by Ann Tatlock
“No.”
“That’s a whole boatload of minutes.”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“So if you multiply that by the number of days in a year, you get more than half a million. Every year you live more than half a million minutes, unless it’s a leap year, and then you live one thousand, four hundred and forty minutes more. Like next year. Next year is a leap year, you know.”
“Yeah? I didn’t know that.”
“Now, when you’ve lived for seventy years like I have, do you know how many minutes that is?”
She didn’t go on. I fidgeted on the bed. “You don’t want me to figure that out, do you, because I’m not that good at multiplying.”
She smiled, shook her head. “No, you don’t have to figure it out. Because by the end of the day – well, just by the end of the hour – it’ll be a different number anyway. They’re always going by, on and on and on, never stopping. So by the time you’re my age, it’s not just one boat you’re talking about but a whole fleet. A whole fleet of minutes have sailed on by. And where do you suppose they all sail off to, Roz?”
By now my face was scrunched up into a tight ball of puzzlement. “I don’t know, Tillie,” I said.
“Well, I’ll tell you, then.”
“Okay.”
“They sail right on over the horizon, and you never see them again, and most of them, you forget they ever were at all. Off they go, and” – she waved a hand – “they’re as good as lost. You might as well never have lived them. Unless,” she said, looking intently at me now, “unless you make the effort to remember. If you go after them, you’ll find some of them. A few, not many. But some.”
“So is that what you do?”
Tillie nodded. “Oh yes. I ask God to help me remember the forgotten moments, and he always brings something good to mind.”
“Like what?” I pushed my pillows up against the headboard and leaned back to listen.
“Well, like the time I was pinning up the laundry on the clothesline out back, and the neighbor next door – not Esther Kinshaw but a woman named Doris Haversham who used to live in the house on the other side – well, she had all her windows wide open, and she was playing a piece by Chopin on the piano. It was the most glorious thing. It was almost like being at Carnegie Hall, only better, because the open sky was my auditorium and I was the only one in the audience.
“And then there was the time – it was a winter night, and I was so cold but so exhausted from the babies I couldn’t wake myself up enough to grab an extra blanket. But when Ross came to bed, he put a blanket over me, tucking it up under my chin. And then I was warm in body and soul both, because someone was taking care of me.
“And I remember the summer day when Johnny was little and he picked a fistful of dandelions for me from out in the yard. He was so proud when he gave them to me, I just had to put them in a vase and put them at the center of the dining room table. I couldn’t bring myself to throw them away until they’d wilted beyond all recognition.”
She was smiling as she spoke, and when she finished she went on smiling. I continued to be puzzled. “That’s what you find when you go to this place of lost time?” I asked.
“Yes, lots of moments like those.”
“What’s so great about that stuff ?”
“Oh, my dear!” Tillie said, her blue eyes wide. “Everything! That’s the point. People look for greatness only in the extraordinary and completely overlook the wonder of the ordinary. That’s why those moments are all forgotten, counted as nothing. It’s a terrible loss.”
She gathered up the pages of the newspaper and folded them. Then she sighed. “I don’t expect you to understand, Roz. You’re too young. You haven’t lost enough time yet to care.”
I thought about that for a moment. Then I said, “Maybe I understand a little, Tillie. It’s like when you said I should remember the good things about Daddy and put all those memories in a safe place so I wouldn’t forget them.”
She shut her eyes, nodded, opened her eyes again. She smiled a warm, motherly smile at me. “I do believe you’re on your way, Roz.” She swung her feet over the side of the bed and wiggled them into the flats she wore around the house.
“Tillie?”
“Yes, child?”
“My daddy – do you think I’ll ever see him again?”
She stood, smoothed out the bedcovers, then turned to gaze at me. “Probably. Someday. But we’ll pray that by the time you see him again, he’ll have changed. Until God gets that temper of his under control, I think it’s best you stay away.”
“But – ”
“No telling what a man like that could do, even if he did treat you right sometimes.”
“But, I think . . . Tillie, I think I might have seen . . .” I couldn’t finish.
“What, Roz?”
I wanted to tell her, but something held me back. “I think I might have seen some gingersnaps in the cupboard,” I said lamely. “Can I have some? I’m hungry.”
“Not before supper, you don’t. And no special favors just because you’re sick.”
“Okay, Tillie.” I nodded and watched her as she left the room. When she was gone, I pushed back the covers and walked to the window. I looked out expectantly, half hoping to see Daddy out there on the sidewalk and half wondering whether Tillie was right, that there was no telling what Daddy might do should he find us here in Mills River.
chapter
13
Two days later I stood in the doorway of Wally’s room, dressed for school, my hair in pigtails. Wally, still in pajamas, lay stretched out on his bed, reading a book. He lowered the book an inch and stared at me over the top. “You back from the dead?” he asked.
“Very funny, Wally.”
“Yeah? So what do you want?”
“Mom says to hurry up and get ready for school.”
“Can’t you see I’m busy?”
“Doing what?”
“Reading.”
“You’ve already read that book a hundred times.”
