Little Red Lies

by Julie Johnston

  He brushes past her and goes out to the kitchen, where Dad is halfheartedly gathering up coffee cups. With muted anger, Jamie says through his teeth, “How could you let this happen?” Dad just stares into the sink.

  Emptying coffee grounds from the percolator onto a newspaper, Granny says to Jamie, “If there was ever a time to grow up, lad, it’s now.” He’s still staring at Dad.

  Mother stands in the doorway between kitchen and back hall. “Jamie! Think of it. We’ll all have a little one to cuddle and play with.”

  “Aren’t we all just a little too old for this?”

  Mother turns and goes weeping down the hall and up the stairs. Dad leaves the kitchen to follow her.

  Jamie grabs his coat, picks up his suitcase, and opens the side door.

  Granny says, “I thought you weren’t going until later.”

  “I have to get back to study. I have a chemistry exam next week.”

  “There’s no train for at least two hours.”

  “I’m sure there is.”

  “I’ll drive you to the station. No need for you to walk.”

  “I want to walk.”

  “It’s too cold to walk all the way to the station carrying a suitcase. Now wait right there while I get my coat and galoshes. Where are your galoshes? They should be on your feet.”

  I ran to get my coat, too. “I’ll come along for the ride.”

  The three of us are crushed together in the truck. Granny drives like a maniac, tooting at anyone who threatens to get in her way. She glances past me at Jamie. “You’re behaving like a child.”

  “So what? I guess that’s what I am. A replaceable child. They can’t even wait until I’m dead.”

  “Don’t be such a self-centered ass.” We nearly sideswipe a parked car.

  I keep silent, my head swiveling between the two of them. I’m wondering, though, what’s happened to his miraculous cure.

  “Keep your eyes on the road, Granny,” Jamie says. “You’re going to cause a crash.”

  “Maybe it would knock a little sense into you. Do you ever consider other people’s feelings?”

  This is cruel, I think. Right now, I’m ready to hate Granny. I expect Jamie to say something biting or else open the door of the truck and leap out, but it’s too late. We’re pulling into the station parking area.

  “Thanks for the ride,” he says sullenly. He opens the door of the truck, letting in a malicious wind.

  “Just so you know,” Granny says before he can step down, “the baby wasn’t planned. At your mother’s age, you know, it was a surprise. It was an act of God.”

  “Oh, sure. Blame it on God. God and the virgin Dora.”

  There’s half a second of absolute silence broken by Granny’s cackling laughter. “All right, Mr. Smarty-pants, get out if you want, but shake hands first.”

  He looks past me into Granny’s strong blue eyes, red-veined and a little watery at the moment. He takes her hand, and she holds on to his, nodding at him.

  “You be good,” she says, “if you can figure out how.” She lets him go, and he puts a foot on the running board.

  “What about me?” I say. I make a lunge for him and manage to plaster a kiss on his cheek.

  “At least you’re not wearing your war paint,” he says.

  Granny and I drive in silence back from the station until we’re almost home.

  “The world is going haywire,” I say.

  “It’s always been haywire. But now we care.”

  “A baby, for God’s sake!”

  “A baby for all our sakes.”

  CHAPTER

  17

  “Granny, would you let me off at Hazel’s corner?” I say. I can’t face going home yet. I wish I could stay away forever.

  Hazel answers the door when I ring the bell, looking troubled. “Hi,” she says. “Anything wrong, Rachel?”

  “With me?”

  “You don’t look very happy.”

  “Oh, I’m all right.” I’m wondering what my face shows. “You’re the one who doesn’t look very happy,” I say.

  “I’ll get over it, I guess. It’s just that I’m packing. I have to go to live with my grandmother in Toronto for the rest of the school year.”

  “Why are you doing that? What about school?”

  “It’s my father’s idea. It’s really too hard to explain, but the point is, I’m going to enrol in a school there.” Somewhere in the back of the house, I hear Hazel’s father calling her. “I’ve got to go,” she says. “I’ll call you if I get back before that.”

