Ask Anybody

by Constance C. Greene

  “She told us we weren’t to tell anyone because if we did she’d get it but good,” I said. “She said if anyone wanted to know what had happened, we were supposed to say the dog must’ve been killed by a hit-run driver.”

  There was a scuffling sound in the hall. I heard Tad say, “It’s her!” and then the sound of running feet as they scurried back to move some more furniture.

  “And you know something?” I said in a loud voice. Pamela waited quietly for what I would say.

  “She never showed any signs of remorse, the way they always say after somebody commits a crime,” I said. “She never even bent down to see if he was alive or dead. She never said, ‘I’m sorry,’ or anything. She just loaded him onto that shovel and dragged him out and dumped him like he was a sack of meal. I never saw anything like it. It was like something she did every day of her life. She didn’t think twice.”

  I got up and went to the kitchen for a paper towel to blow my nose on. I’d used up all the dry spots on Pamela’s handkerchief. “The worst of it is,” I said, “is I feel guilty. Maybe if I hadn’t been in the truck it never would’ve happened. If I hadn’t said I’d go with her, maybe she wouldn’t have gone either. I egged her on. I know I did. So I’m partly responsible.” I hoped Pamela would say, “No, no, of course you’re not,” but she didn’t. She nodded slightly, and I felt she was agreeing with me. I was partly responsible for what had happened.

  “I don’t know if I should tell on her. Do you think I should?” I asked Pamela. If someone had told me yesterday that today I’d be asking her for advice, I would’ve told them they had rocks in their head. But now I needed advice.

  “Would it do any good to tell on her?” Pamela said. “Would it accomplish anything?”

  I thought about that. “I don’t know,” I finally said. “Her mother would probably beat the daylights out of her. That’s what she said anyway.”

  I thought some more. “As far as bringing the dog back or making her promise she’d never do anything like that again, it wouldn’t accomplish much, that’s for sure. It wouldn’t make her sorry for what she’d done. I don’t think she’d ever be sorry. Because she doesn’t think she did anything wrong.” As soon as the words were out, I realized that was the truth. Nell didn’t think she’d done anything wrong. Fantastic.

  Pamela got up, and I realized she was still wearing her coat. “I’ll tell you what,” she said. “Why don’t you sleep on what you told me, and tomorrow, if you get a chance, talk it over with your father. See what he thinks. That might be the best thing to do.”

  “All right,” I said, glad of any adult advice. “I’ll do that.”

  Pamela opened the door to the mud room.

  “Aren’t you staying for supper?” I asked.

  “Not tonight. Tonight you’ll all do better without me. Maybe tomorrow. Sleep on it, Sky. It’s always a good idea to sleep on something like that. Sometimes it helps.”

  I ran to the door. She was already halfway down the path.

  “Thanks,” I called out. “Thanks a lot.”

  She lifted a hand in good-bye and took off down the hill. I went back inside, set the table, and thought about her. So that’s Pamela, I said to myself. You were wrong about her. She’s not so bad, after all.

  18

  My mother came home that night. My father was ladling out potatoes when she came. She stood in the doorway, smiling at us.

  “Here I am,” she said. She was alone.

  For one second the only sound in the room was the fat burbling in the frying pan, making noises like a baby discovering its toes and fingers for the first time. My father stood at the stove. Sidney slid down in his chair and dug his fists into his eyes the way he does when he’s overcome. Tad overturned the bottle of ketchup he was holding, and we watched it run out into a widening pool on the table.

  I was the first to recover. I ran to her and hugged her. The boys came to life and clambered over my mother as if she were a jungle gym. They grabbed at bits and pieces of her, each trying for the lion’s share.

  “Stop, stop!” she cried joyfully.

  We danced around the room, hopping, skipping, shouting out in pleasure. Only my father stood apart, smiling slightly, holding his plate.

  “Why didn’t you call?” he said at last in a hoarse voice. “You said you would.”

  “I got in earlier than I expected, and there was a rental car someone had just turned in so I took it, and here I am.” She went over to him and brushed his cheek with her lips. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  “Sky,” my father said, “get a plate for your mother. We better eat these while they’re hot. We’re having a potato pigout, Mary.”

