My First Love and Other Disasters

by Francine Pascal

  Six

  My job is supposed to start on the Friday of the July Fourth weekend, but Cynthia asks me if I’ll help them move out on Wednesday. Sure, I tell her, and I can hardly wait to start. I’m supposed to get twenty-five dollars a week and Mondays off. That’s probably not a terrific salary but it’s great for me. Actually I’d do it for practically nothing just for the chance to be on my own on Fire Island near Jim.

  Moving day is really hot, almost ninety-four degrees, and we’re all stuffed into this Volkswagen, and there’s no air conditioning, and DeeDee’s got poison ivy from the trip to the house last weekend, and she keeps crying how it itches, and Cynthia says don’t scratch it. She’s got some medicine to put on it but DeeDee says it doesn’t help. And every time she scratches it David says, “DeeDee’s scratching, Mom,” and Cynthia says, “Don’t scratch,” and DeeDee says, “But it itches,” and then ten minutes later they do the whole thing again. It’s funny to hear someone else doing the kind of thing Nina and I do. It’s not so bad when you’re the one doing it, but if you have to just listen, it can drive you up the wall. Then the kids keep asking if we’re almost there and can we stop for some kind of Texas hot dog in some special place, and Cynthia says, “We’ll see.”

  But they’re not so dumb. They keep asking please because they know what “We’ll see” means. I wouldn’t mind stopping off for something either, but naturally I can’t say anything because I’m the employee, a flunky, sort of, and can’t really ask for things. This is the first time in my life I ever worked for anyone like this except baby-sitting, and that’s different. You really have to do what your boss tells you, and you can’t say, “How come?” or “I’ll do it later,” or anything. Like when we stop and Cynthia tells me to take DeeDee to the bathroom and then run across the street and get David a candy bar. Or when DeeDee asks for something, Cynthia says, “Victoria will get it.” And they’re always asking for something—the kids, I mean—and if they don’t get it they whine and cry, and DeeDee even once held her breath for God knows how long. I don’t remember them doing those kinds of things when I baby-sat for them. And we’re not even on Fire Island yet.

  Somewhere around Bay Shore we have to unload everything and drag it all on the ferry. DeeDee says she can’t carry anything because her poison ivy itches. David says he’s not going to get stuck carrying everything, and Cynthia says Victoria will carry DeeDee’s things. Everyone else makes two trips from the car to the ferry, and I make four, but I don’t care because I’m so excited that I would have carried everything all by myself.

  The ferry ride cools us all off. The kids and I sit on the top deck and Cynthia sits downstairs. I put my head back and figure I’ll pick up a little quick burn on my cheeks. The air smells salty and the wind whips my hair straight back. I’m going to love this place.

  “Victoria,” Cynthia calls from the lower deck, “are you watching the children?”

  I wasn’t but I jump up and search around quickly, and lucky for me they’re right there standing at the railing.

  “They’re okay, Cynthia,” I call down the stairs. I sit back down and don’t take my eyes off them until fifteen minutes later when we dock. I’m just not used to what I have to do, but I guess I’ll learn in a couple of days.

  There are no cars allowed on Fire Island so we have to pile all our stuff on rented wagons—the kind that kids play on, only bigger. It turns out that no matter how we arrange it we can’t get it all in four wagons, so we have to leave a load of baggage with the man who rents the wagons. No problem, Cynthia assures everyone, we’ll be able to pick up the rest of the stuff when we return the other wagons. By now I’ve got a pretty good idea who ‘we’ is.

  Each one of us grabs a wagon and follows Cynthia in a line down toward the house.

  From the back Cynthia looks like she could be my age. She’s the delicate type, very petite. I’m only five feet five inches, and she’s got to be at least two inches shorter, and she probably weighs only about 105 pounds, but she’s not skinny—she’s got a terrific figure. A lot of curves with the tiniest waist. I think she’s very pretty, with greenish eyes set wide apart, and a real short straight nose, not pug. There’s nothing special about her mouth, except that when she smiles she does show very white straight teeth. What I like best is her hair. It’s dark, dark brown and naturally curly, and now, in the sun, with all the curls flying loose, it has a red sparkle. Not that I have any chance to admire it, not with two kids getting unhappier by the minute pulling wagons. DeeDee breaks first.

