“Oh, Tommy,” I say at last. “Isn’t he old news?”
“After he put his hand on your neck, that time? Hardly.”
“Oh, that! I’ve forgotten all about it.” Talk about little red lies! I get goose bumps thinking about it.
Tommy’s not our homeroom teacher, this year. Ruthie and Hazel and I glance into his classroom from time to time, only to find it aswarm with the usual flirty girls, mostly grade-niners. We have a legitimate question for him. By the end of September, the crowd is somewhat diminished, and we wait our turn to ask him what play the drama club will be doing this year.
“I haven’t really thought about it,” he says, when at last we have his ear. “I have a list of possibilities. Let’s look it over together and decide.” He retrieves the list from a desk drawer. As we pour over it, he says, “Perhaps Rachel should be assistant director.”
“Me!” I say. “I don’t know anything about directing.”
“I could teach you everything you need to know,” he says. “You look like a young woman of many talents.”
Ruthie and Hazel give each other a quick raised-eyebrow glance.
Hazel says, “She really is. She’s writing a play, you know.”
“No, I’m not,” I say. “I’ve given it up.”
“Why? It sounded great,” Hazel says.
“I have too much on my mind to be able to think about it.”
“Girls don’t have anything on their minds, do they?” Mr. Tompkins says. “Besides boys?”
Ruthie and Hazel laugh politely at his feeble joke. I feel slighted. How would he know what problems are weighing on my mind? Maybe I should tell him.
On the way home, Ruthie says, “I hope you’re not going to get all stuck-up and everything, just because he said you have talent.”
“Look like I have talent,” I say. “There’s a difference.”
“What kind of difference?”
I say, as modestly as possible, “I think he means I’m interesting-looking. Sort of.”
“Whatever that’s supposed to mean.”
“No, it’s simple. I’m certainly not as beautiful as Hazel, but I am interesting-looking.”
“Most people think horny toads are interesting-looking.”
“Ruthie, you have no soul.”
“You’ve got a bad case of it, I think.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Admit it! You are dangerously in love.”
“When I fall in love, believe me, you’ll be the first to know.”
“You are in love with an older man—a married man, at that.”
“How do you know he’s married?”
“Everybody knows, and his wife is going to have a baby.”
My face feels hot. I admit, I once had a daydream, a sort of love story involving Tommy and me, but it was about doomed love because of the teacher-pupil thing; it was about eternal but innocent yearning. Something you could turn into a successful movie starring Gregory Peck and a wonderful new, young, talented actress. A movie where everyone in the audience leaves the theater mopping their eyes, unable even to speak to each other. Later, though, they phone their friends and say, You simply must see this new movie starring Gregory Peck and a wonderful, new, young, interesting-looking actress. I sure didn’t bargain on a wife, in my daydream movie, and certainly not a baby.
We part at the corner, and I drag my feet the rest of the way home.
So, the Tommy-dreams are over. If he has a wife, he’s definitely off-limits. Officially out of my life and out of my thoughts.
At school on Tuesdays and Thursdays, I watch Ruthie play basketball, and I cheer in the right places. I watch the football game with Ruthie after school on Friday. Will Cooper scores a touchdown. I cheer. Our school loses, anyway. I say, “How sad,” at the sock hop after the game, but I couldn’t care less. Will Cooper asks me to dance. I didn’t think he even knew I existed. He’s quite good-looking and, while we dance, I see Tommy watching us from the sidelines. He looks a little jealous, I think, but maybe I’m only imagining it. He and Miss Felden, the phys ed teacher, are chaperones. Of course, I stumble all over the place and can hardly follow Will. But I refuse to think about Tommy.
Not for one moment am I thinking about Tommy. At home, I become aware of my parents penetrating the fog of thoughts clouding my brain, which hasn’t happened for many weeks.
There’s something funny going on with them. It’s hard to put my finger on it. My mother seems tired and worn out. My father goes around in a daze. Except when Granny comes for dinner, we’re like three ghosts occupying different parts of the house. Dad says I can no longer work at the drugstore.
