by Ann Hood
“Trudy!” my mother yelled. “Answer the door!”
“It’s those guys selling encyclopedias,” I told her.
Two guys in black suits really did appear every few months hoping to sell us encyclopedias, even though we already had a set of encyclopedias.
The doorbell rang again.
“Well, tell them we already have a set!” Mom called.
“You told me never to open the door to strangers,” I said, stalling.
If I opened the door, would I have to let Peter in? And then what would I do?
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mom muttered.
I kind of held my breath, but the doorbell stayed silent. Back at the window, I peeked through the blinds and saw Peter on his bike, heading down the street. The next day I wasn’t as fortunate.
* * *
* * *
“How are my peonies?” Mom asked me that dreadful afternoon.
“Fine?” I said, because I hadn’t noticed her peonies at all.
Mom frowned.
“Pink?” I offered.
“Go check them, Trudy,” she said.
I was starting to think that all Mom had to do these days was think up stuff for me to do.
“Check them how?” I asked. “Can you be specific?”
“See if they look healthy,” she said. “Make sure they’re watered. Oh! And choose the two or three nice ones and cut them so we can put them in that nice round crystal vase.”
I groaned. This task was certain to cause me lots of problems.
“Make sure to cut ones that aren’t open yet,” Mom called after me as I went to fetch the garden scissors.
I hadn’t even stepped outside and I was already confused. So I went back into the living room.
“Cut closed peonies?” I said.
Mom had opened Tai-Pan, the big fat book she was reading—If I have to sit here all summer I might as well learn something! It was about an English guy who wants to turn the island of Hong Kong into a fortress for Britain in the nineteenth century, and once she started reading it, good luck getting her attention.
“Make sure they’re hard as marbles,” Mom said without looking up. She was lost in China with the book’s hero, Dirk Struan.
I got the gardening scissors and went outside on my mission. There they were, the peonies, all pink and feathery. They really were pretty, and I felt confident that I could report to Mom that the peonies were doing just fine. I filled the big green watering can with water from the hose and sprinkled around the peonies and the other flowers, too, just to be safe. Then I stood examining the peonies, trying to decide which two or three I should pick.
That’s when Peter showed up on his bike.
There I stood, holding that giant watering can, the front of my T-shirt and shorts wet from all the watering I’d done. I was barefoot, and my feet were kind of dirty from being in the garden. And I hadn’t even combed my hair because why bother when all you do is run around taking orders from your mother all day?
“What are you doing here?” I asked him.
“I have important information,” Peter said.
“About?”
“The Beatles,” he said.
“What?”
“Two words,” Peter said. “Hotel Somerset.”
“Peter, I am out here choosing two or three perfect peonies to bring inside to my invalid mother. Could you just spit it out?”
“That’s where they’re staying in Boston,” he said. “The Hotel Somerset. Corner of Commonwealth Avenue and Charlesgate East.”
“Not the Parker House?”
“Nope. The Hotel Somerset.”
“Are you a hundred percent sure?”
He grinned. “I am.”
He got back on his bike. But he didn’t go away.
“Do you know what you’re going to say to him?” Peter asked me.
I shook my head. “Not yet. Do you?”
Peter grinned. “Yup.”
Before I could say anything more, he was off, leaving me to figure out how to modify our plan. How were we ever going to get from Suffolk Downs to the Hotel Somerset in time to catch the Beatles before they disappeared inside?
* * *
* * *
Out of desperation and hope I wrote a bunch of letters to Paul McCartney. Technically, it was six copies of the same letter.
Dear Paul,
I am the president of the Robert E. Quinn Beatles Fan Club, the oldest Beatles Fan Club in the entire state of Rhode Island. The entire fan club is attending the Beatles concert in Boston on August 18. Would it be possible to meet with you afterward? We won’t take up too much of your time—we know how tired you must be after a concert! But if we could take one picture with you and get autographs, we would be most grateful.
Eagerly awaiting your reply.
Your biggest fan,
Trudy Mixer
My brilliant idea was that instead of sending the letters to the general address where every letter to every Beatle went, I could send mine to the stadiums where the Beatles were performing all summer. Who else would get such a brilliant idea? Practically a no-fail idea. I could almost see it, the secretary of the president of the stadium going through his mail, seeing the pale blue envelope addressed to Paul McCartney in perfect penmanship, and handing it to her boss. “A letter for Mr. McCartney, sir,” she’d say, and the president of the stadium saying, “I’ll give it to him personally.”
As I licked each envelope closed and stuck a stamp on it, I felt hopeful. I’d included my address and my phone number so Paul would know how to reach me. Or maybe before he introduced one of the songs during the concert he’d say, “Trudy Mixer, please come backstage after the show.”
International Amphitheatre, Chicago, Illinois
Olympia Stadium, Detroit, Michigan
Cleveland Stadium, Cleveland, Ohio
DC Stadium, Washington, DC
John F. Kennedy Stadium, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania
Maple Leaf Gardens, Toronto, Canada
I stacked them up and headed to the mailbox, feeling very excited about the idea that one of them might end up in Paul McCartney’s hand. His left hand, I thought, because Paul was a southpaw. I sighed. I knew every single thing about Paul McCartney. Surely my knowledge and devotion would mean something to the part of the universe that decided who got what.
