Lovey

by Mary MacCracken

  ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘that doesn’t sound like a bad place to go to school.’

  We left at ten, taking two cars. Patty had a station wagon, a volunteer, and her four kids. I had my old convertible and my four. ‘Meet you in the parking lot,’ I called to Patty as we pulled on to the highway.

  The shop we were going to, Altman’s, was part of a large suburban shopping centre approximately five miles from school. The lot was crowded with hundreds of cars of all descriptions. We tend to overbuy in suburbia to make up for something, I’m not quite sure what.

  I wedged my car in beside someone who’d parked crooked and then helped the kids squeeze out through the narrow space of the half-open door. I located Patty and her group and we headed for our first stop, a toy store. I loved to take the kids here, and they loved to go. Their eyes grew round at the sight of so many toys. They would have stood for hours, had there been time, just watching the electric train run through the make-believe village. This time Rufus and Brian actually took turns holding the train control by themselves – pushing the button that moved the train forward and backward, through tunnels and over bridges.

  I watched from in front of the doll counter with Jamie and Hannah.

  ‘May I help you?’ asked the clerk.

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ I said. ‘I was just watching those two boys by the train. Aren’t they attractive?’

  The young woman peered at Brian and Rufus. ‘Look just like any other kids to me. Sorry. They belong to you?’

  ‘We’ll take two of those doll pyjama sets,’ I said to reward her. Just like any other kids! I could have kissed her ordinary face.

  Jamie reached for a stuffed kitten, holding it to his neck, cradling it, murmuring unintelligible words.

  Hannah and I surveyed the rows of dolls. I always looked for the brown-eyed Shirley Temple doll of my childhood. I remember trying hard not to show it was my favourite, somehow sure that this was unfair to old stuffed Rosemary and Nancy Lynn with the china head. Dolls had been a large part of my early life, but it was different for Hannah.

  Impatiently, she tugged me towards the cage of gerbils, past them to the hamsters, until we were at the cage of white mice.

  ‘We got mices,’ she said. ‘We got lots mices home. Nice.’

  Mice. Rats. Bugs. These were Hannah’s playmates.

  ‘Got cat, too. Cougar.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Cougar. Big cat.’

  ‘Oh. I see. Cougar. And then Little Caesar.’

  ‘He Grandpa’s dog. Not mine. Cougar Carl’s. Not mine. But mices. They not belong anybody. They mine.’

  I think, I always think, my innocence is gone, that children will no longer wrench my heart – and every day I find I’m wrong.

  The crowd in the store was thinning out. Eleven forty-five. I signalled Patty and the volunteer and we rounded up the kids and headed for Altman’s and Santa Claus. Down the red-carpeted promenade, past the shimmering fountains into the main floor of Altman’s. Tinsel, red velvet ribbon, red gift boxes tied with gold, Christmas trees of all sizes.

  ‘Keep going,’ I said to Patty. ‘Just keep the kids moving till we get up to the fifth floor.’

  We headed for the elevator, but it was jammed. There was no way we could all get on and I didn’t want the kids to get separated. I headed back to the escalators.

  Patty stepped on the escalator holding two girls, Wanda and Barbara Lasky, by the hand. Her volunteer followed with the other two girls. I nudged Brian and Rufus forward. ‘Come on, guys. You’re old hands at this. Let’s go.’ I brought up the rear with Hannah and Jamie just in front of me.

  Jamie turned and buried his head against my stomach, ‘Turn around, Jamie. Keep your hand on the rail. That’s good. I’m right here behind you.’ I kept one hand on his shoulder.

  Santa Claus had been right; his section of the fifth floor was almost deserted. Ordinarily it was the home-decorating department, but evidently people were doing their own decorating during Christmas, and the clerks stood silently or sat in pairs talking to each other. The boys’ department on the far side of the floor still seemed to have a good crowd, but Santa’s spot was quiet. He sat in a wide chair on an elevated platform, talking to a tiny dark-haired girl. Only two or three children waited behind the velvet rope for their turn to speak.

  We took our place in line, Rufus and Brian hurrying to be first. I stayed near them, Hannah and Jamie on either side of me. Patty’s contingent was right behind us.

