Secret City

by Julia Watts

  Susie looked over at her clean-cut, square-jawed boyfriend. “You’re not going to let her talk to me like that, are you, Rob?”

  “This is stupid,” I said. “Let’s just forget about it.”

  But Rob had already shucked off his yellow cardigan and handed it to Susie. He slung back his shoulders, puffed out his chest, and pointed his finger at Aaron. “Hey, Li’l Abner, I don’t know if she”—he nodded in Virgie’s direction—“is your sister or your girlfriend or both, but whoever she is, you need to tell her to keep her mouth shut.”

  Aaron didn’t say a word. He didn’t even blink. He just stood slowly, showing himself to be a good six inches taller than Rob.

  “Come on, Susie, let’s get out of here.” Rob grabbed Susie’s hand and dragged her as he ran for the door. They bumped into a pair of soldiers in the doorway, one of whom said, “Hey, watch it, kids!” Aaron didn’t sit back down until they were out of sight.

  Virgie was laughing so hard she couldn’t catch her breath. “They ran like scalded dogs!” she said when she finally had enough wind to speak. “They ain’t got no right to be calling you Li’l Abner, Aaron. They’re the ones that belongs in the funny papers. Blondie and Dagwood!” she said, then doubled over laughing again.

  Aaron just wore a half smile.

  I reached out and touched Virgie’s arm. “You didn’t have to do that. Stick up for me like that, I mean.”

  “Sure I had to,” Virgie said. “You’re my friend.”

  Being friends with Virgie was different than being friends with Iris. With Iris, I was always trying to be the best me I can. She brings out the part of me that wants to do more, know more, be more. Spending time with Iris is exciting, but it makes me a little nervous, too, afraid I’ll say the wrong thing and show myself to be even more ignorant than she already knows I am. With Virgie, though, I’m just regular Ruby, not worried about what kind of impression I’ll make. With her brains and education, Iris shows me what’s possible—what I could grow up to be. But Virgie, with her common sense and mountain ways, meets me where I am.

  November 14, 1944

  When I walked past her desk after English literature today, Miss Connor said, “Ruby, could I keep you a moment before you go to your next class?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I racked my brain trying to figure out what I’d said or done to get in trouble.

  After everybody else had filtered out of the classroom, Miss Connor flashed me her shy little gap-toothed smile. “I kept you because I have good news, Ruby, so you can stop looking so worried.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I smiled back at her.

  Miss Connor opened up a desk drawer and pulled out a typed sheet of paper. “The Society of American Clubwomen is sponsoring an essay contest,” she said, glancing down at the paper. “I was asked to select a girl from each of my classes to enter the contest—the student I considered to be the best writer with the freshest perspective. And in English literature, that would be you.”

  “Me?” I felt like somebody was blowing up a balloon in my chest. “There’s plenty of scientists’ kids to pick—kids who can use big words and whose parents went to college.”

  “That’s true,” Miss Connor said. “But I didn’t think they would have as many interesting things to say on the subject”—she glanced down at the paper again—“What America Means to Me.”

  “Shoot, you think anybody’ll care what I have to say?”

  “I already care. And I think others might care, too, especially if you clean up your grammar. The deadline for submissions to the district contest is January fifth, so you’ll have time to work on your essay over Christmas vacation. And of course, the winner of the district contest goes on to compete at the state level.” She held out the paper. “These are the rules. Do you think you might like to give it a try?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” It was all I could do not to snatch the paper out of her hands, but I made myself take it gently. “And Miss Connor, I just want to say that it means a lot that you picked me. It…it makes me feel like I’ve already won something.”

  Miss Connor smiled, but then she blinked hard. “Ruby, you really are very dear, do you know that? Now run along. I will not be responsible for making you late to your next class.”

  When I got to Iris’s, I showed her the rule sheet and told her about Miss Connor picking me.

  “That’s wonderful!” she said and clapped her hands. Baby Sharon—who just learned to clap and seems right proud of it—clapped, too. “See, even Sharon is proud of you. We should do something to celebrate. How about a slice of pumpkin pie? Eva made it, not me, so it’s edible.”