It was so hot out that the air felt like a wet heavy blanket. I shifted my grip on the letters so my sweat didn’t blur the ink. At the mailbox I took a deep breath, almost wishing I had one of Jessica’s dumb good-luck charms.
“Here goes,” I said, and opened the slot. “Please find your way to Paul McCartney,” I whispered as I dropped the letters inside.
“Is that Gertrude Mixer talking to a mailbox?” a familiar, irritating voice said.
I turned to find not just Kim, owner of the voice, but the entire Future Cheerleaders Club standing on the opposite corner. They didn’t look hot and miserable like I felt. Instead, they had golden tans and perfect ponytails and clean white Keds without even one scuff mark, and they were all dressed in identical white shorts and cute red T-shirts.
“Trudy,” I said, trying to sound like I wasn’t a person with dirty feet and sweaty hair and flushed cheeks. “My name is Trudy.”
They seemed to all giggle at once.
“Do you think there’s a hidden camera in there and you’re going to be on Candid Camera?” Kim asked with a smirk.
“I’m just mailing letters to Paul McCartney,” I said.
They giggled again.
Becky said, “The Beatles are okay, I guess. But the Rolling Stones are so much cooler.”
Standing in the middle of the Future Cheerleaders I saw Michelle looking down at her Keds. Was she embarrassed for them? Or for me?
The cheerleaders stared at me and I stared back at them. Until finally Kim started a repeat-after-me song—Quinn is great and Quinn is good! And they all answered Quinn is great and Quinn is good!—and they marched off down the street.
I still stood there, watching them and telling myself that not one of them was going to meet Paul McCartney. Not one.
“Sound off! One two!” Kim called and they all responded, “One two!”
I felt tears burning my eyes and I had a terrible thought: I was jealous. Of Michelle and Kim and all of those happy clean girls singing their way down the street. All I had was an invalid mother, three oddball friends, a father who didn’t know I was alive anymore, and a sliver of hope that meeting Paul McCartney could change all that.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Paperback Writer
REVISED OPERATION MEET PAUL MCCARTNEY
THE ROBERT E. QUINN BEATLES FAN CLUB PLAN B:
August 18, 1966
Jessica and Trudy tell parents they are having a sleepover at Nora’s. Nora tells parents she is sleeping over at Trudy’s. Peter tells parents he is on a campout with sixth-grade boys for team building.
Meet at the RIPTA bus stop in front of fire station on Providence Street at 1 p.m.
Board 1:15 bus to Providence. (IMPORTANT: ACT LIKE YOU DO THIS EVERY DAY!!!)
Arrive at bus terminal at 2 p.m. Buy tickets for bus to Boston.
Board 3 p.m. bus to Boston, arrive 4 p.m. (IMPORTANT: LOOK CONFIDENT!!!)
Take Green Line at Park Street to Blue Line to Suffolk Downs. (IMPORTANT: IF ASKING DIRECTIONS CALL THE SUBWAY THE T!!!)
Arrive at Suffolk Downs and scope the following: stage door, alternative exits, possible stakeout locations
CONCERT!!!
During encore—LEAVE!!!
Take taxi to Hotel Somerset.
Split up: Peter and Trudy to kitchen entrance, Jessica and Nora to front entrance
FIND PAUL MCCARTNEY!!!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I Feel Fine
Ten days before the concert and less than a week before Dad left for Japan, he came home whistling a song I’d never heard before. Dad is a very good whistler. Sometimes on long car drives we play Name That Tune, except instead of singing we make Dad whistle and we have to guess the song. For Mom, he always does Frank Sinatra songs. For me, the Beatles. But this one? I had no idea.
“Any guesses, Trudy?” he asked me as he placed his briefcase on the table Mom had put in the entryway for just that reason.
I shook my head no.
Dad was loosening his tie and rolling up his shirtsleeves because we were definitely in the middle of a heat wave.
He started to whistle again. A different song than the first one and another one that I couldn’t name. Had Dad become a Rolling Stones fan or something?
“I give up,” I mumbled.
He motioned with his chin toward the briefcase. “Open her up,” he said.
Opening his briefcase was one of my favorite things to do. I loved how the heavy brass clasps unlocked with a pop and how the smell of leather filtered out as soon as I lifted the lid. Inside there were always neatly stacked folders and papers, pens lined up in a row, and sometimes—like today, I supposed—a treat inside for me: a pack of bubble gum that came with Beatles cards or a macramé bracelet. Even better was when Dad let me polish his wing tips on a Sunday afternoon. I loved laying the newspaper on the kitchen floor and taking out all the supplies: the chamois cloth and bottle of black polish and buffer that made the shoes shiny.
“Go on,” Dad was saying.