  “Perfect. I’m starving.” We all sat down, and for a few minutes nobody said anything. Then we all started talking at once.

  “Fill me in on what’s been happening here,” my mother said.

  “Nothing! Nothing’s been happening!” the boys shouted.

  “Life went on as usual,” my father said.

  “Sky,” my mother said, “you look so pretty.” I flushed. I could feel myself flush. She was being nice because she’d been away and was glad to be back.

  The boys stopped climbing on her and sat still, looking at me, studying my face. Sidney screwed up his face so he looked like a little old man. Or a baby chimp is more like it. He tilted his head to one side and said, “Sky looks pretty?” a question mark tacked on the end.

  Tad chewed slowly, squinting at me. “’Course,” he said in a grown-up, superior way, “she always looks pretty.”

  It was almost more than I could bear.

  After a while my mother looked at her watch and said, “It’s bedtime, way past bedtime for you two.” She took each boy by his hand.

  “Daddy, you come too,” they shouted. “You come too!” They figured if they got enough people together they could have a party and put bedtime off ever further. I know those two. They’re operators.

  “How about the presents?” Sidney said.

  “When I unpack tomorrow, not now,” she answered.

  “Not tonight,” my father said. “It’s your mother’s turn.” I went with her. The room smelled of Tad and Sidney and their unwashed socks, which were hidden around the room like eggs at an Easter egg hunt. They were supposed to put them in the hamper, but I knew if I made a search, I’d find enough dirty socks tucked away in corners to outfit an octopus.

  My mother read them a story, a short one. I listened, pretending I was a child again. The boys horsed around some more, and my mother finally said, “That’s enough,” in a way that made them know she meant what she said. We tucked them in and went back to the living room. My father stood where we’d left him. He didn’t seem to have moved. My father is a true artist at standing still. He does it with such ease, never making small talk or needless gestures. He stands still while others work themselves into a flurry, and presently his stillness takes over. I’d seen it happen, and how it was happening again.

  “Well,” my mother said. “It’s good to be home.” She put her arm around me. “Did you miss me?” she said.

  “A little.” In the morning I’d tell her how much, tell her everything. Right now I was tired. Very tired. My mother yawned.

  My father discarded his stillness as if it were a cape. He went to my mother and put his hands on her shoulders.

  “I’m glad you made it back safely, Mary,” he said.

  She leaned against him for a moment. I saw her. She must be very tired, I thought, to do that Then she reached up to him and kissed him. I saw her. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I thought they’d given up kissing. Nobody seemed to be giving me the time of day. I didn’t care. I said good night and went to bed. I lay there, wondering what had happened to the great white hunter. And thinking it was a good thing Pamela had left when she had. And I planned what I’d say in the morning. I liked the sound of their voices rising and falling.

  I’d tell them in the morning about the old dog. I wanted to
get it off my chest now, this minute, but I knew if I did, I might start bawling again, and I didn’t want to spoil my mother’s homecoming.

  19

  “The boys are still asleep,” my mother said when I came to breakfast. “They’re basket cases after last night. I thought you would be too. What would you like?”

  I drank my juice. “Just a piece of toast, please.”

  “And some cereal. You need a good breakfast to think straight,” she told me. How many times have I heard her say that? I wish a good breakfast was all I needed to make me think straight.

  “Tell me about the family in the Johnsons’ house,” my mother said, putting the butter on the table. “How’s the new girl? Have you made friends with her?”

  “She’s O.K.,” I said. “Kind of different.”

  “Oh?” My mother gave me her full attention. Different people always interested her. “In what way?”

  “Crocuses are up,” my father said from where he stood at the window.

  “High time.” My mother went to stand next to him, and I noticed she put her hand on his shoulder.

  “Something terrible happened yesterday,” I blurted out.

  They turned toward me, their faces sympathetic and apprehensive.

  “Nell’s dog got killed.”

  “How?”

  I told them. I hadn’t meant to, but I did. I told them everything. It didn’t take me long. I was surprised. I’d thought it would take a lot longer than it did.

