Becca shrugs. “Tell it to the judge.”
“Maybe I will,” I say. “Somebody needs to ask the judge or her law clerk or whoever is in the know about this. They can’t just go disqualifying people because they don’t like their health histories. It can’t be right. I’m going to call them.”
“They’ve already gone home for the weekend,” Becca says.
“They’ll be back at their desks on Monday, and if you’re not going to call them, I am.”
“I’ll call,” Becca says. “Besides, they probably wouldn’t talk to you anyway. You’d have to be one of the applicants to get them to talk about the internship at all.”
“Well,” I say as I put my arm around Becca’s shoulders, “I don’t want you to worry. Once you talk to them, they’ll have to add a third internship for the summer.”
Becca leans into my hug, and I pat her back. Then she hiccups. She always does that when she’s trying not to cry.
“I wish we had the Sisterhood meeting tonight,” Becca says.
“We could call an emergency meeting,” I say. There have been several times during the years when we’ve called emergency meetings. Usually when we do that, we don’t get any knitting done. We just focus on whatever the problem is.
Becca shakes her head. “I’ll be okay. I just need to call them again on Monday. That law clerk knows why I didn’t get selected. And if I press him hard enough, he’ll tell me the truth.”
“You’ll let me know when you’ve talked to him?”
Becca nods. “You can count on it.”
Once Becca has talked about her frustrations, she feels better. We talk a little before she decides to do a little shopping and come back to the diner later. She had told Lizabett earlier that she would go to the baseball game with everyone else tomorrow, so she wanted to get some new tennis shoes.
“I’m going to play if they need someone to even out the teams,” Becca says.
I had almost forgotten about the ball game when Quinn mentioned it before he left. He is planning to stop by here and pick me and my dad up around eleven in the morning. That’s right. My dad has decided to join us at baseball, too, which pretty well disqualifies the baseball game as a date, as well.
Oh, well, I’ll have to get some real dates, I guess. In the meantime, I need to get my baseball caps ready for the firemen to use on the table they are setting up. I have most of my caps in my office here, but I’ll want to bring in the ones from my room at home, too.
It’s almost 10:00 p.m. and we close the diner at eleven on Friday nights. Most of our business is from the lunch and early dinner crowd, so we decided long ago that eleven was late enough for us to keep things open even on the weekends. On weeknights, we close at ten.
“Lizabett said the grill guy is going to the game tomorrow, too,” Becca says as she grins at me. She’s finished her shopping. “Didn’t I tell you he was friendly? He fits right in with the rest of us.”
“He probably just wants to do something for the kids, too,” I say.
I am careful to keep my voice neutral. I know Becca wants Randy, the grill guy, to ask me out, but I don’t think that will happen. If he asks anyone out, it will probably be Carly.
It’s too bad Carly and I can’t switch goals. I could go to the pound and find a cat that would suit me, and Carly could get all the dates she needed from the grill guy himself. Carly and Randy didn’t stop by the diner after I came back, but I got an e-mail message from Carly saying that her cat was still up in the trees around the house. Carly was so worried about her cat getting hungry that she left opened cans of tuna at the bases of several trees before she went inside for the night. She made sure the trees were in her front lawn, however, so that there could be no question about littering.
I go into the kitchen to tell Uncle Lou I am leaving.
“Get Carlos to walk you to the parking garage,” Uncle Lou says from the counter. He is chopping up onions for a soup he is making for tomorrow. Carlos washes dishes at The Pews and is always there until closing.
“Becca’s walking to the garage, too, so we’ll be fine,” I say.
If it’s after nine at night Uncle Lou has insisted someone walk me to the parking garage ever since I started working for the diner. He does the same for the waitresses.
“But thanks for worrying,” I say as I walk over to Uncle Lou and give him a quick hug.
“What’s that for?” Uncle Lou says as he looks up from his onion.
“Just because,” I say as I leave the kitchen.
