I stand, all by myself in the pool of light, as snowflakes melt in my hair and build up on my shoulders. No one applauds. I move sadly into the shadows and shuffle up our front walk. I hadn’t even felt powerful enough to tell him about the trouble-making baby expected in late May.
CHAPTER
18
I don’t know for sure whether the events in your life can make you physically sick or not, but I’m inclined to think they can. My problems are temporarily on hold because I’m in bed with the flu. It’s the middle of March, the ides. It didn’t do Caesar much good, either. It’s my fifteenth birthday, but I’m too sick to care.
My mother says, “When would you like your birthday cake?”
“When I’m sixteen.”
“You’ll feel better before then.”
I float feverishly in and out of dreams, not of Tommy, surprisingly, but of tents full of dingbats and dingbat healers and one in particular that cures Jamie and even gives him the power to fly. I begged him to take me flying with him, but he couldn’t hear me, he was so busy flying higher and higher. I think once I did fly, but not very high. The fever subsides, finally, and I’m left with the feeling that Jamie really is cured. Somehow, the dingbat dreams have convinced me. I didn’t dream once about Tommy.
I’ve just had a letter from Hazel. She says she’s happy that she’s gone to live with her grandmother, who is turning her into a spoiled brat. “I love being spoiled,” she writes. “And the school I go to is nice. The teachers don’t breathe down your neck the way they do in Middleborough (a certain teacher, anyway). I don’t know if you know who I mean, but maybe you can guess. I didn’t really understand my problems until I went away.”
I should write her back. Physically, I feel better, so I could. Emotionally, I’m a mess, and this makes it difficult.
I try to write to Hazel, but no words come, because all I can think about is Tommy, visions of Tommy smiling at Hazel. I’m pretty sure Hazel had a crush on him, too. Maybe she’s over it. I guess that’s what she meant about not understanding her problems until she went away.
I sit at my desk chewing the end of my pen, wishing I could escape from him but wanting him close to me, wanting to feel his soft breath on my neck. I shiver and go back to bed, glad to have that cozy haven.
Next morning, Mother takes my temperature and pronounces it normal. “Back to school with you,” she says. “You can’t afford to miss any more classes so close to your spring exams.”
“I can’t go back to school.”
“Of course you can. You’re better.”
“I just can’t face it.”
“Now you’re being melodramatic. Why not?”
I shake my head and stare at the wall. Mother leaves but pauses at the door, and I sense her studying me. When I look, she leaves with a worried frown.
I mope my way back to school, dragging my feet. Spring made tentative inroads while I was lolling in bed. What’s left of the snow continues to melt, turning into annoying puddles. Eventually, they’ll dry up, leaving grit on the sidewalk that will blow into my eyes and mouth when the wind comes up, like a desert sandstorm.
Home, school, the whole town is cold and colorless. I feel numb and stupid. In each class, I’m given extra work to take home until, after a few days, I know it’s hopeless. I can’t possibly get it all into my head before the spring exams start. My inner-elbow itch now covers my entire panic-stricken body.
After school, I lug my books home and go straight up to my room to study. I juggle French verbs with the origins of the French Revolution; I muddle algebra theorems with physics problems; I see bodies falling around me at a rate of thirty-two feet per second per second, shot at by French artillery as they shout something I can’t translate. All the bodies look like Tommy. Nothing sticks in my head.
The next day, Ruthie offers to come home with me after school to help me study. “I’ll ask you questions, and if you can’t answer them, then you’ll know what you need to study.” I’ve done this for her a few times, so I agree that it might work.
When we get home, there’s a note from Mother to say she’s at her doctor’s appointment. Up in my room, Ruthie lies on my bed and fires questions at me, while I slouch over my desk. I get nearly all the answers wrong, but we keep on until it’s time for her to go home. “Your problem is,” she says, on her way to the kitchen door, “you have too much on your mind.”
“You’re right about that.”
“When you’re madly in love, it knocks everything else out of your head.”
“I’m not in love.”
