My Girl

by Patricia Hermes

  "I'll be right up," he answered.

  I came back to her. "He's downstairs," I said, "working on Mr. Layton. Throat cancer. Once it hits your throat, you're a goner. Can't talk or eat. So they just starve to death. At least the men do."

  "Oh?" she said. She looked around, a little wild looking, I thought.

  Dad opened the basement door, still slipping into his jacket. When he saw the lady, he came over to her, a serious look on his face, this I'm-so-sorry-for-your-troubles look that he gives out a lot. To strangers.

  "How may I help you?" he said.

  "I'm Shelly De Voto," she said. "I called the other day about the makeup artist job? It's still available, I hope."

  "Oh, yes," Dad said. But then I saw him look her over, from her long, dangly earrings down to her high, high heels. "I think it's available," he added.

  Right away I could see that she knew what he was thinking, same as me. She whipped this paper out of her purse. "Look!" she said. "See? I'm a licensed cosmetologist. I went to the Roosevelt College of Cosmetic Arts and graduated first in a class of twenty. I worked for two years at the Dino Raphael Salon, and my customers cried when I told them I was leaving. And I—"

  "Miss De Voto," Dad interrupted.

  ". . . have a very good disposition!" she continued, like he hadn't even spoken. "I put people at ease and—"

  "Miss De Voto!" Dad said, loud enough to stop her. "Miss De Voto, these people are already at ease." He paused. "This is not a beauty parlor. It's a funeral parlor."

  Shelly looked from Dad to me, then back again.

  "They're dead?" she said finally.

  Both Dad and I nodded.

  "Yes, they are," Dad said.

  "You're kidding!" she said. "Stiffs?"

  I laughed right out loud.

  Dad frowned at me. "Deceased!" he said.

  "Wow!" Shelly shook her head. "And to think . . . The ad just said makeup artist."

  Suddenly she started to laugh. "You mean that I drove all night and ended up in a funeral parlor?"

  Dad and I both nodded again.

  "Wow!" she said again.

  She and Dad were just staring at each other.

  I didn't think that was getting us anywhere.

  I went and looked out through the front door.

  A van and a camper were parked out front. Two men were getting out of the van and coming up to the house. They were carrying coffins—small coffins, smaller than I've ever seen before.

  I opened the door as they came up on the porch.

  Dad turned and saw them. "Hi, George," he said. "Be right back," he said to Shelly and me. And he

  went with the men to the casket display room.

  I stayed at the door looking out.

  "Is that your camper?" I asked Shelly.

  "Yes, it is," Shelly said.

  "Do you live in it?"

  "Yes, yes, I do." And then she added, "A funeral home. Who would've thought?"

  "How do you go to the bathroom?" I asked.

  "What!" she said.

  "In your camper."

  "Oh. There's one in it."

  "That's really cool."

  Dad and the men came out of the display room, and the men went back to the van.

  "Daddy?" I said when they were gone. "Why are those coffins so small? Are they for kids?"

  For a minute Dad didn't answer. And then he said, "Of course not."

  "Why are they so small, then?"

  "They come in all sizes," Dad said. "Like shoes."

  "Dad!" I put my hands on my hips. "Dad, are they for children?"

  "I told you. No."

  "Who are they for, then?"

  Dad looked away. "Short people," he said after a minute. "Very short people."

  I didn't believe him.

  I looked at Shelly. She was nervous. She didn't believe him, either, I could tell. She swallowed hard. "What about the job?"

  Dad's eyebrows went up. "You still want it? Even though—"

  "Sure! Look, it's not a big deal because . . . because . . ."

  I could practically see her mind working, moving fast the way mine did when I had to make up an excuse in school. Boy, she must really need the money, I thought.

  ". . . because, well, you see," she went on, "all my former clients will eventually die. And all yours used to be alive. So they have something in common!"

  She smiled, real pleased with herself.

  Made sense to me.

  But Dad was still looking her over, still doubtful-looking, thinking about her makeup and stuff, I bet.

  "So," she added, "I could still use all my same skills!"

  "Except for the good disposition part," I said.

  "You'd be doing hair and makeup and answering the phone," Dad said.

