I made one last attempt to convince my dad. “Couldn’t you just go in and talk to Harpy and find out what the job is?”
Dad set his coffee cup on the table and stood up, stretching out his back. “Thanks for thinking of me, Josh, but things are going okay with my Elvis shows. I’m making pretty good money and business is picking up a little each week. The more people hear about me, the more gigs I’ll get.” He smiled confidently. “You’ve got to take chances in this life, Josh. You’ll see. If you want to do what you love, you’ve got to take chances.”
16. Winning and Losing
There were a lot of similarities between my dad and his neighbor Gladys. Stubbornness, for one. Having visited Gladys several more times with my dad to pick up scarves or check on how she was doing, I had learned you couldn’t convince her to do anything she didn’t want to do. Like eating, for instance. Her stubbornness about eating regular meals and taking care of herself had begun to worry my dad. It didn’t seem to matter to him that she wasn’t even related to us. She was his official Elvis scarf maker, so I guess that made him feel responsible.
As he cleared off the breakfast table and stuck the Harpy’s application under a stack of phone books on the counter, he asked me if I’d stop by and visit Gladys that afternoon. “Maybe you can convince her to eat something for lunch today, because I haven’t been having much luck,” he said as he stacked the dishes on the counter. “Yesterday when I stopped by, she hadn’t eaten a thing all day.”
Needless to say, I wasn’t too excited about the prospect of spending part of my Saturday encouraging an old lady to eat lunch. I’d just spent the whole morning playing Solitaire waiting for my dad to wake up. And now he wanted me to go and visit the neighbors. On the other hand, it was a way to get out of the house so I wouldn’t have to hear more details about his Elvis show, along with little reenactments of various parts, which he would bring up at random throughout the day. Hey, Josh, forgot to tell you about this….
Gladys or Elvis, it was a tough choice.
I chose Gladys.
When I knocked on her door a while later, she seemed pleased to see me. “I was hoping someone would come by and pay this old lady a visit today,” Gladys said brightly. She was dressed in a lime-green jogging suit instead of her bathrobe, which I took as a good sign, and her hair didn’t look as much like couch stuffing. Another good sign. “Come on in,” she said, holding the door open. “Tell me your name again. I know you’re a friend of Elvis, I just can’t remember who you are. I’m eighty-seven, you know.”
“Josh.”
“That’s right.” She shook her head back and forth. “Let me tell you, Josh, it’s hell being old.”
Without even stopping, I said, “It’s hell being thirteen.”
Gladys thought this was very funny (which my mom wouldn’t have). She patted my arm and gave one of her creaky laughs. “I’ll trade with you anytime, my dear,” she said over her shoulder as she shuffled down the hall. “You take eighty-seven. I’ll take thirteen.”
Which makes you think. It really does.
When we got to the kitchen, Gladys poked around as if she was looking for something edible to offer me. “Are you hungry? Would you like a snack or something?” she said, opening the refrigerator. From where I was standing, I could see it was pretty empty—just a jug of milk, a bag of apples, and a loaf of bread. The rest of the place hadn’t changed much, either: same piles of newspapers and junk mail scattered across the table and counters.
“My dad said you needed some help with lunch,” I mumbled.
Gladys closed the refrigerator door and made her way along the counter, holding one edge with her hand. “Oh, I don’t eat lunch anymore. No appetite for it,” she said, sitting down carefully at the kitchen table and closing her eyes as if to show there was no point in arguing with her about it. “Costs too much.”
My grandma and her friends were the same way about money. They liked to go to the free seniors’ lunch offered every Wednesday and Sunday at the Shadyside Episcopal Church. I’d gone with them once or twice, although it was kind of embarrassing to watch how they would sneak extra packets of jam into their purses and then trade each other for different ones on the bus ride back. “I’ll give you three raspberry jams for one honey,” they’d say, passing the little packets back and forth. On Fridays, her group usually went to the $4.99 All-You-Can-Eat lunch buffet at the Seafood Palace. As far as I know, they didn’t steal anything from there.
