bernadette?”
Inga is silent.
“I tripped,” says Bernadette. “Sorry, Mike.” She rights herself and slides back to her desk without another single swish.
“That’s very generous of you, Bernadette. Inga, you might as well know that I don’t need eyes in the back of my head, I can read faces, and the color of your face tells me that you are up to no good. That kind of behavior will not be tolerated in my classroom, do you understand?”
“Yah,” Inga says quietly.
“I beg your pardon? Did I just hear you apologize to Bernadette or didn’t I?”
“Sorry,” Inga says without hardly moving her lips or turning to look at Bernadette.
“I’ll say you are sorry. There will be no more of that, little miss, is that understood?”
“Yah.”
Everyone in the classroom except Mrs. Kirk knows that Bernadette hit Inga first. The room sits frozen, barely breathing. I sit there with them, stiff and not touching Inga.
Mike bends to pick up his books and pencil. Mrs. Kirk turns back to the six sheep on the board.
From now on, it’s official. This is war. Bernadette and Inga are enemies, only Inga doesn’t know she can’t win.
At recess, Mrs. Kirk makes Inga stay in to clean erasers with Owen Markey, who needs to be reminded that scissors are not toys.
Even I’m surprised at how quickly Bernadette starts to get kids on her side. She holds her arm and looks as if she’s going to cry. I know Bernadette better than anyone and I’m sure that her arm is not hurt. I bet she was more than happy to have an excuse to sit on Mike Tomaszeski’s lap, even if it was only for a second.
“I can’t believe she did that to you,” says Mary Virginia.
“Poor Bernadette,” adds Piper, petting Bernadette like she’s a cat.
“I can’t believe you’re friends with her,” says Bernadette, looking at me with how-could-you hurt in her eyes.
I can’t think of what to say, so I just shake my head. I’m waiting for Piper or Jodi or Mary Virginia or anyone to mention that Bernadette knocked Inga first. Hard. With her hip. I felt it. Is it possible that I’m the only one who knows this?
Everyone starts to talk about how Inga dresses. Her accent. Her hair. I say nothing. I am not shy, but sometimes I pretend I am. I pull my hood up and use the toe of my boot to kick a dent in the hardened snow. The bell rings.
For the past week, I have been explaining every assignment to Inga so that she can understand and keep up. Now with Bernadette’s eyes burning into the back of my head, I am afraid to even look at Inga.
In the afternoon, Mrs. Kirk gives us four minutes of free time before the three o’clock bell. Bernadette comes over to our desk and announces in a loud voice that she’s having a sleepover on Friday night. “You’re coming, Marjorie, aren’t you?” she asks.
My eyes slip to the side, looking at Inga.
“Oh, I see. You have to ask her permission before you say if you’re going to sleep over at your best friend’s house?”
“No,” I say. Bernadette stands with her arms folded. “I’ll be there.”
“If you’re not going to be happy about it, the
n don’t bother,” Bernadette says.
“I’m happy. I just …” I hesitate. “I’m just worried about … about … about stuff. Okay?”
“Let’s not make this about you, Marjorie. You always want to turn things around. I have a new record player and stacks of records, and we’re going to have loads of fun on Friday, right?” Bernadette pauses to look at Inga, who’s quietly packing up her side of the desk. She looks back at me. “Everyone’s going to be there. I’m so excited, aren’t you?”
“Sure,” I answer, trying to put a smile in my voice. Bernadette tells me that her mother’s picking her up after school to go the doctor’s, and then she turns on her heel, making her skirt stand out and flipping my spelling list off of the desk. By the time I pick it up and zip my pencils into their holder, Inga’s at the coat rack. She leaves without saying good-bye. Part of me is relieved, and part of me wants to run after her.
CHAPTER 20
If Bernadette can be sick for a week, then I can be sick for a week. Maybe by then things will have calmed down between Inga and Bernadette. I just need to look sick enough that Mom will keep me home. I had scarlet fever in second grade and was out for two weeks, just to make sure the shot worked and I didn’t come down with rheumatic fever, which can ruin your heart.