“How come?”
“Because Mother needs your help more than ever. She’s … she’s not herself these days. Someday you’ll understand.”
No, I won’t. I’ll never understand why they’re trying to turn me into the family slave. I go up to my room and slam the door.
“Rachel!” I hear. “If you’ve finished your homework, I could use your help in the kitchen.”
“I haven’t finished,” I yell through my closed door.
I’m trying out a new hairstyle, with it all piled on top of my head and secured with five hundred bobby pins. But the effect is more metal than hair, so I give up.
Downstairs I hear a crash and my mother wailing, “Oh, no! I spilled it!”
I hear my father hurry out to the kitchen. “Now, now,” he says. “You go and lie down. I’ll look after it. Rachel!” he calls. “I need your help!”
What can I do? I claw the pins out of my hair, shake it to resemble a lion’s mane, and listen to my slave chains, as they clank all the way down the stairs.
As the weeks go by, anger and resentment become my best friends. I’m angry with Jamie for getting sick, because, obviously, it’s worry over him that’s turning my mother into someone I’ve never met before. I’m angry that he won’t tell her about being faith healed, to put her mind at rest. And I resent the fact that he made me promise not to tell. On top of this, I know, or at least feel sure, that the whole thing is a fraud. So, how is it possible that he’s cured?
I don’t know what to do. Should I tell Jamie the whole thing is a sham, or should I tell Mother that he’s been miraculously cured? If I ask Ruthie, she’ll tell me that movie stars are always being miraculously cured and not to worry. As for Hazel, well, I don’t really know her well enough to ask. Anyway, she always seems wrapped up in problems of her own. What I need is mature advice. Granny’s out of the question for the time being. She’s gone to Kingston to look after her sister.
At school, I am barely aware of what’s going on. In English, we’re supposed to read The Barretts of Wimpole Street. I haven’t even started it. One day in class, Mr. Tompkins discusses Elizabeth Barrett’s mysterious illness, and Robert Browning’s growing tenderness toward her, with such compassion that I actually pay attention. Everyone says he’s the most sympathetic teacher in the school. Maybe he is.
After the bell, I wait while some grade thirteen girl bends his ear over nothing. I’m surprised by my own impatience. I scratch the insides of my arms and try to think about peeling potatoes and carrots, which I will be doing in about one half hour, oh joy, oh rapture.
At last, it’s my turn. I start by saying, “I need some advice.”
“All right,” Mr. Tompkins says. “I’ll try my best.”
“It’s about my brother. He has leukemia.”
He looks startled, shuffling papers on his desk into a pile. “Oh, dear,” he says. “That’s terrible. I’m sorry to hear it. Is there anything anyone can do?”
“The thing is, he believes he’s been cured by a fraudulent faith healer.”
“How do you mean?”
I tell him about the red-haired guy on crutches, who turns up with a beard and gray hair in Durhampton and is healed all over again.
He frowns. “What a cheat! He should be reported to the authorities.”
“Well, yes,
I agree. But right now, I need advice on what to do about my brother.”
“That’s a toughie,” he says. “There’s a right way and a wrong way to tackle this, but I’ll try my best.” He pulls an extra chair up close to his desk and asks me to sit down. “This is much too hard for you to deal with alone. I’m glad you told me.”
I’m so relieved to find him being sympathetic and helpful that I nearly burst into tears. Swallowing hard, I say, “What do you think? Should I tell him it was all an act?”
“That’s a hard one,” he says. “Don’t do it yet. Don’t be in a rush.” He takes my hand in his for a moment and then releases it. “Let me think about this for a day or two. I know someone who might have some good advice. I’ll get back to you. Would that be all right?” He’s already gathering up his papers, putting them into his briefcase and preparing to leave.
“Sure,” I say.
