My Girl

by Patricia Hermes

  Dad turned away and picked up a spoon and fed Gramoo little spoonfuls of stew till she seemed to catch on and began doing it herself, the way we always have to do. But Dad's face was red, like he was embarrassed for what he'd said.

  Then after a minute, after Gramoo began feeding herself, Dad and Uncle Phil began talking about an accident on I-34 and how they were bringing in two bodies next day.

  Bodies! Dead people from an accident. I wondered whose fault that was, that accident. Did the person who caused it feel bad—bad, like I felt about my mom?

  Then, to make it worse, Gramoo suddenly began singing those songs she belts out for no reason to no one in particular. This time it was "Anything Goes."

  At the top of her lungs she sang while Dad and Uncle Phil talked about accidents and bodies.

  And my throat was already hurting like anything.

  I couldn't help it. I had to tell them, say something.

  "Dad?" I said. I had to practically yell to be heard over Gramoo. "Dad?"

  Dad frowned at me. "What?" he said, and he cupped his ear.

  "Dad, my throat!" I yelled. "Remember what I told you this morning? It's really bad. It's gotten much worse.

  Dad just shook his head and turned back to Uncle Phil.

  "I just hate the accident ones," he said. "You can never satisfy the families."

  "Tell me about it," Uncle Phil said.

  Gramoo kept right on singing.

  I took a bite of stew, and suddenly I choked. I mean, really choked. I took a quick sip of water, but I kept right on coughing.

  I coughed and spit, and tears came to my eyes. But nobody got up to pat my back or anything.

  I left the table and collapsed coughing on the couch across the room just as Shelly came up from the basement.

  "Well, I did his hair," she said brightly. "He looks kind of like Danny Kaye if he were Swedish. . . ."

  And then she heard me choking, and she rushed to my side. "Sweetie! You all right?" she said, patting me on the back.

  I shook my head no.

  She patted me some more, hard. I think she was making it worse, but at least she was trying.

  She turned to Dad. "Harry!" she said. "She's hurt."

  Dad kept right on eating. "She's just pretending," he said. "Vada, come and eat your broccoli."

  Pretending?

  "I'll get you water," Shelly said. "Stay right there."

  "It's my throat," I whispered.

  "I know," she said. "I know. I'll get you water."

  In a minute she was back with water, and she sat next to me on the couch while I drank it down.

  It really did help some.

  After a minute Shelly asked, "Want more dinner now?"

  I shook my head no.

  "Want me to turn on the TV for you?"

  I nodded.

  She went over and turned on the TV and then went back downstairs. But I saw her squint up her eyes at Dad as she went, like she was thinking about something, maybe like she was mad.

  After a minute of watching TV, I suddenly saw something—something great! A rerun of one of Dad's favorite shows was on!

  That would put him in a good mood!

  "Dad!" I said. "Look! Look at this, your favorite show!"

  Dad looked up from the table, then stood up. He came to his regular TV-watching chair, bringing his plate and his glass of club soda with him.

  "Hey, Phil," Dad said. "Come watch this. It's so great."

  Uncle Phil didn't move, though. He just sat there with Gramoo.

  After Dad had settled down, I went over and sat on the floor by his chair.

  Dad laughed a few times at what was happening on the TV, and I laughed with him.

  Then, when I thought Dad was happy enough, I decided the time was right.

  "Dad?" I said. I said it very softly.

  "Hush, Vada," Dad said, and he nodded at the TV.

  I waited a minute, and then after he had laughed a bunch more times, I tried again. "Dad?" I said, still quietly, looking up at him. "Can I have thirty-five dollars?"

  No sense beating around the bush.

  "That's a lot of money for a little girl," Dad said, looking down and smiling at me.

  "It's for school," I said. "A summer writing class."

  Dad pointed to his glass. "Any soda left?" he asked. His eyes were glued to the TV again.

  I got up and got the soda from the table, poured the rest into his glass, and then sat down on the floor next to him again.

  "My teacher said I was a very good writer," I said. "And you know how important it is to get started early on your career, like you did with being an undertaker. You started as a kid, right?"

