Josie Bloom and the Emergency of Life

by Susan Hill Long

  “Here I am!” she sang, tugging down her little skirt. “And there you are. Don’t touch my stuff,” she said with a straight face.

  We went inside and took the booth on the end, and if anybody thought it was odd to see me splitting a big slice of coconut layer cake and a hot dog with a glamorous stranger who some say looks like famous singer Tina Taylor (and who is Tina Taylor, no relation), they didn’t say so.

  Well, I did get Tina to visit Joe Viola in jail. How? By telling the truth. But telling it slant, following advice I took from another one of Emily Dickinson’s poems, which I read some of, out of Mrs. Blyth-Barrow’s bookcase. Mrs. B-B and Mr. Mee have similar taste in poetry. (Ha! A poem, right there.) I’m not sure about the romance novels.

  The slanted part was that after I explained to Tina how I was Joe’s daughter—

  “Little jinx like you?”—

  I swore that he loved me with the part of his heart that wasn’t already devoted to her—

  “Sweet Jesus!”—

  And that he eagerly accepted his responsibility—

  “Sing it!”—and wanted to change—

  “And I’m just the one to change him!”

  I told the truth so slant it was falling over, but I think I made Emily Dickinson proud.

  My story seemed to make Tina very happy. She cried noisily, putting her hands over her face for privacy, and I took the opportunity to finish the coconut cake. It was delicious. Then Tina stopped crying, finally, and took her hands from her face. “Is my mascara okay?” she said.

  Wow.

  “Probably could use a touch-up,” I said.

  * * *

  Tina Taylor’s yellow Mustang was still chugging and ticking and taking up two spaces in the parking area of the county courthouse when she strode right by Asa Pike and straight to Joe Viola’s jail cell as if she had a homing device. Two minutes later—two minutes of nonstop talking by Tina, and Joe Viola saying things like “Yes, I do” and “Whatever you say” and “Well, we’ll see” and “A pack of ’em?”—they were hugging and kissing through the bars, euw.

  Tina waved me over to join their hug-fest, but Joe and I both said things like “No” and “Errrrr” and “Let’s wait for those test results.”

  Ye Olde Scientist

  Seventeen Days Later, Not That Anybody Was Counting

  By then Joe Viola had been in the county jail for twenty-eight days. Tina had been staying at the Motel 7 out on Route 4, and she kept taking me for slices of cake and hot dogs at Moody’s Diner, and sometimes Grandpa and Mrs. Blyth-Barrow would come with us. Tina got to having dinner with us at Mrs. Blyth-Barrow’s apartment—“Four thirty p.m.? That’s not dinnertime, that’s cocktail time!”—and teaching me songs in the car. I agreed to let her do my hair—“I’m dying to!” she said. She said if we cut it and “went at it with the hot rollers,” it would “get up in a ball” like hers instead of looking like “saggy bell bottoms.”

  And I had gone to visit Joe every single day, whether he liked it or not.

  “Oh, he likes it all right,” said Tina.

  I’d told Joe Viola all about me—about Mom, and Winky, and Grandma Kaye, and Grandpa, and Becky Schenck, and all the summers and all the school years—everything he’d missed because he didn’t know he had a daughter right here in Hamburg, Maine.

  * * *

  So there we were, Tina and Joe and Winky and Asa Pike and me, all crammed in cozy in Joe Viola’s cell at the county courthouse, eating fried chicken from Moody’s—“Prison’s no picnic, but we can have a prison picnic,” Tina figured—when Rex Grigg, the postman, delivered the mail.

  Mr. Grigg walked right on in—Asa Pike didn’t even lock the jail cell door anymore—and he was waving an important-looking envelope over his head. He was wearing the postal-service-issue pith helmet. (Say that five times, fast!)

  “I believe you’ve been awaiting this missive?” said Mr. Grigg.

  My heart started banging in my chest. I couldn’t believe it was finally, really happening. We were about to find out. I was frozen to the spot.

  “Paternity test results?” Mr. Grigg said.

