Little Red Lies

by Julie Johnston

  “Oh.” And that’s when they went out, leaving me to wonder what would happen next.

  “Maybe I’ll give Mary an engagement ring,” Jamie says as we head downtown.

  “Waste of money,” I say.

  “I don’t think so. I bet she wants proof that our friendship is going somewhere.”

  We come to Phillip’s Jewelry Store, first, and look in the window at the gold and silver rings on display, their stones sparkling in a sudden burst of winter sunshine. We can’t see any of the prices. I twist my head nearly upside down and glimpse a figure of $375.

  “Oh.” Jamie bites his lip. “A bit more than I’d bargained on.”

  “Don’t look at me. I’m not turning over my savings to you.”

  “Actually, maybe she’d prefer a book.” In the bookstore window is a copy of The Boston Cooking-School Cook Book by Fannie Farmer. “That cook book, for instance. If I give her that, she’ll realize that one of these days I’m going to ask her to marry me.”

  “Not one of your better ideas.”

  We go inside while he mulls over the choices. “Diamond ring? Cook book? Hang on,” he says, his eyes wide as if he’s just had an epiphany.

  “What, now?”

  “Why would Mary Foley want to marry me, if she thinks I’m dying?”

  I frown. I have no answer.

  “I know what I have to do. I have to go straight to Woolworths and tell her the truth.”

  “The truth about what?”

  “About the faith healer. That I’ve been cured.”

  He’s out the door, the bell jingling, before I can say, “Hey, wait!”

  Outside, sliding on a patch of ice, I yell, “Hey, wait!” But he’s gone. I catch up to him just inside the department store, glaring at the cosmetics counter, near the back of the store. Mary’s there, of course, looking beautiful, hair shining, eyebrows arched just so. She smiles winningly at a customer, someone familiar. That Armstrong guy! Roy Armstrong. We watch, from a distance, for a moment, as they carry on a hilarious conversation, both of them laughing like maniacs.

  “What are they laughing about?” I whisper. “Nothing’s that funny!”

  Jamie’s face looks like a blank page. He clutches the corner of a counter, as if it might try to get away.

  “May I help you with something?” Mrs. Hulbert, the clerk, asks. She knows us because she’s in Mother’s church group. “I guess I’ll look at the scarves.” Jamie mumbles.

  “Certainly.” She shows him five scarves in five different colors, and he says he’ll take them all. The Armstrong guy is still there chatting up a storm. When Mrs. Hulbert hands Jamie his change, she smiles at me and says, “And how is your mother keeping, dear?”

  “Oh, she’s fine,” I say.

  “I’m so happy for her.”

  That’s nice, I think, but why?

  We arrive home to the cinnamony smell of baking pies. And on the kitchen table, cookies are spread out on a piece of brown paper. Mother says, “Go ahead, try one. Two. You may each have two. They’ve just come out of the oven.”

  We take two each and breathe contented sighs because we’re lucky enough to have a mother who bakes delicious cookies, and we know enough to appreciate it.

  Christmas goes off as scheduled, with the usual good food and plenty of it. The presents we exchange are just what each of us wanted. Jamie and I went together on a gift for Mother, and when she opens it, she bursts into tears. That jars us both.

  “It’s so beautiful,” she weeps. “Is it a garnet? That’s my birthstone. How did you know that?”

  “Mother,” Jamie says, “calm down. It’s only a necklace, not the crown jewels.”

  “Oh, my sweet, sweet, boy. Thank you so much, darling.”

  “It’s from me, too,” I say.

  “Oh, yes, of course, thank you both.”

  Easy to see who’s the favorite.

  The phone rings in the afternoon, when we’re lying around reading our new Christmas books. It’s Mary Foley, who says a little too eagerly, “I’m afraid I’ve come down with a bad cold, so I won’t be able to give Jamie his present.” She coughs to demonstrate.

  “I’ll let him know.” A corny little movie starring Roy Armstrong, flirting with Mary while she bats her eyes at him, plays over and over in my mind, and it’s all I can do to remain civil. I’m thinking, I should just wrap up all those scarves Jamie bought in one big parcel and take them over to her. Merry Christmas from Jamie, I’d say. These will keep your neck warm the rest of your short life. Then I’d strangle her with them.