I need a major illness, something that will keep me out of school for the rest of the year. Pauline Pothier was allowed to stay home for half a year in a body cast because she had curvature of the spine. I try standing crooked but don’t look that convincing. I’ve already had mumps, chicken pox, and hard measles, so those excuses are out the window.
I go into the bathroom and swirl the hottest water I can stand in my mouth and stick the thermometer in before going downstairs. Dad hasn’t left for work yet and is bent over the newspaper, sipping coffee. Mom’s nowhere in sight, which is not good. She’s easier to convince than Dad. Dad thinks if you want sympathy, you should look it up under S in the dictionary. But Dad doesn’t even seem to notice me standing there.
“Lila, look here at this story in the paper,” Dad says, pointing at a headline I can’t read upside down. Mom comes to the dining room door, a piece of black toast in her hand, smelling like smoke.
“Looks like there was a theft over at the library last weekend.”
Mom stands still. Frank pushes past her, holding a cup of coffee.
“Listen to this: ‘“This theft is a particularly heinous crime as these were books slated to be destroyed due to their anti-American content,” says Head Librarian Mrs. Harvey Pearson.’ Looks like more than a hundred books just disappeared. What do you think about that, Lila?” Dad looks up at Mom over his glasses.
“When was that?” asks Frank.
“They think it happened on Saturday,” Dad answers. “No leads yet. But the cops don’t always publish everything they know.”
“Saturday afternoon?” asks Frank.
“That’s what they’re thinking, ’cording to this article. Is this what the pinko Friends of the Library were cooking up last week, Lila? You know anything about this?”
Frank, who usually talks to no one in the mornings, seems all excited about the story. “Books just disappeared? Books don’t just walk off, somebody got to know what happened.”
I take the thermometer out of my mouth before I bite down without thinking and break the glass. Mom holds her pose in the kitchen doorway.
“You ’spose that’s a felony?” asks Frank. “I guess somebody might do some hard time over somethin’ like that. Stealing’s stealing.”
“Says here there’s going to be a thorough investigation,” Dad says.
“Somebody’s going to sing,” says Frank. “Always happens that way. One person sees their butt’s on the line and they can’t wait to snitch. Right Mrs. C.? Ain’t that the way it always goes?”
“Don’t say ain’t, Frank.” Nothing like bad grammar to kick-start Mom. She slips the burned toast into her apron pocket. “That’s a big waste of time for the police, if you ask me. The books were just going to be thrown out anyway.” A pause. “Anybody want more orange juice?”
“I guess that wasn’t what I was asking you, Lila. I was asking if you know anything about this. Frank’s right, stealing’s stealing.” Dad looks hard at Mom. “Like my mother always told me, right is right and wrong is nobody.”
“Your mother also thinks that space aliens crashed in New Mexico, so I wouldn’t necessarily—”
“Lila, just tell me you don’t know anything.”
“I know absolutely nothing.” Mom turns back toward the kitchen. “And the longer I live, the less I know.”
“Well, I don’t guess Lydia Papadopoulos will be dragging you to any more subversive activities now that she’s got that new baby, so I have nothing to worry about, right?”
Mom’s already in the kitchen and turns on the water, a signal that from her perspective, the conversation’s over. Frank’s not done with it, though.
“Communist-leaning, them Greeks. Am I right?” Frank’s on the edge of his chair, his leg bouncing up and down.
“I wouldn’t say that.” Dad answers.
“But they’s kind of friendly with the Russians after the war, right?”
“Wasn’t anybody friendly with the Russians after the war, boy. That’s what the Cold War’s all about.”
“But the Greeks—”
“George and Lydia’s good folks, Frank. All Greeks aren’t commies, all Italians aren’t Mafia thugs, and all Germans aren’t Nazis. People are people; you got to take them one at a time. There’s folks who’ll tell you all Polacks are dumb, ain’t got the sense God gave gravel. Your pop was one of the smartest men I’ve ever known, Polack through and through.” Dad closes the newspaper and pushes his chair back. He wants the conversation to be over, too. Frank keeps talking.
