B, My Name Is Bunny

by Norma Fox Mazer

  I was lying in bed the last night, listening to the rain smacking on the metal roof of the trailer. Star was reading on the bunk below me. Shad was playing on the other bunk, and Mom and Dad were talking up front. Their voices were like bees.

  I was lying there, drowsy, sleepy, wishing we never had to leave. And then I heard Lulu Belle singing “Mama, I Didn’t Mean What I Said, Dear.” And I just fell in love with her voice.

  I was at Stanchio’s first. I waited outside. I wanted to see James before he saw me. I kept wondering if my memory of him was right. Maybe he wasn’t so good-looking. Maybe he wasn’t so nice. Maybe I’d been totally wrong about his character.

  I watched the people going up and down the aisle. Lots of couples. Mothers with their kids. Suddenly two boys came roller-skating down the aisle with a security guard running after them. “I guess roller-skating isn’t allowed,” someone said in my ear.

  I turned around. It was James. I wasn’t exactly paralyzed with shock, but it was a pretty close imitation. Here he was, looking as gorgeous as the first time I’d seen him. The back of my knees started that weird burning. And my face got hot. “Hi,” I said. I don’t know how I managed to sound so normal.

  “Did you wait long?”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  We walked in and sat down at a little round table. “What are you going to get?” James said.

  “I always order raspberry,” I said.

  “No, you’ve got to be more adventurous than that.” We got up and went to the counter and tasted about twelve different flavors on the little wooden sticks before we made up our minds.

  “Sit down, folks,” the man behind the counter said. He had a bald, brown, freckled head. “I’ll bring your gelatos to the table.”

  We sat down again and I told James about the camping weekend when I’d first heard Lulu Belle sing. I didn’t think it was so special, but he really liked it.

  “Emily, that’s great. That’s what I needed. Now I just have to write the thing.”

  We sat there and talked for about an hour. I really liked him. I liked him more than ever. At first I couldn’t forget how handsome he was, but after a while, I did. I know that sounds funny, but what I mean is, I stopped concentrating on his gorgeous looks and liked him for his personality.

  “Maureen says the next time she needs someone to fill in for her, it’s not going to be me. She says I’m more trouble as a reporter than I’m worth.”

  “Is she your girl friend?”

  “We’re friends. Of course, I’m probably ruining our friendship by doing this article. I’m taking so long, Maureen says she could have written five articles by now.”

  “I guess you’re not interested in journalism.”

  “Me? I guess not. This was supposed to be a lark. It was fun, too. I met you. Of course, I had to sit through an entire Lulu Belle Smith concert. Which, you gotta admit, is a big price to pay.”

  “I admit nothing.”

  He laughed. I really liked to see him laugh. Maybe I should tell him a joke. If I could think of a good one, I would. What’d the mother ear of corn say when the baby ear of corn asked where he came from? The stalk brought you. I put my hand over my mouth, so I wouldn’t even be tempted to open it.

  “No, I’m not going anywhere near journalism,” James said. “I’ll probably go to law school.”

  “Oh.”

  “Oh. Oh? Is that all you can say? Don’t you think I’d make a good lawyer?”

  “How do I know?”

  He put his hand over mine. “Emily, there’s something about you that I really like. I don’t know what it is. You’re different.…”

  That worried me. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. Different. I like it. You’re fun.”

  When we got up to leave, I said, “Don’t forget, this is my treat.”

  “What do you mean?” He already had his wallet out.

  “You said I was buying your gelato.”

  “Emily, I was just joking. I’ll treat you.”

  “No, that’s okay.” I went right up to the counter and paid.

  “Well, thank you,” James said.

  “You can treat me next time,” I said.

  “It’s a deal,” James said.

  Chapter 10

  School closed a few days later for spring vacation. I took the bus to Toronto to visit my grandmother. It’s a pretty long trip, about six hours, but I didn’t mind too much. Mom gave me a sackful of food, and I had some books and a miniature checker game with me. The worst part was customs. We all had to get out of the bus while the customs officers asked us questions. They took forever, and there was nothing to do but stand around watching the lines of cars coming into and going out of Canada.