  “Sorry about your cold,” I say, although I’m not. I go upstairs and tell Jamie what she said.

  “Good,” he says.

  “Good? Why good? Are you over her?”

  He looks as if he’s surprised himself. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m just realizing that life’s too short to pretend to be in love.”

  Two days after Christmas, one of Mary’s brothers, Tim or Tom, drops by after lunch with a present for Jamie from Mary. I run upstairs to where he’s studying, to tell him. He closes his book with a bang and mutters something under his breath. Grabbing one of the scarves from the back of the shelf in his cupboard, the red one, he finds tissue paper, hurriedly wraps it up, and licks three Christmas seals to stick it all together.

  “You don’t need to do this, you know,” I say.

  “It’s a matter of pride.”

  I follow him down to the front hall, where Tim or Tom is waiting, and watch him hand over the scarf for Mary.

  “Hope Mary gets over her cold soon,” Jamie says.

  Tim or Tom says, “She’s not got a cold.”

  I frown. “She said she did on the telephone.”

  “Why did she say she has a cold, if she doesn’t?” Jamie asks.

  “I don’t know. What she has is a new boyfriend. She asked me to tell you.”

  Jamie is stunned into silence, so I fill in. “Oh, yeah? Well, tell her the same goes for Jamie. In fact, he’s the next thing to engaged. Hope you can come to the wedding.”

  Jamie glares at me as he closes the door behind Mary’s brother. “Just once,” he seethes, “just once, could you possibly mind your own business?”

  “Sorry,” I say. “I guess the way I said that, it sounded as if you had a new boyfriend.”

  “Whenever you butt in, you make me look like an incompetent idiot.”

  “Open the present,” I say.

  “Did you even hear what I said?”

  “It’s tattooed on my brain. Let’s see what she gave you.”

  “I’m throwing it in the garbage.”

  “Don’t you want to see what a girl who is about to dump her boyfriend would give him for Christmas? Let me open it.” I peel back the tissue. It’s a scarf, black and gray striped. It looks like something you’d wear to a funeral.

  The day before New Year’s Eve, our whole family is still around the kitchen table, after breakfast, drinking coffee. Jamie’s going back to Toronto, but not until the afternoon. Even I am allowed half a cup, with plenty of cream and sugar.

  The doorbell rings and Jamie goes to answer it. Mother pulls her dressing gown a little more securely across her front. Dressing gown. This is a breach of personal grooming that happens rarely, if ever. I am appalled. What has become of the straitlaced, prim and proper mother who bugs the life out of me, but who, nevertheless, is the one I’m used to, the one who preaches that proper etiquette means you come down in the morning fully dressed to greet the day? Sure, she’s brushed her hair and put on lipstick. In fact, it looks suspiciously like mine, which is still lurking in a corner of the kitchen cupboard. On her, though, it looks a little more subdued, more like Little Pink Lies.

  It’s Will Cooper at the door. He keeps his coat on and follows Jamie into the kitchen, saying he can’t stay. What’s he doing here? I wonder. Checking up on me, again? I don’t even rate a glance, however, as he says hello to the others.

  “How are things at your place?” Jamie asks.


  It takes Will a moment before he answers. “It’s a bit eerie,” he says. “We just got a letter from Arthur, written the day before his plane went down over Germany.”

  I have to translate Arthur into Coop, before I know who he means.

  “A letter?” Jamie looks startled.

  Dad motions Will over to an empty chair, but he shakes his head and leans against the sink.

  “These things happen, I guess,” Will says. “In a war, letters get lost. Maybe somebody found it and meant to mail it, but didn’t for some reason. Who knows?”

  “You’re right,” Jamie says. “I had a picture I kept meaning to give back to a friend’s widow, but I kept it a long time before I got up the nerve to face her.”

  “Will, it must have sent your parents into a tailspin,” Granny says.

  “Sure did. I thought my father was going to have a heart attack.”

  “What does the letter say?” Jamie asks.