  "I don't know, babe," Dad said. He reached down, sort of absentminded like and patted my head. He kept his hand there for a while, patting my hair softly, like I was a pet dog like Thomas J or something.

  But it felt good all the same.

  "Turn up the volume, will you?" Dad said then.

  Again I got up. I turned up the TV, then came back again to sit beside Dad.

  "Daddy?" I said.

  He sipped at his soda and laughed out loud at the TV. "Watch this!" he said, waving his glass toward the TV. "I love this guy."

  "Dad?" I said again.

  "What?"

  "The money. Could I have the money?"

  For a long minute Dad didn't answer. "Maybe next summer," he said after a while, and he smoothed my hair again. "Umm," he said softly. "Your hair feels nice."

  "But, Dad!" I took a deep breath. "How about this—when you go to bingo, I could go, too? Maybe I could win the money?"

  "No, you can't go to bingo," Dad said. He laughed at the TV again. "That's my one night out alone. You know that."

  "Then will you lend me the money?" I asked. "I could pay you back."

  Dad sighed. "Vada," he said, "you forget certain things. You forget, but I remember." He put his hand under my chin and turned my face up to him. "Last month it was violin," he said. "The time before, it was ventriloquism. Another time, juggling. If you're still interested in writing next summer, then maybe. Okay? But not now."

  He let go of my chin and fixed all his attention on the TV again.

  I sighed and got up.

  Slowly I went upstairs.

  Ha!

  He forgot about the time I wanted to be a magician. I was really great at making myself disappear.

  CHAPTER V

  Before I went to sleep, I went to my closet and pulled out my old record player—the only one I have to play the old, old records on. I put on a favorite old record—"Wedding Bell Blues." Then I went to my desk and got out my class picture—the one that has Mr. Bixler right smack in the middle. I'm next to him. I arranged it that way on picture-taking day.

  "Somehow," I whispered to him. "Somehow I'll come up with a plan. I'll do it. You just wait and see."

  And by the next morning I did have a plan, a wonderful one, a way to get the money I needed. I got up super early and went over to Thomas J's, taking my fishing pole with me. I had called Thomas J the night before and told him to be ready to go fishing, but I didn't tell him my plan yet.

  When I got to his house, Thomas J was all ready. except first he said he had to go pee.

  "Want to play our game?" I said, as he headed for the bathroom.

  "Sure," he said, grinning.

  I knew what that meant—he really had to go. Bad.

  "I'll count," I said.

  Thomas J went in and shut the door.

  Through the closed door, he shouted, "Okay, start! And no fair counting slow. Not a thousand and one, that way."

  "Okay, okay," I said.

  I heard him begin peeing, and I started counting, regular, not too slow. "One, two, three, four . . .

  "Hey! Too slow!" he yelled.

  "Five!" I said, fast and loud. "Six, seven—"

  He was finished.

  "Seven," I said.

  "Eight!" he shouted back.

  But he'd finished
peeing before the eight.

  "Seven," I said back. "I counted seven."

  "Seven and a half," he said.

  He came out of the bathroom, still fixing his pants.

  "Okay," I said. "Seven and a half. But bet I can do it longer."

  "Bet," he said. "Not even six."

  "My turn," I said.

  I went in the bathroom and closed and locked the door. Then, very quietly, I went to the sink, got the water glass, and turned on the faucet. Slowly, quietly, I let the glass fill up with water.

  "Hey! Hurry up in there!" Thomas J yelled.

  "Hold your horses," I said. "It takes girls longer."

  When the glass was full, I went to the toilet.

  "Okay!" I yelled. "And not too slow. Start!"

  Then slowly I began pouting the water into the bowl.

  I could hear Thomas J counting. "One, two, three, four . . ."

  He was deliberately going slow.

  "Count!" I yelled.

  "Five, six, seven," he said. Slow. And sulky. "Eight."

  "I win!" I yelled.

  I flushed the toilet, then waited long enough so he would think I was getting myself fixed and all, and then came out. "I win!" I said. "I can pee longer than you."