“Ha! That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told. I’ve seen the way you look at Tommy and drool.”
“Drop it, will you? That’s so stupid.”
“And I’ve seen how he looks at you, like he could just eat you up.”
I’m about to yell at her, but then I think the best way to get her to shut up about it is to play along. “Okay, the truth is, we’re running away together. It’s all planned.”
“I’m sure.”
“No, no. It’s true. I have a bag all packed.”
She laughs wickedly and says, “Wouldn’t that scandalize the world! I’ll believe it if and when it actually happens.”
She leaves, finally, and I close the door firmly behind her.
“Rachel!”
Mother’s home. I didn’t hear her come in. “Yes?”
“I’m in the dining room. Come here for a minute.”
She’s spreading out a fresh tablecloth. “I couldn’t help hearing what you and Ruthie were talking about.”
My cheeks burn. “I was just joking,” I say.
“Rachel, I’d like you to tell me what’s going on. This is serious.”
“It’s a joke. Ruthie and I make up stuff like this all the time.”
She glares fiercely. “Hmm. Well, we’ll talk about this later. Right now, you can set the table.”
Dinner is an almost silent affair—pass this, pass that, please, thank you. When we finish, I say, “May I be excused to go and study?”
“Not so fast, young lady,” Dad says. “I think you need to tell us about your boyfriend. Your mother is afraid your studies are being neglected.”
“I haven’t got a boyfriend. Ruthie and I were just kidding around.”
Mother says levelly, “How do we know you’re telling the truth, now? What you said to Ruth was very convincing.”
“I guess you’ll have to trust me.” There is a moment of silence. I study the cookie crumbs left on my plate, my face on fire.
“The fact that you said you were running away with a boy is a very serious matter,” my father says. “It would be wrong of any parent to ignore that because, often, where there’s smoke, there’s fire. And the way you’re blushing causes me more concern. I think I should make some enquiries. Someone at your school might be able to provide details, if you won’t come clean. The drama coach, for instance, may have noticed you with someone. What’s his name? Tompkins?”
The silence is suffocating. “Stop!” I scream, when I get my breath. “This is crazy! I can’t believe you’d do something as stupid as go to my school.” My voice is shrill. It doesn’t even sound like my voice. “Smoke,” I say, derisively. “Fire! There’s a fire, all right!” I’m shouting again. “And it’s in my brain! If you go blabbing about this at school, I’ll never speak to you again.” I get up from the table, pound up the stairs, slam my bedroom door, and use every swearword I’ve ever heard.
A little later, one of them knocks and looks in, but I am in bed, pretending to be asleep. I do sleep, finally, but not very deeply. If only Jamie were here, he’d understand how ridiculous they’re being. I desperately need to talk to him.
I wake up early to a gray morning, knowing exactly what I have to do. I tiptoe to prevent waking my mother. My father has already left for work. I put a few items in a shopping bag and empty my money sock into my coat pocket. Before setting out, I pack a sloppy peanut butter sandwich.
It isn’t cold, in fact, crocuses are pushing hopefully through the brown earth in people’s flower beds. Still, I shiver inside my coat, new, longer than last year’s rag. I break into a trot to keep warm. To avoid kids walking to school, I zigzag my way to Station Street and run again before I change my mind.
“Yup,” says the ticket agent, “there’s a train for Toronto due in about one hour.”
Out of breath, I say, “How much is a one-way?”
Standing in front of Union Station in Toronto, staring at tall buildings, noisy streetcars, and crowds of unfamiliar people, I have a change of heart. I can’t do this. I think of Middleborough’s familiar sights, my school, Ruthie hamming it up onstage, Will Cooper loping down the street, Woolworths’ candy counter. And what about my mother’s cooking? Even though I’m mad at her, I would almost go back just to have Sunday roast beef.
I turn around to face the station doors, ready to go back inside, but before I take a step, a cat stalks up to me, arches her scruffy back, and brushes against my legs. She’s a scrawny little thing with longish fur, white with a gray streak down her nose. Meow, she says, following it with a question mark. When I crouch down to pat her, she tries to climb up onto my knee. My first new friend. I take courage.