  That unfroze me. “Hey!” I said. “What do you know about it, I thought the US mail was supposed to be private!” I said. People in Glass Houses Shouldn’t Throw Stones came to mind, although that wasn’t one of Grandpa’s wood-burned mottoes.

  “Well, it is private, sworn duty, neither rain nor snow and all that. But you see, Vera Bean told me, and Ben Miller at the Pay ’n Takit told her, and Sandy at the Dippin’ Donuts told him, and let’s see, I guess it was Debbie over to Moody’s told her, and Leonard at the Chickadee, he knew, and said something to Chief Costello, and—” Mr. Grigg took his pith helmet off and wiped his forehead with his wrist. “There you have it. Arrest me.”

  He held out the envelope. I took it. My hands shook.

  Then Mr. Grigg did something surprising. He squeezed his eyes shut and bowed his head and crossed all his fingers on both hands and put them over his ears like he couldn’t stand to hear but also wanted to very much.

  Tina grabbed both of Joe’s hands with both of hers. Asa Pike dropped his chicken drumstick in the bucket and pressed his hands together like he was praying.

  I looked at Joe Viola. He looked… scared? Hopeful? I couldn’t tell! I kind of lifted my eyebrows at him. Ready? He squeezed Tina’s hands. Then he nodded. And he smiled. Ready.

  I stood there looking at him. I wanted to tell him how I hoped he really was my dad. I wanted Tina to know I liked her, too. But it was even more than that. I loved them already. I did. I already loved them! I—I—I swallowed a big lump in my throat. “I just want to say—”

  “Open it!” everybody said at the same time.

  So I did. I opened the envelope and took out the paper inside.

  But I couldn’t unfold the letter. I didn’t dare! What if I’d been wrong all along and Joe wasn’t my real father? What then? What would happen to me? Where would I go, where would my home be? My knees went all rubbery, and I sat down on my folding chair.

  I held out the paper to Joe. He shook his head. Tina? She shook her head too. Then Winky put out his hand. “I’ll do it,” he said.

  Winky held up his magnifier and looked the whole thing over, and I swear nobody took a breath for about three and a half minutes. It’s a wonder we didn’t all pass out on the floor. Finally, Winky let the magnifier drop. He folded the paper.

  “He’s not your father, Josie.”

  * * *

  Earth never was a piece of the sun. Wasn’t that what Mr. Mee had read out of that Book of Knowledge? I had a pretty good idea of how ye olde scientist felt the day he learned that what he’d believed—what he’d really, really believed, with all his heart—wasn’t true.

  9-1-1

  Mr. Grigg left on his rounds. “I suppose other citizens will want their mail delivered today.”

  Officer Pike went to the little courthouse kitchenette to do the dishes; we could hear some sad little clinky sounds, and the water running; running, yes, like tears!

  Tina took off to Moody’s to order an entire coconut layer cake; “It’ll cheer us up,” she said. And then it was just me and Joe Viola.

  It was real quiet.

  How could I have been so sure, and so wrong?

  Joe said, “Well, I told you, didn’t I.”

  I nodded, although I didn’t want to.

  “What a relief!” he said.

  “Thanks a lot,” I said.

  “I’m not a person who’d be a good dad, Josie. But thanks for thinking I would be. I could never take care of a kid. You’re better at taking care of things than I am,” he said.

  “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  “Well, I’m in here, and you’re out there, for one thing.”

  He was so wrong. He didn’t know how wrong he was.

  “What, you don’t buy it? You don’t think you’re good at taking care of things?”

  “There a
re things you don’t know,” I said.

  “I know you helped your buddy get his game back.”

  “It’s not like I invented the BBL.”

  “You managed to pay your grandfather’s bills.”

  “Not very well!”

  “You took care of your grandfather when he couldn’t take care of you!”

  “No, I—I left town and the house burned down! He might have died!”

  “Listen, I’d be proud, I’d be very proud. I mean if I was your father, Josie, I’d be—”

  “I didn’t call immediately!”

  “What?”

  “Mom! My mom! I just stood there and stared at her, and all the time she was—her heart was giving out. It was giving out right in front of me! I just stood there! I didn’t move or say what you’re supposed to say, which is ‘I love you,’ or even breathe! I—”

  “Josie—”

  “I didn’t even know what was happening!”