“Do you have any friends who go out for lunch?” I asked, not even sure if Chicago had lunch buffets for senior citizens. Or if Gladys had any friends.
Gladys shook her head stubbornly. “I’m not hungry, but thank you for asking.”
I suggested soup, cheese sandwiches, salad, and even a pepperoni pizza. But Gladys kept insisting she wasn’t hungry. A bit. That’s what she kept saying. Not a bit.
“How about something sweet like…” I searched for something to suggest. My grandma had a sweet tooth and my mom often complained about how many desserts she ate. “You’ve got to watch your sugar, Mom,” she’d say impatiently, but it didn’t seem to help because there was usually a half-empty box of chocolates on her kitchen table whenever we came to visit. She was a big fan of donuts, too. Those glazed cinnamon ones from the grocery store. Three packs for $1.99.
“How about a donut or something?” It was my last desperate idea.
Gladys seemed to think about this for a minute. I was holding my breath and waiting for her to insist (yet again) that she wasn’t hungry, but instead a smile slowly creased across her tissue-paper skin. “You know, a donut might taste good. I haven’t had one in such a long time I don’t even remember what they taste like.”
There was a little donut shop called Dino’s around the corner. Dad and I often stopped there on Sunday mornings to pick up a few of their frosted twists. We’d eat them in the car and get flecks of sugar glaze all over our clothes.
I told Gladys I would buy a box of donuts for us. “Oh, you needn’t go to all that bother,” she insisted, but I said it was no problem. I could walk there. “Well, take some money at least.” She pushed a crumpled ten-dollar bill into my hand and I headed out the door, hoping Dino’s Donuts would still be open.
When I got there, the red-faced woman who was running the counter went through the choices in one long, bored list: “Raspberrychocolatestrawberryvanillalemonspice.” Since I had no clue what kind of fillings Gladys would like, I told the lady to give me one of each.
“That’ll be three-fifty.” She plunked the donuts in a box and pushed it toward me with an annoyed sigh, as if daring me to ask for something else—which I didn’t. I also didn’t tell her that she had a large blob of chocolate frosting on the front of her Dino’s shirt.
After I got back, Gladys spent the next ten minutes picking out the ones she wanted. “I think maybe I’ll try that lemon one. I do like lemon meringue pie…no, strawberry’s my favorite…on second thought, that spice one looks good….”
I couldn’t believe it when she ended up finishing two and a half donuts by herself. She ate them as if they were pieces of pie—first dividing them into neat triangles and then picking up each bite with her fork. When she was done, she scraped every bit of leftover jelly off her plate too. My mom would have had a fit at the fact we ate nothing except a box of donuts for lunch. But it didn’t kill us, right?
Afterward, I suggested playing a game of cards and Gladys found an old rubber-banded deck in one of her kitchen drawers. I tried teaching her some of the games my grandma and I usually played, but Gladys seemed to have trouble remembering anything with a lot of rules (or maybe it was all the sugar we ate). “Oh, now that’s too complicated,” she’d say, flapping her hands at me. “Teach me something simpler.” So I ended up showing her the little kids’ version of Go Fish—where you just need to find matches for your cards.
After winning two rounds, I tried hard to let Gladys win. Sometimes I wouldn’t lay down a matching pair if I had
one, or I’d draw extra cards from the pile so there would be more in my hand. “Don’t you have a match?” I kept asking, trying to encourage her. It takes a lot of thought and strategy to lose, I found out. Way more than it takes to win.
This was a lesson I would remember much later on.
But finally, Gladys won a round. You should have seen the look on her face. She waved her empty hands in the air. “Look at that. Look at that. No cards! I’m the winning fisherman—fisherwoman,” she shouted proudly.
I had to admit I felt good about making her happy. Like there was this golden halo around my head all of a sudden and wings sprouting from my back. Good angel Josh. Could guys be angels? Okay, just nice divorced kid Josh. Maybe something like that could go on a gold plaque under my face: JOSH GREENWOOD—GOOD FRIEND, SOCCER PLAYER, DIVORCED KID, AND NICE TO OLD LADIES.