  In Toronto, Grandma was waiting for me at the bus station. We started talking the moment we saw each other. We hugged and kissed and talked, all at the same time. “New blouse?” I said. She was wearing a bright red, open-necked blouse with puffy sleeves.

  “Do you like it? I have so many things planned for us. Let me look at you!” Grandma talks with just a little Canadian accent, which I think is really neat. “Give me another kiss.”

  Grandma’s apartment is on the fifth floor of the Queens Arms on Avenue Road, which is a really busy street. It’s got four lanes of traffic. Two things you notice right away when you walk into Grandma’s apartment: Her favorite colors are blue (couches and rugs) and cream (walls and curtains), and she loves flowers. She always has some kind of fresh flowers. When I got there, it was daisies in a blue vase.

  The first thing she did was measure me. This is one of our traditions. She puts me up against the door frame and makes a mark. Then we check it against the mark from my last visit. “Six months, and you’ve grown a whole inch!” She doesn’t care that I’m already taller than she is. She looked as pleased as if I’d invented orange juice.

  Grandma used to be a social worker and my grandfather was an engineer. I hardly remember him, but I know what he looked like, from his pictures. At home we keep our pictures in the album, but Grandma has her family pictures everywhere. Even the top of the tv is covered with pictures. Most of them are of Star, Shad, and me. We’re her only grandchildren, and Mom is her only child.

  “My only living child,” Grandma corrected me. We were eating supper on the table in front of the big front windows. “I had a little boy before your mother. He would have been your uncle, but he died.”

  “How old was he?” I thought of Shad.

  “Two months.”

  “Well, that’s not too bad,” I said. Grandma looked at me. “I only meant it would be worse if he was older.”

  Grandma lit a cigarette. “No, darling, if you love somebody, age doesn’t make a difference. Either way. My baby’s name was Wade. When he died, I thought I was a bad mother, that little Wade died because I did something terrible and careless.”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know, I was just afraid it was my fault. We didn’t know about Sudden Infant Death Syndrome then.” She turned her head and blew smoke over her shoulder.

  I wanted to change the subject. It was making Grandma sad. “Grandma, I thought you were going to give up the weed.”

  “Now, Bunny, don’t start on me. I’ve smoked too long to give it up.”

  “You always say that.”

  “I’ll say it again.” Her voice gets very dignified when she doesn’t want to lose an argument. “But don’t you start, it’s a terrible habit.”

  “Grandma. You always say that, too. Don’t you know you’re supposed to set an example for me?”

  “I am. A bad example.”

  Grandma and I talk a lot. We talk at the table, and we talk when we’re out together, and we talk in bed. I always sleep in Grandma’s room in the extra twin bed. She tells me family stories and stories about when she was my age. “I remember in high school, we had a contest for Miss Home-maker. We had to make blanc mange, the worst stuff ever created!”

  I
love to hear Grandma tell this story. I never remind her that I’ve heard it before. The first time I heard it, I didn’t know what blaah maj was. (That’s the way she says it.) Now I know it just means white pudding.

  “We had to fold socks for the contest, pack a suitcase, iron a tablecloth. Isn’t that terrible? The only thing I’m proud of is that I didn’t win!”

  I tell her about school, and me and Emily. And I tell her jokes. The worse they are, the better she likes it. (“Grandma, did I tell you about the surgeon who liked to tell jokes? He had his patients in stitches.”) One thing about Grandma, she never acts bored.

  Maybe that’s why I told her about James. And maybe I just wanted to talk about him. Every time I thought of him, I got that hot, sweaty feeling. Was that love? I wished I could ask Grandma, but even her I didn’t tell everything. I just couldn’t tell her about being in love. I didn’t want to talk about that. It was something to think about privately.

  “James sounds like a nice person,” she said. “But, you have to be careful, darling. You can’t just go around trusting anybody.”

