Lizzie!

by Maxine Kumin

  I found out later that Josh does the Sudoku and the Jumble too.

  I asked him, “Don’t you hate it when you can’t get the numbers to come out right?”

  “It’s worse when there’s a perfectly simple word in the Jumble. I can waste half a pad of paper trying to get helium, for instance.”

  I knew what he meant. “Or even worse, fedora.”

  Maybe we both read a lot because we’re both in wheelchairs. And I love algebra and Latin. They’re both so, I don’t know how to describe them, I guess I’d say because they’re so orderly. I’m taking first-year Latin and it’s my favorite subject. Josh is taking it too. Latin just makes better sense than English. If you look at sink, sank, sunk or drink, drank, drunk you can’t help wondering why we have to say think, thought. Or get, got, or make, made. If we say declensions and conjugations it’s like we’re speaking a secret language. We could make up a code using the cases genitive, ablative, dative to stand for the villains in a mystery story. Let’s say Jennifer Genitive has a dog. The eyes of her dog are dark brown. That’s the genitive, or possessive, case. Alex Ablative finds some fleas on her dog. The ablative almost always involves a preposition, like on, to, with, and so on. Dave Dative forgot to offer food to his dog. Food is the direct object and to his dog is the indirect. But we agreed that it just gets too complicated to explain if you haven’t studied Latin.

  CHAPTER 5

  I think I already said that Teresa and Digger are just about our best friends here. They live a little way up the beach from us in an apartment their daughter Aurelia found for them. We’re next to the right-of-way, which is a path from the street to the beaches. The law says that the beaches belong to everybody, but there are only a few places to get to them from the street and ours is one. We get joggers early in the morning, some of them with dogs, and then later on we get some people who drag in their beach chairs and baby oil and lie down to bake. I feel sorry for them because it has been scientifically proven that all that tanning is bad for you but some people don’t know it yet.

  Being next to the right-of-way means we can pretty much see every person who comes down the path or walks out on the jetty. Sitting on the back porch gives a pretty good view of any comings and goings. I like to sit there with my binocs—that’s what the birder people call them—and check out the shore birds.

  One Saturday night Mom and I were watching TV in Teresa and Digger’s living room and eating chicken fajitas from these little snack trays Teresa opened out. It seemed we were hanging out there more often than we did in our place. I guess it felt more like home somehow. And the two of them felt so kind of homey to me that I finally asked them if they would be my family.

  “You mean like honorary grandparents?” Teresa asked. And I said yes. Then Digger said, “I am honored to be your abuelito, Lizzie, mi amor.” And Teresa smiled and hugged me so I knew she was now my abuelita. So now I had grandparents even if I didn’t have a father. That wasn’t so special. I knew lots of kids at my old school in Wisconsin who didn’t have fathers. Actually, they did have them but the fathers didn’t live with them and they only got to see them like every other weekend. I think that is worse than not having any father at all because every time you meet you’re like two different people and you have to explain yourself all over again.

  There are kids here in my new school who have to spend half their time with their mother and the other half with their father. Or live with their mother and go every other weekend to stay with their father. My friend Josh has two parents who live together, though. I know this because some mornings they’re together in the van delivering him, so that pretty much has to mean they spent the night together, doesn’t it?

  Digger is full of wonderful stories of adventures he had being chief of police.

  “Did you have a gun in California?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you still have it? Can I see it?”

  He went in the other room and trotted out with it. It’s a Beretta but it didn’t have any bullets in it. “Were there ever any murders in your town?”

  He got all solemn and said yes, there had been a terrible one last year before they came east, and he’d solved it but he didn’t want to talk about it. I asked Teresa later and she told me it involved a beautiful young woman, but that’s all she’d say.

  Digger told me about his men’s poker group that meets every Tuesday night. “Any money left in the kitty goes to charity.”

  “Kitty?”

  “That’s the money on the table from what each man bets.”

  “But aren’t you supposed to win?”

  “Yes, chica, in a real game. But we only bet for fun.”

  I was still pretty confused. Like why is it a kitty and not a doggie? But at that point their daughter Aurelia arrived with her live-in boyfriend Tom Rohrsbach. It was the first time we’d met him.

  After we shook hands, he said, “What happens when one lion meets another lion? It roars back.” I thought that was a lame sort of way to explain how to pronounce his name but I smiled. I don’t think he saw me roll my eyes when he turned to say something to Digger. From then on I called him Tom the Lion to myself. Aurelia’s nickname is Lia and she’s climbing the corporate ladder in finance. That means she’s getting to be an important person with lots of people working for her and she travels a lot, which is why she changed her name to Martin.

  It’s legal to change your name if you’re a grown-up. Someday I’d like to change mine to Simone.

  “Simone Peterlinz,” I say, trying it out loud in private. It sounds sort of mysterious. Lizzie, which stands for Elizabeth, is so plain. Anyway, Lia said Martin was simpler for hotel clerks and for boarding passes but I think Teresa and Digger’s feelings were hurt. It was like she was saying she didn’t want anybody to know she was Latina. Instead, I think she should be proud of it. You should hear Digger talk about the border fence our country is building.