  I barely have time to say a hurried good-bye before she closes the door.

  There’s nothing left to do except trundle on over to Ruthie’s house. I expect her sisters will be hanging around. Ruthie said they were both taking time off before New Year’s. I hope Ruthie and I can escape them to get some gab-time on our own.

  Ruthie’s house is alive with the sound of their new electric record player, as well as Ruthie and her sisters singing along to Sammy Kaye’s “That’s My Desire.” Joan and Audrey are dancing cheek to cheek. I sit with them in the living room, but I’m not singing. At the end of the song, I elbow Ruthie. “Can we talk?”

  “After. Let’s hear this one first. We just got it. It’s called ‘I’ve Got a Crush on You.’ It’s Sarah Vaughan.”

  Blind with boredom, I stand at the window and look at nothing. Maybe I should just go home. The singer croons out the words, and the sisters join in. Some of the words are pretty silly, but some stick in my head. The song’s about being in love, about not knowing how the other person feels. The singer yearns to share a little home, share her life, share everything she has with that special person. Ruthie and Joan are dancing now. “ ‘I’ve got a crush on you,’ ” they croon softly. I no longer hear them.

  I don’t even see them. What I see, now, is the truth, not the lies I’ve been telling myself. The truth is, I have a crush on Tommy. Not only that I see the possibility of dropping out of my present life and taking up a new one, I see my future.

  Is it possible? Has there ever been a marriage between a teacher and a high school student? Would it be possible to escape to a little cottage I could share with Tommy? Would the world, including my parents, pardon my mush, because I have a crush on …?

  The music comes to an end. Ruthie grabs my arm and says, “C’mon. We can talk in my room.”

  “Is Mr. Tompkins really married, or did you make that up?” I ask once the door is shut, blocking out her nosy sisters.

  “Joanie heard he was married, but then my sister hears a lot of things—some true, some not. She also heard that Hazel Carrington’s mother is crazy and Mr. Tompkins feels sorry for Hazel and is counseling her during lunch period.”

  “What do you mean, counseling her?”

  “You know. Chatting. Telling her not to worry. That sort of thing. She doesn’t talk much about it, at least not to me. I’m surprised she hasn’t told you. You know her better than I do.”

  “All she told me is, she’s going to stay in Toronto with her grandmother, maybe until the end of the school year.”

  “Holy cow! Things must be pretty bad.”

  “Listen, here’s something you don’t know. My mother is going to have a baby.”

  “I knew that.”

  “How did you know? I just found out.”

  “My mother told me. Anyway, you must be pretty dense if you didn’t notice how bulgy she’s been getting. My mother said I couldn’t talk about it until you did.”

  “Jamie and I thought she was just getting fat.”

  Ruthie shakes her head. “I can’t believe you two! You’re babes in the woods, both of you.”

  In my own defense and Jamie’s, I say, “She always wears bulky sweaters and jackets. It isn’t that obvious. Anyway, if your mother was putting on weight, would you automatically think she was pregnant?”

  “My mother? Don’t be ridiculous. She’s old.”

  “Well, I think my mother is old, too,
but look what happened.”

  To change the subject, Ruthie sings off-key “I’ve Got a Crush,” while she rummages through the top drawer of her dresser.

  “Rats! My sister stole my nail polish remover.”

  I press my forehead against the cold windowpane and watch some boys hang on to the rear bumper of a car going along the snowy street. They fall off into a snow-bank at the corner and lie there laughing and punching each other. How immature!

  When Ruthie stops crooning, I say, “Jamie’s very upset about this baby.”

  “Probably just because he’s so sick. I sure feel sorry for him. Maybe he’ll never even see the kid. How long has he got?”

  “What do you mean, ‘how long has he got’?”

  “You know. How many months? In the movies, doctors always tell cancer patients how long they’ve got to live.”

  “What he’s got is called leukemia, and he will go on living forever, as long as they keep giving him blood transfusions.” I know my voice is really loud, but it helps squeeze more truth out of what I’m saying.

  “Okay, sorry, I didn’t mean to say that. I take it back.”