He walks with me to the classroom door. “Don’t be discouraged. I’m sure there is a right way to handle this. It will just take a little time.” He gives me a pat on the shoulder, leaving his hand there for the merest moment. It burns through my blouse, making me shiver inside in spite of my worries.
I stand gazing up at him, and he down at me, with my schoolbooks clasped nervously to my chest. I’m aware of another student walking past, but I can’t move my eyes away from Tommy’s. Football practice is over, I guess. It must be getting late. Mr. Tompkins says, “See you tomorrow.”
Will Cooper catches up with me as I’m leaving the school. “I saw you with Tompkins,” he says.
“So what? He is my English teacher, you know.” Is that guilt in my voice? I don’t need to explain anything. Anyway, what business is it of Will’s? He’s two grades ahead, but that doesn’t give him the right to check up on me. And, while I think about it, Will isn’t really all that good-looking.
“He’s a terrible flirt,” Will says.
“He’s not interested in me. Why would he be? He’s married.”
“No, he’s not. A friend of mine asked him, and he said he isn’t.”
“There’s no law against talking to a single man, especially if he’s your teacher.”
“They say he was fired from his last job.”
“Who says?”
“That’s the scuttlebutt.”
“That’s stupid. I expect he was overseas, like all the other young men.”
“Apparently not. A guy in my class asked him. He was turned down because of flat feet.”
“Well, he wasn’t fired. If it were true, he’d hardly be hired here.”
“The school needed someone in a hurry. Remember? Mr. Mackiewitz left suddenly.”
“I think someone’s spreading nasty stories,” I say.
We walk in silence to the next corner, where we pause before going in different directions.
“Well, he’s sure got the girls eating out of his hand,” Will says.
I picture soft-eyed does, coming tamely from the forest toward his outstretched hand, and imagine I hear the crack of a rifle.
“He’s just giving me some advice,” I say, a trifle haughtily. I don’t want to, and don’t need to, go into details, and so I leave it there.
“Well, take care,” he says and lopes off down the street.
Scuttlebutt’s a good word. Imagine old Will Cooper using a word like scuttlebutt. The world is full of surprises.
I walk on, and in spite of everything reasonable, I find myself back inside a daydream, Tommy’s hand singeing my shoulder, his gaze burning my face. My worries are tucked away in some dark cold cave at the back of my mind.
CHAPTER
16
Golden autumn gives way to winter almost overnight, it seems. Leaves sweep and swirl ahead of me, each day, as I trudge to school. We have a few light snowfalls, but nothing permanent, yet. I wear earmuffs to school, spurning a hat, and continue to sport bobby socks and saddle shoes, ignoring my mother’s warnings that my legs and feet will get frostbitten and my toes fall off. I wait, as patiently as possible, for Mr. Tompkins to come up with the promised advice, but he always seems busy, always rushes off to do something else.
One day after English class, he says, “The friend I want to talk to about your brother is away until after Christmas. I hope you can wait that long for me to advise you.”
“I guess so,” I say. I’m disappointed, but I fake a smile.
“This person is an expert, so it’s going to be worth the wait, I’m sure.”
“Okay.” I try not to look glum, but I think I fail. He puts his hands on either side of my face and stretches my lips into a smile. And then, I do smile.
Every week or so, I write to Jamie in Toronto, and amazingly, he writes back. “Do me a favor,” he writes, “and ask Mary to send me a letter.” He’s written two letters to her, he tells me, and needs to hear back.
So, I go into Woolworths. “Oh, for sure,” Mary says, “I keep meaning to write. It’s just that I’m really busy these days.” She turns pink and ducks her head under the counter, looking for a tin of talcum powder that she knocked to the floor. “Maybe you should give me his address again. I think I lost it.” I write it on a scrap of paper torn from my notebook.
I try to wait patiently for Mr. Tompkins to advise me, but it’s really hard. What makes it even harder is listening to Ruthie tease me about him, calling me a home-wrecker. She doesn’t believe me when I tell her that Will Cooper said he isn’t married.