  “Sure, thanks.”

  Once we’d settled on the couch with pie and coffee, Iris said, “So what are you going to write about? What does America mean to Ruby Pickett?”

  “I have no idea, to be honest.” The pie was good, sweet and creamy and spicy. It was obvious that Iris didn’t make it. “I’ve always felt about being an American the same way I feel about being a girl. I’m glad I am one and wouldn’t want to be different, but I’ve never really thought about what being one means. Reckon I’d better start, huh?”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’ll come up with something outstanding. And can you imagine if your essay were to win the district contest, then the state contest? You’d get to compete on the national level.”

  “Ain’t that kindly counting your chickens before they’re hatched? Or counting your essay before it’s wrote.” I winced and corrected myself. “Written. How am I gonna write a decent essay if I can’t even talk right?”

  “That’s easy,” Iris said. “You write it and I’ll proofread it for you. My senior year I was the copy editor of the college newspaper. And I used to proof a lot of Warren’s writing before his work became top secret.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re entirely welcome.” She patted my knee. “I’m so glad you’re getting this opportunity, Ruby. This is the kind of experience that will really help you when it’s time to go to college.”

  “I like the way you say when, not if.” Not one member of my family ever went to college. Shoot, I don’t reckon one member of my family had even seen a college.

  “Of course you’ll go to college.” She set down her coffee cup and jostled Baby Sharon on her lap. “You know, yesterday Eva said to me that my college education was wasted. ‘Why do you need a degree to change diapers?’ she said. Eva didn’t go to college; she just went to one of those fancy ladies’ finishing schools.” Iris rolled her eyes. “But I told her my college degree was absolutely not wasted. I learned a lot and had a great time, and won’t it be an advantage for Sharon to have a mother who knows about a few things besides pouring tea and folding napkins?” She smiled. “Plus, I met Warren in college.”

  “You went to school with him?”

  Iris smiled wider, a pink flush creeping onto her cheeks. “No. He was my physics professor. I thought taking physics would demystify the whole universe for me. It didn’t, but I did meet my husband.”

  “So that explains the age difference,” I said without thinking.

  “It does indeed. And now that I’ve let you know what a wicked girl I am, I should probably leave Sharon with you for an hour or so. My errands aren’t going to run themselves.”

  * * *

  When Iris came back, I was reading to Sharon from the encyclopedia.

  “Does she find baboons interesting?” Iris said, laughing.

  “She seems to,” I said. “Or at least she likes the sound of my voice.”

  Iris set down her sacks and started digging through one of them. “I bought you a little present,” she said.

  “Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” I said. “It ain’t Christmas yet.”

  “Oh, it’s just a little something,” she said. She held out a Big Chief writing tablet and a beautiful blue fountain pen. “For writing your essay.”

  “Thank you, Iris. You didn’t have to…”

  “Would you stop saying that?
I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to. I’m proud of your accomplishment, and I wanted to mark the occasion in some small way.”

  Getting a gift, especially such a thoughtful gift, from Iris made me feel all shy. I wasn’t used to that kind of attention, and when she paid me my babysitting money, I couldn’t look her in the eye.

  “Ruby,” she said, “did I offend you in some way? I’ve not broken some unspoken code of the mountains or something, have I?”

  “No,” I said, but it came out choked. “You make me real happy.”

  “Oh, you,” she said and threw her arms around me and hugged me close and long. It felt so good I hated to let go first, but I did so I could say bye and run out the door before she could see my tears.

  * * *

  When I got home, everybody had already sat down to eat. Mama made a move to get up, but I said, “Stay where you are. I’ll fix my own plate.” I went to the stove and dipped from the pots of beans and greens, neither of which, I saw from fishing around with the ladle, had a trace of fatback in them. It didn’t matter, though. I was just about too excited to eat.

  When I sat down at the table, Daddy said, “You’re awful smiley this evening.”

