by Alice Mead
I stand out there dribbling the ball. Thunk, thunk, thunk. It’s well after midnight. I bounce the ball harder. I hope I wake up the whole world.
18
Wednesday morning is the orientation for junior high school. We get to meet our new teacher, Miss Powell. She’s nice, a lot nicer than the other homeroom teacher, Mrs. Ornikowsky. We get assigned our lockers and our schedules. Because the school has so few kids, the seventh grade is divided according to who takes Spanish and who takes French. I chose French so I could be with Danielle.
I can’t get my locker combination to work, and neither can Danielle. Shawn switches lockers so he can have the one next to me.
“Hey, how are your oxen doing?” I ask.
He smiles a huge smile, and I know I’ve made his day. “I’ve been really busy. Tomorrow the New England fairs start. I’m going down to Springfield, Massachusetts, for a few days.”
“You’re going to miss the first two days of school?”
“Yup. The oxen look gorgeous. My dad even put yellow pinstriping on the trailer. Everybody says my team’s going to come in first.”
“What do you mean first?”
“Well, you know, first place in New England.”
“Wow, Shawn, that’s great.”
“Yeah. Too bad the principal doesn’t think so. He’s giving me two detentions. One for each day I miss. My dad is ripping.”
“Hey, Shawn, I’ve been meaning to ask—is it okay if I go out to your house when you get back and see your oxen?”
“Sure,” says Shawn. “It’s more than okay.”
Trying to open our lockers was the last thing we had to do for orientation. We head outside. Most of the kids are hanging around the high school parking lot, talking and chasing each other. Some are going over to Golly Polly’s, which opens at eleven.
“You want to go get some ice cream?”
“Sure.”
When Shawn and I turn away from the window with our cones, I see Danielle, Amy, and Bridget crossing the street together.
“Hi!” Danielle calls out as she hurries up to us. “Hi, Shawn.”
“Hi! What’s up?” I ask Danielle.
She blushes and avoids my eyes. “Nothing much. We just came for an ice cream cone.” But I know they’ve been talking about me. She knows I know. Danielle wants to get everyone together. She thinks she can do that—by sharing cupcakes or being cheerful. She’s pretty good at it, too.
I glance at Bridget and see she’s looking at Shawn. I can sense that some rude cow joke is welling up inside her, but she doesn’t dare say anything. I’d pound her is why. Her eyes meet mine. I give her a big, wide smile.
She looks away and moves forward in line with Amy.
“We might go to the mall later,” Danielle says. “For school supplies. Want to come?”
“Yeah. I might. I need supplies, too, and new sneakers. Call me up, okay?”
Shawn and I sidle our way out of the crowd and stand under the streetlight, where the moths flicker when evening comes. I lick my cone all the way around to keep it from dripping. Shawn nudges me, sensing I’m far away.
“Worried about Bridget?” he asks.
“Huh? Oh, no.”
“Worried about your mom?”
I guess he’s starting to know me.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, I am.”
With Jake on the early shift and school in session, I don’t have to feed and bathe Andrew anymore. Now Jake has to do it, and he’s the one who flops onto the sofa with the remote at eight o’clock. I get to walk home with the other kids and do my homework.
Since our big fight on my birthday, Jake and I speak, but only about essentials: cruise missiles, Apache helicopters, tanks, aircraft carriers—and dinner and schedules.
Late Friday afternoon, I’m sitting on the floor playing tickly-boo games with Andrew, when I notice there’s a special report from Saudi Arabia on TV.
“Jake! Hey, Jake!” I sit up, staring.
In a special bulletin, the Iraqis have announced that the child Stuart, as well as two hundred other foreign women and children, have been released. They have just arrived at London’s Heathrow Airport. They are tired, frightened, and hungry, but otherwise un-harmed. It is not yet known whether this signals a change in policy from Saddam Hussein.
There’s a video of the Reverend Jesse Jackson carrying Stuart in his arms. He’s free!
“Hurray! Jake! Look! Look! He’s leaving. Stuart’s been set free! Did you know that? That’s so cool! Yay, Stuart! You can go home!”
While I’m cheering and stomping, the phone rings. I forgot to tell Jake that Mom said she’d call again in a few days. I know it’s Mom.
“Mom? Hi. Jake! It’s Mom.”
“How was school, Jas, you great big junior high kid?” Why does she sound so cheerful and phony? I’m going to ignore that and be normal.
“It’s all right. My teachers are really nice. Fair time is next week. I have one big pumpkin picked out to enter in the vegetable competition. So, I mean, how are you? Are you too hot?”
“I’m fine. You just have to keep drinking water. Write me a letter, Jas.”
“Another letter?”
“Yes, but I want to hear more from you next time.”
“You do? No, you don’t.”
“Tell me about your teachers, tell me about Bridget.”
“Even bad stuff?”
“Of course.”
“You don’t tell us bad stuff. Your letters sound like they were written by Chipper Chipmunk,” I say bitterly.