  “I know. I could tell he wasn’t a creep, Grandma.”

  “Good. Always use your good common sense.”

  I never mind when Grandma gives me advice. Sometimes she even says things out of the blue. “Bunny, if you want something, you take a stand.”

  “Okay.” I waited for her to say something else, but that was it.

  Two more things I should mention about Grandma. One is that she is fierce about Canada and, especially, Toronto being the best place in the world to live. The other is that she’s a baseball fanatic. Maybe I should say a Toronto Blue Jays fanatic.

  The second night I was there, we went to a game at Exhibition Stadium. We walked up the long, winding concrete ramps. For some reason, I really like doing that. There was a huge crowd. Our seats were in Row 32, right behind first base. “I took care of us,” Grandma said.

  It was a pretty cold night, and Grandma had brought blankets for us to wrap around our legs. She had a pair of binoculars around her neck and snacks in a little red and white cooler.

  The other team was introduced. The announcer called out their names in a flat voice. As they ran out on the field, some people applauded. Then the Jays were introduced. The announcer’s voice boomed out over the stadium. “Ladies and gentlemen. Willeee. NELSON!” The crowd went crazy. They stood up, threw their fists in the air, and screamed. Grandma, too!

  All through the game, Grandma yelled at our team. “Go, baby! Base hit, baby! You can do it.” She groaned every time the Jays struck out or made an error. She jumped up and cheered and screamed every time the Jays did anything halfway good.

  Afterward, even though it wasn’t the best way to go home, we took the GO Train. “You always like doing this,” Grandma said. She’s right. The GO Train is a double-decker, and we rode on top.

  “Isn’t it excellent?” Grandma said. She sounded as if she were responsible. “It’s clean, quiet, and smooth.”

  “Grandma, you’re better than a commercial.”

  “I only speak the truth. There’s nothing like this in the States, now is there?”

  The conductor’s voice came to us over the PA system. “Ladies and gentlemen. Sit back and relax. We have a little wait. I know it’s late at night and you all want to get home. Talk to your neighbor or take a snooze. I’ll wake you up when we get there.”

  Grandma poked me. “See? Do you have that in the States?”

  The next day, Grandma was tired. First I thought I would hang around the apartment and wait for her to rest. I started to write a letter to Emily. But I didn’t want to stay in, it seemed like a waste of my vacation. So I went out myself.

  It’s really easy to get around downtown Toronto. I could have taken the Metro, but I like walking, and Grandma lives only a few blocks from Younge Street, which is like the main street. You could just go straight down Younge Street, go in and out of stores and shops all you want, and never worry about directions.

  Anyway, the people here are extremely nice. Even if I got lost, which I wouldn’t, I wouldn’t worry about it. I had a map with me. I like maps. I like knowing where I am. I walked around different parts of downtown. It seemed as if every time I took my map out, though, someone else stopped and asked me if I needed any help. The first person was a guy with a beard and a knapsack. He was tacking a notice for a sculpture show on a telephone pole. “That’s my girl friend’s show,” he said. “She posts my notices—I’m a jazz musician—and I post hers.”

  The next time I took out my map, a woman wearing a fur coat stopped to ask me if I was okay, and the time after that it was a man who was selling hot dogs. “You need directions? Ask me. I know every street in Toronto.”

  I bought a hot dog from him. A woman was working with him. She smiled at me. “Nice girl.” She was an old fat woman in a shabby dress, and she had no teeth. “Nice. Just like my granddaughter,” she said, smiling at me with her toothless gums.

  When I told Grandma about her later, she said, “Maybe that’ll be me someday.” She leaned on her hand. “I’ll be really old, and toothless, and poor. Will you still come to visit me, then, Bunny?”

  “Grandma! Your sense of humor is getting worse.” I knew she was teasing, but I hated even hearing her talk about being old and poor.