  “The bad part was,” I told them, winding down, “she wasn’t sorry. She didn’t think what she’d done was wrong. That’s what really got me. She didn’t care.”

  “Poor Sky.” My mother’s eyes were wet. “It’s awful when someone you like and trust disappoints you, isn’t it?”

  I didn’t exactly like Nell, I thought. And I never even thought about whether I trusted her or not. She was exciting. She wasn’t like anybody I’d ever known before. I thought it was wonderful to know somebody like her because she was so different.

  “Not much you can do, I’m afraid,” my father said. “Except next time somebody tries to talk you into doing something you know is wrong, resist temptation. Maybe if you hadn’t agreed to get in the truck, Nell wouldn’t have actually driven it.”

  That was true. I’d said as much to Pamela but not to my mother and father.

  My father patted me on the head. “It builds character to resist temptation, Sky. Did you know that? And character may be an old-fashioned virtue, but it never goes out of style. I’ve got to get to work. Good-bye,” and he left the room.

  “What happened to Angus?” I said. I’d been wanting to ask my mother, but I’d waited until my father wasn’t around. “Why didn’t he come with you?”

  “It didn’t work out,” she said. “It turned out that Angus already had a perfectly good wife and children back home in Australia. He just neglected to tell me. And I thought he was different and wonderful to know too, just as you felt about Nell. And he was.”

  “Poor Mom,” I said to her. “I’ve gotta go, or I’ll miss the bus. See you, Mom,” and I bent to kiss her. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  “So am I,” she said.

  When I got to the bus stop, Nell was already there, talking to the Kimball girls and Jerry and Ollie Brown, telling them some tale that had them goggle-eyed. Lord knows what she was telling them.

  I marched right up to her.

  “What’d your mother say?” I said.

  “About what?”

  “About the dog.”

  “Oh,” she said airily, “some car smacked him up good. One of those hit-run drivers, most likely. Harold found him laying in the road. We lugged him out to the woods.” She ran her hand over her curls, caressing them.

  “Poor old coot. Never knew what hit him.” She smiled at me, and her chipped tooth gave her face a carefree air.

  I looked at her, wordless. Leo hid behind Fast Eddie. He refused to look at me.

  “My mother got home from Africa last night,” I said.

  “My uncle’s driving his truck all the way to Rhode Island,” she said back.

  “You hear what I said?” I snapped.

  “You hear what I said?” A smile shaped itself around her mouth, missing her eyes. “Plenty of people go to Africa,” she said. “Come back, too. You think it’s so hotsy-totsy your mother went and come back. It’s nothing so big.”

  The Kimball girls and Ollie and Jerry Brown giggled.

  “You’re full of garbage, you know that? You don’t even try to be nice. You’re just full of garbage.” I turned my back on her. I was so mad I was afraid I’d cry.

  I could heard her stealthy steps as she crept up behind me. “Want me to tell you how I make their tongues tingle?” she whispered, so close I could smell her musty smell.

  “No,” I lied.

  “’Course you do. It’s my secret way my mother handed down. Her mother told her and her mother’s mother before that. They were gypsies. Only gypsies know how to make their tongues tingle. It’s an ancient secret handed down over the centuries.”

  I was tempted to turn and face her down, say, “All right. Tell me how to make their tongues tingle.” But I knew if I did, I would be in her power. So I stayed where I was, looking out over the snow-covered fields, watching the gulls wheel overhead, crying their hoarse cries. I heard the bus rumbling up the hill. It was my last chance. If I asked her now, she would still tell me. But I held on, gritting my teeth, and didn’t ask. Like my father said, resisting temptation builds character. And when the bus pulled up and Bill swung open the door, I got on and sat next to Saralou Hunkle, who was in my second and third grade classes until somebody discovered she was practically a genius and she skipped a couple of grades and now she plans on being a chemical engineer.

  “Hi,” I said. Saralou raised her head from her textbook and gave me one of the groggy stares she specializes in. She wasn’t sure she knew who I was, but she was going to give me the benefit of the doubt.