  “My ancestors were living in the US two hundred years ago. They never crossed any border. The border crossed them.”

  And then he went on to explain about the Mexican-American War that happened before the Civil War. I never knew about that war or the treaty that made Texas and California and so on into states.

  Digger’s great-great-grandparents practically founded Santa Fe, New Mexico.

  “They were living there long before it became a city. So maybe they didn’t stand up and announce it but it’s where I came from.”

  If I had Lia’s heritage—heritage means what’s come down to you from your parents and grandparents and so on—I’d be very proud. My mother’s parents are dead and I don’t have a father, so it’s like I don’t have any heritage except for what my mother can tell me. Our last name Peterlinz is most likely German or Austrian, she says, but it goes back about five generations in the US, so she can’t tell me much.

  Digger’s a total insomniac, he just can’t sleep. Well, he falls asleep but he’s up at three or four a.m. roaming around. He complains a lot about leaving California, but at least Aurelia found them a ground-floor apartment on the ocean, and it’s not in a high-rise. “All the snowbirds who live here sit around on their little balconies reading mystery novels till suppertime. Then they all dress up in their party clothes and get in their big old Lincoln Town Cars and drive to a steak house or a seafood place for dinner,” Digger says. “They all drive off at seven like a flock of seagulls and they’re back with their heads tucked under their wings by ten.”

  He says he would hate to live on the ninth floor of a modern pink apartment building. He has to be able to open the door and put his feet on the ground. We’re lucky to be on a stretch of beach where everything is grandfathered. That means the low-rise buildings and little cottages like ours were built before there were a bunch of rules and nobody can come in and build on top of us.

  CHAPTER 6

  Being a feminist doesn’t mean you don’t like men,” Mom said.

  She was making pancakes for Trippy and me and
we had real maple syrup to put on them. Trippy’s mom sent the maple syrup as a house present and we didn’t waste any time getting into it.

  I had just read the article about Mom in the Wisconsin Register that had come in the mail. It said, “Rebecca Peterlinz is a prominent feminist.”

  “It’s not a big deal, Lizzie. It means you believe in equality between men and women in everything. For instance, who gets tenure at the university and who gets elected to Congress shouldn’t be based on gender, but on who’s best for the job.”

  “So gender is another way of saying sex? Because it sounds better in public? Sex just sounds … sexy,” Trippy said.

  Mom laughed. “Good point, Trip. That’s why you say gender politics. Think if you said sex politics how confused people would be.”

  And I said, “I’m planning to be a feminist someday too. If only boys weren’t such jerks. Please pass the maple syrup.”

  “Women can be jerks too, Lizzie. The point is equality. You can’t discriminate.”

  After breakfast we were going out with Aurelia and Tom the Lion and Digger and Teresa to watch the parasail competition. They have them every Sunday. This was instead of a date. A week ago, Tom the Lion had said he wanted to fix my mother up with one of his friends on a date and the four of them could go out some evening.

  “I don’t think so, thanks anyway,” my mom said, and she said it as if he had offered to introduce her to a friendly alligator.

  So Lia proposed parasailing instead.

  “Lizzie and Trippy would love it, Becca.” That’s what she calls my mom now, which shows the two of them have definitely bonded. Bonding is one of those words the school counselor uses during her consultations with my mother. As in I haven’t bonded yet with any of the kids at Graver. She didn’t know about Josh.

  So we did all go, and Tom the Lion’s friend that he wanted my mom to meet turned out to be nothing like Tom. Instead, he was more like the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz, skinny with long arms that he kept folding and unfolding in a raggedy sweater. He had soft brown eyes that were almost too big for his face and enough wrinkles to show he had suffered a lot. Trippy and I found out later that afternoon that his wife had died of cancer two years ago and that she had knitted that sweater. We were eavesdropping on Lia and my mom while we watched all these fantastic guys, and some women too, sort of ski along behind a boat and then be lifted up into the sky by their parachutes and sail until they ran out of wind and came down gracefully. Trippy screamed at the first one. She was sure he would fall down and drown—that’s so like Trippy!—but she was loving it.

  Most of them glided down safely. A couple did a nosedive and I was scared too that they were killed, but they came back up to the surface and got hauled into the boat. The winner was supposed to be the skier who had stayed up in the air longest and come down the farthest distance from the starting line. But it was awfully hard to tell who’d gone the farthest because the ocean water never stays still, and even if you put down a marker it can float away.

  First prize was two free parasails and the runner-up got one. I guess if you’re into parasailing those are good prizes. I was thinking a hundred dollars for a prize would be better but I didn’t say it out loud.

  After that, we all went to a local fair nearby. It was kind of tacky, with stands selling hot dogs and cotton candy and a midway full of games where if you shot the nose off the picture of a clown’s face, you won a prize. The main attraction was the Ferris wheel.

  I’d never been up in a Ferris wheel but I didn’t want to say I didn’t want to go. Somehow, Digger scooped me up and I got paired in one chair with him and my mom and the Scarecrow were in the one in front of us. Lia rode with Tom the Lion and Teresa rode with Trippy. She said she would keep Trippy calm in case we got stuck up in the air. That really scared me but I didn’t let on.

