He’s crazy about elephants in all shapes and sizes. He has this old worn-out wooden elephant he always carries around with him, even when going to the bathroom. I have tried to explain to him that he shouldn’t bring toys to the restroom, but when I tried to take it from him, he started screaming and tried to hit me.
He loves to paint and draw, and he made me this little drawing with an elephant and two people standing next to it. I asked him, “Who are the two people next to it?” “You and me, Miss Teacher,” he said with the biggest smile on his face. I told him he was a true little Picasso, but it was pretty clear that he has absolutely no clue who Picasso is.
And, yes, I can just hear you now, saying I’m always getting too attached to my pupils. And I know, but you should just see them, just spend a day with them, and I know you would feel the same way. You would want to take care of each and every one of them. And in a way, since we still haven’t any children of our own, they pretty much are my children. All of them, especially Thomas.
You should see the look on his face when he is concentrating on one of the projects, or when he is telling a story, or even unpacking his lunch. He has that look of a “thinker” — constantly solving problems in his head.
Well, enough about school. Enough about Thomas. How are you, my dear? Do you miss me loudly? You still haven’t met the queen of Denmark, I guess? Any news on that promotion? I’m dying to hear. Write soon, please. I’ll be waiting.
Love,
Martha.
PS. Another movie question (and no, it’s not about men in tights): Did you by any chance hear of this new movie Raiders of the Lost Ark with Harrison Ford, the one who played Han Solo in Star Wars? He plays an archaeologist, searching for some lost ark before the Nazis get their hands on it. Very action-packed and Harrison Ford is brilliant (and I must add, very sexy). Rachel and I watched it last night at the opening night at the old movie theater on third and twenty second. You have to see it. It’s just-
“—I remember,” Miss T interrupted with excitement in her tiny voice. “I saw that movie! Georgie and I went that very same night—opening night, at the movie theater on Third. It was utterly amazing. I fell in love with Harrison Ford right away. She’s right, your Martha. He was, well still is, very sexy.”
We both looked at Miss T. I hadn’t thought about it until now, but Miss T and Martha had both lived in Seattle (at least in the early eighties), they were probably about the same age—give or take— so in theory they could’ve met back then, somewhere at some point. The thought was both a little spooky and quite exciting.
“You and Martha at the same movie theater, drooling over Harrison Ford? I didn’t even think about it until now, but I guess you must have been about the same age as Martha in eighty-one?”
“Do we know how old she is?” Miss T questioned as she sipped her tea.
“Nope.”
“Abby?”
Mom shook her head.
Mom and I had already talked about this. There had been no mention of age in any of the letters, and why would there be? It’s not like you would write a letter with a proclamation of age in the very first sentence, and today I’m seventeen years and two hundred and thirty-seven days old.
“We don’t know for sure,” Mom said, but she had done a little bit of female math—her words—and had estimated that Martha had to be somewhere between thirty and thirty-five back then. “How did you come up with that number?” I had asked (being the one with the record-low SAT Math score). Mom figured that if they had been trying to get pregnant for nine years, she had to be about that age, assuming they started around twenty or twenty-five at the latest, which, Mom argued, was what couples did in the seventies and eighties.
Miss T crumpled her eyebrows, seeming to be doing a bit of math too. “Let’s see, they had been trying to make a baby for how long?” She looked at Mom for help.
“Nine years?” Mom said in a suggestive tone of voice.
Miss T started counting with her fingers. “I’d say thirty-four,” she said when she was done counting. (I guess she was good with female math as well.)
Mom looked at me and raised an eyebrow as if to say “Impressive, little Miss T.”
Miss T took a sip of her tea and looked at Mom. “I was about that age when I ... when we stopped trying.”
“Trying?” Mom squinted her eyes at her.
“Trying to have a baby, too.” She paused and looked down into her cup. “I was about twenty-five when we started. That’s why I guessed she must have been around thirty-three or thirty-four.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.” Mom sat down her cup.