  “It’s too heavy,” she wails from about twenty feet back.

  “Victoria,” Cynthia calls to me without stopping, “please take some of DeeDee’s things and see if you can fit them in your wagon.”

  My wagon is already the fullest, jammed with all the heavy things. I couldn’t squeeze in another toothpick. I fix it so that DeeDee walks alongside me and I pull my wagon with one hand and help DeeDee with the other. I’ve heard a lot about Fire Island, but this is the first time I’ve ever been here. It’s not at all what I expected. We’re in a town called Ocean Beach, and it’s fairly well built up, no apartments or hotels, but lots of small wooden houses all close together. There are no sidewalks, only narrow boardwalks and lots of trees and bushes lining the sides.

  I love it here already.

  “DeeDee, please don’t sit in the wagon,” I say. “I can’t pull you and all the stuff. My arms are breaking.” Not only isn’t DeeDee helping me pull her wagon but now she wants to ride in it. I have to ask her again nicely please not to. “My arms are breaking. C’mon, DeeDee, please.”

  “I’m tired . . . and itchy.” She pouts. I can see she’s going to start crying any second, and I don’t want to start anything the first day, so I let her climb on top of the pile of stuff in her wagon. Just when I feel that I can’t go another inch, I see Cynthia turn through a creaky old wagon-wheel gate about ten houses up. DeeDee jumps off the wagon and runs ahead.

  Somehow I drag myself and the two wagons up to the house and collapse on the front steps. I love the place. It’s the cutest one on the street, all white shingles with red trimming and geraniums in every single window box. It looks like a dollhouse.

  “Victoria, why don’t you start carrying in some of the stuff while I make us all some nice cold lemonade,” Cynthia says. She leaves her wagon in front of the house and disappears through the front door. The minute she’s gone, DeeDee and David shoot off toward the back of the wagons. Nothing to do but start unloading all this junk. Ugh.

  “Where should I put these things, Cynthia?” I ask, my arms loaded with clothes.

  “David will show you,” she calls from what must be the kitchen.

  I go back outside and start calling David, but he’s nowhere around so I go back into the house to tell Cynthia. I find her sitting in the kitchen drinking lemonade.

  “I can’t find David,” I tell her.

  She looks annoyed right away and asks me did I try the backyard. I say I didn’t, but I called loud and he would have heard me if he was anywhere around.

  “You can’t let them just wander off by themselves,” she says to me, getting up and going toward the backyard. She sticks her head out of the screen door and calls the kids, and, my luck, they answer right away.

  I can see she thinks I didn’t look or something.

  “I guess they were probably hiding on me.” And I smile to show her that it’s okay, but she looks like maybe she’s wondering if she didn’t make a monstrous mistake with me.

  “When Victoria calls you, you come, hear?” she tells them.

  “We didn’t hear anybody calling,” David says, shaking his head in all innocence, and DeeDee sees what he’s doing and starts to shake her head too.

  “I even went outside—where were you?” I ask them.

  “It’s not important,” Cynthia cuts me off. “But next time,” she tells them, “you answer when you’re called. Now get a move on and help Victoria unload.”

  “I’m itch
y,” DeeDee whines. Boy, she better get over that poison ivy quick.

  “All right, then don’t carry anything. But show Victoria where things go and don’t disturb me—I have some important calls to make.” And she plops herself down in one of those swivel chairs by the phone and starts dialing.

  DeeDee and I go out to get our belongings. David has already brought in his load and dumped it in the middle of the living room. I grab a couple of armfuls and follow DeeDee upstairs. There are these bedrooms on the second floor, all just adorable, freshly painted in sunny colors with starchy curtains on all the windows.

  “Where’s my bedroom?” I ask DeeDee.