  "And the salary?" Shelly asked.

  "A hunchred dollars."

  "A week?"

  Dad nodded.

  Wow! I'd like a hundred a week. But not this job, this job I wouldn't do for a thousand a week.

  "This is like a bad dream," Shelly said, rubbing her fingers over her forehead. "Look, I was hoping for about one-fifty. A hundred is less than what I made at my last job. And those customers tipped."

  I could tell Dad was thinking about that.

  "I can do a hundred and ten," he said finally.

  She stuck out her hand. "Mr. Sultenfuss, you have a deal."

  Dad took her hand, but just for a second. "You can start now," he said. "And I'm Harry." He looked her over. "Is that what you wear to work?" he asked.

  "No," she said. "This is my interview suit. Look, I promise I'll take good care of these people. They deserve it. I mean, they're dead. All they got left is their looks." She paused. "I almost forgot, here are some of my references."

  She pulled some papers out of her purse, and as she handed them to Dad, she dropped them all over the floor.

  She and Dad both went to pick them up at the same time.

  As he and Shelly were straightening up, I noticed that Dad noticed what I'd noticed before—that you could see practically all the way down Shelly's dress.

  Dad shook his head at me.

  I smiled back.

  CHAPTER III

  Dad and Shelly went into Dad's office to do "paperwork," Dad called it.

  I went outside. Thomas J hadn't come back, so I decided I'd go call for him. But when I went out, I didn't have to go find him. He was by the side of the house, sitting on the lawn beside his bike, pulling up bits of grass and sprinkling them on his legs, waiting for me like he was my pet dog or something.

  "Come on, Thomas J," I said. "Let's go."

  "To the willow tree?" Thomas J said.

  "No," I said. "We have to see Dr. Welty. Come on."

  But he didn't move. "Why?" he said. "Something new happen?"

  I didn't answer. My throat was hurting something awful.

  "Come on," I said. "Please. You know I need you with me."

  He nodded. "Okay," he said.

  We hopped on our bikes and went around the corner to Dr. Welty's.

  Inside, there was no one in the waiting room, just Mrs. Randall, his nurse, at the desk.

  "Well, hello, Miss Vada. Thomas J." She nodded. "And what's wrong with you today, missy?" she said to me.

  She emphasized "today" like she saw me every day or something.

  And she doesn't see me every day. Maybe a lot, but not every day.

  "I'm very sick," I said, ignoring her mean comment.

  She sighed. "Take a seat. I'll see if Dr. Welty has time to see you.

  She left, and in a minute she was back out. "Okay, missy. Room number two. Your usual."

  I went in. As I passed examining room one, I saw a kid in a wheelchair—a wheelchair! And a little kid, too. He must be really sick. Was he going to die? Was one of those short coffins for him?

  My throat hurt even more.

  I climbed up on the examining table just as Dr. Welty came in. Dr. Welty is old—really old, with lots of white hai
r and a kind of wrinkled up face. But he walks real fast, like he's lots younger. And he's always nice to me. Always. He's never once laughed at me or told me I was pretending, the way Dad does when something new happens to me. And he doesn't charge me for visits, either. He says if I need him, I can come anytime. Only thing wrong is that sometimes I think Dr. Welty is afraid to tell me how sick I really am.

  He came striding over to the table. "Well, Vada," he said. "Let's see how you are."

  He didn't even ask what was wrong, and I figured, why give him a hint? He'd see in a minute.

  He did all the usual—my ears, eyes, and then my throat.

  I could feel the chicken bone swelling up, although now I knew it was a tumor. My larynx.

  When he was finished, I said, "So? What is it? Tell me, I can handle it."

  He put both hands on my shoulders and smiled at me. "Vada," he said. "You're perfectly healthy."

  "Can't be!" I said. "I have all the symptoms. My throat. You can see it, can't you?"

  He shook his head no.

  "And now here!" I said, pointing to my hair. "My hair, it's falling out."

  "Vada," Dr. Welty said quietly, "did they bring Mr. Layton to your house today?"

  I looked at my shoes. "Yes."

  "Vada, you have to stop this. I know you honestly feel worried. But there's nothing wrong with you. There isn't."

