My Mother Was Never A Kid (Victoria Martin Trilogy)

by Francine Pascal

  Nothing to do but start making my way down the aisle to the door. It’s slow moving because the car is packed with kids and mothers carrying babies. I must have been very wrapped up in my own problems because I never even noticed all these babies. And, funny thing, I don’t even remember hearing them. Though they sure are noisy enough now.

  The pregnant lady is ahead of me and still limping a bit, but she turns and smiles at me, so I suppose everything is all right. Everybody’s shuffling along an inch at a time but that’s okay with me. I’m certainly not in any big hurry to get to what’s waiting for me. When I reach the end of the car, the conductor is helping one of the women. She’s weighted down with a yowling baby, an old cardboard suitcase and a big hatbox from some store called Wanamaker’s. He’s giving her a hand down the steps when he notices me. I get the same kind of huge happy smile as I did from the other conductor. I guess I never realized how warm and pleasant conductors could be. At least these two are. They must really like their jobs. It’s easy to smile back.

  “What’d I tell you, Smiley, nothing’s that bad,” he says, taking my elbow as I jump down the last step. When I hear him call me Smiley, I have to take another look to make sure it’s not the original conductor. Of course it’s not. This man can’t be more than twenty-five, and the first conductor was at least sixty, but they do smile alike. Maybe they’re father and son. If it wasn’t so noisy and crowded I’d ask, but by now I’m already on the platform and being shoved along toward the steps at the far end.

  Meanwhile another train has pulled in on the opposite side of the platform and people are pouring out and heading for the same steps. I’m snuggled deep inside the moving crowd, just letting myself be carried along. It might be nice to keep going with them and see where I end up. It’s got to be better than in front of my mother.

  On second thought, as I look around at the people, it might be a mistake. They’re a very strange-looking group. You can tell they’re all really square. All the women are wearing skirts and the men are dressed in baggy suits and most of them are wearing old-fashioned felt hats. Not even the kids are wearing jeans. In fact nobody is but me. It’s unreal. This has got to be some kind of convention group from Missouri or someplace.

  Something snappy like librarians, funeral directors, and Eagle Scouts.

  Just as I get to the steps I see this girl I know way back in the crowd.

  “Hey!” I wave to her over the tops of some little kids.

  She sees me and for a second looks kind of confused, like she’s not sure I’m waving at her. But when I motion Yes, you with my head, she smiles and starts to make her way toward me.

  Big mistake. When I look more closely, I see that I absolutely don’t know her. Actually she looks very familiar, but now that she’s almost up to me I can see that I’ve never laid eyes on her before in my life. How embarrassing.

  “Hi,” she says right there in front of me, looking sort of blank but expectant.

  Nothing to do but apologize. “Sorry,” I say, “I really thought I knew you. I mean … it’s incredible the way you look so familiar … I could have sworn …” Mumble, stutter, stumble.

  “That’s okay. I guess I just have one of those familiar faces.” And she smiles wider and I like her right off. “I’m Cici,” she says. It’s crazy but she really reminds me of someone I know. I mean absolutely.

  “I’m Victoria,” I say, and we both stand there like jerks. Only way out is to let ourselves go with the crowd, which we both do.

  “See you around,” she says, and she’s gone. What an embarrassment.

  We all march up the steps like in an orderly school fire drill, only nobody’s pushing or shoving. I thought I came up the staircase that leads to the escalator, but I guess I was wrong. There’s nothing here but another steep flight of steps. I’m probably dumb for sticking with this crowd. It’s certain they’ve never been to New York before.

  Sure enough, I’m lost. I’ve followed these hayseeds up some back stairs and ended up in a section of the station I’ve never seen before. Great. After going to Philly seven times, I get myself lost. Boy, my mother will never buy that one.

  It’s absolutely amazing that I’ve never seen this section of the station before. I mean, it’s enormous. I don’t see how I could have missed it. And it’s jammed with people. Oh, gross! I bet I got off at the wrong station.