  “It’s all right.” It really isn’t all right. How can someone take back spoken words? I think of telling her about the faith healer, but I don’t want her opinion on that subject.

  “I have to go home,” I say.

  “Are you mad at me?”

  “No.” I am, but I’m not going to let on.

  The Christmas holidays drone past. The temperature drops to what feels like forty below. And then, predictably, we have the January thaw at the beginning of February.

  At school one morning, Mr. Tompkins calls me aside, in the hall, and says, “Please see me in my classroom after school.” No explanation, no hint of what’s on his mind.

  I’ve been trying to avoid Tommy, kind of, since I heard that “I’ve Got a Crush” record, because all I can think about is being in love and wanting to marry him and escaping from home, forever. Because there isn’t a hope that this will ever happen, I try not to attract his attention. In class, I keep my eyes on the page. It’s torture to deny myself the glow he bestows on me, the sense that of all the girls in the school, he finds something in me to admire (now that Hazel has left), but in the interests of staying sane, I have to. He still has his after-school coterie of blushing girls, smelling faintly of perspiring armpits.

  Avoiding Tommy-daydreams means I have more time to worry about what’s happening at home, about my mother, who’s old enough to have some gray in her hair and is, nevertheless, expecting a baby, and about the fact that both my parents are turning into certifiable lunatics. And in case that isn’t enough, I worry about my brother’s jealousy over the ghastly baby.

  No one talks much anymore; Dad usually goes back to the drugstore after dinner, to work on the books; Mother sighs a lot and complains of backache. She listens to her favorite programs on the radio, in the living room, but turns them off partway through and sits in the rocking chair, staring into space. Every chance I get, I escape to my room to do homework. Mostly, I sit at my desk, doodling connected figure eights across the page, until they almost fall off the edge, onto my desk.

  Dutifully, after my last class, I go to Tommy’s classroom. He’s alone. We sit in two front row seats opposite each other, our knees almost touching.

  “You seem upset,” he says, sounding as if I’ve let him down, somehow. “Is it because I haven’t got back to you with the advice you asked me for?”

  I keep my eyes on the toes of my scuffed-up saddle shoes. “Maybe a little.”

  “Well, I’ve finally had a chance to talk to my psychologist friend about it. His advice is to leave well enough alone. Your brother’s belief that he’s cured may be helping him stay well. I’m sorry it took me so long to get back to you. I just didn’t want to risk saying the wrong thing. I’m afraid you are upset with me.”

  “I’m not.” My eyes will fill up if he doesn’t stop sounding so kind and caring.

  “Is he still doing well?”

  “Yes.” I can’t look at him because I’m afraid that if I do, I’ll throw myself into his arms, sobbing, Save me, take me away from my disintegrating family. He puts his finger under my chin and, against my better judgment, I let him tilt my head up to look into his eyes. I’m a goner.

  He smiles his most endearing smile. “How is your play-writing going?”

  My eczema is suddenly unbearable. I start scratching the insides of my arms through my sweater. This is where I should simply tell him I’ve killed the play and buried it.

  I stumble over my words. “It’s, uh, having a rest.”

  “When do I get to read it?”

  “Pretty soon. I’m having trouble with the plot.” On my tombstone, they will engrave Rachel Liar McLaren. She meant well, but she had no backbone.

  He glances at his watch. “Look, I have to leave soon, but why don’t I drive you home? We can talk about it on the way.”

  The word no springs to mind. I want to say no, understand I must say no, to preserve my ban on Tommy-dreams. To say yes would be downright stupid. “Okay,” I say.

  “Get your coat, then, and I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

  Sitting next to him in his Pontiac, I have never felt so adult. I sit up straight, cross my knees. I try to tuck my thick curls behind my ears, but they won’t stay. They sproing out around my head like live snakes. My eyes slide sideways. I can barely raise them from the two inches of hairy wrist that show between his coat sleeve and gloves as he drives.