“Hey, hey, cut it out.” Jake takes the phone from me and turns off the sound of the TV guy telling us how cruise missiles can travel one thousand miles and still find their target and blow it up. I imagine a cartoon, tiny cigarette-shaped weapons flying into Iraq, blowing up a bus, people flying into the air. The thing is that in real life, they’d be dead. Dismembered and dead. I learned that on the news.
“Give me the phone back!” I yelp.
He waves me away. So I go into my bedroom, and for the second time, I listen in.
Mom’s crying. “Jake, are you sure she’s all right? She sounds so cold and distant,” she’s saying. “I’m afraid they’ll never forgive me. I worry so, Jake.”
“They’re fine, Paula. Come on, now. Let’s take it a week at a time. This week was back-to-school week. Next week is the fair. She’s got a new friend, Shawn, who’s showing a pair of oxen.”
“Shawn Doucette. The boy who teased her last year?” Mom asks.
“Yeah. He seems like a nice kid.”
“Andrew will be one soon. I won’t be there for him.” She’s crying.
Gently, I put the receiver down. I had no idea this might be harder for Mom than for me. I close my eyes and take a big, deep breath. My throat aches, I miss Mom so much.
A few minutes later, Jake calls down the hall, “I’m going to run down to the Handy store for a beer. You want anything with dinner? A soda?”
“Sure. A ginger ale.”
“Be right back.” I hear the door close.
I go into their bedroom and turn on the light. In the drawer of the nightstand I find Mom’s latest letter.
Dear Jake,
Nobody tells us what’s going on even after weeks of waiting. We’ve pulled up stakes and moved closer to Kuwait several times. The air traffic in and out of the region is crazy. Twenty-four hours a day, transport planes are coming in from all over Europe. The buildup is massive. They must think Saddam has the power to blow us all away. With most of the basic supplies in, they’ve got everybody digging foxholes now that it’s not so hot. Try digging a foxhole in the desert. Dry sand just falls back in the hole as soon as you turn your back on it. What a joke.
I’m on night watch now, too. The desert is freezing cold at night. I put on four layers of clothes, everything I have, and I still freeze. There I am, sitting in this foxhole with an M16 rifle for four hours with one guy. We both have to wear night vision goggles that cost $7,000 ap
iece. They turn everything green. The stars out here are amazing, Jake. I wish I had a little telescope or something. I worry so much about you all at night. It hurts so much to have missed Andrew’s first steps. Does he miss me? Has he forgotten me? You asked about the food in your letter. Well, they have these dry meals called MRE, which in army talk means Meals Ready to Eat. These things make school lunches look terrific. They come in little brown pouches—pork patty cat food, dry chicken Styrofoam bits, brownie crumbled to dust, crushed saltines. The best thing is the granola bar. We have had dried-out chili for nine days in a row now.
It looks to most of us like the big bosses are getting ready for a massive air strike against the Iraqis at some point, which is supposed to prevent any ground fighting at all. Let’s hope!! There are these new weapons—smart weapons, Tomahawk cruise missiles—that can be programmed to hit any target at all, a bridge, a factory, whatever, from over a thousand miles away. Send me a photo—anything—I will cherish it.
Love, Paula
I fold the letter carefully and put it back in the drawer. I think about what I heard on the phone. I can’t let her go on thinking I hate her and am cold toward her. I still feel dreadful about how I acted at the bus station when she left.
I go to my room and write to my mother.
Dear Mom,
Don’t ever think that I’m not here waiting for you. I’m here every day. I won’t run away. Don’t ever think that I’m mad at you. I’m probably just mad at the telephone. Don’t ever think that Andrew and I are all done with growing up and that you missed it. We’re kids and never get done with that. I’m sorry I didn’t say this at the bus station. I didn’t know how at the time. I love you. I love you. But don’t ever go away again.
Jas
19
Seven o’clock comes and goes. I’ve already fed Andrew and eaten myself. Jake’s not back yet. I watch out the front window. Our million-dollar view, Mom calls it. When the sun leaves, coldness quickly creeps out from under the fallen leaves, the beach stones, the splash of waves. The sunset is a faded red streak to the west.
“ ‘Be right back,’ ” I mutter angrily. Famous last words. How can I trust him?
Andrew is fussing because he needs a diaper change. I clean him up and give him a toasted bagel to chew on.
Suddenly the VW rattles into the driveway, headlights streaking up the kitchen wall. I hear the engine shut off. Jake comes in, whistling. I lay right into him. “Where were you?” I roar angrily. He tosses a little paper bag on the table.
“I was at the mall buying your birthday present,” he says. “So back off, Bugaloo.”
He brushes by me. But I don’t even hear the birthday part, I’m so angry.
“No. I won’t back off. You said a few minutes. You’d be gone a few minutes. But it’s been nearly two hours. Haven’t you ever heard of a telephone?” I ask.
“Yeah, I have. Is that what you want? A telephone call? Over something like that?”
“Yes. Yes, I do. So I’ll know what’s going on. Why can’t you understand that? I lost both my parents, okay? My dad and my mom. They’re gone. You’re the only person left. So just call me.” I’m crying now. “I have to know where you are.”