When I finally left Gladys’s house after finishing three games of Go Fish and splitting one more donut with her, she gave me an armful of scarves to take back to my dad. “Give these to Elvis whenever you see him,” she said. “And you let me know if he needs more and I’ll get busy making them.”
As I headed back to my dad’s place with the scarf rainbow tucked under my arm and a stomach full of donut grease, I felt like things in Chicago were looking up.
17. Hound Dog and Ivory
As I got ready for school the following Monday morning, I noticed I didn’t have the usual stomach-churning feeling of dread. I no longer needed to worry about bizarre notes being left on my locker—or kids finding out about my dad—which was a major relief. Rubbing a circle in the steam on the bathroom mirror, I actually smiled at myself. It was what I called my Hey Josh smile, just to let myself know I was there.
I hoped Ivory had gotten the message about the notes and would leave me alone at school now. Maybe she would find something new to befriend, like a lost dog. But as I shoved my backpack into my locker on Monday morning, a voice said, “Did the rest of your dad’s show go okay?” Ivory stood directly behind me, holding an armful of books. This time, she wasn’t wearing the hippie outfit with the ridiculous rainbow beret; instead, an orange-and-brown fringed poncho floated around her shoulders. To be honest, she looked like an unraveling carpet.
I glanced around to see who was within listening range. A guy from my math class was just opening his locker, four doors down from mine. Two earbuds were stuck in his ears and his head bobbed up and down to the music. Until he turned off the sound, I was probably safe. “Yes, fine,” I answered over my left shoulder, trying to sound impatient. I crammed my World History textbook into my locker, crumpling a few of the pages.
“Mom said he sounded really good. What she heard, that is.”
Note to Ivory: I know what your mom said. I was there, remember?
I wondered if she was doing this on purpose. Let’s see how many ways I can talk about your dad being Elvis without mentioning his name?
“I’ve gotta get to English class. The teacher is giving a quiz this morning,” I replied, slamming my locker shut. I figured this would give the girl a clue. Locker slam equals conversation ending.
But she didn’t get the hint.
“I’m going that way, too. I’ve got World History next—what fun.” She rolled her eyes.
Note to self: Next time you run into Ivory, ask where she is going first, then tell her you have to go the opposite direction. Even if you don’t.
As we headed down the hall, I could tell people were noticing that I was walking beside a girl who looked like an unraveling brown carpet and they were probably drawing at least one of the following conclusions: (a) We were friends. (b) I was somebody who liked to hang out with strange people. (c) If I liked to hang out with strange people, I was somebody who should be avoided.
Looking for a way out, I decided to use the guys’ restroom as my excuse, although if you go in there just to check out how your hair looks or wash your hands, trust me, you get really weird looks. But I was desperate.
“Hey,” I said, nodding in the direction of the approaching sign. “I’ll, uh—” I stumbled over my words. “I’ll, uh, catch up with you later, okay?” Then I headed through the guys’ door and tried to look as if I had accidentally touched a really disgusting doorknob as I scrubbed my hands at the sink.
Fortunately, Ivory didn’t locate me again until lunchtime. I was eating at the end of a table when she strolled past with her tray. I had the feeling this was not exactly a coincidence. Out of all of the rows crisscrossing the cafeteria, she just happened to pick mine to pass through, right?
“Josh,” she said, turning back to look at me with a fake surprised expression on her face. “Are you sitting here all by yourself?” Her eyes roamed slowly down the length of the table.
I was not sitting by myself in the literal sense of the word. In fact, there were six or seven guys at my table. I just didn’t happen to be sitting next to them. “I always sit here,” I said, feeling my shoulders beginning to tense up. “It’s fine.”
Ivory’s eyes glanced back at the table. I could tell that she was noting the four empty seats between me and the rest of the group. While she was standing there, the guy I’d seen on the first day—the one with the studded dog collar—passed by. He was carrying a cafeteria tray, which held an enormous pile of French fries. Mount Everest in fries. “Digger,” Ivory called out. “Come over here and meet my friend Josh.”