Becca has a bit of a drive to get home to the Fairfax district, and I live several miles from The Pews, so we don’t stop any place on our walk to the parking garage. The night is dark, but every window along Colorado Boulevard is lit up. We turn right at The Cheesecake Factory and cross the street to go into the parking structure. I’m on the third floor and Becca is on the roof so we agree to both take the elevator to the roof, and she’ll drive me down to my car.
I have to admit I am tired tonight. I still haven’t figured out my dad, but I do know one thing for sure. I’m not going to tell my mother that dad and I are planning to go to church together on Sunday. She’d have people praying over us all night if she thought anything like that was happening.
I thank Becca when she drops me off at my car. She waits for me to get inside my car and start my engine before she continues to the exit.
My drive home is quiet. I always like driving at night. I do some of my best thinking in the black of night—maybe because there are so few distractions.
So why is my dad taking this sudden interest in me? Oh, I’m pretty sure Uncle Lou has talked to him. Uncle Lou must have talked to him before, so why has it made a difference now? My dad managed to skate through all my cancer years without getting involved in my life, so it’s a little late, don’t you think?
I’m still fretting about my dad when I pull my car into the driveway. My mother rents half of a duplex on Walnut Avenue in eastern Pasadena. It’s the same house we lived in when my dad lived with us. I wonder all of a sudden why my mother has stayed here. We could have moved years ago when she got that promotion at the bank. She could even buy a place if she wanted. It must be strange for her in this place with memories of Dad all around.
I barely finish asking the question before I remember the times when my mother has asked me how I feel about where we live. I always told her I was comfortable here. I wonder if that’s why she’s never moved.
Of course, I realize, that is why we’ve never moved. I wonder how many other sacrifices Mom has made for me without making a big deal about them.
And look at me. I can’t even look Mom in the eye tonight when she asks me to go to church with her on Sunday. She always asks me so faithfully, and she’s actually pretty nice about it. She doesn’t make me feel guilty for not going with her or anything. She might tell me the topic of the sermon or some special hymn that’s planned, but she doesn’t nag. Really, I should have gone with her a long time ago. It’s a small thing to do after she’s done so much for me.
If I weren’t already going to church with Quinn and Dad, I’d go with Mom this Sunday. Speaking of which…
“What’s the name of your church again?” I ask, just to be sure there is no confusion on my part. I cannot even begin to imagine Mom’s reaction if my dad and I walked into her church by mistake on Sunday. On second thought, I can imagine. But she confirms that it’s not Quinn’s church.
I look at my mom and I see a face that has been around me all my life. It’s not a beautiful face, but it’s a nice face. Brown hair with some gray in it. Green eyes behind glasses. It’s a face that softens when she looks at me.
My mom would be hurt if she saw Dad and me come into church with someone else—and, with us not even having had the courtesy to tell her that we were coming. I promise myself I will tell Mom about the two of us going to church just as soon as we have done it. I don’t want to get her hopes up in case something happens and we don’t go.
&nbs
p; I give Mom a hug just like the one I gave Uncle Lou earlier. She wonders what it is for just like he did.
I shrug. “No special reason.”
Well, what can I say? That I’m finally growing up?
I go to bed feeling pretty good considering I’m bringing down the average for the Sisterhood in terms of meeting goals. Going to church with Quinn and my dad might not count as a date, but it’s a big step for me and I’m glad I’m finally taking it. I wonder if God will remember me and all those things I said about Him when I had my cancer. If He does, I hope He has a sense of humor. It would help if He knew a little about knitting, too.
I get to The Pews early Saturday morning so I can go to my office and pack all of my baseball caps in the small duffel bag I have. I’m not wearing any of the caps because I have used some mousse on my hair this morning, and I don’t want my hair to get flattened under a cap. These caps might be the stuff that champions are made of, but they don’t send out the kind of message I need to send if I’m going to get more dates before next Thursday.