  “Excuse me, sir, can you tell me what station this is?” I ask a man in a sort of uniform with a red hat who looks like he must work for the railroad. He stares at me for a minute like he’s trying to figure out if I’m pulling his leg, then decides I’m serious. “Pennsylvania Station, New York, New York.” He booms it out like a conductor and then starts to laugh. “Where’d you think, girlie?” Embarrassing jerk. I don’t think it’s so funny and I’m about to tell him so when somebody shoves a suitcase in his hand and he hurries off, not even waiting for my answer.

  I’m being very calm despite the fact that when I look up at the towering ceiling and at all the gigantic space around me I get an awful scary feeling that something’s really gone screwy. Maybe the man in the red hat is wrong. I ask a kind-looking elderly woman and she gives me the same “are-you-kidding” look and then the same answer. Only she seems a little more concerned and I back off and lose her fast.

  I’m looking around at this place and the people, and it’s all really weird and at the same time—I don’t know—kind of ordinary. Now it hits me! It’s got to be. There’s no other answer. I don’t know why I didn’t guess right away. Of course! They’re shooting a movie! It’s a cast of thousands and I’m stuck right smack in the middle. Fantastic. I’m going to be in a movie.

  To tell you the truth, I’m relieved. You remember those trapdoors I told you about in my stomach? The icy air, the metal ball, the whole bit? Well, it was beginning to happen. I’m not that hot to be in a movie, but I’m just out-of-my-head-happy that it isn’t what I thought it was, which is very peculiar because I really don’t even know what I thought it was. Though I probably won’t be all that delighted when I see myself on the screen with my messy hair and the scaredy-cat look on my face. Ugh, I’ve probably got a dirt mustache where I wiped the sweat off my lip. And, as always, the twinkling tinsel teeth. At least I’ be able to pick myself out easily.

  It’s amazing the money they spend on these movie sets. They practically have to rebuild the whole station—well, the inside anyway. Will you look what they did to the information booth? It’s half the size. You know, I can see how they can make something bigger, maybe add a cardboard wall here or there, or whatever, byt I just don’t know how they make an information booth smaller. And then if they did figure out how to shrink it, it would still have my mother in front of it. That tiny draft I get in my stomach is turning into a hurricane. Victoria, I tell myself, trying to sound strong like my mother, cool it. But I know it’s only me telling me, so it doesn’t work. Now I’m having trouble swallowing.

  She could be late—my mother, I mean—or maybe the crowds are in the way or something. Just in case, I stand right in the center of the front of the information booth. On my toes with my arms up so she can’t miss me. Right now, to tell the truth, I’m dying to see my mother. Even if she’s angry. Nina would look pretty good to me now too, so you can imagine my state of mind. But so far no familiar faces.

  Except one. Or, to be more exact … two. I may be freaking out, but remember the pregnant lady, the one with the pointy red shoes whose toes I squashed? Well, there she is, standing not ten feet away from me. Which is no big deal except that at this very minute she happens to be hugging her identical twin sister. Well, think about it. That’s a very weird coincidence—I mean, it must be a one-in-a-million shot for this pregnant woman to be wearing the same shoes, scarf, and crazy lipstick colors and also have a twin sister exactly like the old lady who disappeared (well I never saw her get off the train). I think that’s pretty odd. In fact, it’s so odd that my hands are shaking like some kind of weirdo. I shove them in my j
eans pockets so nobody will notice. This is getting seriously strange.

  Five

  “Victoria?” The voice comes from behind me, but when I turn to look, I don’t see anyone. I mean anyone I know. Then way back in the crowd I see an arm waving at me. From where I’m standing I can’t see the person attached to it, but I’m feeling much better already because the arm is definitely waving at me and someone’s calling my name. Wow! I was really getting worried. I can feel one of those goofy ear-to-ear grins spreading over my face as I watch the waving arm make its way through the crowd.

  Forget it. Another false alarm. It’s only the girl from the train platform, the one I thought I knew.

  “Hi.” She’s got a great smile—wide, white, and wireless. “Waiting for someone?” she asks.

  “Yes, my parents. Well, my mother anyway. Except she’s really late, which isn’t like her at all.”