  “Sorry, darling.” She hugged me. “Come, come, don’t look like that. I’ll get old so gradually, you’ll hardly even notice. There, is that better?”

  “No!”

  “Okay, then tell me a joke,” she said.

  “Grandma, do you think I’m a joke machine?”

  “Yes.” She snapped her fingers. “And I’m your best audience.”

  “All right, let me think.… Okay.” I grabbed the broom like a microphone. “The joke of the day, ladeez and genlemun, is, Why did the man go on a diet? Does anybody here want to try for the answer? That little lady there in the red silk blouse!” I pointed to Grandma. “Go ahead, little lady.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, little lady, he didn’t believe in the survival of the fattest.”

  “Oh, bad. Bad, bad, bad.” Grandma groaned.

  On my last day, Grandma said we should do so many things it would seem like two days to us. So we went out very early and had breakfast in a tiny French restaurant. I love that kind of breakfast and I can never have it at home. All we ate was fresh, hot French bread with butter, plus coffee for Grandma and hot chocolate with whipped cream for me.

  “Do you make your own bread?” Grandma asked the woman behind the counter.

  “Oui. Yes. Du pain.” She put the loaf on a wooden board. “Thick slices or small?”

  “Small,” Grandma said.

  “Thick,” I said.

  “Listen to her,” Grandma said.

  “No, listen to her,” I said.

  The woman waited with her bread knife in the air.

  “Grandma, you always give me my way. You shouldn’t.”

  “And why not? It’s my pleasure.”

  The woman smiled and cut the bread. We got thick slices.

  After breakfast, we went to Kensington Market, which is a huge outdoor market where they sell everything on the street. Grandma likes the fruits and vegetables you can buy there. “Aren’t they gor-jus!” she said.

  We spent the whole day out. We saw a movie; we went to a science museum; we shopped in Eaton’s, which is a huge department store. They have everything there. My favorite place in Eaton’s, though, is the fountain on the lower level. The fountain snorts, spurts, then the water jets up. It’s so pretty.

  Every time I go to Toronto, Grandma and I go to Eaton’s at least once to shop. When we get tired, we go downstairs and sit on the rim of the fountain and share a mini-baguette.

  It’s another one of our traditions. “We do this every year, Grandma.”

  “We’ll do it next year, too, and the year after and the year after.”

  “We’ll do it forever,” I said.

>   Grandma passed me the last bit of crust. “I don’t know how we did so much today, Bunny. We’re just wonderful.”

  “Are you tired? Do you want to go home?”

  “Oh, no, we’re not through yet.”

  We ate supper in Grandma’s favorite Japanese restaurant. Besides the regular tables, there were little booths with the tables in a well, so you could either put your legs and feet down or sit the way the Japanese people do. I was going to put my legs into the well, but after I saw Grandma sitting back on her heels like a Japanese woman, I sat that way, too.

  “If more people ate the way the Japanese do, there wouldn’t be so many overweights roaming the streets,” Grandma said.

  “Mmm.” I liked the food, but there wasn’t enough of it for me.

  Grandma kept talking about how slim and trim and in shape Japanese people were, and how Westerners had so much to learn from them.

  While she was in the middle of this, two women took the table across from us. They looked Japanese. They were both wearing suits and frilly blouses, high-heeled shoes, and hats. And they were definitely not slim and trim. They were plump and pretty.

  Grandma cleared her throat and raised her eyebrows. “There’s an exception to every rule, Bunny.”

  “Yeah, Grandma. Tell me about it.”

  The two women were talking in Japanese, and when the waitress came, they ordered their food in Japanese.

  “Such an interesting language,” Grandma said. “I wonder if it’s difficult to learn.”

  When their food came, one dish after another, it looked like they’d ordered about ten times as much food as Grandma and me. The whole table was covered. “Oh, my!” one of them said. “This is gor-jus!” She sounded exactly like Grandma.

  When we got home, Grandma took a shower and I went into the bedroom to pack my suitcase. But, instead, I sat down on Grandma’s bed and called Emily.