I probably won’t be able to write in the journal while the baseball game is going on, but I’ll do what I can to let you know what is happening. And I can certainly check my e-mail to see if Carly has an update on her cat.
Oh, yes, here’s an e-mail from Carly: Tuna gone. All four cans. At least Marie isn’t hungry. She’s still up in the tree, though. I saw her this morning. She moved to one of the trees inside the fence. I guess that’s because that’s where I put the tuna. Randy says we should go to the baseball game with all of you—he says Marie is playing hard to get, and she’ll come down quicker if we ignore her a little. Anyway, Randy and I will both be at the game. See you then. Oh—I just reread this and I know what you’re thinking, but you’d be wrong. Randy did go home last night. He just came back early this morning. Marilee, you really need to date this guy. He’s nice.
Now that I’ve added Carly’s e-mail for you, I have to tell you my reponse is “No comment.” Randy might be nice, but he’s clearly interested in Carly and her cat. Don’t you think? Not that it matters, I hear Quinn talking to Uncle Lou out front so I’d better put my pen away and go out there.
Okay, I’m back—now we’re up at the park in Altadena. It’s a great park next to the foothills, and there are lots of kids here. White kids. Blacks. Hispanics. Armenians. Asians. The whole melting pot, and they’re all ready to play ball. The reason I have a few minutes to write in the journal is because our team is up to bat and I won’t be going up for some time. I wouldn’t bother to write at a time like this normally, but I have to tell someone how I am feeling, and you’re it. I particularly don’t want to let Lizabett see that I am upset.
Lizabett is on my team, by the way, and she’s getting ready to go up to bat after two more players go. You should see Lizabett this morning—she’s bouncy and happy because Quinn told her that my dad was going to see if the car dealership where he works will let her ballet company use their showroom for the production of Swan Lake.
I’ve had to watch my face because Lizabett keeps smiling over at me as if we have a wonderful secret. I’m afraid the secrets go deeper than she knows. I feel as though I have one of my own and I can’t tell her. You see, my dad didn’t show up this morning for the baseball game. He didn’t call me or Quinn or Uncle Lou and tell us he wasn’t coming to The Pews to meet us to ride to the game; he just didn’t show. We waited around for twenty minutes for him, but then we had to leave. Quinn told Uncle Lou where the park was so my father could drive up when he got to the diner.
Oh, we handled it well. Uncle Lou said my dad had probably gotten caught in some weekend traffic. I said he might have had car trouble. We all smiled and agreed something unforeseen must have come up.
Inside I knew better. I’m in on the secret. My dad didn’t come because he’s doing what he always does—he’s flaking out. He’s busy making commitments he won’t keep and promises he’ll ignore. It’s as if he thinks that if a commitment isn’t important to him, it’s not important to anyone else, either.
That’s why I’m finding it so hard to return Lizabett’s smiles. She’s all happy because she thinks my father has solved her problem; I’m the only one who knows her problems are just what they always were. My dad won’t do what he said he would do. Lizabett is no closer to having a place for her ballet performance than she was yesterday when she first heard the old theater was closed. In fact, she might be further away than she was yesterday, because she’s wasting time today thinking she has a solution when she could be out there looking for another place.
You see why I’m so upset? I don’t want Lizabett to be disappointed, and I particularly don’t want it to be my father who disappoints her. I’m used to the way my father operates, but Lizabett is not. She expects my dad to be like Quinn and, let’s face it, Quinn would move mountains with his bare hands to make Lizabett happy. My dad is not like that. He’s not even close.
Well, you get the idea. I’m glad I can write my thoughts down in this journal.
Oh, there’s Lizabett now, and she’s up to bat. She doesn’t look much bigger than some of the kids here, but she does know how to swing a bat. See there, she’s got it and she’s off to first base.