“Yeah. Kerouac had the right idea. A man should be on the road.”
“You planning on taking a trip or something?”
Wally raised an eyebrow. “None of your business.”
Just then Mom hollered up the stairs, “Roz, tell Wally if he doesn’t come down for breakfast now, he’ll miss the bus.”
I glanced over my shoulder, then back at Wally. “Mom says – ”
“Yeah, I heard.” He closed On the Road and laid it on the bed.
“Well?” I asked.
Tucking his hands under his head, he stared up at the ceiling. “Where I’m going a person doesn’t need school.”
“Where are you going?”
“Like I said, Roz, that’s none of your business.”
Mom’s voice came up the stairs again, “Wallace Franklin Sanderson! Don’t make me come up there and get you!”
Wally sighed heavily, rolled off the bed, and pushed past me on his way to the bathroom. I stared after him, wondering if he’d be different somehow if Frank Sanderson hadn’t been gunned down in Korea. But then, if Frank Sanderson hadn’t died, I wouldn’t be here and neither would Valerie. I didn’t care to think about which of us Mom and Wally would rather have around. I was afraid of the answer.
Mara was waiting for me in front of the school, where the buses unloaded. She looked schoolgirl fresh in a white blouse and plaid skirt, a pair of Buster Browns on her feet. She wore a light brown cardigan against the morning chill, a color that matched exactly the creamy brown of her skin. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight braid and held with clips. I thought she looked pretty and almost said so, until I remembered Saturday.
She strode up to me quickly, clutching her books in her arms. “You’re finally back, Roz,” she said. “You feeling better?”
“I’m all right.” I diverted my eyes and kept on walking.
“Listen, about Saturday . . .” Her voice trailed off as she rushed to keep pace
with me.
“What about it?” I had to speak loudly over the chatter of dozens of kids moving up the walkway toward the school.
“I wanted to explain.”
“Explain what?”
“Listen, Roz, I know you think I lied. About my daddy, I mean.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Yes it does. It matters. Won’t you hold up just a minute so I can talk to you?”
We were inside the front hall now, where she would turn one way and I would turn another.
“We’ll be late for homeroom,” I said.
Her eyes narrowed. “So you just want to be mad at me?”
“I’m not mad at you.”
“Yes you are.”
“Your daddy is a mechanic who writes books on the side.” I shrugged. “I get it.”
We stood there a moment, an island in the stream of restless kids. Her face registered hurt, but I couldn’t bring myself to back down.
She exhaled slowly, loosening her grip on her books. She fingered the locket she always wore around her neck, as though rubbing it gave her comfort. “Never mind, Roz,” she said quietly. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter.”
She turned and headed down the hall. I almost called after her, but even as I opened my mouth the morning bell rang. I rushed to class, my penny loafers adding to the tap-tap-tapping of a hundred footfalls against the polished floor. When I told Mara I wasn’t mad at her, I had spoken the truth. I was mad, but not at her. At Wally, yes. At Daddy, yes. At the world. At life itself. But not at Mara. Why, then, had I treated her like that?
When I reached my homeroom, Miss Fremont greeted me kindly, her eyes shining behind her white cat-eye glasses. “Good morning, Roz. Welcome back. Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you. I’m fine now.”
A smile from Miss Fremont was a rare thing, but this morning she was all smiles. “I’m glad to hear that, Roz. I’m sure your whole family is glad you’re feeling better too.”
“Um, yeah. I guess so.” The room had quieted, and I had a feeling all the other kids were curious about our teacher’s sudden interest in my health. There’d been plenty of sick kids before me, but none of them had been welcomed back. It made me uncomfortable.
“Well,” Miss Fremont said, “go ahead and hang up your sweater, then take your seat.” She nodded at my desk and smiled again – strangely, I thought, as though she and I shared a secret.
I did as I was told, and as I moved about my tasks, my thoughts returned to Mara. Sliding into my seat, I promised myself I would somehow make things right. I would think of a way to apologize to her at recess. I would think about it all morning if I had to, so that Mara would know – My train of thought jackknifed and crashed as soon as I opened the lid of my desk to put my books away. There, among the scattered papers, pencils, and erasers, were three Sugar Daddies, tied together with a pink ribbon.
Now I knew for sure.
Daddy had found us. He was here in Mills River.
chapter
14
At recess I spotted Mara sitting under the red maple on the playground, scribbling something as usual in her spiral notebook. Rushing to her, I kneeled on the grass and exhibited in my open palm the evidence of my father’s presence in town.
“Mara, look,” I whispered.
She raised her eyes from the notebook slowly. She studied the Sugar Daddies a moment before lifting her gaze to my face. Her own face, her eyes, her words when she spoke revealed no emotion at all. Jutting her chin ever so slightly, she said, “No, thank you. I don’t care for Sugar Daddies.”
I shook my head. “No, Mara. You don’t get it. I – ”
“If you’re trying to make up with me, you’re wasting your time.”
“Listen, I’m not mad at you.”
“Well, you sure acted like it.”
“But I’m not. You’ve got to believe me. I’m sorry.”