So I unlocked the heavy brass clasps and lifted the lid. That smell of leather came rushing out and I closed my eyes for an instant and breathed in real deep. When I opened them, I couldn’t believe what I saw lying there on top of those colored folders and lined legal pads.
Revolver. The Beatles’ brand-new album.
Even though he’d forgotten we were supposed to go to Dunkin’ Donuts and then to RecordLand together, I didn’t really mind. Here, right in front of me, was the new Beatles album.
I’d never seen an album cover like it.
Instead of John, Paul, Ringo, and George staring back at me like they did on their last album, Yesterday and Today, or grinning, like on Beatles VI, there was just a black-and-white ink drawing of their faces with images of them coming out of their hair.
“It takes some getting used to,” Dad said. Then he added, “So do the songs. Peterson and I played it at the office and no one really liked it very much.”
“That first one you were whistling was nice,” I said, which perked Dad up.
“‘Here, There and Everywhere,’” he said, slapping his hands together. “Let’s play that one.”
He took the album out of his briefcase, and together we walked to his study. I felt so warm and good inside. This was what Dad and I shared! What we both loved! Mom didn’t understand. But we did. The Beatles were not only the best group to have ever lived, but they also belonged to Dad and me.
* * *
* * *
Revolver only had eleven songs on it, probably because Yesterday and Today had just come out a couple months earlier. Still, Dad thought an album should have more songs. “If I’m paying three dollars and forty-nine cents for an album, I think I should get a lot of music, don’t you, Trudy?” I guessed he had a point, but eleven new Beatles songs was good enough for me.
Except, they weren’t good enough for Dad.
Usually we sat and listened to a new Beatles album tapping our toes and nodding our heads to the beat, smiling the whole time. Dad didn’t smile so much as we listened to Revolver.
The first song, “Taxman,” had him positively frowning. And he actually got up and stopped the record halfway through “Love You To.”
“What kind of music is this?” he asked, bewildered.
“Indian? I think?” I said. I’d read that George Harrison had become fascinated with India and an instrument from there called a sitar that made these kinds of high-pitched buzzy sounds.
Dad just shook his head and skipped the rest of the song, placing the needle precisely in the groove before the next one, which was “Here, There and Everywhere.” This made him seem happy again, but then “Yellow Submarine” came on and he stood up again. He didn’t stop the song, but he did have that bewildered look on his face again.
“‘We all live in a yellow submarine’?” he said, repeating the line from the song. “What does that even mean?”
“It’s a story, Dad. About a bunch of friends on a . . . a . . . sea voyage.”
Truth was, I didn’t really understand it either. In some ways, these songs didn’t even sound like the Beatles.
“It sounds like a children’s song,” Dad muttered.
He wasn’t much happier with the second side, especially the song “Tomorrow Never Knows.”
“This is crap, Trudy,” Dad said, which was about the harshest thing he’d ever say. When he got upset he said things like, “Amsterdam!” or “H-E-double hockey sticks!” So calling that song crap was pretty serious. I started to get worried.
“I like ‘Good Day Sunshine,’” I offered.
Dad sighed. “Me too,” he said.
“Do you know why they called the album Revolver?” I asked him. Like me, Dad loved fun facts.
“Because an album turns,” I said. “It revolves.”
Dad smiled a little. “Our boys do love puns, don’t they?”
I smiled, too. At least they were still our boys.
“Like us,” he added.
I was almost relieved that Dad still loved the Beatles, that Revolver hadn’t ruined everything, when Dad said, “Maybe they peaked with Rubber Soul and they’re finished.”
“No!” I said, because if Dad stoppe
d liking the Beatles, we would have absolutely nothing in common. And then what?
* * *
* * *
After dinner—hot dogs and beans, made by Dad because Mom was too hot and weary from lugging her cast around in the heat—I took Revolver over to Theresa’s. Even though she drove me crazy, she was responsible for me seeing that first ever Beatles appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show. Plus, for once, I had something before she did.
“Hi,” she said through the screen door to her kitchen.
I held up the album, expecting her to scream with excitement.
Instead, she said, “I heard it’s not very good.”
“It’s great,” I said. “It’s the Beatles!”
She opened the door to let me in.
“We had salad for dinner,” she said.
“Just salad?”
Theresa nodded. “Mom got the recipe out of Gourmet magazine. It’s called Chef’s Salad and it has ham and turkey and Swiss cheese and hardboiled eggs. Perfect for a hot summer night,” Theresa added.
I didn’t tell her we’d had hot dogs and beans. It sounded so unsophisticated.
“Trudy’s here,” Theresa called to her mother as we walked past the dark living room. A big fan whirred in the window and an old black-and-white movie was on the television. A plume of smoke rose from Mrs. Mazzoni’s cigarette.
“Hi, Mrs. Mazzoni,” I said.
“How’s your mother’s leg?” she asked without turning to look at me.
“It still hurts,” I said.
“Send her my kind regards,” Mrs. Mazzoni said. “I’ll bring over a nice Waldorf salad tomorrow.”
Mrs. Mazzoni was obviously in a salad phase.