I know I have to walk north from the station to get to Jamie’s apartment. I have the address written down and show it to a few people as I walk up Yonge Street. Straight up to College, they tell me, then go left for a bit, then right. There’s a fierce wind blowing, so I keep my head down and walk quickly.
I can’t avoid thinking about my parents. They won’t even know I’m gone until I don’t show up for dinner. Mother will pace the floor and bite on her thumbnail, first one then the other. Dad will become silent, move from window to window, frowning. They’ll think I lied about the boyfriend. Will they phone the police? Yikes! I wonder what Tommy will think when he hears I’ve run away. Even more, I wonder what he’ll think if my father makes the “enquiries” he was threatening. At least they’ll find out I was telling the truth about the boyfriend.
Of course, they’ll be sick with worry. And, of course, they’ll phone the police. A search party will go out. I feel hollow and mean. What a stupid idea this was!
The cat stays with me, so I whisper to her along the way that she’s a good pal, that we’ll get where we’re going soon, and that maybe things will work out. I’m sure she’s a stray. Like me. Wrong, I’m an escapee. It’s a long walk and I’m tired, but I can’t stop to rest.
I find his apartment house without much difficulty, a narrow, boxlike place in need of a coat of paint. The front steps sag, and the railing wobbles. Not exactly a palace, but if Jamie can live here, so can I. I’ll get used to it.
Getting used to things is what living is all about, I’m beginning to notice. I’m thinking about Jamie now. I’m pretty sure he must be over the anti-baby thing. He wrote a letter of apology to our parents for his behavior just before New Year’s. It was a tad formal, but that’s Jamie. Mother said she understands how he must feel, but that he’ll get used to the idea. I don’t think either of us will ever really get used to having a whiny baby around, but then we’ll only be there on visits. I walk inside and knock on the door of apartment one.
An hour after I get into his place, Jamie appears. I hear his footsteps coming along the hall and then his key in the already unlocked door. Once inside, his jaw drops. Curled up with a cat in my lap, in his one comfortable chair, the radio blaring, I greet him with a big happy grin.
No answering smile. “What the heck?”
“I ran away from home.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Well, I did, didn’t I?”
“Come with me,” he says. “You can use my landlady’s phone to tell your parents where you are.”
“Already did.”
He doesn’t hear me in his rush to go clattering down the stairs to the landlady’s apartment.
“I called them already,” I say, a few steps behind him.
“What?” He’s knocking on the door of apartment one.
“When I asked your landlady to let me into your apartment, she made me phone home first.”
Velda, the landlady, is expecting us and opens the door right away. Tall and broad-shouldered, with a bosom jutting like a shelf, she makes me think of the house she lives in. She’s built like it, square and solid, although not the least bit shabby, with her shiny dress and dangly earrings. She takes one look at Jamie’s stormy face and blurts, “Sister is very lovely girl. You be nice brother to her.”
“Oh, she’s lovely all right. She just ran away from home. Our parents will be frantic.”
“She phone home. I hear it all.”
Jamie scowls at me and asks, “What did they say?”
“That I’m thoughtless and irresponsible. They were really mad, shouting, even.” Velda, my witness, nods in agreement. “But then they calmed down. Dad was home for lunch. He said he’d come and get me as soon as he felt all right about leaving Mother, and I said I wanted to stay with you, so he said, ‘Okay, I’ll come tomorrow, and we’ll talk about this.’ ”
“What did Mother say?”
“That I’m a burden to her. That she’s in a delicate condition; that I have no heart; that she hopes I packed warm clothes. Let’s see, what else? That I’ll be the death of her. That’s about it.”
“Well, well, ancient history, now,” Velda says. “Come back for dinner, bring sister. A big feast tonight, plenty of food for all. Come at six. I open very good wine. My niece, Opal, enjoy to come, too. ‘You come meet a nice young man for a change,’ I tell her.”