So now he knows the raw truth. Jake knows how much I need him.
“Hey, Jas. I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have called. You help out around the house and you’re great with Andrew. I forget you’re a kid sometimes, that’s all.” He gets the Kleenex box and leads me to the sofa.
“Here. I have something for you. Before you open it, I want to say that I know I blew your birthday. And I’m really, really sorry. I was selfish beyond belief. Irresponsible. The whole bit. We were both under a lot of pressure, and I screwed up royally. So I got you something. A starting-over present.”
He hands me the little bag. Inside is a velvet-covered jewelry box. It opens like a clam. The top snaps back, and the inside is lined with white satin. In the center is a silver ring inlaid with a braided design of turquoise. It’s beautiful. It’s my first really grown-up present.
“Wow, Jake. Thanks.” I slide it on my finger. It fits.
Jake takes my hand. “I know I’ll never be your dad. It’s probably too late for that. But I want to be your friend. This is a friendship ring. I mean it about starting over, Jas. I’m not going to keep screwing up. You have to believe me. The ring is step one. But you have to start telling me what’s going on with you, what you need. Otherwise I’m not gonna know.”
I want to believe him, but it’s hard to. I can’t answer.
“Okay. So. What did you have for dinner?” he asks.
“Bagels.”
“That’s what we had for breakfast.”
“I know.”
He nods. “So I have to do better with dinner, huh?”
“That would be nice.”
“I just bought some groceries. Why didn’t,you cook yourself a hamburger? Wait. Never mind. You want to see me do better? I’m gonna do better.”
He pokes his head in the refrigerator. “How about I make you a cheeseburger and a big salad? Wait. Or eggs. Want me to make an omelette?”
“A cheeseburger sounds great.”
While Jake cooks, I head for the hamper in the bathroom, trot downstairs, and gather the clothes from the dryer.
When I come back up, I’m worrying about something entirely new. If the war drags on for a whole year, maybe, or even longer, what will happen with Jake? Will he stay with us? And suddenly, I come to a stop. I decide right there, at the top of the stairs, while I’m still holding the plastic clothes hamper full of clean T-shirts for Andrew, my tights and basketball shorts, and Jake’s pajamas, that there’s only one way to go. Jake is all right. He may not be my father, but now he’s a part of my family—forever, I hope.
In Maine, because we are near Canada and the ocean is so cold, a March afternoon means spring is still two solid months away. It will be weeks before brave, purple-streaked crocuses push their way into patches of sunlight near the warm foundations of people’s houses, where the snow melts first.
In March, Mom’s supply battalion is sent home, among the first troops leaving the Gulf. First to go, first to come back. We go to the bus station to get her.
At first we’re all thrilled to be together, hugging and laughing, all except Andrew, who clings to Jake and hides his head. We come back from the bus station in an odd, bumping-into-one-another’s-sentences-by-mistake kind of way.
At the house, our neighbors and friends are waving little American flags when we pull into the driveway, and they have strung yellow ribbons all around the front door, the mailbox, and our maple tree. Of course, the Parnells and the Roberges are there. Shawn comes with both of his parents. The O’Neills bring Alfonse. Even Bridget is there. Everybody is hugging Mom when she gets out of the car.
Shawn’s mother is in the kitchen. She has set the table with a paper Stars and Stripes tablecloth left over from the Fourth of July. It looks great. After around half an hour, everybody goes home so we can be together.
We eat a big welcome-home Thanksgivingy sort of dinner, complete with cranberries and stuffing and apple pie—all brought by these friends and neighbors. Then, after dinner, Mom stares out the window at the ocean. “I missed this view so much while I was in the desert,” she says.
Across the channel, Moorhead Island has the golden glow of late afternoon sun on it. A red buoy tilts and rocks in the water, marking the reef for the safe passage of bigger ships. The red color of it is deep and pure, as if it has just been washed. The air is sparkling clear.
“I’ll clean up the kitchen,” Jake says. “You probably want to get unpacked.”
“Oh no, not right now. That can wait,” Mom says. “No. You know what? Jas, let’s you and me go down to the cove. You want to?”
There’s still plenty of icy, packed snow on the ground, especially along the edges of roads, and the breeze will be raw and cold. I hurry to get my boots. But I guess I kicked them to the bot
tom of the basement stairs. I race down and yank them on.
Going up, I see Mom at the top, smiling at me. She comes down a couple of steps and sits, taking my face in her hands. She rests her forehead on mine. “Thanks for your letters, Jas. They meant everything to me. I thought a lot about what you said. And I want you to know that if I ever get another call like that from the army, I won’t leave. You have to trust me. I won’t go. I’ll stay here with you and Andrew.”
“And probably Jake,” I add.
She laughs. “Yeah, and probably Jake.”
I lean my head on her shoulder, crying a little, but smiling too. She hands me a Kleenex. Then we hunt around for hats and mittens. And together we step outside.