  He was trying to protect me. I could feel the tumor, had felt it for months. So why didn't he tell me the truth? I'd rather know now than choke to death in the middle of the night. Didn't he know that?

  In the waiting room, I motioned to Thomas J to follow me. We went outside and hopped on our bikes.

  "What'd he say is wrong with you?" Thomas J said.

  "The whole medical profession is a crock," I said.

  If it wasn't, I thought, the doctors would've been able to save my mom.

  We rode down some streets, not talking much. Thomas J is good that way. He knows when to talk and when to be quiet.

  We turned onto my favorite street—one with big old houses and big old trees. The trees are so big that their branches meet in the middle of the street. It's like riding down the middle of a leafy green tunnel.

  "Look, Thomas J," I said after a while. "No hands."

  "Oh, yeah?" he said. He took his feet off the pedals and stuck them out to both sides. "Look at this—no feet."

  "Wow!" I said. "A real Evel Knievel."

  Thomas J is such a dork sometimes. Even though he's eleven like me, he looks about eight because he's so skinny and little. And with his huge glasses magnifying his eyes, he looks like a perfect owl. He's also allergic to everything, which is one reason everybody teases him. He wore a wool sweater to school once, and his face blew up like a balloon. In the cafeteria he has to have a special menu with no eggs or milk, and nothing with tomatoes or even ketchup on it. He can't even eat pizza! And he collects strange things, like cicada shells and butterflies and dead bugs and hornet nests. But he's my best friend. We talk about everything, and we climb trees and fish together, and we even play pretend. I wouldn't let anyone else in the whole world know that I still played pretend.

  I do wonder sometimes, though, why he doesn't get more upset when I boss him around. I wouldn't let anyone boss me like that. Except that maybe he likes to be bossed. Maybe he's used to it.

  We were halfway down the street when suddenly I stopped short.

  "Hey, look!" I said, pointing. It was Mr. Bixler, our fifth grade teacher, up on a ladder on the porch of one of the old houses, painting a window. Mr. Bixler! He's the best teacher I've ever had. He's young and not married and really good-looking. If I were going to live, I think I'd like to marry Mr. Bixler. It's maybe dumb, but I imagine sometimes that he'd wait for me, that he'd like to marry me, too—after I grow up, that is.

  "Let's go talk to him!" I said to Thomas J.

  "I don't want to talk to a teacher!" Thomas J said. "It's summer."

  I ignored him.

  "Hi, Mr. Bixler!" I called out.

  Mr. Bixler looked down and smiled. "Mademoiselle Sultenfuss! And the amazing Dr. J. How's the summer treating you?"

  He came off his ladder and over to us, still holding a paintbrush.

  "Mr. Bixler, I finished all the books for summer reading."

  "All? Already? Summer's just begun."

  "I know. But I did. And now I'm reading War and Peace."

  "You're not!"

  "I am."

  "Wow." He smiled. "No wonder you're my prize pupil. And what about you, Dr. J?"

  He'd called me his 'prize pupil'! Maybe he would wait for me.

  "I haven't started on the reading yet," Thomas J said.

  "You'd better get on his case, Vada," Mr. Bixler said.

  "Mr. Bixler, how come you're painting this house? I didn't know you've always lived here."

  "I don't. Well, I didn't, but I do now. I just bought it, and I'm fixing it up."

  "It's a big house for one person," I said.

  He smiled. "Well, you never can tell."

  "Oh," I said.

  And I felt devastated. He was getting married!

  He wasn't going to wait for me.

  "Maybe I'll get a pet," he said.

  I looked at my hand and twisted my mood ring around for a while, so he wouldn't see how relieved I was. "So where do teachers get money in the summer?'' I asked. "I mean, how are you getting money for this house if you're not working?"

  He laughed. "I'm teaching a creative writing class at the community college this summer, starting next week. So I'm doing some work."

  "You are? How much does it cost?" I asked.

  "The house?"

  "No, the class."

  "Thirty-five dollars."

  "What does a person get for that?"

  "Me. For two hours a week. Talking about poetry."

  Him. I stared at him. "When is it?" I asked.

