Jelly Bean Summer

by Joyce Magnin

  I leave the sketchbook and head for the roof. I’ll just wait there until tomorrow. Until Brian is ready to go.

  Twenty-Two

  The next morning, I pack some clothes in a brown paper bag. Just extra shorts and socks, underpants, and two shirts, both striped. I don’t need anything else, except my binoculars. You can never tell when they’ll come in handy. I also grab my toothbrush and a comb. My hair gets snarly in the car with the windows down.

  Mom is in the kitchen making Dad’s breakfast. He’s at the table reading his paper.

  I sneak past them. I pat Polly on the head. She lets out a bark. “Shhh,” I say. And then I slip out the front door and up the ladder to the roof, where I grab my binoculars. I take in the view because it’s probably the last time I’ll see the world from here. Then it’s down the ladder to earth, where I touch the peach tree. I can smell the sap. It’s sweet and oily, and I stand for just a moment on the spot—the spot where Jelly Bean died and now she’s buried. I grab hold of one of the ripening peaches and yank it from the branch. I toss it hard against the house. No peach ice cream for me this year.

  But just before I get totally filled with tears, I run. When I get to the end of our sidewalk, I stop and look back. A tear rolls down my cheek, and I swallow hard. I see Polly at the window. She has her paws resting on the sill.

  • • •

  Brian is in his garage. He is just closing the record player. “I think I’ll bring Mom’s records.”

  Then he looks at me standing there holding my brown bag. “Whatcha got in the bag?”

  “My stuff, silly. Clothes and my toothbrush.”

  “Oh, I… Ugh.” He shakes his head and says, “I don’t think you’re gonna like what I gotta say.”

  I look him square in the eye. “What? Say what?”

  Brian looks away for a second and then says, “I can’ take you. I-I never thought you were dead serious anyway.”

  I think maybe my heart stops beating for a second or two, and I feel a rush of red flood my face like it always does when I’m nervous or upset.

  “But I am serious. I’m ready to go. I told you. I can’t stay here anymore.”

  Brian takes a breath. “Well, you can’t blame me. I—”

  “Blame you? For what?”

  “For making you think it was OK for you to come. I can’t take you. Holy cow. You’re just a kid.”

  I look at my sneakers. “Oh. Just a kid. A kid who kills guinea pigs and puts on fake UFO shows and…and tries to make everybody forgive her when they don’t want to and…a kid who doesn’t have anything—”

  “What do you mean? You got stuff.”

  “I don’t mean stuff. I mean…I mean a reason for—”

  Brian pulls himself up to his full height and looks down at me, and that’s the first time I see how much taller he is than me. Taller and older and bigger than me. He’s right. I’m just a kid. A kid with no reason except to play ball and read books and wonder about things like missing brothers and why sisters can’t say “It’s OK” when you mess up. That’s all I want. A brother who ain’t lost and a sister who says “It’s OK.”

  “You got reasons to stay,” Brian says. “You have Elaine and your dad and your mom. And a brother who ain’t dead.”

  “Yeah. Right,” I say. I choke on tears. I have absolutely no interest in letting them pour out of my eyes in front of him.

  “But look,” Brian says, “I still want you to ride with me around the Park—just like we planned. If it wasn’t for you, I’d never have gotten the carburetor, and I’d be heading to the bus station now.”

  “I guess,” I say.

  “And I got to tell you something else. Dad’s coming with me. Help me drive and stuff. Then he’ll fly back.” He puts the record player into the back of the truck. “Dad had to go into work for a little while. We’re heading out as soon as he gets back.”

  So there’s no way I can go. His dad won’t let me.

  We climb into the truck. The seat is pretty torn up, and it isn’t at all comfortable. Brian turns the key, and the truck starts right up. He smiles so hard I think he might bust.

  I smile too. Even if I don’t get to go to Arizona, I can’t help but feel good about the truck running. I got to help Brian with something important. If he’d never met me, he wouldn’t have gotten the carburetor. And helping him get his brother’s truck running feels as important as sewing for women who have been burned or letting poor customers pay with fireworks instead of money.