“Is it because I’m part Negro?”
I hesitated a moment. “What do you mean, part Negro?”
“Never mind. I should have known better than to think a white girl would want to be friends.”
“But I do, Mara. I do want to be friends. Really. Please believe me.”
By now I was fighting back tears. I locked onto Mara’s gaze, and after a moment I could see her whole body give in and relax. “All right,” she said, “I believe you. But what’s with the candy?”
I’d been kneeling all this time. Now I collapsed on the grass and leaned in closer to her. “It means my daddy’s here. Here in town. He knows where we are.”
Her dark eyes narrowed, and she seemed to be struggling to understand what I’d just told her. “It does?” she asked doubtfully.
“Of course it does. Who else would leave something like this in my desk?”
“You think your daddy left those in your desk?”
“Well, yeah. It had to be him.”
“You don’t know that, Roz. It could have been anyone.”
“Like who?”
She thought a moment. “I don’t know. Maybe you have some kind of secret admirer, some kid who’s too scared to admit he likes you.” Her eyes widened, and she smiled for the first time. “Just think, Roz, wouldn’t that be romantic?”
I shook my head slowly back and forth. “No, Mara, no. You don’t get it. I know it was Daddy. This is the candy he used to bring me when he came home from work. It’s our special candy. So I know he’s here.”
She pinched her lips together so they disappeared into a small tight line. Then she said, “If that’s true, what are you going to do?”
“I don’t know.” My voice trembled as I spoke.
“You better tell your mama.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. I just can’t. I’m scared.”
“You think he might hurt you?”
I drew back. “No. Daddy wouldn’t hurt me.”
“Well then?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to do.”
“What do you think he wants?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“Ask him? How?”
“Well . . .” She frowned as she rubbed the side of her head. “Why don’t you write him a note and put it in your desk. Maybe he’s planning on leaving you something else, and if he does, he’ll find it.”
I sat straight up. “Good idea!”
Mara ripped a page out of her notebook. “Here,” she said. “Write it on this.”
I took the paper and pencil she offered me and, using my thigh as a writing table, wrote slowly, Dear Daddy.
I looked up at Mara. “What else should I say?”
“Ask him what he wants.”
After thinking about it a few minutes, I wrote, Thank you for the Sugar Daddies. Why are you here? Your daughter, Rosalind Anthony.
“What do you think he’s going to say?” Mara asked.
“I don’t know.”
Mara lifted the candy from the grass, where I’d laid it. She fingered the ribbon and said, “It was kind of nice, you know. Giving you candy and all. Maybe he wants to make up and, you know, be a family again.”
I was almost too afraid to hope. “Maybe.” The word was small, barely a whisper.
Her gaze lingered on the Sugar Daddies as she said, “I think you’re lucky.”
“You do?”
She nodded, sighing wistfully. “Maybe your story will have a happy ending,” she said, “the way it is in books. You know?”
I stared at her a moment, unsure of how to respond. I didn’t have a clue what she meant, but I figured it was something a lover of books might say.
“Well,” she said, “put the note in your desk and see what your daddy says.”
“I will.” I folded the note and held out my hand for the candy. She laid the three Sugar Daddies in my palm. “You can have one if you want,” I offered.
She smiled sadly. “
No, I really don’t like them.”
“All right.” I stood to go, then remembered our earlier conversation in the hall. “What were you going to tell me about your daddy?”
She looked up at me, squinting against the afternoon sun. “Nothing important,” she said.
“It’s okay if it’s not important. You can tell me anyway.”
“Well, I’m not ashamed of Daddy being a mechanic, but sometimes I just pretend . . .”
“Pretend what?”
She lowered her eyes and closed the notebook she’d been writing in. I recognized it as the yellow spiral she’d had with her the first time we met on the bench outside the drugstore, the one with her favorite poem written on the cover. Something about holding fast to dreams so you don’t become a broken-winged bird.
Mara hesitated a moment, then stood and wiped the grass and twigs off the back of her skirt. “Nothing,” she said. “Come on, I’ll go to your classroom with you while you put the note in your desk.”
My new friend was something of a strange bird, I decided, but if she wanted to dream and pretend her daddy was something he wasn’t, far be it from me to keep her from flying. Heaven knew, I had a few dreams of my own.
I held out my hand, and to my surprise, she took it. We walked across the playground toward the school, ignoring the stares of the other kids, both Negro and white. I was glad to have Mara as my friend, especially now, when I felt myself on the verge of a wonderful and life-changing adventure.
chapter
15
“Are you feeling all right, Roz?” Mom moved across the kitchen and laid a hand on my forehead.
“I’m all right,” I said.
“No sore throat?”
I shook my head while pretending to study the grammar book on the kitchen table in front of me.
“You just don’t look right.”
I didn’t feel right. Nearly a week had passed, and Daddy hadn’t picked up the note. He hadn’t left more candy in my desk either. There was no sign of him, and I was beginning to wonder whether Mara had been right. Maybe someone else had left the Sugar Daddies. But I didn’t want a secret admirer. I wanted Daddy.