E, My Name Is Emily

by Norma Fox Mazer

  “We had macaroni for supper again,” Wilma complained, interrupting me. “Will you tell Emily not to make macaroni all the time, Mom? This is important! I want to have other things. I’ll throw up if I have to have macaroni again.”

  “For someone who hates macaroni, you scarfed it down,” I said.

  “Shut up, Emily. Butt out of my private talk to Mom.”

  Mom put away the last of the groceries. “Isn’t Mr. Linaberry good to do this? I mentioned that I needed … but I never thought he’d …”

  Wilma went around the side of the table and knocked into me. “Me Tarzan, you monkey puke.”

  “Very mature,” I said. “Mom, I want to talk to you—”

  “Please, girls,” Mom said. “Don’t start … I just got home … and all day it’s been …” She sighed and took Wilma into her arms for a kiss. “Emily … Wilma … keep the peace, okay?”

  “What did I say?” I was suddenly really upset that Mom hadn’t even noticed when I tried to have a serious talk with her. And now she was putting Wilma and me in the same breath, as if we were the same age.

  “Well, I should go down and pay Mr. Linaberry,” Mom said.

  “I’ll do it,” I said. “How much is it?”

  Mom touched me on the shoulder. “Thank you, darling.” But then she went out the back door and downstairs herself.

  I got my books and sat down at the kitchen table and tried to study. Bunny phoned, and we talked for a while. When I hung up, I looked at the clock. Mom’s routine—I mean, before Mr. Linaberry started showing up in her life—had always been to take a shower as soon as she got home from work. After that she’d get into her old flannel robe and soak her feet in a pan of hot water while she read the newspaper and drank a cup of tea. Then she’d have supper. She always said doing things that way made her feel human again after working in the hospital all day.

  Well, how did she feel now? Like a monkey? She was still downstairs. No shower yet. No foot soak. No cup of tea. No supper. I looked at the clock once more. She’d been gone over an hour. How long did it take to hand over a few dollars?

  Chapter 8

  “Bunny? Hi, it’s Emily. Guess what? I heard from the guy who wrote Great Bones. He didn’t answer any of my questions. He acted offended that I’d asked. He just about said, Butt out of my personal business, kid!”

  “Oh!”

  “Do you think it’s an imposter writing the letter? The book was so good, I thought G. R. Immerman would be really nice. How could a nasty person write a nice book?”

  “Was the letter really that mean?”

  “Wait a sec, I’ll read it to you. Ready?”

  “Go.”

  “‘Dear Emily, There are some rules for writing, I suppose, but most of them aren’t very helpful. My own rule is to know what I want to say, say it, and get the hell out. I don’t like bad actors who hang around smirking at the audience, waiting for the applause. Since I’m not a teacher, this may all be a crock and you can forget it. As for my personal life, that’s my business, not yours. Read my books. That’s all you need to know about me. G. R. Immerman.’”

  “It wasn’t really mean, Em. It was more like he’s somebody’s grouchy uncle. He probably doesn’t mean to sound so brusque.”

  “Maybe you’re right. But I’m disappointed. When I read his letter the first time, I decided I’m never going to read his books again!”

  “Em, that’s dumb!”

  “Bunny, I came to that conclusion myself. I was just going to tell you. Give me a chance to finish what I’m saying.”

  “So sorry, Miss So Sensitive.”

  “Bunny, that’s not very nice!”

  “Well, you are.”

  “I’m what?”

  “Sensitive.”

  “Bun-ny!”

  “Em-ily!”

  “Good-bye, Bunny. I don’t want to talk to you anymore right now.”

  “Talk to you tomorrow, then.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Ha! You will. You will, you will! If you don’t talk to me, Emily, I’ll talk to you. Don’t hang up yet, Emily! You forgot to say good-bye to me.”

  “Good-bye, Bunny!”

  “Hel-lo! Who is this?”

  “Excuse me, who do you want?”

  “Hel-lo! Is this Emily? Emily Beth Boots? Hello! Can you guess who’s calling you?”