“But, dear,” Miss T said, gently placing her hand on top of Mom’s, “that was ages ago.” She leaned over and looked at me, smiling. “Now what’s with the promotion? And what’s with this queen and men in tights?” She raised her painted eyebrows at Mom. “Tights?” she repeated in a pitchy voice, giving me a peculiar look.
Mom and I exchanged glances and both started laughing. “I know, I know,” Mom said, drying her eyes with a soaking-wet sleeping bag. “I know. It’s far out, us sitting here night after night, falling head over heels in love with two people who happened to write a couple of love letters years ago. Forgive us for being so crazy, Miss T. That’s what we are, Ella. Crazy,” she said, catching her breath.
Miss T jumped to her little feet. “But I love it. I just love it, every little bit of it. You two crazy girls doing this, and of course I love this amazing Martha person. Who wouldn’t? Just the way she writes—with so much passion about almost everything. I love it. I just love it. And how she describes the love for her students; it’s heartbreaking. I used to be a teacher, too, you know.”
“Yes.” Mom nodded.
Miss T sat down again. “I had a little favorite student as well. Her name was Jessica, and she had the most beautiful, long, thick, brown hair—always braided—and she was always wearing a purple dress, the same, I think. She was half French, half Canadian and had the most beautiful accent. When she spoke, it was like velvet was coming out of her mouth. I would almost cry when it was her turn to read out loud. But then one day she was just gone. Gone! Apparently, her parents had gotten jobs somewhere else. I never found out where, but I cried on the bus going home that day. I guess, in a way, I had grown to love her, too.” Miss T paused and looked at Mom. “I guess in many ways my students became my kids, too. Maybe it was because of all that longing to have my own, but I did love them like they were my own children. I don’t expect you to understand—having your own child, that is.”
Mom looked down at her feet and nodded. “I guess,” she said, a little too sad.
I looked at Miss T. How I wanted to tell her that, of all people, Mom would understand, but I didn’t. Instead I started to clear the improvised table.
“You okay?” Miss T questioned from behind my back.
“Uh-huh,” Mom assured her, “just a little tired,” she said, lying too easily. She couldn’t fool me. “I guess it’s almost time for bed, girls.” She stretched her arms high up in the air and faked a yawn.
“One more, please.” Miss T cocked her head to the side and smiled. She sure had been right about the hair; underneath the curlers, tiny meatballs were starting to show. “The hair?” she said, trying to look up at her own scalp.
We both nodded as I tried to hide my big grin behind an empty cup of tea.
“I told you. Meatballs!” Gently, she cupped her hair. “Now go on. Just one more,” she said, still trying to look up at the meatballs.
So, in honor of Miss T joining the book club, we decided to read yet another letter, this time a C-letter. Back to Copenhagen.
My Martha,
I’m thrilled to hear how happy you are. If I listen closely, I can almost hear your voice between the lines. I think your work keeps you busy with good thoughts and feelings and takes focus away from unhappy thoughts and worrying (just what the doctor ordered, besides an apple a day). I’m not sure what to say about
your adultery, though, and not just with one, but with two guys; Thomas and the handsome Harrison (and no, I haven’t seen the movie.) And contrary to what you might think, I do think it’s wonderful that you get so involved with your students. If not, why would you choose to be a teacher to begin with? They need you, and I hope they know how lucky they are to have a teacher like you. Not many teachers would care the way you do. You are a fantastic teacher and some day you’re going to make the best mother, too! You are the most lovable woman in the world, and of course Thomas loves you (I can’t think of any man who wouldn’t). I still remember the looks all the guys gave you in high school, and how jealous it would make me feel. But look who’s laughing now—all the way from Denmark—the man who got the best girl in town!
I am jealous, though, of the kiss. I would love to kiss those sweet lips of yours right now, for hours and hours.
Not much to report from this part of the world. Everything is cool in the state of Denmark. Last night Lars took me to see an old classic Danish movie with no subtitles, I might add. It is called OLSEN BANDEN; a comedy about three very clumsy con artists trying to rob some local drugstore. Of course, nothing goes according to plan, and the main protagonist goes to jail once again (the movies are part of a series, and this is how the story goes every time. Lars explained to me afterwards). I didn’t understand a word of it, but, oh boy, I did understand all the cross-cultural scenes with half-naked and fully naked women, and this was supposedly a family movie. I tell you, Danish people have a very radical, free-spirited view on sex, nakedness, and breasts in particular. Are there any Danish movies without naked breasts?