  Together we went out on the porch to get our fishing poles.

  "You always win," Thomas J said, even though it wasn't true.

  "That's because my mom was an Arabian princess. They can hold their water like a camel."

  "She was not!" Thomas J said.

  I jumped on him suddenly and wrestled him to the porch floor. His glasses flew off.

  I sat on him. Hard. "Say my mother was an Arabian princess," I said.

  "No!" he yelled.

  I bounced up and down on his back.

  "Ouch!" he yelled.

  "Say it!" I said. I bounced again.

  "Okay, okay," he said. "She was an Arabian princess."

  I bounced again. "And the most beautiful woman in the whole world," I said.

  "And the most beautiful woman. Get off!" he said. I did.

  We both sat up, catching our breath.

  Thomas J found his glasses and put them back on.

  I bet my mother was beautiful. Funny, not to ever know. I'd seen pictures, but . . . I wondered if she stayed mad at me, like in heaven if she was mad.

  Suddenly Thomas J jumped up, grabbed his pole, and raced down the steps. "Your mother looked like the Mona Lisa!" he shouted.

  I raced after him. "Don't you say that about my mother!"

  He ran down the sidewalk toward the lake.

  I don't know why he bothers running. He must know I can always catch him.

  I grabbed my pole and caught up to him in less than a block, just at the edge of the lake.

  Thomas J circled away from me, keeping the willow tree between him and me.

  But I wasn't interested in catching him anymore. I was more interested in my plan for making money.

  "Hey, Thomas J," I said. "What about this—what if we catch some fish? Catch them and sell them. We can advertise fresh fish and say how people don't have to go to market or anything. We'll bring them to them fresh from the bay."

  "Bay?" Thomas J said, looking out over the small lake.

  "Well, you know. What do you think?"

  He shrugged. "I don't know. Will anyone really buy sunnies?"

  "If we catch big ones they might. And anyway, maybe there are other fish in the lake. Maybe there's . . . I don't know, trout or something."

  "Yeah!" Thomas J said. "Maybe salmon, even."

  I didn't know about that. Didn't salmon come from big streams or something—really big ones in the North?

  Anyway, it didn't matter. What mattered was getting money.

  "What do you need money for?" he asked.

  "That writing class," I said.

  "You're going to school in the summer?" Thomas J said. "Is it because of Mr. Bixler?"

  I wasn't going to answer that,

  "It's not exactly school," I said. "Come on, bait the hooks."

  Together, we put the lures on the hooks and dropped the hooks into the water.

  We sat there with our poles for a long time. But our lines were as still as if all the fish were dead.

  "Nothing's biting," I said.

  "Maybe they all had a big breakfast," Thomas J said. "I could lend you some money. I have five dollars in my piggy bank."

  "Thanks," I said. "But I'd still need another thirty. We'll catch something eventually. Let's hook our lines here over the branch. Then we can get up in the tree."

  So we dropped the lines over one of the low-hanging willow branches and let them dangle in the water that way.

  Then Thomas J and I both climbed up in the tree.

  Thomas J hooked his legs over a branch and swung upside down, letting his arms dangle over his head. As he flipped himself over, his glasses fell off.

  "Look at me," he said. "I'm going to be an acrobat when I grow up."

  "Big deal," I said. "I can do that. And my glasses won't fall off, either."

  "That's because you don't wear any."

  "Duh."

  Thomas J straightened up then. "Can you be an acrobat if you're scared of being up in high places?" he asked.

  I shrugged. "Why not? You'll get over it. I bet my dad was scared of dead people when he first started.

  He got over it. Hey, look!"

  "What?"

  "You got something. Your bobber! It's jiggling!"

  It was dancing around like he had a big fish.

  I jumped off the branch, and Thomas J jumped down, too. But he fell as he jumped, and landed on both knees.

  He is so clumsy! He was pawing around on the ground, looking for his glasses while I ran to the water.

  "I can't find them!" Thomas J yelled from behind me. "I can't see. Where are they?"