  “I think I have a pretty good idea. Could this be Robertson Reo?”

  “The one and only. But remember, you can call me Robbie. Or Rob, if you like that better. Or Reo. That’s my favorite. Emily Beth—”

  “You know, Robertson, my name is Emily. Nobody calls me Emily Beth.”

  “Just me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great! I’m never going to stop calling you Emily Beth. It’s my special name for you. Well, Emily Beth, you want to know the point of this phone call? To hear your voice!”

  “Okay, you’ve heard it. So we can hang up.”

  “I like your sense of humor. It’s dry and witty. You say what you have to say. A woman of few words. I like that. Emily Beth, I got the idea to call you when I was reading something that reminded me of you.… Aren’t you going to ask me what I was reading?”

  “I know you’re going to tell me whether I ask or not.”

  “Emily Beth, you’re probably the prettiest girl I ever saw.”

  “Where’d you read that, on the front page of the newspaper?”

  “Ha! ha! ha! No, here’s what I read, and it was on page eight of the newspaper, third column over, in case you want to check it out. Eight hundred and forty-six songs were recorded last year in this country with the word love in the title.”

  “That’s … very interesting.”

  “Eight hundred and forty-six. It makes you think, doesn’t it?”

  “What does it make you think?”

  “It makes me think that when I write a song I definitely won’t put love in the title, because I don’t want to be like everyone else.”

  “I don’t think you ever have to worry about being like everyone else, Robertson. That is one thing you definitely don’t have to worry about.”

  “Well, thank you, Emily Beth. I consider that a compliment. And I would say this has been an excellent conversation. On a scale of one to ten—”

  “You’d rate it a ten?”

  “Absolutely. Wouldn’t you?”

  “I don’t think I’d be that rash.”

  “Ha! Ha! Ha!”

  “Look, I have to go now. I have things to do. Good-bye, Robertson.”

  “Good-bye, Emily Beth. When I write that song I’m going to put your name in the title.”

  “Hello?”

  “Emily, this is Dad.”

  “Dad? Dad! Where are you?”

  “Chicago. How are you, Emily?”

  “I’m fine, Dad. I’m just so surprised! I didn’t expect it to be you. When the phone rang, I thought it would be one of my friends, Bunny or—”

  “I’m sorry you didn’t think it would be me. I guess you have no reason to think it’s going to be me when the phone rings. I haven’t been the best about calling.”

  “Oh, no, Dad. It’s not that—”

  “No, no, I know, I’ve been remiss. Are you mad at me?”

  “No, Dad!”

  “Honey, I honestly think about you a lot. And I mean to call, I really do. Practically every day I think about it, and then something always happens.”

  “I know. I understand.”

  “Life is pretty hectic here, things come up all the time. The job is a lot of work. A lot of building going on. Every building has its contracts. Paperwork, paper, paper. The whole thing has me hopping, a lot of pressure, a lot of deadlines. I should have an assistant, but I’m not going to get it. Money’s too tight.”

  “Do you have to pay for an assistant?”

  “No, no, honey, I work for the city. They have to pay, but they won’t. You know how that is.… Tell me, how are you? Did I ask you that already? Emily, Chi
cago’s a great city. Big, big city. Very different experience from living in a small town. I wish you were here, honey. You’d get the big-city outlook. It would be good for you.”

  “Dad, there was something I wanted to ask you—”

  “So you’re doing top-notch work in school, aren’t you? I got your letter. I’m glad you wrote. Very glad. I know I should write, too, but it’s like the phone calls—I have the intention, and then something always gets in the way.”

  “That’s okay, Dad. I know.”

  “And I feel bad that I missed your birthday. I’m going to make it up to you. I’ve sent you some money, and I want you to spend it on nice things for yourself.”

  “Thank you, Dad!”

  “It’s not that much. I hope you can get something nice with it.”

  “Dad, I was going to say—”

  “Listen, sweetheart, Marcia wants to say hi to you.”