  We pass a few students leaving the school; one of them is Will Cooper. I don’t think he saw us, not that it matters. Mr. Tompkins says he knows where I live, yet, instead of taking the most direct route, he meanders down side streets and turns corners.

  “Tell me about your play problems,” he says.

  My almost nonexistent play. My problems with it. I can’t concentrate. “It’s hard to explain, exactly.” I turn to face him, memorizing his profile.

  “Give me a hint.”

  “Well, I think I’ve got the beginning figured out.” I look out the window when he turns along the street that leads to the park. “Actually, I don’t live down this way.” It’s snowing lightly.

  “I know. I thought we should find a quiet place to stop so we can talk. Is that all right?” His smile is apologetic and hopeful and boyish. I don’t know why it should make me feel nervous.

  “Don’t look so worried,” he says. “You’ve told me what’s right with the play. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

  “I should actually be getting home.”

  “Of course. In a minute. But, what about your play? I just thought we could talk a bit easier here than parked in front of your house.” He looks directly, but sadly, into my eyes, making me feel as if I’m not holding up my end of the bargain. After all, he is kind enough to take an interest.

  “Sorry,” I say. “All right, so the beginning is there.” Just not in so many words, I think, but don’t say. “And I know how it should end. It’s the middle that’s giving me trouble. I don’t know what to do with my people for a whole act.”

  “That’s easy. You sit down with a pencil and paper and work it out like a mathematical equation.” I stare at him. “If A happens in act 1 and C is the conclusion, then steps must be taken to get from A through B to C. Any writing simply requires logic.”

  A solution. Just like that. Wow! Maybe he’s a secret writer. If not, he should be, because he’d be good. It sounds so straightforward when he says it. So masculine. I can’t stop looking into his compassionate eyes, glancing at the angle of his perfect jaw. “I’ll try that.” I’m not sure how to apply logic to a madwoman walking around with an ice pick up her sleeve, but if I tackle it again, I might find a way. I don’t want him to know I’ve pretty well mothballed the project. No need to hurt his feelings.

  I change the subject. “There’s something else I’ve been wondering. Have you reached a decision about the school play?”r />
  “Ahh! This is something I want to ask your opinion about.”

  “My opinion? What one are we doing?”

  “I was thinking of Ibsen. There is apparently a school version of A Doll’s House available.”

  “That sounds a bit juvenile.”

  He laughs at me. “Hardly. Have you never read it?”

  I have to admit I’d never even heard of it.

  “It’s about a woman, a wife, asserting her independence.” He takes off his gloves and turns toward me. He reaches out to tuck my curls back behind one ear. “You’d make a good Nora. Would you like to play the lead?”

  “The lead?” I can hardly get the question out, I’m trembling so much. When his hand touches my cheek, I completely lose track of the conversation. Has he just offered me the lead role, just like that—no auditions, no read-through, nothing? “I can’t act,” I say.

  We both notice a car drive into the park. He starts his car. “I’m sure you could act with a little coaching.”

  “Nope,” I say. “I think you know what an onstage disaster I am.”

  “I would be more than happy to coach you.”

  For a moment, I relive last year’s stage-terror. “I don’t think so.”

  “Fine. It’s up to you, I suppose.”

  Does his voice sound a little chilly, or is it my imagination?

  As soon as we get close to my corner, he looks at his watch. “Mind if I drop you off here? I have to run. We’ll talk about A Doll’s House some other time.” He takes my hand in his, for a moment. He looks as though he’s going to say something else. Instead, he squeezes it and lets go, grinning boyishly. Light-headed, I get out of his car and watch him drive off.

  It’s starting to get dark. The streetlights come on. Looking up, I watch the snow filtering down through the golden glow of light and am reminded of Jamie and Mary under the same light. Almost a year ago, I made up my two-minute drama about them. Directed it. Commanded snow to fall. Made them kiss. It was my first awareness of the power I could beckon at will, and I rode it like a racehorse. But now it’s gone. I am a living power failure. If Tommy says, Follow me over a steep cliff, I will close my eyes and, like a pea-brained lemming, take that mindless leap.