  "I'll help you in a minute!" I said. "I gotta reel him in."

  I grabbed his pole and began reeling the fish in.

  But in a minute Thomas J was beside me, glasses on. He grabbed the rod out of my hand and reeled it in the rest of the way. On the hook was a sunny—a very small sunny, not even as big as my hand.

  "It's only a sunny," I said. "No one will buy that. Throw it back."

  "I don't like touching fish," Thomas J said. He looked at me.

  I don't like touching fish, either. He knew that. So I wasn't offering.

  When Thomas J saw that I wasn't offering, he looked around. "I know what," he said.

  He laid the fish on the ground, then lightly put his foot on it. "I'm going to pull the hook out without having to touch him," he said. "Watch this."

  He pulled on the line. I could see the hook yanking at the fish's mouth.

  "You're hurting him!" I said. "Don't kill him."

  "I'm not trying to," Thomas J said. He pulled again, more gently. But I could see that the fish's mouth was still getting pulled sideways.

  I pushed Thomas J out of the way and picked up the fish. Very gently, I wriggled the hook until it was loose.

  It took a long time, but I didn't twist the fish's mouth anymore.

  When it was finally out, I threw the fish back in the water. But as I did, the line snapped back suddenly, and the hook snagged my thumb.

  "Ouch!" I yelled. "My thumb!"

  "What?" Thomas J said. He came over to me, trying to look over my shoulder, but I turned away, my thumb in my mouth.

  I didn't want him to see that I was almost crying.

  "You okay?" Thomas J asked.

  "Yeah. How about the fish? Is the fish all right?" I asked, my back turned to him.

  Thomas J didn't answer for a minute.

  I turned around, still sucking my thumb.

  Thomas J was standing at the edge of the lake looking in the water.

  "Did he swim away?" I asked.

  "Yeah, he's all right," Thomas J said.

  But when he turned to me, his face was beet red.

  He was lying, I knew. He always
turns red when he lies.

  Poor fish! I had killed him.

  "Let me see!" I said, and I started toward the edge of the lake.

  But Thomas J said, "Let's go!" And he started pushing me back. "I'm tired of fishing. Let me see your thumb."

  I let him see.

  "It's bleeding," he said.

  "Yeah."

  And then I had an idea—something I had read about lots of times. And since I didn't have a real brother or sister, or a mother . . .

  "Want to be blood brothers?" I said, holding up my bleeding thumb.

  "No, I don't want to. Come on."

  "All you'd have to do is pick that scab on your arm."

  "It's a mosquito bite."

  "It'll bleed," I said.

  He sighed. He was still standing between me and the place where I had tossed the fish back. "If I do it, can we go?" he said.

  "Yes."

  Thomas J sat down and began picking at the scab on his arm. He didn't even make a face like it was hurting or anything, although it must have hurt a little. It was just like he was a little kid in school, doing something he'd been told to do.

  I felt a little bad about it then, hoping it didn't hurt him, really.

  When it finally began to bleed, he held out his arm.

  "Okay," he said. "Here."

  "Hold still," I said. And I rubbed my finger on the bleeding place.

  "There," I said. "Now we're blood brothers for life."

  "Okay," Thomas J muttered, but he didn't sound particularly thrilled.

  We stood up and picked up our fishing poles and started for home.

  "Does it feel different?" I asked, when we were halfway down the block.

  "What? The scab?"

  I poked him. "No, dummy. Being blood brothers?"

  He didn't answer for a minute. And then he said, "Does it to you?"

  "I asked you first," I said.

  He didn't look at me. "No," he said finally.

  We were quiet for a while.

  "Does it to you?" he asked.

  "No," I answered, because I'm almost always honest with Thomas J.

  "It doesn't matter," Thomas J said softly. "We're practically brothers, anyway."

  CHAPTER VI

  Thomas J and I got back to my house just as Shelly was coming out onto the porch. She plopped down on the steps, kind of mad-looking.

  I sat down on the step beside her, and Thomas J sat on her other side. There was a basketball there, and I picked it up and began bouncing it between my feet.