Anyway, after the movie we went to Nyhavn, a cozy neighborhood and strip of restaurants right off the canals in Copenhagen. If I hadn’t known I was in Denmark, I would have thought this was Amsterdam; it looks like I imagine Amsterdam would. We had a fun night with a nice dinner and drinks (giving me a slight headache this morning). Of course, we mostly talked about you. Again.
Darling, until you call me again, I love you, teacher Martha, and I always will.
Yours,
F.
Mom reached over and turned off the lamp. Exhaustion thick in her voice she said, “The end,” and sat up. She unzipped the sleeping bag and started folding it neatly.
“Oh my,” Miss T gasped, “he’s even more breathtaking than Martha.” Solemnity painted her face as she looked at Mom and me. “Book night, tomorrow?”
“I think you’re in love. That sure didn’t take you long.” Mom stood up. “She’s already hooked,” she said, looking at me. “Two letters in and she’s addicted.”
Miss T let out a soft giggle and said, “You two.” Then she stretched her short little arms in the air. “Well, it’s time for this little woman to head back home.” She jumped down from the bed and picked up her wet pink slippers from the floor. “Thanks for a most wonderful evening. I just loved every single moment of it.” She turned toward Mom. “What about the pajamas?” She looked down at herself.
“You can leave it on, of course. And I’ll sort out all of your wet clothes tomorrow.” She rubbed her eyes and opened up the door with her elbow.
“But you don’t have to. I can bring them with me now,” Miss T said following in Mom’s footsteps down the hallway.
“But I want to,” Mom said in a nonnegotiable voice, “and you are bringing my umbrella, too.” She grabbed the huge dotted umbrella from the holder—an item acquired from the shed, of course. We had never had an umbrella holder before; but then again, we had never lived in Seattle before.
Miss T looked up at Mom with warm eyes. “Thank you so much, Abby. You are so considerate.” She grabbed the huge umbrella. It was almost as tall as her. “Well, until we meet again.” She put on her pink slippers and marched out the door. Halfway down the steps she turned and looked at me and whispered, “Good night, Miss C.”
I whispered back, “Good night, Miss T.” And then the little woman with meatball hair faded into the night rain.
Save the tuna
Mom and Dad were sitting at the kitchen table having breakfast when I finally got out of bed Sunday morning. “Good morning, sleeping beauty,” Dad greeted me in a sing-song voice.
I plopped down into the chair next to him. “Morning.” I wasn’t exactly singing back. I had a terrible headache and a sore throat, and the thought of coffee, bright sunlight, or early-rising happy campers was just too much.
Mom placed a cup of coffee in front of me and said in a voice too loud, “Wake up, sleepy head!”
I looked up at her with one eye. “I think I might be coming down with something. I’m going back to bed.”
She felt my forehead. “Well, it’s not that bad.” She glanced at Dad and placed her hands demonstratively on her hips. “Are you trying to get out of today? It wouldn’t be a first, you know,” she said, teasing.
“Today?” I said, having truly no idea what she was referring to.
“The ‘Save what you can.’”
I took a quick glance at the piece of toast in the breadbasket. Apparently, Mom and Dad had been up for a long time. I scrunched my eyebrows at her to signify my confusion again.
“The food drive,” Dad said, grabbing a piece of dried-up toast.
“Oh,” I said, vaguely remembering something about Mom organizing this volunteer event with all of her new Starbucks friends.
“Well, are you coming or not?” She looked down at her cup and took in the smell of coffee.
“It could be a great way to meet some new friends,” Dad said, looking at me from the corner of his eyes.
“Or guys,” Mom added with a big coffee-stained smile.
“Or girls,” Dad insisted. He looked at the toast and decided against it, tossing it into the sink behind him.