  Rufus was very nervous when it was time for his turn, but he climbed up the three steps to the platform. He wasn’t going to sit on any lap, though. He surveyed Santa through his horn-rimmed glasses from the edge of the platform.

  ‘What’s your name, sonny?’

  ‘It’s not sonny.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘My father says there isn’t any Santa Claus, so I don’t believe in you. I’m Jewish anyway, and we don’t believe in Christmas. We have Hanukkah; we have candles and twelve days and I don’t believe in Santa Claus.’

  Poor Santa. He was a little taken aback, but he held his own. He handed Rufus a balloon full of paper snowflakes and said, ‘Listen, fella. Don’t worry about it. Lots of people don’t believe in anything at all any more, much less Christmas. Happy holiday. Who’s next? Okay. Come on up here, fella. What’s your name?’

  Brian’s hands were beating a rapid tattoo against his sides. ‘Brian,’ he said. ‘Brian O’Connell … rat-a-tat … boom boom ba … our next contestant will be … what’s your name?’

  When Brian was scared or nervous, hundreds of thoughts and sentences crowded through his head and he couldn’t keep them all inside, although he tried, cutting them off in mid-sentence, trying to hold to one line of thought

  ‘Eh? What’d you say? Er – my name? Er, my name is Santa Claus. Heh-heh.’

  Santa was getting a little nervous himself and he glanced down at me for support. I signalled A-okay. His wasn’t an easy job.

  Brian ripped off three commercials and then finally asked for an Eldorado, a wardrobe designed exclusively by Bill Blass, and a week’s vacation at a Club Mediterranee.

  ‘Oh, boy,’ said Santa Claus, looking at me. ‘You didn’t tell me, lady. You didn’t half tell me. How many more we got?’

  ‘Six,’ I said.

  ‘Six? Kee-rist! Excuse me – sweet Jesus of Bethlehem. Okay, lady, let’s go. Let’s get ’em up here to see ol’ jolly Santa.’

  Barbara Lasky crowded by and massaged his face and beard, saying, ‘Look what you did to your hair. Oh-h-h, look what you did to your hair.’ She didn’t ask for anything.

  Tina sat on his lap and promised to be a good, good girl all year and not take her clothes off on the bus and then requested a new neon sign to play with Vacuum Cleaner. Wanda Gomez was the best of all and asked for a new doll and a necklace just like her teacher’s, and she didn’t bite her arm at all. Beautiful

  Jane refused to go up on the platform, laughing silently beside the volunteer.

  ‘Only two more now,’ I said encouragingly.

  Hannah went up slowly, standing right in front of Santa Claus.

  ‘Got list,’ she said.

  ‘Got lost?’ asked Santa hopefully.

  ‘No,’ said Hannah clearly. ‘List. Christmas list. Read now. Okay, Santa Claus?’

  ‘Yeah, sure. You bet. Anything you say, sweetheart. Go ahead.’

  Hannah, standing straight before him in her blue sailor dress, took a crumpled piece of paper out of her pocket and read, ‘Christmas List for Santa Claus, by Hannah. New stove – Mama. Gun – Carl. New lamp – Grandpa. Ball – Baby Helen. Cheese – Mices.’

  ‘Okay, everybody. Hold it just where you are.’ A photographer had suddenly materialised out of nowhere. ‘We’ll get a lovely picture for your folks, little girl. You’ll treasure it forever,’ the man said, looking at me.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Don’t do that!’ But before I could stop him he held up a camera: flash – click!

  Chaos.


  Hannah burst into tears and Jamie leaped like a thunderbolt, away under the red velvet rope and across the store. I was after him immediately, walking casually but fast, out through the decorating department, on by the escalator over to the other side of the store, into the boys’ department.

  Jamie was wearing his bright blue jacket with white lettering and his blue baseball cap, so I could pick him out easily. There weren’t many kids his size in the store anyway, school was still in session, and the ones that were there sure weren’t wearing baseball caps in midwinter.

  Jamie stopped by the glove counter and looked back to see what was happening. I made a quick move behind a Christmas tree, but either it was too small or I was too slow. Anyway, he spotted me. To his delight.

  The clerk at the glove counter said, ‘Can I help you, little boy?’