There’s something about Hazel that bothers me, too. In English class, with our heads bent over a poem we’re dissecting, I sometimes look up, and with a shock, notice Mr. Tompkins’ gaze falling directly on Hazel and staying there. It makes me sad and, at the same time, nervous, although I don’t know why. Sometimes I see Hazel glance up at him with an expression I have trouble translating. Is it adoration, or is it something like panic?
In my letters to Jamie, I try to describe what’s happening at home:
Your parents (I like to pretend they have no connection to me) have gone completely off their nuts. Your mother doesn’t get out of bed until after I leave for school. Remember how she used to rout us out of bed if we dared to sleep in until nine o’clock, on a Saturday, no less? She’s really slipping. And your father goes around looking haunted.
Granny is back from Kingston and is the only one who remains normal. The sad news is, poor old Bounder died. She says she’s going to get a puppy in the spring.
Your mother said, “Don’t you think you’re a bit too old to be taking on a puppy?”
Granny gave her a nasty look and said, “If you ask me, that’s a lot like the pot calling the kettle black.”
Your father got up and left the table.
I said, “Couldn’t we all just practice being normal, so that when Jamie gets home for Christmas, he won’t feel like he’s in a lunatic asylum?”
Jamie writes back:
We’ve always known the parents are mildly psychotic, so why be surprised? I’ve been feeling great, by the way. No need to go back into hospital for refueling. Doctor Latham is quite satisfied with me. See you soon.
Three days before Christmas, we’re slouching on the living room sofa, supposedly admiring the tree.
“Too short,” I say. “A tree for gnomes.”
“Not enough decorations,” Jamie says. “Looks like it’s been through the Depression.”
It doesn’t take Jamie long to see what I meant in my letter about our parents. “What’s the matter with them?” he whispers. “They seem so vague, as if they’re only half here.”
“This is only a theory,” I say, “but I’m afraid some alien being has taken our parents and exchanged them for two Martians who look just like them.”
“Although not quite,” Jamie says. “The mother they gave us is fatter.”
“And moodier,” I say. “If she’s not humming to herself and grinning, she has tears running down her cheeks, as if the world has come to an end.”
Next day, I convince Jamie to go Christ
mas shopping with me.
“How can I buy you a present if you’re standing beside me?” he says.
“I’ll turn my back.”
We put on our coats and hear Mother on the phone, saying she’s awfully sorry about something. “I hate to miss it, but I’ve nothing to wear.” She lowers her voice. “Nothing fits, now.”
“She bawls me out for saying that,” I whisper to Jamie.
“She’s just going through the middle-aged spread.”
“Tellin’ me. More like the middle-aged paunch.”
We kick snow ahead of us as we head downtown. Jamie consults his list. “Granny wants a book, so that’s easy. For Dad, I was thinking a scarf, but maybe a book. Something dealing with politics or the war. Maybe a book for Mother, too. Something on diets. Or would that be insulting?”
“Very. Don’t do it.”
“Maybe a book of poetry would be better.”
“She doesn’t read poetry.”
“She could start.”
“Are you getting something for Mary?”
“Of course.”
The first night he was home, Jamie invited Mary to come over and listen to his Glen Miller recordings. She was still there when I came home from Ruthie’s. Our parents were banished, I guessed, to their room. I plunked myself down on a chair, saying, “So what’s new?”
Mary couldn’t find much to talk about and, pretty soon, looked at her watch. She said, “I should go home because my mother will get mad if I stay out too late.”
Jamie kept glaring at me, but I was able to ignore him. “I’ll walk you home,” he said, finally, and they went to put on their coats. He said, “I have a question for you, Mary.” I was kind of lingering near the hall door and accidentally heard him. “When are you going to leave home and find yourself an apartment?”
“An apartment? Oh, well, I guess I won’t,” she said. “Not until I get married. There’s no point.”
Little Red Lies Page 14