  “Yeah,” I said, taking a hunk of cornbread. “I had a good day.”

  “Them don’t come around too often,” Mama said. “What was good about it?”

  “I bet a boy asked her on a date,” Opal said.

  “I bet she found some money on the sidewalk,” Garnet said.

  “I bet she got invited to a party with cake and ice cream,” Baby Pearl said.

  I laughed. “Nope. It’s not about boys or money or parties. There’s this writing contest, and Miss Connor was supposed to pick the best girl writer out of her class to enter it.” I paused dramatically. “She picked me.”

  “Oh,” Opal said, like she was disappointed I didn’t have more exciting news.

  Everybody kept right on eating and didn’t say congratulations or kiss my foot or anything, until after a couple of minutes, Daddy said, “Well, if you’re gonna write something, maybe you ort to write about cowboys and Indians and that kind of thing. Zane Gray makes a pretty penny with them Westerns he writes.”

  “Well,” Mama sighed, “I don’t reckon I’ve got no quarrel with you writing as long as you don’t write nothing about our family where anybody can read it.”

  “I won’t,” I said, but I was thinking about this diary and how full it is of family stuff. But I don’t write it for anybody to read, unless they’re reading after I’ve been dead a long time. “I’m supposed to write about what America means to me.”

  “Huh,” Mama said. “Well, I reckon times have changed that girls get asked to write about such as that. Your granny used to say there was just three times a lady’s name should be in print: when she was born, when she got married, and when she died.”

  I had heard Granny say this myself, and it always struck me as sad. If the only times you did something worth writing about were when you got born, got married, and then died, what was the point of having been born at all?

  November 19, 1944

  I spent last night at Virgie’s. They just moved from the trailer camp to a new apartment where there’s more room. I didn’t understand why her family needed more room than mine, since there are only two West kids. But Virgie said it was on account of her and Aaron being the opposite sex. Apparently the government figures if a family has a boy and a girl, they’ve got to have a place with three bedrooms since the kids can’t sleep together. But if a couple has three or four kids of the same sex, the government will just shell out for a two-bedroom place, figuring that all the kids can cram into the same bedroom. Isn’t it funny that there’s somebody in the government whose job it is to think of these things?

  When I found Virgie’s apartment, she opened the door just as soon as I knocked.

  “Come on in,” she said, grabbing the paper sack I’d brought to hold my nightgown and change of clothes and toothbrush. “We’ll eat supper when Daddy gets home, and after that, we’ll go to the show.”

  “Sounds good to me,” I said.

  I tried to look around the place without staring too much. The apartment was roomier than our place but nowhere near as spacious as Iris’s house. Still, it had bright white walls, and the newness of the place made the Wests’ old blue couch and rocking chair look downright shabby.

  “Ma’s in the kitchen if you want to say hidy,” Virgie said. “It’s untelling where Aaron is, but he’ll be here when supper’s ready. The boy can smell Ma’s biscuits from clear across town.”

  Sure enough, Mrs. West was in the kitchen, rolling out biscuit dough. I had met her a few times before, but it never ceased to amaze me that she and Virgie could share the same blood. Mrs. West’s hair was so dark it was almost black, and so were her eyes. There wasn’t a freckle to be seen on her.

  “Hidy, Ruby,” she said, looking up from her rolled-out dough. One thing she and Virgie did share was that big, friendly grin.

  “Hey, Mrs. West. I like your new place.”

  She was cutting out circles of dough using the mouth of a jelly jar. “Well, it ain’t nothing more than a cracker box, really. But since we was living in a sardine can before, I reckon a cracker box is an improvement.” She cut out another circle. “Supper’ll be ready soon. You ain’t never tried my Saturday-night catheads before, have you?”

  I tried not to look shocked. I’d eaten plenty of country vittles back home—rabbit, squirrel, even possum with sweet potatoes. But cat’s heads?

  Virgie laughed. “I can see from your face that you don’t say catheads where you come from.”