  Jamie ducked and headed away from the counter. I followed as closely and discreetly as I could. I couldn’t leave him here alone, but I knew Jamie from his early runaway days at the school and I also knew I couldn’t chase him. There is nothing a runaway likes more than having someone chase him. Then he’s the one in control.

  Casually I walked among the lady shoppers, turning a glove, touching a scarf. I was getting a little closer now. Maybe everything would be all right. I stopped by the hat table, a large wooden rectangle set up in the middle of the floor. I turned a Norwegian knit cap over and then glanced up. Jamie was directly opposite me on the other side.

  ‘Hey there, Jamie,’ I mouthed more than spoke and took one step to my left.

  Jamie immediately took one step to his left as well, keeping the same exact distance between us. His eyes were dazed. I wasn’t at all sure he recognised me. I took four more small quick steps, which brought me around the corner of my side to the end of the table.

  Jamie took four equally quick steps, which brought him to his end of the table. We were exactly opposite each other again, and we were beginning to have a lot of clear space in which to move. The shoppers, well-dressed suburbanite mothers and matrons, were drawing back, moving away. They sensed something was going on and paused to observe.

  Jamie and I were alone at the table – except for perhaps thirty or forty women who lined the sidelines two feet away. I moved. He moved.

  ‘Hullo, Jamie. Hey there, now.’

  No answer. His eyes were the bright staring eyes of a trapped animal.

  For one second I thought, What am I doing here in this crazy silent ballet in front of these women? How come I’m not just there watching too?

  In that one second, a man dressed in a dark blue suit managed to get beside me. ‘Do you have a little problem?’ he enquired unctuously.

  ‘No, I have a little boy,’ I replied furiously. ‘Go away.’ I knew Jamie would get more upset if there was a stranger there.

  ‘I’m sorry, madam. What goes on in this department is my responsibility. I cannot go away. I’m the department manager. What’s the matter with your little boy? Is he tired and hungry? We have lots of tired, hungry children these days. Mothers should know better. Ha-ha. Take them home earlier.’

  I thought I might hit him, but I needn’t have bothered. Jamie thought of it first.

  A fur-lined hat sailed across the table and struck the department manager on the arm. A gasp went up from the watching ladies.

  ‘Oh, my, now, young fellow. You shouldn’t have done that. Well, madam, I’m sorry, but I’m just going to have to step in and take charge …’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ I began, but the manager was in full tilt now, chasing Jamie around the table. Jamie kept the same distance between them with no trouble at all, chucking hats all the time he moved.

  ‘Stop that now.’ Anger and impatience mounted in the manager’s voice. ‘Just you stop that, you bad boy.’

  I had to do something. The store was a mess, the table a heap of confusion; hats were all over the floor. Jamie was capable of much more. I had seen him sink his teeth deep into a teacher’s arm two years before.

  The manager turned to the crowd. ‘All right,’ he whined angrily. ‘Call the guards. Get them up here right away.’

  I wasn’t sure what I was doing, but I had to do something and it wasn’t going to be at the hat table. Jamie had already staked out that territory.

  I walked as slowly as I could towards the escalator. I took long, slow, loud, definite steps. I never looked back. Finally I said, low but clear, with absolute certainty, ‘Lunchtime, Jamie. Let’s get back to school.’

  I kept walking. I didn’t turn my head. I reached the top of the escalator and I stopped. There was nowhere else to go. I could see Patty and the volunteer with the other children at the bottom. Hannah was in the front of the group, peering worriedly up the moving steps. The store was completely silent. I stood still, thinking once again, What am I doing here? Who do I think I am?

  Then I felt a small hand touch my right hand. Small and hot and wet. I looked down and there was Jamie, standing quiet, standing close, his hand in mine.

  ‘Hey there, Jamie,’ I said – and I knew what I was doing there. I knew who I was.

  Chapter 14

  I finished my last exam at eight o’clock the night of December twenty-third, picked up the Christmas turkey and an extra box of lights for the tree, and made it home just ten minutes before Elizabeth and Rick arrived. They were full of news of their colleges, interested in my education courses, and we talked almost non-stop for two days. The day after Christmas we flew to Florida; the plane fare my major Christmas present to them and we stayed with good, long-time friends. The weather was warm and full of sunshine and the rest of the days and nights blurred together and were over far too soon.