  “The usual. Mostly about flying. He mentions you. I copied it out to show you. You can keep it if you want.”

  Jamie takes the copy gratefully and goes into the dining room to read it.

  In the kitchen, Will says, “He mostly just says that everyone on the flight crew was nervous about the next mission, but he wasn’t. He never was superstitious. Bit like Dad.”

  Jamie comes back into the kitchen looking pale. His hand shakes when he picks up his coffee cup. “He writes the way he talks, doesn’t he? He sure loves flying.”

  “Yup. He loved it, all right.”

  The change in tense is not lost on me. Will believes he’s dead. Jamie doesn’t. Will looks at his watch and says he has to leave. Jamie’s rereading his copy of the letter, and so I walk with Will to the door.

  He smiles. “Santa good to you?” A teasing, joking grin, but, I have to admit, a nice grin. Sort of.

  “Nope. He only brings things to good little girls, and I am neither good nor little.” I want to see him smile again, and he does. It seems to go on for three seconds longer than is absolutely necessary and causes me a little red-faced flutter. Do I look like some little juvenile? I rub my hand across my face because I probably have half my breakfast smeared across my cheek.

  After Will goes, I ask Jamie if I can read the letter. It isn’t long, so it doesn’t take much time. The letter begins with something about the last parcel his mother sent, how he shared the food with the other crew members, and how they envy him the hand-knit socks.

  Near the end, he wrote:

  Another bombing mission tonight. The other guys are sweating bullets and biting their nails till they bleed. They’re spooked by this one, for some reason. I’m all smiles every time we take off. I wish my buddy Mac was here. He’d get a thrill out of being inside the belly of this giant bird as it takes flight. The earth just falls away, like old clothes. The roar is so loud, it’s part of you. As the plane slices through clouds, you wonder if this time you’ll get to touch the stars. Too bad Mac didn’t choose the air force. Too bad we have to drop bombs, but we do.

  It’s a morning of callers. No sooner has Will left than there’s a knock on the kitchen door. This time it’s our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Hall.

  Normally Mother would have bustled about—finding another cup, pouring coffee, apologizing that it wasn’t very strong or was too strong—but she sits calmly while Granny gets the coffee. I’ve never seen her like this, so placid, oblivious to everything around her, sitting with her hands folded across her stomach. She looks as if she’s swallowed something divine, like a whole chalice of communion wine.

  Mrs. Hall waves an envelope at us. “A Christmas card, I think. Delivered to us by mistake,” she says. “I meant to bring it a few days ago, but you know how it is. Busy, busy, busy. Happy New Year, everyone! Don’t get up,” she says as Dad pushes his chair back. “Sorry to disturb.”

  “Join us for a cup of coffee,” Mother says, coming out of her reverie.

  “Thank you, but I couldn’t possibly. I can’t stay.”

  Dad pulls an extra chair up to the table, anyway.

  Granny says, “I made a big pot. It’ll just go to waste.”

  Mrs. Hall sits down fussily, loosens her coat, and straightens her skirt over her knees. She pats Jamie’s hand solicitously, grins at me, beams at Mother, and says, “You’re looking radiant, my dear. When does this darling new baby make its grand entrance?”

  No one says a word. It’s as though everyone has stopped breathing. Mother’s face moves from blank serenity to flushed embarrassment. Dad looks as if he’s committed treason. Granny puts the breakfast frying pan into the sink with a clatter-bang.

  “I hope,” Mrs. Hall says, her finger to her lip, “that I haven’t just let the cat out of the bag.”

  Mother suddenly takes repossession of her brain and says, “Certainly not. I’m sure Jamie and Rachel are well aware of … we just … haven’t talked much about it. You know how it is, you like to wait a bit until you’re sure of … everything.” She smiles brightly. A smear of my lipstick has come off on one of her teeth.

  Jamie looks hard at his watch, as if he were just learning to tell time. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he says. “I have some packing to do.” He pushes his chair out from the table.

  “Wait, son,” Dad says, “I think your mother deserves a minute of your time.”

  He nearly sits down again but doesn’t. He says brightly, glibly, “Congratulations, you two. I’m sure you’ll be very happy with this fresh, new addition or edition, whichever the case may be.” He leaves the table and hurries upstairs.