  “I’ll show you,” she says and starts running up another flight of steps. It’s a short steep flight and you come up right in the middle of a small room. It reminds me of a tent, and I love it. The ceiling is sloping and sort of low on the sides, but I can stand up almost straight in the center with no trouble. It’s a cozy room and not jammed up with a lot of extra things. There’s a neat-looking bed with a sort of antique-looking metal headboard and a nice old wooden dresser. I guess maybe it’s a little too small to be a dresser, but it’s perfect for most of my clothes, and besides, I can hang up the rest in the closet. I don’t see a closet, but they have a perfectly good metal rod behind the dresser that gives me plenty of room to hang my stuff, and then I can see exactly what I want without having to bother opening a door. It’s a little warm in here now, but that’s probably because the window has been shut. It’s a nice little window like on a boat, and it doesn’t need a curtain or even a shade because it’s too small for people to look in, which makes it very private. I love it. I love it all.

  “I love the room,” I tell DeeDee. “It’s so cozy and perfect.”

  “It used to be a storage closet,” she announces and starts downstairs.

  “Victoria!” That’s my employer calling me, so naturally I answer right away. When my mother is doing it I don’t even hear her until the fourth call.

  I follow DeeDee down to Cynthia’s room. Poor Cynthia is sprawled on the bed with a wet rag on her head, looking awful. She motions me closer. It’s like one of those big dying scenes in the movies.

  “Honey, I’ve got a terrible headache.” It seems like an effort for her just to talk.

  “Can I get you anything?” I ask.

  “Do you want my Teddy to stay with you?” DeeDee asks.

  “No, darling.” Cynthia manages a weak smile. Then she tells me that she’s taken some painkillers and the best thing she can do is rest and try to sleep. Would I please take the kids and go down and get the stuff we left with the wagon man, and while we’re there could I please pick up a couple of items from the grocery store.

  “Maybe you’d better give them lunch before you go,” she says, “and take the dollar on the kitchen table for an ice cream treat for all of you.”

  “Could I have a double, Mommy?” DeeDee asks.

  “We’ll leave that to Victoria to decide,” she says, and I kind of like that because it shows she trusts my decisions.

  “Close the door on your way out, please,” Cynthia whispers, sinking fast.

  We aren’t even down the stairs when DeeDee starts pulling on my jeans.

  “Can I?” she asks. “Can I? Please?”

  Now that’s the big difference between me and a real mother. A real mother would definitely look at her and not have the vaguest idea what she’s talking about. “Can you what?” she’d ask. But of course I know exactly what she wants. She’s asking about the double scoop. Another thing—Cynthia would certainly say to her, “We’ll see,” and make it all hinge on how she eats her lunch. But I always hated when my mother would make one thing hang on another, and I swore I wouldn’t do that with my own kids, so I might as well start practising right now.

  “Absolutely,” I tell DeeDee. “You can have whatever two flavors you want.”

  Naturally the kid’s stunned.

  I find David and fix them both tuna sandwiches. David wolfs his down in two seconds, but DeeDee just sits there staring at hers.

  “Come on, DeeDee,” I coax her. “At least finish half.”

  “I don’t want to,” she says, shoving it away from her.

  “Do you want something else?”

  Naturally I could threaten to take away the second ice cream, but what for? That’d be just what mothers always do, and I want to try out some of my own ideas about raising kids.

  “Are you sure you’re not hungry at all?” I ask her one last time.

  “Uh-uh, I’m all fulled up.”

  You have to trust what a kid says; after all, she knows if she’s hungry or not better than I do. “Okay,” I tell them, “then let’s get going.”

  We get the empty wagons and David shows me how to pile them all on my wagon. We start walking toward the docks. I can see that DeeDee is unhappy. I think it’s because she wants a ride, so I ask her if she wants to sit in the wagon, but she shakes her head no.

  “What’s the matter, DeeDee? Come on, you can tell me.”

  “Am I still going to get the ice cream?” she asks, about a millimeter away from tears.

  “Of course you are. Just like I promised. A double scoop.” Poor kid’s not used to trusting mother figures. I’m going to be the best mother in the whole world.

  “I want it now.”