  "The class? Thursday afternoons, two o'clock." He laughed again. "This is an interrogation, Vada."

  "Yeah, well. Guess I'll go home and finish off War and Peace."

  "It's summer!" he said, waving the paintbrush at us. "You're kids. Play!"

  He turnecl back to the porch and his ladder, and Thomas J and I got on our bikes.

  "Want to go play?" Thomas J said. "How about fishing? Or you want to go to Gray's Orchard and pick some peaches? Or we could try and find cicada shells. I bet they've shed by now."

  "Nah," I said—because I had an idea, something I had to do right away. If I could just talk Dad into it. "I'm going home," I said.

  "Home?" Thomas J said. He frowned at me. "How come? It's not dinnertime yet."

  "Dinnertime?" I said. "You're just like a dog. You just go home to eat!"

  He shrugged.

  I headed for home, but he just sat there on his bike.

  When I turned, I saw him looking after me, puzzled-looking, pushing at his glasses with his middle finger—like he really couldn't figure out why anyone would go home if it wasn't time to eat.

  "Bye, Thomas J!" I called. "Don't pee on the hydrant!"

  CHAPTER IV

  Mean. I was mean to Thomas J. But he shouldn't be so easy to tease. Anyway, he wouldn't stay mad long, if he was even mad at all. And I did have to get home in a hurry. I had a great idea. If l could just get Dad to agree—if I could get him to give me the money.

  Two hours a week with Mr. Bixler, talking about poetry. Maybe I could even write a poem for Mr. Bixler, tell him I was dying. It could be very romantic. Besides, I've always loved to write. I even write stories and poems when I don't have to.

  But it would be hard to get Dad to part with that much money, especially now after he'd just upped what he had to pay Shelly.

  But it was worth asking for, if I could just get him in the right mood at the right time. I'd just have to figure out the best time. And maybe the right time would be now, if Shelly was working out good.

  At home I dropped my bike on the grass and went in the house looking
for Dad.

  No Dad in the front of the house or in his office. Not in the back, either. But Gramoo was in the kitchen, rocking in her chair. And something was cooking on the stove, something Dad had probably started earlier. He's been doing all the cooking since Gramoo got weird and stopped doing it. He worries that he's not a good cook.

  Actually he's not. But I'd never tell him that because it would hurt his feelings.

  "Hi, Gramoo," I said, even though I knew she wouldn't answer. "Where's Dad?"

  I heard sounds coming from the basement room, and I went and tugged on the door to open it. When it finally let loose, it almost smacked me in the face.

  I could hear voices down there—Dad and Shelly and Uncle Phil.

  As I listened, I heard Uncle Phil invite Shelly to meet him at the bar. Uncle Phil is always inviting ladies to meet him at the bar.

  I went down a few steps and peeked.

  Dad and Uncle Phil and Shelly were all collected around Mr. Layton.

  "Dad?" I said softly.

  "Bookends," Uncle Phil said, looking down at Mr. Layton. "Walnut bookends."

  "I made a tie rack," Dad said.

  What were they doing—showing off for Shelly? They had already had this conversation. Uncle Phil is a womanizer—at least, that's what Dad always says.

  "Laminated bookends," Uncle Phil said. "I got an A."

  "You never got an A in your life," Dad said. He turned to Shelly. "Why don't you give Mr. Layton that haircut?"

  I didn't want to watch this!

  I scooted back up the stairs. But I was dying of curiosity, too, wondering how Shelly would handle a dead person.

  I bet Dad was wondering, too.

  So at the top of the stairs, even though I couldn't see anything, I crouched to listen.

  "So, Mr. Layton!" I heard Shelly say, like she was talking to a real person—well, I mean to a real live person. "How do you want it cut—wet or dry?"

  I fled upstairs to my room.

  Later. At dinner I'd ask for the money, if Dad seemed happy.

  But at dinner I didn't get a chance to ask. First, the stew was awful, and even though neither of us would tell Dad that, Uncle Phil said he wasn't going to eat much because it would make him fat. And Dad said Uncle Phil was already fat, and even though Dad laughed when he said it, you could tell that it made Uncle Phil feel bad. And then I could see that Dad felt bad.