“My pop said—” begins Frank.
“Your pop would’a said the same thing. No two people are the same. Even when it comes to soldiers, let me tell you. Not the same. Not the same at all. Your pop? He was good people, too.” Dad sighs deep down. “Too good, maybe.”
Dad stands, running his hand back and forth across the back of the chair. He sighs again. “The war was hard enough on him. Coming home, even harder. It’s a damned sight easier to turn a shoe salesman into a killer than it is to turn a killer back into a human being.” Dad stands and holds up two fingers. “I made myself two promises in the war, if I was lucky enough to return home. One, I was never going to camp out again in my life. No more rain in my mashed potatoes. Two, I’d never have a gun in the house. Never touch a gun again. I wish to God your dad had thought the same.”
“My pop was a natural-born hunter, Nazis, deer, squirrel. All the same to him. He could knock the eye out of a Nazi or a squirrel from two hundred yards.” Frank sits like his spine is reaching toward the ceiling when he talks about his pop. He holds his head up proud.
“Your dad was always good with a rifle, from what he told me. But listen up, boy, killing people is nothing like shooting a deer or a squirrel, don’t you ever believe it is. Deer don’t shoot back, for one thing. In simple language, war’s chaos, bullets flying, fire, noise. You can’t think, you don’t even want to think. Thinking can get you killed. After the smoke clears, that’s when it all comes back on you.”
My dad doesn’t go to the VFW hall. VFW means Veterans of Foreign Wars and the so called “hall” is really a bar where vets go and hang out. Dad says that’s just an excuse to drink too much and live in the past. He doesn’t have much use for that. Except for kidding around now and then, I’ve never heard him talk about the war and what it was like. If someone else brings it up, it’s never at breakfast. More like late at night when there’s an open beer case in the kitchen. Dad always sends me to my room. This time, though, no one notices me standing there, thermometer dangling from one hand. I barely breathe.
“My pop was no chicken!” Frank’s anger is never far from the surface, and right now it looks like it might bust out of him any
minute.
“I’d never say that about your pop, or any other fighting man. I don’t know what he saw or what he did, but I know this, your pop didn’t do one bit more or less than any of the rest of us. Just another cog in the fighting machine, shooting at anything that moves because you want to stay alive another day. It’s the machine that kills, you tell yourself, I just work here. And that machine killed Nazis, sure, but it also killed Frenchmen and Italians, shopkeepers, old folks with canes, and mothers and babies. No way in hell hunting deer prepares a man for that.”
“But my pop made it home. He was a good soldier.” Frank is close to crying. I can hear it in his voice. Dad is forever telling Frank what a good man his pop was. I can see Frank’s eyes begging. He wants to hear it again.
“Yep, that he was. A good soldier. But surviving the shelling and the bullets, that’s luck more than anything else. A fraction of an inch this way or that, and it’s lights out.” Dad snaps his fingers. “Quick as that. But the smells, the crying kids caught in the middle, the swollen bodies, that’s what you can’t shake—Marjorie, what in blazes are you doing standing there like a damned ghost?” Dad slams his open hand down on the dining room table. “Out! Upstairs and get dressed for school. Chop chop.”
Before I can scramble back upstairs, Frank’s out of his chair. Dad reaches to put a hand on Frank’s shoulder, but Frank jerks away. He grabs his leather jacket off of the hook by the back door and slams out. We hear the kick start of his motorbike and then he roars down the drive.
I close my door before Dad has a chance to ask me if I know anything about the stolen books. Carol Anne, who is in afternoon kindergarten and has the mornings home alone with Mom, is sitting on her bed with her back toward me when I walk in the room. All her stuffed animals are lined up on her bed against the headboard.
“You better tell me who stole-ded all those books from the lib’ary,” I hear her say in a bossy teacher voice, pointing her finger at the glassy-eyed animals. “Don’t make me mad or you’ll be sorry,” she singsongs. She turns to look at me. “I know who took the books,” she says.
The Enemy Page 10