Quinn is walking over here now, so I’m going to close for a bit. He’s the assistant to the assistant coach for the other team, and he’s coming over to get some more bottles of water. It would bother some guys to be the assistant to the assistant, but Quinn looks perfectly happy to just be the guy who gets everyone their water. He’s looking at me now, and I can see he’s going to stop and say hi before he picks up the water bottles that he needs.
You know, with the sun shining behind Quinn’s head as it is right now, I’d say he’s even better-looking than the grill guy. Don’t tell the others that I said that or they’ll be after me to get some more dates out of him before next Thursday, and I have to tell you I’m losing my drive to date Quinn like that—not that I don’t want to go out with him, but I don’t want to do it just to finish up some goals. A guy like Quinn deserves better than that. Of course, I’m making major assumptions here. He might not want to really date me at all, especially not when my father completely lets Lizabett down.
Yeah, that could be a problem all right. I wonder if Uncle Lou knows anyone who has enough room for a production of Swan Lake. He knows all the restaurant people along the boulevard—maybe one of them will have room enough. I can hope, at least, can’t I?
Oh, here’s Quinn. Gotta go.
Chapter Nine
Acting should be bigger than life.
Scripts should be bigger than life.
It should all be bigger than life.
—Bette Davis
We had one Sisterhood meeting that first year when we didn’t knit. It was the meeting after Lizabett had surgery on her leg. We had all braced ourselves for the surgery, knowing Lizabett was so frail she could die from the surgery alone. We were pulling for her so hard that we didn’t know what to do when the doctors said they’d have to do a second surgery.
Lizabett had already taken chemotherapy to reduce the size of her tumor before the first operation, so she was in bad shape. I didn’t think she looked strong enough to live through another surgery. All of the Sisterhood felt that way, except for Lizabett. The Old Mother Hen had told her she’d be fine, and she believed him. She wasn’t afraid.
That’s why Becca brought the rest of us this acting quote. Lizabett was in the hospital that week, and so wasn’t with us at our meeting. We knew we needed to hide our worries from her when we went to visit her just like The Old Mother Hen hid his. I soon discovered that some of the best acting never makes it onto the movie screen. Instead, it’s played out next to hospital beds all across the country.
My baseball caps are popular with the kids. The Los Angeles Dodgers. The Toronto Blue Jays. The Cincinnati Reds. I have all their caps and more sitting on a folding table with the brims all facing upward. The table looks like it has dozens of color
ful bumps on it.
The kids all crowded around the table earlier until it was time for them to put on their T-shirts—one team was blue and one was red. Then they hit the field. I was on a team, but, when my team was up to bat, I sat on a bench by the table holding my caps and watching the game.
The game was almost over when the little girl came up to me and asked me where I got all the caps. I noticed this girl earlier, although she hadn’t gathered around the table like the other kids had then. Instead, she’d spent the time before the game walking beside Quinn and talking to him as he pulled the cart of water bottles back and forth to where the teams would be sitting. The little girl was Hispanic and looked as though she was seven or eight years old.
“What’s your name?” I ask the girl as I put my hand on her shoulder.
She leans into me as if she was starved for affection. “Lupe.”
“Well, Lupe,” I say as I bend down to put my arm around her shoulders, “my dad gave me these caps.”
Her eyes grow serious. “My dad doesn’t give me any caps. He’s in prison.”
I squeeze her shoulder. “That’s too bad.”
“I wish he wasn’t in prison,” she says. “My mom misses him.”
“I’m sure she does.” I wonder if my mom ever misses my dad. I suppose she does sometimes.
“I miss him, too,” Lupe says.
I nod. I don’t tell her that sometimes a dad doesn’t need to be in prison for his daughter to miss him.
Instead, I give Lupe my Baltimore Orioles cap. I noticed her looking at that one in particular, and she admitted she liked the bird on the cap. She said she likes birds because they can fly away when they want and no one can ever keep them in a prison—I decided not to tell her about cages.
After I give Lupe her cap, she runs to show it to Quinn.
The Sisterhood of the Dropped Stitches Page 10