  Mrs. West laughed, too. “It means big biscuits—big as a cat’s head.”

  “Oh,” I said, “that sounds a lot better then.” And of course, I had to join in laughing.

  “Come on,” Virgie said. “I’ll show you my room.”

  The bedroom was smallish, but it was all Virgie’s. She had a little iron-frame bed with a crazy quilt on it and a chest of drawers with a hairbrush and a Bible and a little china cat on it. It was one of those times when it seems like you’re thinking something, but you’re really saying it out loud. “What’s it like?”

  “What’s my room like?” Virgie looked at me like I was crazy. “Well, you tell me. You’re looking at it.”

  “Oh!” I said, surprised that I had spoken. “What I mean is…what’s it like to have your own room?”

  “It’s nice,” she said, sitting on the bed and patting the spot next to her. “My room back home was bigger, though. And I wish I could put my pictures on the wall, but Daddy’d die if he knew about them.” She reached under the bed and pulled out a Sears-Roebuck shoebox. “See?” she said, taking off the lid. Inside were dozens of pictures cut out of magazines: Tyrone Power, Clark Gable, Rita Hayworth, Veronica Lake, and plenty of others I didn’t even recognize.

  I scooted back on the bed next to her. “I’ve never had a place that was just mine. I can barely imagine it. On weekend nights I could just stay up and read…or something…without bothering anybody.” I almost said “read or write,” but I stopped myself. I didn’t want to tell Virgie about my diary, maybe because it’s the only thing I can think of that really is just mine.

  “See, and I’ve always thought it would be fun to have a sister to share a room with,” Virgie said, “and stay awake half the night whispering and giggling.”

  “I love my sisters,” I said, “but sometimes it would be nice to have a door I could close.”

  “That’s how it is,” Virgie said. “We always want what we ain’t got.”

  Soon the apartment smelled of baking biscuits, and I heard the front door open. “That’d be Aaron,” Virgie said. “He comes and goes without making a sound. I reckon the rest of us talk so much he finally had to give up on getting a word in edgewise.”

  “Is your daddy a talker, too?” Mr. West had always been at work when I’d gone to visit Virgie at the trailer.

  “H
e’s the loudest one of us,” Virgie said. “When he hits the door, you’ll hear him.”

  She was right. Mr. West came up to the door whistling some old fiddle tune, and I thought of how Francie’s daddy in A Tree Grows in Brooklyn always came into the apartment singing. “I could smell them catheads plumb outside,” his voice boomed.

  Virgie and I went out into the living room to meet him. He had a big voice, but he was a stout little man, making me wonder how Aaron had gotten so tall. It was no mystery where the kids’ coloring came from, though. What little hair Mr. West had was bright orange, and his ruddy face had been planted with a field full of freckles. “And who is this beautiful young lady?” he asked.

  He was looking in my direction, so I looked over my shoulder to see if somebody better-looking might be standing behind me.

  Virgie elbowed me. “He’s talking about you, silly.” She grabbed my hand. “Daddy, this is Ruby Pickett from Kentucky, the girl I was telling you about.”

  Mr. West took my hand in his big, meaty one. “Welcome to our home, Ruby. I’m tickled that Virgie’s finally found herself a running buddy. She was real lonesome for a long time after we moved.”

  “Thank you, sir,” I said. “I’m glad I found Virgie, too.”

  When we sat down to eat, Mr. West said the blessing. It was a long prayer—he thanked the Lord for every item on the table, the biscuits and the grits and the eggs and the bacon and the gravy. He asked for the Lord to shower His blessings on each person at the table, giving me special mention as a guest, which embarrassed me. He prayed for a swift and victorious end to the war so our boys could come back home safe to their mamas.

  The only time my daddy said a blessing was at Sunday dinner and on holidays. And when he said it, he always kept it short and sweet. He said the Lord didn’t want you praying so long your biscuits got cold.

  Once she started passing the plates, Mrs. West said, “Ruby, I bet you think we’re right peculiar having breakfast food of a night.”