Please no, keep going, Digger.
But apparently Digger had pin-drop hearing (or the whole thing had been staged beforehand) because he turned around and came back to meet me. I could feel the warmth creeping up my neck as he stood next to Ivory. I didn’t even need to turn my head to know the guys at my table were all watching the scene silently.
Note to self: Cross this table off tomorrow’s seating list.
Ivory introduced me as her friend from Boston. “My mom knows his dad,” she explained, giving me a smirky smile. “And this is Digger,” she said, playfully leaning her head on the dog-collar guy’s shoulder. “His real name is Paul Diggs, but he usually goes by Digger.”
Up close, the guy looked like a high schooler. He was big (overweight big) and his fleshy face was seriously broken out. “Nice to meet you,” he said in a mumbling voice, without looking up. My eyes just couldn’t keep from staring at the dog collar. It was red with silver pointed studs. Was it a real dog collar or not? And why would you choose to wear a real dog collar around your neck? Did he wear it all day? Even at home around his parents? Even to bed at night?
“Why don’t you come and sit with us?” Ivory continued, in a friendly voice, as if we were having a perfectly normal conversation. She nodded toward the far side of the cafeteria. “We always sit over there. There’s plenty of space and we could introduce you to our group, right, Digger?”
Of course, the tables she meant were the ones I’d seen on the first day. The place where the losers sat, where food thrown in the direction of the garbage cans sometimes landed: crumpled milk cartons and torn packets of ketchup and who knows what else. Great. An entire school full of kids and my dad’s girlfriend’s daughter had to be one of the garbage can people. Not only that, she was standing in the middle of the cafeteria, where anybody could hear her, and inviting me to be one, too.
That’s when I began to wonder if, somewhere between Boston and Chicago, things had changed for me. I still felt like I was the same person—the same funny Josh who hung out with the popular group at my old school and who was friends with Brian and the other guys—but if I was being singled out by people like Ivory and Digger in Chicago, maybe I wasn’t the person I thought I was. Nobody else seemed very anxious to invite me into their group of friends, did they? Had I somehow become a loser magnet overnight?
“Thanks, I’m fine here,” I mumbled to Ivory, keeping my head down.
Ivory shrugged. “No problem.”
I didn’t even watch as she and the dog-collar guy walked away. Instead, I kept looking over my shoulder, pretending I was more intere
sted in what was going on behind me. When a few of the guys at the table glanced in my direction, I shook my head and gave the wide-eyed “what the heck was that” look, trying to communicate the message, without saying it in words, that I had no clue why those two weird people had stopped by the table to talk to me. They certainly weren’t my friends. Which was true, I hoped.
18. Viv’s Vintage
For the rest of the week, Ivory managed to run into me at school at least once a day, although it was never at the same time or the same place. I think she planned it that way so I couldn’t avoid her. If I never knew exactly when she would tap me on the shoulder or call out hello across the hall, I couldn’t take a different route. Even when I did, she somehow managed to find me.
I still couldn’t decide on her motives, either: whether Ivory thought she was just being nice to me because her mom was dating my dad (or whatever they were doing), or if she knew she was humiliating me and enjoyed seeing how far she could take it.
To make matters worse, my dad had started spending more and more time with her mom. Often when I got home from school, I found a note left on the kitchen table—AT VIV’S STORE or GONE OUT SHOPPING WITH VIV. I also couldn’t help noticing that my dad had stuck a photo of Viv on the refrigerator, right in the middle of his haphazard collection of postcards, vacation magnets, and pictures of me as a drooling preschooler. The photo showed the two of them smiling together in some dark restaurant booth—although Viv had red-eye and looked slightly possessed in the picture, which I thought was funny.
When my dad started talking about a business workshop he wanted to go to with Viv, I should have known I was in trouble. We were sitting around waiting for a movie to start one night when he said, “There’s this marketing workshop next weekend that Viv and I would like to take, and we were hoping maybe you and Ivory could watch the store for a few hours while we’re gone.”
“What?” I stared at my dad.
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