  Brian reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a picture of a boy wearing a Phillies baseball cap and smile just like Brian’s. He looks at it for a second and then puts it on the dashboard right behind the steering wheel. “This ride’s for you, Mikey.”

  Then next thing I know, we’re cruising down Crestview.

  “I told you I’d get her runnin’,” Brian says.

  “I know,” I say. But then I figure out he’s talking to Mike.

  We drive down Oak Avenue, Palmer Mill, Westbrook Drive. It’s not like people line the streets like when the Memorial Day parade passes by, but the mailman waves and Mrs. Wilbur stops for a second and stares. We drive onto my street.

  “This part’s for Bud,” Brian says.

  I look at my house, the peach tree, the patio, and the front door. I look up at the roof.

  “Thanks, Brian,” I say. “For Bud.”

  We head toward Scullion Field. We get almost to the end of the block when I hear something. Someone is hollering, “Stop! Stop!”

  Brian looks in the rearview. “It’s Elaine.”

  I look behind me, but I can’t see much through the tiny truck window.

  Brian pulls along the curb.

  Elaine catches up with us. She runs around to my side. She still thinks I’m going to Arizona. Maybe she doesn’t want me to go. Maybe she’s ready to say, “It’s OK.”

  “Look,” she says, waving a small piece of yellow paper. “It’s a telegram. From the army. They found him. He’s OK. He’s in the hospital.”

  “Your brother?” Brian asks.

  “He’s gonna come home,” Elaine says. “Dad’s been looking all over for you.”

  I look at Brian.

  “That’s great,” he says. “Wow. Really great.” He reaches over me and pushes open the passenger door. “Hop in.”

  Elaine climbs over me and sits between me and Brian. “He’s coming home.”

  I feel my eyes well up with tears. Elaine looks like she already cried a bucket.

  Brian honks the horn and hollers. “He’s coming home.”

  We drive down a few more streets honking the horn and hollering, “He’s coming home. He’s coming home. Bud is coming home.”

  I glance at Elaine and think how good it is to see her smile.

  A few doors open and people step out onto their stoops to see what the commotion is about.

  “Bud Magnin is coming home,” I holler. “The army found my brother.”

  Brian drives a victory lap around the Park, then he takes us back to our house.

  “Thanks,” I say with my hand on the door handle. But now I have to say good-bye to Brian. I wonder how to do it because my feelings are kind of jumbled around. I’m happy that Bud is coming home but sad that Brian is leaving and still unsure of Elaine and how she feels about me. “Have a good trip to Arizona.” It’s all I can think to say until I blurt out, “Thanks for helping with the flying saucer.”

  Brian nods at me.

  “Do you have to go?” Elaine asks.

  “Maybe I’ll come back after next school year.” He smiles real wide. “People come back.”

  Elaine and I stand in the street. I sneak closer to her and grab her hand. She doesn’t let go or push me away. We watch Brian drive out of sight.

  “It’s gonna be OK,” I say.

 
; Twenty-Three

  Everything isn’t OK.

  We get word that something went south, as Dad says, and Bud needs surgery now. It’s the worst news ever.

  Elaine goes right back to not talking to me unless she absolutely has too. It’s like standing in the street holding my hand never happened. She sees more flying saucers and continues to draw pictures of Jelly Bean and Brian and to paint flowers and peace signs.

  Mostly, things feel weird. Mom cooks and hums and picks aphids off her African violets. Dad goes to work every day, and I stay on the roof.

  Finally, on a hot night in August when I’m just done washing the dishes, Bud calls. He calls during Walter Cronkite. He only talks to Dad.

  “Two days. Thursday,” Dad says when he hangs up the phone. “He’s coming home in two days. We’ll pick him up at the Greyhound station.” He puts his arm around Mom and lets out a huge breath—a breath he’s been holding for months. He kisses Mom’s cheek, and she wipes her eyes on her apron. “Two days.” She holds her fingers up. “Two.”

  • • •

  Then it’s Thursday, and we all drive into Philadelphia to pick up Bud. He’s coming in on a Greyhound bus from Fort Dix, New Jersey, because that’s where they sent him after a hospital stay in Germany. I guess we’ll learn more about that later. Dad says he would have driven to New Jersey to get him, but Bud told him the army had to do it their way.