  “Hello, Emily? This is Marcia. Your daddy and I were so happy to get your letter. He’s just so overwhelmed these days with work. I guess I don’t have to tell you. You know how he is, how hard he works. He just throws himself heart and soul into his job. Well, ’bye, Emily, it was great talking to you. Here’s your dad again, Emily, eager to talk to you.”

  “Hello, honey. So were you telling me everything’s okay back there with you kids? Wilma and Chris are doing all right? They’re doing good in school?”

  “Yes. You know how smart they are. Dad, there is just one thing—”

  “I want to talk to the twins in a few minutes, honey. Time’s running out and I’m going to have to hang up.”

  “It won’t take long, it’s about Mom—”

  “Your mother? How is she? She’s still working at the hospital, isn’t she?”

  “Yes. She’s at work right now.”

  “You tell her I called you, okay?”

  “I will.”

  “Don’t forget, sweetheart.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Because she’s after me to pay more attention, and I want her to know that I called. I mean, she’s right! I don’t deny that, but I want her to know—”

  “I’ll tell her you called, Dad. I won’t forget.”

  “I know I can count on you. Maybe you should let me talk to Chris and Wilma now.”

  “Sure, Dad, but what I wanted to say was—well you see, our landlord, Mr. Linaberry, lives downstairs, and Mom is always worrying about making him upset with noise or things like that. Well, but now he’s been coming up—”

  “Sweetie, is this going to take a while?”

  “Well, I just thought I’d explain the background—”

  “Maybe you should write me about it. Or we can talk the next time I call. But let’s say goodbye now, sweetheart, and put on the twins.”

  “Okay. ’Bye, Dad.”

  Chapter 9

  After I talked to my father, I was so mad at myself. I didn’t say one thing I meant to say to him. I just kept saying Yes Daddy Yes Daddy, as if everything were perfect. Why did I do that? Even when he asked me if I was mad at him, I quickly said, Oh, no! But that’s not true. I am mad at him. I mean, I don’t just feel mad, I feel other ways, too, but sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night, and I feel so mad I cry. Why didn’t I tell him that? Instead I said Oh, everything’s fine, Daddy! Am I a coward or what?

  Last year, Bunny got me to do something I’d never done before—scream at my father. Maybe that doesn’t sound so great; you’re supposed to respect your parents. Bunny’s point is this: They should respect you, too, but how can they if they don’t know what you’re thinking or feeling? I’d been really upset about something my father did. To tell the truth, I don’t even remember the details now, except that it had something to do with plans for visiting, which were going all wrong. I was falling all to pieces over it, and Bunny finally said, “Emily! Call him up and tell him straight out how you feel.”

  I thought, Oh, no! I can’t do that! That’s what I always think. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings. I didn’t want to upset him. But then, I did it. I got up my nerve and I called him. I don’t remember anything I said, but I do remember that I sort of screamed at him, which isn’t like me at all. I don’t like to scream at people. I don’t like to get mad at people. I don’t like to cry in front of people. I think emotions are private, and you should keep them private.

  Bunny is so different. Maybe her way is better than mine. She definitely seems like a much happier person most of the time. I get these depressions—like after the phone call with my father—and I think of all the things I did wrong and said wrong. And I wish that I could do things better and differently.

  My father’s present to me came in the mail the next day, and on Saturday, Bunny’s mother drove her to my house, and we took the bus to the mall. It was a perfect day. Blue sky and a good fall smell of leaves in the air, and Mom was home and I didn’t have to think about Chris and Wilma. And besides all that, I had money in my pocket. “I feel great!” I told Bunny when we got to the bus.

  “Me, too!”

  “You always feel great.”

  “Not always.”

  “Bunny, you’re always cheerful and full of jokes.”

  “I have a serious side,” she said.

  Then two high school girls sat down in front of us and we shut up. The blonde one was going through her pocketbook. She threw everything out and started moaning. “I forgot my hairbrush, Jamie! Oh god, I forgot my hairbrush, did you bring a hairbrush? Oh god, Jamie, this is a disaster!”

  “Don’t tell me, Kim. I have my own problems,” Jamie said. “I’m wearing my shirt out.”

  “So?” Kim said.