  “It’ll taste better when you’re hungry.”

  “But I am hungry.” Instantly her nose is red, and the tears are streaming down her cheeks. “I didn’t have any lunch,” she wails.

  I think I’ve been had by a five-year-old. “Okay, okay . . .” What can I do? I really did promise.

  “Now,” she says, all smiles, “you said I could ride on the wagon. Put me on.”

  I’ll get her.

  The little monster climbs up on the wagon and off we go toward the ice cream shop. It’s down near the ferry dock. All the action is around there. Cute boutiques and grocery stores and even a pizza place. I keep my eyes open for The Dunes, the place where Jim works, but I don’t see it. David and DeeDee never heard of it, but that’s probably because they’re too little.

  The ice cream is sensational, best I ever had, but I guess the price must have gone up since last year because I have to kick in fifty cents. I don’t mind, though, especially since I know Cynthia’s having a terrible money problem. She’s trying to sell the Fire Island house, and I heard that they may have to move from their apartment in the city. Everyone says it’s because Jed doesn’t pay anything. He’s truly disgusting to walk out the way he did and then not send money, not even any for the kids. That really stinks. I feel very bad for Cynthia.

  We return the wagons to the rental place and pick up the one we had to leave there. Another ferry is pulling in and the kids want to watch, so we walk out on the pier. And then I hear a guy’s voice not two feet behind me say, “Hi, Victoria.”

  Seven

  It’s Barry, that guy I told you about, the one who’s always staring at me, from school, Jim’s friend.

  “Oh, hi, Barry,” I say, giving my mouth a quick wipe for any stray cone crumbs, pulling in my stomach, smiling, and trying inconspicuously not to notice if Jim is anywhere around. With another couple of seconds I could do a fast fix on my hair, which probably looks like rat tails hanging from my head. But I guess it’s okay, because I don’t see Jim around anyway.

  “Hey,” Barry says, coming over to us, “I didn’t know you were going to be out here.” And he looks so nice and smiley that I think it’s not going to be hard making friends with him. Actually he’s a lot cuter than I thought he was in school. Maybe it’s that terrific tan he’s got. It goes great with his wavy black hair. He just looks different out here. I always thought of him as a string bean, kind of tall and skinny, but he’s not really skinny, he’s slim, and he’s got a fairly nice build. Don’t get me wrong; he’s far from gorgeous—his nose is a little biggish and his smile doesn’t dazzle like Jim’s, but his eyes are soft brown and friendly, and he’
s got a shy, sweet look about him that makes me feel totally relaxed.

  Another thing, Jim is so perfect that I sometimes think I would probably feel kind of clunky next to him, but with Barry I feel pretty. Prettier than Barry, anyway.

  A wide grin crosses his face and he asks, “How long are you here for?”

  “All summer,” I say. “I’m a mother’s helper.”

  “No kidding. Are those the victims?” He winks at David and DeeDee.

  “Right,” I say, and introduce him to the kids.

  “How do you do, David,” he says, solemnly shaking DeeDee’s hand, and she practically falls down giggling. And then David gets into it and shakes Barry’s hand and says he’s DeeDee, and then Barry says no, he’s DeeDee, and then I get into it and we’re all bowing and shaking hands, and the kids are hysterical, and in two seconds we’re all old friends. He’s cute. Barry, I mean. Nice cute.

  I don’t want him to know how much I know about him, so I have to ask him what he’s doing out here, and then he tells me all the things I already know and one extra. The best one. That ferry I mentioned? The one that’s just about pulling into the slip right this minute? Well, Jim is on it. How’s that for timing?

  Now, of course, I’ve got to find a way to fix my hair. Inconspicuously. I don’t want Barry to think it’s because of Jim.

  “DeeDee, honey,” I coo to her, wiggling my finger for her to come. “I just want to fix your hair a little,” I tell her. Of course she’s going to say no, and then I’ll tell her, “See, I’m going to fix my hair too.”

  “Okay,” she says, screwing up the whole plan.

  It’s too late to change plans, so like a fool I add, “See, I’m going to fix my hair too.”