  Finally all the seats were taken and we began to go up in the sky. Music was playing and people were screaming. I could recognize Trippy’s scream. I thought I was going to pass out once we got up to the top because the wheel did get stuck, though I found out later that they stop it on purpose on every ride and it was just our luck that Digger and I were at the apex—that means at the very top. Then I saw that the Scarecrow had his arm around my mom and she was hiding her head on his chest, so I knew she was just as scared as I was, and for some reason that made me feel better. When we got down, Teresa said, “How does it feel to be back on terra firma? Ready for another ride?”

  So I lied and said sure, it was lots of fun but not right now, thank you.

  As Digger settled me back down in my wheelchair he whispered, “I was so scared mi amor. I was glad I had you to hold onto.” That’s what he’s like, my honorary abuelo. Lia and Tom the Lion and the Scarecrow, whose real name I found out is Robert Jacobson—“Call me Rob”—came back to our house afterward. They all sat around on the back porch facing the ocean drinking wine and eating salted peanuts. Trippy and I had orange juice with seltzer water and goldfish crackers while the Scarecrow talked about his recent cases. Turns out he’s a partner in a big important law firm in Miami whose clients are mostly white-collar criminals, people who committed fraud or embezzled, both things I had to look up. They’re both about ways to steal a lot of money, but not with a gun. But a lot of the Scarecrow’s clients are immigrants whose work visas have run out or whose work visas are fake or who never had one in the first place. He can afford to take their cases because of the big-name firm he works for. This is how he explained it.

  “Cases where they borrow money to buy a fake work visa and a fake driver’s license so they can get a job so they can pay off the man who made the fake visa, but then they can never make enough money to send to their hungry families back home.” He also takes juvenile cases, kids under eighteen who’ve gotten into trouble, and the stories of their lives are so sad.

  I never knew how many sad stories there were right here in Florida, never mind in Africa and Afghanistan and so on. Kids in trouble for shoplifting. Burglary. Drugs. Gangs. Even attempted murder and some real murders too.

  “A lot of these kids come from broken homes,” the Scarecrow said. “Getting into a gang is their way of getting to have a family. And to get in you have to prove yourself.”

  “How?” I asked him.

  “You have to prove how bad you are. So you go along as if it were a joyride. You break a window and enter someone’s house while they’re away.”

  “And then what?”

  “You grab whatever you think you can sell. Jewelry. Computers. Kitchen stuff, like carving knives. Or you break into a drugstore in the middle of the night and steal some drugs. That’s real trouble.”

  “So how can you help?”

  “I can represent them in court. I can advise them beforehand. Sometimes I go visit the family, if there’s a family, and get some background.”

  “And you tell the judge about the background?”

  Rob the Scarecrow smiled. He spread his hands out. “Sometimes it can help. It’s called mitigating circumstances.”

  That was another one I was going to look up later.

  “He does a lot for those kids,” Tom the Lion said. “Everybody in the firm knows he’s a soft touch.”

  I didn’t have to ask what a soft touch was. I liked finding out that he had started out as a public defender and he liked working with kids. But I did sort of dream about the Scarecrow and my mom, like maybe if they fell in love they might get married, and then I’d have a real father, not just an intelligent sperm.

  Then everybody but Trippy and me went for a walk on the beach to watch the sun go down. That is a favorite activity around here because at the very last minute it’s supposed to turn green. Well, greenish.

  I said, “I’ve seen it go down one zillion times, so I’ll just stay here and watch the sandpipers.”

  And Trippy said, “I’ll stay with Lizzie.” That’s what a good friend does.

  We took turns with the binocs watching a bunch of sandpipers m
aking a mad dash down to pick up tiny bits to eat before the next wave came in and they skittered up the beach to stay dry. Down and up, down and up, it was really close through my binoculars.

  “I don’t know how they know,” Trippy said. “I mean, when the next wave’s coming, so they get to run ahead of it.”

  “You have to have a sandpiper brain for that.” And we laughed.

  And then we took turns watching three couples walking into the just-setting sun until they looked like paper silhouettes. I got a really good look at one of those couples, which was my mom and Rob the Scarecrow whose arm was around her, snugged up closer than on the Ferris wheel. And I thought maybe it was close to time for him to kiss her.

  CHAPTER 7

  Mom said we could go back to Henry’z Petting Zoo one more time before Trippy had to fly back to Wisconsin. But every day was so full of looking for cool shells for Trippy to take home, and going swimming, floating on our backs and making up stories for each other, and visiting with Teresa and Digger that it turned out there was only one day left.

  The next morning we packed a picnic lunch for the three of us and pecans and apple slices for the bears.

  Henry was full of smiles when he let us in again.

  “It’s even better the second time,” Trippy said. “I just feel like I’ve been living here all along. They’re both crawling all over me to get at the apple slices.”

  “And you’re not getting nipped?”

  “Nope. But I’m careful to watch where their mouths are.”

  “In the wild, bears eat just about anything, like grubs, grapes, berries, even birds’ eggs. Henry feeds them ‘bear food.’ It looks like dog kibble.”