  I follow him, but he closes his door in my face.

  Letters not sent.

  I left an unfinished letter to you a while back, telling you about the day we were bombed by our own planes. You know, I don’t think we ever really got over that. I remember the way I felt after the disaster, as the drone of the Allied bombers drifted away. Stabbed in the back. Sucker punched.

  Dragging my bloody leg, I hobbled away from Leeson’s corpse. I had the picture of his wife in my pocket. My dead comrades were scattered like broken toys, carelessly left by a spoiled child. Then, I heard someone cry out. When I looked back, nothing moved except a cluster of wildflowers, petals still whole, drooping in the heat. I staggered back, listening. Again, an anxious cry that turned into a steady moan. My leg was killing me. All I could think of was getting back to what might be left of my platoon, to get relief from the pain.

  I heard the moaning sound again and stopped. “Mother?” I heard someone call. I tried to keep going, one foot, drag the other, one foot. But then I stopped. I didn’t want to, but I turned around.

  Following the sound, I nearly stumbled over Herman Visser, a guy we used to call Herman-the-German. He had a gaping hole in his midsection that displayed blood and guts and I don’t know what all, and there was a stench that made the bile come up in my throat. I took off my shirt and covered his wound.

  Visser called out, “Nurse?”

  I said, “It’s Jamie.”

  He said, “Would you call my mother and ask her to come and get me?”

  His icy blue eyes always used to send a chill through me because he was such a worrywart. I felt as if his anxiety would spread to me. But, this time, his eyes were swimming with tears, and I felt like crying myself.

  “Mother!.” he called. It came out almost a gasp. I didn’t know what to do, so I put my hand on his forehead, like a mother checking for fever. He said, “Did she say she’d come?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  The whole time, in the back of my mind, I wanted to yell at him to pull himself together, to get up, be a man, stop talking about his mother, for God’s sake. But, after sitting with him for a while, in my undershirt, I kind of got caught up in the myth that Herman’s mother would come and save him, that all our mothers would come and save all of us. I could just hear them! “Put down those guns right this minute before someone gets hurt,” they’d say.

  “Is she here yet?” he said.
>
  “Almost,” I said.

  I saw Herman’s eyes lose their luster and stare straight up. Something gurgled in his throat. I put my hand on his forehead again, cool in spite of the sun, and ran it down over his eyes hoping to close them, but they wouldn’t close. I wondered if he had felt as betrayed by the Allies as I did. I would never find out.

  Jamie’s pretty upset, that much is clear. I go back downstairs to see what other bombshells will be dropped around the kitchen table. I’m still in a state of shocked embarrassment. How will I explain this to my friends? Guess what? My ancient Mother’s having a baby! God! Parents of teenagers and grown-up sons just don’t start having babies again. There should be some sort of law! How can I face Ruthie? I can just hear her. Some people’s parents! Snicker, snicker. Yeah, mine!

  Mrs. Hall is on her way out when I come down. “Thank you, my dears, for the coffee. Must run. I have a hair appointment in fifteen minutes.”

  Right, I think. She’ll have to rehearse her lines for the ladies at the Crowning Glory Beauty Salon. I can imagine what she’ll say about Jamie and me. And they didn’t even know! Those great, grown children hadn’t even guessed.

  How would we know? Why would we even guess that our parents would, would … I’m not thinking about this anymore.

  When Jamie comes down with his suitcase, Mother is waiting for him at the foot of the stairs. “You’re not going this early, are you?”

  “I need to get back. I’ll get the earlier train.”

  “Jamie, you’re upset about our news. I meant to tell you. I was waiting for the right time.” He stands holding his head back and off to one side because she looks as though she’s getting ready to plant a slobbery kiss right on his lips. “Don’t you think it’s exciting?” she asks.

  “What?” He frowns.

  “The baby, of course. A little brother or sister for you and Rachel.” She smiles brightly.

  I watch Jamie glance from her face to her belly and back to her face. “I wish this was a joke,” he says.

  “It’s the farthest thing from a joke, son. Don’t look so cross.”