“Maybe,” I said, clearing my throat. It was still sore.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” Mom looked at Dad. “Besides, I promised all the girls that my beautiful daughter would be there.” She walked over and grabbed the coffee pot and turned to me. “I’m bringing this to the bathroom,” she said, nodding at her cup. “Now you two go get ready.” She looked at her watch. “We leave in fifty.”
Exactly fifty minutes later we were in the car–destination: “Save what you can” in Redmond. In the rain.
“So when we get there, I want you,” Mom turned in her seat, “to be in charge of the lottery.”
“Is there a lottery?” I asked in a groggy voice. “I thought it was a freaking food drive?”
“It is a freaking food drive,” she said, mocking my tone, “but we thought it would be fun if there was some kind of prize for people who show up. It always draws a crowd, you know.”
“I guess.” I looked up into the heavy skies above us. It appeared to have stopped raining.
“All you need to do is give people a lottery ticket to fill out, and at the end of the day we will draw a winner.”
“Sweet,” I said, still looking up.
“But you are also helping me and Dad,” she said, looking over at Dad, “with sorting out all the different bags of food.”
“Okay,” Dad said, not exactly thrilled.
“Come on, you two. We’ll have fun.” She turned and smiled at me. “Right?”
“Right,” I said as a new drop of rain landed on my window.
THE FIRST THING I NOTICED was a handful of cute guys carrying boxes from a big truck parked on the sidewalk. “Volunteers?” I asked Mom as we were unloading the car.
She nodded. “Tags,” she said in the direction of the cute ones. I looked at them; they were all wearing the same nametags as us. Sometimes it bugs me the way she gives short answers, expecting everyone around her to know exactly what she’s thinking or talking about.
“I thought we were here to pick up food, not guys,” Dad said from behind my back.
I turned and smiled at him. “Ha ha ha, very funny, Dad.”
“I say you can pick up anything you like.” Mom lifted a heavy box of lottery ticke
ts and posters and started walking. “Keep the pace,” she yelled all the way from the table, standing in the middle of nowhere.
Dad locked the car, and we joined Mom at the stranded table. Without looking up, she handed us a few posters and a roll of tape. “Wherever you can find a spot.” She looked up and smiled at me. “The short guy with the blond hair?” she said, looking in the direction of the group of guys. I turned my head slightly, pretending not to look, of course. There were four very cute guys—all about the same age, but each quite different-looking. The one standing right beside the truck was tall and skinny with dark hair and sideburns. The one next to him, tall as well, had a lot of blond hair tucked under a Tony Stewart cap. The two other guys were shorter; one had a shaved head and a few tattoos showing, and the other guy had blond hair and a square face and was looking our way. Quickly, I looked at Mom and tried to nod without moving my head.
“I tell you, hon,” Mom turned around and faced Dad, “she has a good taste in men. Just like her mom, huh?”
Dad grabbed her around the waist. “Come here, my tree-hugging wife. Kiss me,” he demanded, peeking at the guys with one eye.
“Oh, Frank,” Mom mumbled from Dad’s chest.
“Oh, Abby,” Dad gasped.
Oh please!
When I was growing up, I remember how I always felt a little odd around my hippie parents. Not only did they dress very differently from the other moms and dads (Dad in his politically correct t-shirts saying stuff like “No war,” “Don’t eat canned tuna,” or “Bush sucks!” Mom in her long skirts, overalls, and oversized t-shirts; her favorite one being an “All you need is love” t-shirt she had found at this flea market in San Francisco). They were also very straight forward in their behavior (like kissing—tongues and everything—in the middle of a shopping mall), which embarrassed me at times. I remember many school meetings where Mom or Dad would show up to express their opinions on something, and I could tell that most of the other parents and kids found them a bit ridiculous. It was the twenty-first century and a little too earthy to suggest changes like removing politically incorrect tuna or processed food from the school kitchen altogether. Or introducing less structure and discipline for the younger classes. I guess it was the wrong decade to be a true hippie. All my schoolmates thought there was no discipline at my house, no structure, no authority figures, no rules, and definitely no canned tuna or white bread.
Lost in Seattle (The Miss Apple Pants series, #2) Page 12