“Okay, we can come.” I don’t even look at Jamie for confirmation. I’m hungry. “Thanks,” I remember to say.
Back in his apartment, Jamie clutches his head as if he’s trying to hold his brain in place. His usually neat hair stands on end, making him look hopelessly deranged. The cat occupies the chair as if she’s its rightful owner. She looks at Jamie archly, licks a paw, scratches an ear, and settles in for a nap.
“Why is there a cat here?” he says.
“I don’t know. She followed me from the station.”
“It probably belongs to somebody.”
“Of course she does. She belongs to me, but I’m giving her to you. My compliments. Her name is Rose.”
“I don’t want a cat.” He turfs Rose out of the chair and sits down. The cat jumps back up to settle in his lap.
“See? She loves you.”
Hands on the chair arms, refusing to touch the cat, Jamie says, in his most put-upon voice, “Okay, okay, now tell me what happened. Why did you leave home?”
“Your parents don’t trust me. Ruthie thinks I have a boyfriend and wouldn’t believe me when I said I didn’t, so I made up a story that I was running away with him. Mother overheard and wouldn’t believe that I just made it up.” This was very close to the truth, without being one hundred percent true. “So I got mad and yelled at them. I really needed you to be on my side, but you weren’t there.”
“I don’t get it.”
“And I’m going to fail all my exams because I missed so much school when I was sick.”
“Maybe you’re sick in the head.”
“And,” I take a big breath, “I want to escape from … some of the teachers, from the way they keep breathing down my neck. If I could live with you and go to school in Toronto, like my friend Hazel, my problems would disappear. As soon as Hazel moved in with her grandmother, hers did.”
He keeps his scowl in place, but I watch him stroking the cat’s soft coat and think that if he could just do that for a while, he’d agree.
“You can’t escape problems, you know. You have to confront them. How did you get here?”
“The train. Paid for from my savings. And then I asked people for directions.”
“You talked to total strangers?”
“No, idiot, first we introduced ourselves and exchanged life histories.”
He grunt
s, not amused. “Well, what am I supposed to do with you, now that you’re here? We could go to the museum, I guess.”
“Nope. First things first. Get your coat, we’re going shopping.”
Jamie accompanies me reluctantly, first to a hardware store, then to a grocery store. I manage to fast-talk him into buying a litter box and sand and six cans of cat food. “In one end and out the other,” I say.
“Do you think you could be a little less explicit?”
“Might as well face facts.”
We lug the stuff back to his apartment, where Rose mews us a brief greeting before curling up again. “Look what we bought for you, Rose,” I say, “a brand-new toilet.”
She responds by licking her chest.
Even though I’m starving, I feel we have to do things right. After all, we’re in the big city. “We can’t turn up for dinner at Velda’s too early,” I say. “We have to wait until at least five after six, to be fashionably late.”
“There’s not a lot of fashion going on at Velda’s,” Jamie says.
But at one minute past six, my stomach roars, Time to go.
Velda does not disappoint in the food department. The aroma of garlic and onions that seeped into Jamie’s apartment all afternoon now greets us in her large kitchen. I’ve never seen so much food all at one time, except at a church banquet.
“Are other people coming?” I ask, gazing at the dishes and platters heaped high.
“My niece comes, after work, maybe.”
Even for four, there is too much—two whole chickens swimming in gravy, half a baked ham, sausages, a steaming casserole that looks unappetizing but smells wonderful, a mountain of boiled potatoes, three dishes of vegetables whose names I’ve never even heard before.
Velda booms out her exuberant laugh. “All for my young cavalier and his lady-sister.” She pinches Jamie’s cheek and gives his head a shake. “We fatten you up nice, just like the witch in fairy tale. Sit, sit! Cold food no use.”
We sit at Velda’s enormous kitchen table. She carves off a chicken leg and some breast meat for us and begins to fork slabs of ham onto both our plates.
Little Red Lies Page 17