  It’s raining cats and dogs on the way to the bus station. Dad has the wipers going a mile a minute, and Mom is real quiet, like if she talks, she’ll cry because of how happy she is that Bud is coming home. She has a whole big party planned for him and everything.

  Bolts of lightning and rumbles of thunder startle me. But I keep my eyes peeled for the station. I look through my binocs, hoping I’ll be the first to see him. I know Polly is gonna go crazy when she sees him. We left her sitting by the front door waiting. She knows all right. She knows Bud is coming home.

  “There’s the station,” Dad says. “It’s hard to see in this rain, and I don’t see any spots. I…guess we’ll park around the corner.”

  I look through my binocs. The light at the station is eerie. Yellow with neon signs that read Bus Station, with an arrow pointing down creepy, dark steps.

  Lots of boys in uniforms are standing around outside the rectangular building, probably waiting for cars full of families to pick them up. I keep looking and looking while Dad searches for a spot. I see so many faces, and in a weird, eerie kind of way, they all look the same. Tired. Anxious. I keep looking. I want to be the first to spot him. I don’t know why. I just do. I figure it will be one of those things I’ll never, ever forget. The day I saw my brother who we thought might die come home from war.

  Then, all of a sudden, like one of those pictures that when you stare at it long enough a new picture materializes, I see him. And for like three seconds, his is the only face I see. I want him to see me too. I want us to lock eyes and smile at the same time. But no, he doesn’t see me. Not yet.

  “I see him,” I say. “He’s standing over there. By the Coke machine.”

  “Where?” Mom says.

  “Right there.” I point.

  Dad pulls closer and rolls down his window, even though the rain is streaming in like gangbusters. “Bud,” he calls. “Buddy.”

  “He’s coming,” I say. “He’s walking this way.” He’s kind of limping. Walking slow.

  “Let him in,” Dad says. “Open the door.”

  Elaine pushes open her door, but Mom has already opened her door and jumped out of the car. Another car beeps. But we don’t care. Mom runs around the front of the car. She reaches out for Bud and they hug. She kisses his cheeks and hugs him again.

  Bud pushes his green duffel bag into the car. He climbs into the backseat. Elaine gives him a big hug. I want to hug him too, but I can’t with Elaine in the way. But Bud reaches out, and we touch hands for a second. I can’t think of a single thing to say. All I can do is cry, but I turn my face to the window so no one will know.

  • • •

  When we get home, Dad shakes Bud’s hand about a dozen times until he finally hugs him. “So glad you’re home, Son.”

  Boy, is Polly glad to see Bud. She barks and dances, and when he sits down, she climbs right into his lap—which is kind of funny because Polly is pretty big—and licks his face about a million times. “Good old girl,” Bud says. “I missed you too.”

  Mom makes Bud a cup of tea. He’s always liked tea. Earlier in the day, she also made fudge—his favorite. Tea and fudge.

  I sit on the other side of the living room in the blue chair. Elaine sits near Bud on our green couch. I want to jump into his lap like Polly. But that will not be a good idea. I have to consider the surgery he had. I figure I will wait a while and then talk to him when he’s used to being home more. I want to know where he was when the army couldn’t find him. He looks different. His face isn’t quite as chubby. He is wearing strange black-rimmed glasses, and his hair is so short, I can hardly see it. His army uniform looks baggy on him, and I think his army hat is funny looking.

  He notices me looking at him. “So what’s up, Shortstop?”

  “Nothin’,” I say, glad to be called Shortstop again.

  Bud yawns and drinks tea and eats fudge while everyone fusses. But no one asks him about the war or about what he did.

  Mom tells him about the coming-home party, but Bud only smiles.

  “So pretty much everyone will be at the party tomorrow,” Mom says. “Mrs. Tomlinson is making her famous lasagna.” She sounds nervous, and then all of a sudden, everyone seems nervous. Even Dad doesn’t know what to do with his hands. And I wonder if all the families with sons or daughters returning from war feel the same way. We’re supposed to be happy, and we are, but everything is different somehow and I can’t explain it. If feelings were colors and happy was bright purple, then my family is blue-gray, the color in the crayon box no one uses, except for rain clouds.