  “Oh, hi,” she said. “How’re things?” Saralou Hunkle was a barrel of laughs.

  I felt a finger in the middle of my back. I turned. Nell laughed and said, “You missed your chance. I’ll never tell you now.”

  “What’s she talking about?” Saralou asked me.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. She’s loco.” Already I was sorry I’d sat next to Saralou, sorry I hadn’t said, “All right, then, how do you make their tongues tingle?” But it was too late.

  Behind me, Nell thumped her knees against the back of my seat. It drove me crazy, but I didn’t let on. She wasn’t going to get my goat.

  “You want to come over Saturday?” Saralou said. Before I had a chance to answer her, Nell leaned forward and said, “She can’t.”

  “Mind your own business!” I cried.

  Nell flashed her chipped-tooth smile at me. “We got to plan the yard sale. Those girls said we have to plan all day Saturday.” She always calls Rowena and Betty “those girls,” as if they didn’t have any names.

  “They didn’t say anything to me about it,” I said, sitting stiff and formal next to Saralou, who collapsed back into her book and lost interest in me. Maybe she couldn’t remember who I was, after all. I couldn’t blame her. Sometimes I had a tough time remembering who I was myself.

  When we got to school and Bill let us out, he said, “Thaw’s coming. I can smell it Early this year. Good thing too. I had enough of winter. How about you?”

  “You said it,” I agreed. I hoped he was right. I wasn’t watching where I was going and stepped into a giant mud puddle. I could feel the mud seeping into my boot.

  “Watch where you’re going!” Nell called out, laughing. “You hafta keep your eyes open in this world, you wanta get ahead.”

  Without looking at her, I went inside, the mud squelching damply inside my sock the whole way.

  All right for you. I didn’t believe her for one minute about her mother being a gypsy. I just plain didn’t believe her.
>
  Besides, who ever heard of a blond gypsy? There’s no such thing. All gypsies have black hair. Ask anybody.

  20

  Betty’s grandmother died last winter over in Waldoboro. Her mother’s clearing out the house, getting rid of things. She says we can have the collection of Betty’s grandmother’s hats she found in the attic. About twenty-five or thirty of them, she says, and each one more of a conversation piece than the other. Betty’s father plans on driving up there in his big old station Wagon that gets about fifteen miles to the gallon. Still, it’s cheaper than renting a U-Haul, he says, and just as commodious. Betty also plans to set up a table of her best-sellers, the ones she’s through with. She’s going to give each prospective buyer a little rundown on the plot so they’ll know what they’re in for. How to kill sales is what I call it.

  Bill, the bus driver, was right. Spring seems to have come early this year. The mud season is here. But the sun is actually warm, and my father has planted his peas and lettuce—always a good sign.

  We’re busy drawing posters for the yard sale. We’re putting those posters every place we can think of: the post office, the gas station, the general store, the library. All the posters give the date and time and place and say in big black letters: NO EARLY BIRDS. That was Nell’s idea. She said people are so eager to get bargains they start lining up at sunrise. SO NO EARLY BIRDS means what it says. If anyone cares.

  Maybe we’ll make some money, after all. We told the minister’s wife if we did we’d donate something to the church. That was after she gave us a set of dishes she couldn’t stand. She said she’d used those dishes for twenty years, hating every minute of it. I can understand why, too. They’re made of fat china, the most horrible mustardy color you ever saw. Still, one man’s meat is another man’s poison, as they say, and somebody may fall in love with those fat dishes. It’s doubtful, but you never can tell.

  We included a snow date on our posters. I hope we don’t have to use it. Everyone will fall apart if we do. It would be such an anticlimax. Nell drew up a diagram of where each of us should set up our card tables. She’s very businesslike and directs us like a general planning a battle. I haven’t really talked to her since she told me her mother was a gypsy. One day last week I was downtown and I hung around the Down East Beauty Salon, where Mrs. Foster works, hoping for a glimpse of her. But it was a day they stay open late, and she never showed. I didn’t dare go inside. I was afraid they might ask me if I wanted a wash and set and maybe even a manicure. I was afraid they might pop me under the dryer before I could protest, and then what would I do?