  Elizabeth and Rick flew directly back to school from Florida. I arrived home late the night of January first and tumbled into bed without bothering to unpack or do more than glance at the mail.

  The alarm jangled me awake the next morning, just in time for school. The luxury of vacation and slow awakenings was over, but by the time I was in the car and on my way to school, I was wide awake and eager to see the kids again.

  But later on I wasn’t so sure. The morning had been a disaster. The first day back after any vacation is usually difficult, but today had been even worse than usual. Circle had been chaotic. Patty’s class had jabbered senselessly while Hannah refused to talk or sing at all. Back in our room, at the end of Best and Worst, Hannah burst into tears and told her story. No Best. Only Worst.

  She had gotten cheese for her mice for Christmas – Santa forgot. She had named the mice Wynken, Blynken, and Nod and made a house for them from a box and scraps of cloth. But Christmas night Cougar had killed them. Carl had deliberately put Cougar in Hannah’s room after she was asleep, and during the night Cougar killed Wynken and Blynken and ate Nod, leaving only his head.

  No wonder Hannah was upset. It was too much. She had tried to salvage some joy from her meagre life – having no friends, she had tried to make the mice her companions and even these had been killed by her brother’s cat Where was the sunshine now? Where was Hannah’s share? Who deals out life, anyway? How come some people get such crummy cards each time?

  I rocked Hannah after we had finished Best and Worst. This was no day for reading.

  At lunch Patty said, ‘What did you think of the letter from the Board?’

  I put down my coffee cup. ‘What letter?’

  ‘Nothing special. Just the form letter they enclosed in their Christmas card. It had a little sketch of the new school and a few paragraphs describing the kitchen, the central swimming pool, the staff of certified teachers, all made possible by state funding. I just wondered if it affected you.’ Patty’s tone was unconcerned.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘I don’t think so. Nobody’s said anything.’

  That afternoon things were almost as bad as in the morning, and every teacher in the school, including me, was eager for the day to end.

  Jamie, the last to leave, was just getting on his bus when
Zoe, our secretary, came in from the office.

  ‘You’ve got a visitor. Want me to say you’ve gone?’

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Mrs Rosnic.’

  ‘Mrs Rosnic? Hannah just left. What’s she doing here? Who’s going to take care of Hannah?’

  ‘Don’t ask me. She was half-way to your room when I stopped her and took her back to the office.’

  I followed Zoe out of my room.

  Mrs Rosnic stood by the office door looking dumpy and pale and scared in her worn black coat, turning the handle of her large black purse nervously between her hands.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, touching her arm. ‘Let’s go down to my room.’

  Zoe’s intentions were good, I was anxious to get home, but still it was essential for Mrs Rosnic, for all the parents, to have easy access to my room. I rarely made what the Director called ‘house visits’, those unexpected stops to the children’s homes. Many teachers did and the Director encouraged it, but I had tried once and found a mother with a swollen lip and bruised eye and a sinkful of dishes. She had apologised, mumbling something about her husband having tried one on the night before, and her embarrassment and humiliation were so deep that she couldn’t talk about her child. So I encouraged the parents to come to school without making appointments. They all came often, and it was important that they felt welcome during their visits.

  Now Mrs Rosnic began to talk before we even got back to the room, saying Grandpa was taking care of the children, telling about Carl, Hannah, the mice, the cat. Telling how Hannah had refused to wash or change her clothes all vacation, throwing tantrums, kicking at the thin walls, yelling, screaming, two or three times a day.

  The neighbours had complained to the police. Grandpa wanted Hannah put away. Mrs Rosnic was at the end of her rope.

  I walked around the room, trying to think, trying to get perspective, to see it from Mrs Rosnic’s point of view. Hannah’s stories hung on every wall I passed – she could read now, she could write, she was willing to talk. I was so proud of her. And yet, what good was this if she couldn’t live in her own home? What did any of it matter if her behaviour was so bad, so uncontrolled, that it drove her out of her house into an institution? While Hannah had learned to control her behaviour in school, she still used tantrums to get her own way at home. Mrs Rosnic and I had discussed this before, particularly during the days of blue dessert, but evidently I hadn’t been specific enough.