  “Joyce killed Jelly Bean,” Elaine blurts out all of a sudden without anyone asking her.

  “She didn’t mean to,” Mom says. “It was an accident.”

  Bud looks at me. “For real? That’s too bad.”

  “We’ll have none of this tonight,” Dad says. “Bud’s home. And we’re done talking about the pig.”

  Bud pushes Polly off his lap. “I’m kinda tired. Think I’ll hit the sack.”

  “Good idea,” Dad says. “We’ll have plenty of time to catch up. Maybe we can do some fishing or toss the baseball tomorrow.”

  “Maybe,” Bud says. He grabs his duffel bag.

  We all watch him go upstairs like he’s done a gazillion times before. But it’s different this time. He walks slowly, as though he wants to feel every step beneath his feet—just to be sure. Just to be certain he’s home and he’s A-OK. Everything is back to normal, but nothing is the same.

  Twenty-Four

  Dad makes me sleep in the bedroom because of the storm and because of Bud. “I want my entire family under one roof,” Dad says.

  It’s OK. I want to sleep in my bed and be closer to Bud. We all go to bed early that night. Even Mom, and she always stays up to watch the eleven o’clock news.

  “Why’d you tell him about Jelly Bean?” I ask Elaine as I slip out of my shorts. I decide to sleep in just a shirt and underpants. It is really hot and steamy after the rain.

  “Because it’s true.”

  • • •

  The next morning, Mom goes to Ninth Street to do some last-minute party shopping. Dad stays home from work to help get the house ready. Even Elaine pitches in. She makes pretty paper flowers using colored tissue paper and pipe cleaners. She runs streamers from each corner of the living room to the middle. It’s a little like being under a circus tent.

  Bud stays in his room all day. I keep walking past, hoping he’ll open his doo
r or come out and talk to me. I plan to ask him to toss a ball around or maybe show him my camp on the roof. Polly stays right by his door nearly the whole day. She only goes outside to pee. I hear her whimper a couple of times, and it makes me angry and sad that Bud won’t open the door and let her in. How come he doesn’t even want to talk to Polly?

  “When will Bud get up?” I ask my dad as he dusts the stereo.

  “He’s tired. Let him sleep.”

  “But I don’t think he is sleeping,” I say. “I think he’s up and just won’t come out.”

  “That’s OK too. It takes time to adjust. He’s been gone a long time. Maybe I should bring him something to eat,” Dad says.

  “Can I bring it to him?”

  Dad tosses me the dusting cloth and the Pledge. “You dust. I’ll make him a sandwich.”

  • • •

  Around six thirty, people start coming to our house for the party. Nearly everyone from the neighborhood shows up and a lot of people from church. Mr. Marsden is wearing his World War II army uniform. Mom says he looks proud as a peacock and wants to show off his medals to Bud. Nearly everyone has a gift for Bud, and most bring food—lots and lots of food, including Mrs. Costello’s Lime Jell-O surprise with bits of carrots in it. It looks sickening.

  Mom has chairs set up around the living room and the dining room. Dad puts the Serendipity Singers on the stereo. They are Bud’s favorites, even though they’re a pretty ancient group. I like them too, especially the song about putting beans in your ears. It isn’t until the music starts that Bud comes downstairs. He’s not wearing his uniform. He’s wearing brown pants and a short-sleeved brown shirt with little yellow trout all over it.

  “And here’s our guest of honor,” Mom says. She puts her arm through his and leads him to the big chair. The one Dad always sits in to watch the news.

  Everyone applauds, just like Dad wanted, because Bud’s a hero.

  I think Bud is only pretending to be happy and glad to see everyone. He let Mrs. Tomlinson kiss his cheek and Bill Rankin tussle his hair—what little he had—because he is polite. I know he wants to be just about anywhere but in our living room pretending to be happy and pretending to like all the gifts. He got a pen and pencil set, three new shirts, and cologne. But the biggest gift, the one from my parents, is a tape-recording deck. It is huge, with big reels and fancy dials and a microphone. Bud likes that gift for real. He likes sound and music, and he records trains and car horns just for fun.