  “So, like, I don’t like it that way,” Jamie said.

  “Well, like, tuck it in,” Kim said.

  “Well, I don’t like it that way, either. That’s the problem. So tell me what to do.”

  Bunny jabbed me so many times, I was sore afterwards. As soon as we got off the bus, she did a perfect imitation of Jamie and Kim. “My hairbrush! My day is ruined! I forgot my hairbrush and my shirt is out. My life is in a shambles!”

  I started laughing and couldn’t stop. From then on, everything struck me funny. When we stopped to eat at a new place, I thought it was hilarious that it was called Space Out and everything on the menu had names like Quark Salad or Comet Soda. The servers were wearing caps with green antennae and the name tag on the girl who took our order said ASTRA. Maybe it struck me funnier than it did Bunny. After all, her sister’s name is Star ship. (Bunny says her mother was in a cosmic phase when Star was born.)

  While we were eating our Spaceburgers (really, your basic cheeseburger on a round roll), we both watched a man across from us who was plugged into a cassette player, eating, reading the newspaper, and filing his nails, all at once.

  That was the kind of day it was. A great day. Even perfect. Then I got home and found Mom’s note, and I got that flat feeling, like air going out of a balloon. Her note said Wilma was at Sally’s house, Chris had gone to a Little League game, and there was pea soup in the fridge for supper. Then there was a P.S. That was the needle that deflated the balloon. “P.S. Gone for a drive with Mr. Linaberry.”

  All I could think about after that was Mom and Mr. Linaberry driving around in his pickup truck and—what? What did people their age do when they went out for a drive? Make out? No way could I imagine my mother doing that! But then, why did she go for a drive with him? For the pleasure of his company? What was she thinking of?

  After Wilma came home, she and I walked over to the park to pick up Chris. Then we made supper. Chris gave us a moment-by-moment account of the game, and I kept Wilma from going berserk over the pea soup, which she hates, by letting her add chopped-up hot dogs, which she loves.

  After supper we did the dishes, made popcorn, and turned on the TV. Still no Mom. I did some homework, then I went into the kitchen and phoned Bunny. “What are you doing?”

  “Playing Scrabble with my mother, and she’s beating
me. She’s too smart for me. What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.” I glanced at the clock again. “Did you see Robertson in school yesterday, following me around?”

  “‘Emily had a little lamb … and everywhere that Emily went, that lamb was sure to go.’ Remember? It’s love, Em.”

  “Why couldn’t someone handsome and sixteen fall in love with me? Bunny, what do you think a ticket to Chicago costs? I want to save up to visit my father.”

  “I don’t know. Four hundred dollars? Five hundred?”

  “I’ll never be able to save that much!”

  “Make a deal with your mother. You save half and she gives you the other half. That’s what my parents do.”

  “Mom would just say she doesn’t have half.”

  “How about your father?”

  “I don’t want to ask him. I just want to make the money and buy a ticket and go out there and say, Hi! I thought I’d drop in on you …”

  “What a great idea, Emily!”

  “You like it? I just thought of it this minute. I wish I hadn’t spent the money he sent me.”

  “But it was fun, wasn’t it?”

  “I’ll have to get a job. What kind of work do you think I could get?”

  “Baby-sitting?”

  “When can I do it? I always have to take care of Wilma and Chris.”

  “You don’t have to take care of me ever,” Wilma yelled. She has ears in the back of her head.

  Bunny and I talked about an hour. Mom still wasn’t home.

  I made Wilma and Chris take their baths and get into pajamas. I fixed them cocoa with marshmallows and I let them watch some more TV. And Mom still wasn’t home! Just when I was thinking I should start calling the police and the hospitals to see if there’d been an accident, in came Mom, smiling and cheerful, in her fuzzy pink pants and matching pink top.

  “Where were you?” I said.

  “Out for a drive, sweetheart. Didn’t you see my note?”

  “Yes, but look at the time!”

  “Well, it is a little late … but—”

  “A little late, Mom! It’s almost ten o’clock. What time did you go out?”

  “What time did I … around five, I suppose.”