  “That’s right, Josie. You didn’t know.”

  “But—”

  “You were nine years old, just a little kid. How were you supposed to know? Hey, nobody knew your mom had a heart condition.”

  “I didn’t take care of her,” I said, “and that was my only job.”

  “It wasn’t your job. That job is not—it’s not age-appropriate. Your job was to be a kid. Go to school, do your chores, eat your peas and carrots.” I didn’t say anything. “Look, I’m not exactly father-material, as we both know, but I’m pretty sure I’m right about this one.”

  I thought about that.

  I thought about that a little more.

  “You wanna hear a story?” said Joe.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Okay.”

  Joe Viola leaned forward. “It was June the seventh, 1971. Believers at Flyers Stadium in Weehawken. I’m pitching a no-hitter, Believers up by four runs. I get the first two batters with weak ground balls. Then I strike out the third batter, but the ball squirts away from the catcher, and now there’s a man on base. The next batter leans into the pitch and it’s a reach with a hit-by-pitch. A walk to the next batter loads the bases. Things are going south on a greased pole.”

  Joe leaned back and drew a hand over his face like he was mopping off fresh sweat. “Then I go and give up the grand slam with two outs in the bottom of the ninth to tie the game. The manager takes me out at that point and sends in a relief pitcher to get the final out of the inning, and that sends it into extra innings.”

  Listen, I was pretty tired. I yawned.

  “The point is, Josie,” said Joe, “the game wasn’t over yet. It wasn’t anywhere near over! There were extra innings.” He put a lot of emphasis on extra and innings and looked at me, hard.

  “What does that mean?” I hoped it didn’t mean that this story, which was wicked boring, was going to go on much longer.

  Joe spoke very slowly. “It means, sometimes the game has to go into extra innings, before it’s done.”

  I thought about that. I might not read much besides Ripley’s, but I know a metaphor when one hits me over the head with a baseball bat. He meant I needed to hang in there. He meant I needed to be patient and see things through. “Did you win that game?” I said.

  Joe Viola crossed his arms over his striped front. “Well, I’m just not going to tell you, am I, because you were so bored by my story.”

  “Oh come on!” I said. “Tell me if you won!”

  Joe didn’t answer me, but he looked pretty smug, so I’m pretty sure the answer was yes.

  Extra Innings

  Exactly as you predicted,” I said to Mrs. Blyth-Barrow.

  We were at the diner, Mrs. B-B, Grandpa, Tina, and me, finishing up breakfast. Mrs. B-B was reading aloud from the Hamburg Catch-up! The paper reported how Joe Viola’s attorney eventually revealed exculpatory evidence to demonstrate the fire at the House of Harmony Church wasn’t set intentionally or with reckless intent. The judge dismissed the case entirely in exchange for Joe Viola agreeing to community service. Sentence reduced to time served. He got out that very day.

  * * *

  Before Joe was let out, I went to see him one last time. The courthouse jail had been like home for the both of us, and neither of us had another home to go to from there.

  “What’s going to happen to you?” I asked him.

  Joe rubbed his face. His red hair stuck up. “I don’t know. I need to think. You know I’m no Number 23 anymore, not that I ever really was.” He scratched his chin. “But what would Number 23 do?”

  It was then that I had a wicked good idea. I stood up so fast the folding chair collapsed, as if it knew its services would no longer be required.

  “I will settle for Number 5,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “Number 5 will be good enough for my purposes.”

  Joe smiled a little. “Your purposes? What’re you gonna do, harvest my organs? You need a kidney?”

  “I need somebody who looks good in stripes.”

  “Stripes? What do stripes have to do with anything?”

  “Patience is a virtue,” I told him. Now, there’s a motto to make a person suffer.

  “So I’ve heard,” said Joe Viola.

  I had some work to do before I could share my idea. It might not work. But it might.

  The Home

  Home is where you hang your hat,” Grandpa said.

  The day I’d feared and dreaded for most of sixth grade had finally come. Insurance had paid off the house. There was no more mortgage to keep track of or pay. I was staying with Mrs. B-B because, well, I didn’t have any place to go. And Grandpa was moving into the Home.

  Grandpa hooked his blaze-orange hunting cap on the back of the door to Room 7 at the Downeast Best Rest. It was a two-room suite, not too bad. Someone would clean it, and someone else would make his meals. Those people would not be me. I felt a little happy about this, and also sad. It had been just Grandpa and me for long enough that I didn’t know how else to be.

  At first I blamed Mrs. B-B for moving Grandpa into the Home. I was mad. But I remembered what she had said when Winky blamed me for Joe Viola’s downfall, how Winky did that because he was grieving and I was what she called safe harbor; he knew I would forgive him. It was the same with Grandpa moving. I was really sad and scared to see Grandpa move into the Home. I couldn’t be mad at him, but I could be mad at Mrs. B-B. I was a real jerk.

  “I’m sorry,” I told her.

  “Have a cookie,” she replied.

  “Hobnobs!” said Grandpa. He seemed happy enough.

  Then he headed off to the activities area, probably to the wood-burning station to make himself a new plaque.

  Mrs. Blyth-Barrow and I went to the cafeteria and we each got a pudding. She got the banana pudding and I got the tapioca pudding. From our table in the dining room, I could see Grandpa in the activities area.

  “This is a good place,” Mrs. B-B said to me. “And I’ll be right here, most days,” she said.

  I looked at her. BALITHIA BLYTH-BARROW. She had on a nametag. So did I. Everybody at Downeast Best Rest wears a nametag, right out in the open. It’s nice. It’s like the opposite of a Brenda’s Book Cozy.

  “I’ve quit teaching,” I thought I heard Mrs. B-B say. That couldn’t be right.

  “What did you say?” I said.

  “I’ve taken a part-time job here at Downeast Best Rest. Activities director.” She held up a hand as if to stop me. “No, no, I don’t need a fat salary,” she said, not that anybody asked. “You’d be surprised how much money I’ve socked away,” she told me, “gained largely during my brief but almost criminally profitable stint as a stockbroker.” She took a big bite of banana pudding.

  I had complained about my teacher all year long, but now I felt a lonely hole somewhere around my stomach. This was maybe one thing too many. I started to tear up. Again! “Is Mr. Mee still librarian?” I managed to ask her.

  “Yes, of course,” she said. “I’m done teaching, but I’m still here, Josie
.” She tugged a tissue from inside her shirt cuff and handed it across the table to me. “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Mrs. B-B put down her spoon and patted her tummy. Then she pushed her dish of banana pudding across the table. “I’m too full to finish,” she said.

  And so I ate the very last bite, and it was delicious.

  * * *

  Later, I went and sat beside Grandpa in the activities area. He was, in fact, using a pointy tool to burn words onto a piece of wood. The smell of the wood burning was kind of comforting and nice. Like a crackling fire in a fireplace. It smelled like a holiday.

  “Want to make one?” Grandpa asked. He elbowed me a little in the ribs. “You can never have too many motto plaques.”

  I did not agree with that. Still, I poked through the basket of suggested sayings.

  Home Is Where My Cat Is

  Time Spent with a Cat Is Never Wasted

  A Cat a Day Keeps the Doctor Away

  “There sure are a lot of cat mottoes,” I said. That last one didn’t even make any sense.

  Grandpa pointed at a lady helping over at the scrapbooking table. She was wearing a smock made out of fabric with cats printed all over it.

  “That explains a lot,” I said to Grandpa. I pulled another slip of paper from the basket.

  Love Is Spoken Here. Meow! Ick.

  Home Is Where the Heart Is. I kept that one out. If that’s true, I thought, then I would have to live at the Downeast Best Rest too, and it is really no place for children, much as I enjoy pudding of all kinds. I pressed the motto on the table and smoothed out the creases. I kept smoothing it and smoothing it and smoothing it. I stopped when Grandpa put his hand over mine. His hand was freckled and dry and warm.

  “Grandpa? I love you,” I said. I don’t know why it was so hard to say, but it was. I said it pretty fast.