  “I thought you looked kind of worried. Why don’t you give them a call?”

  “I don’t want to leave this spot in case she comes.” “You go and call and I’ll wait here. What’s she look like?”

  “I don’t know, sort of ordinary, blondish hair, medium height. She’ll probably be wearing jeans and a T-shirt.”

  “Blue jeans?” She looks really surprised.

  “She lives in them.”

  “Well, that ought to make her pretty easy to find. Okay, don’t worry. I’ll hold her here if she comes.” I feel better already to have someone else involved. “The phones are way over there,” she says pointing across the huge waiting room.

  I head for the phones without looking too hard at the people because they just make me nervous. I put in two nickels and start to dial. Right away one of my nickels comes back. I let the phone ring forever, but there’s no answer. I try again and the same thing happens with the nickels, but there’s still no answer. She must be on her way. I head back to the information booth.

  Cici is still waiting in front.

  “There’s no answer so they must be on their way here.”

  We stand around for about ten minutes, not doing much talking, just looking around. I think I spot my mother’s head, hair, arm, what have you, half a dozen times. But I turn out to be wrong every time. I must be getting jumpy.

  “Why don’t you try to call them again? I’ll wait here.” I’m fantastically lucky to have run into Cici. I’d really hate to be alone at a time like this.

  It turns out we wait for more than an hour. I call eight more times and still no answer. Now I’m plenty worried. It’s just not like my mother not to show. She’s never even late.

  “Look, Victoria, why don’t you come home with me and we’ll call from there.”

  “I don’t know if I should. What if she comes after I leave? Then she’ll really worry.” And probably be mad, if I know her.

  Still, it’s not such a bad idea. Having her worry, I mean. Who knows, she might get so scared that I’ve run away or been kidnapped or something horrendous like that that she might have second thoughts about sending me away to boarding school. Like she could realize how terrible it is without me. Well, maybe that’s a little much, but still, it certainly would give her a jolt and I wouldn’t mind that. Why should I be the only one to suffer all the time?

  “Okay,” I say, “let’s go. I’ll call from your house.” Wow! Are they going to go mad. I take Cici by surprise. She probably didn’t expect me to agree so fast, but she looks delighted.

  “Neato!” she says. “Let’s hurry. I’m starving.” By now Cici has taken hold of my arm and is leading me through the crowd, and dopey me, I’m letting her. We go down two flights of steps and end up at the subway heading for Queens. I guess I should have asked where she lives and things like that, but now it’s too late.

  It looks like I’m stuck with her. It’s not all that terrible because I can tell right off that I’m really going to like Cici. You know how it is, sometimes you just meet someone and bang, you hit it off. Better than that, you’re old friends instantly.

  We can hear the subway train pulling in as we get to the turnstiles. “Hold it a minute!” I say and start rummaging through my pockets for two tokens I know I had.

  “I’ve got it,” Cici says, shoving what looks like two nickels into the turnstiles. “Quick! The train’s here.”

  Crazy. The nickel things work and we both bolt through, zoom down the steps and into the train just as the doors begin to close. We’re out of breath and laughing hard. She’s too much. She wasn’t even nervous using those fake tokens. I must remember to ask her where she gets them.

  We’re in one of those real old trains with the woven straw seats. You never ever see them in Manhattan anymore. It’s pretty crowded and there are no empty seats so we both grab different poles.

  Now, for the first time, with Cici standing far enough away, I can get a real good look at my new friend. She’s maybe an inch or two shorter than I am, not skinny but real slim, and I’m happy to say even more flat-chested than me. Her hair hangs a little below her ears and she’s got it parted on the side with a big dangly wave that keeps sliding across her right eye. I love it and you know what? It’s exactly like that Veronica Lake thing I tried to do that my mother made me change. Shows you what she knows. Anyway, it’s streaky blond and a little frizzy, sort of the way mine looks when I don’t blow-dry it. I’d call her pretty—in fact, maybe even very pretty. Especially in the outfit she’s wearing. She’s got on one of those old-fashioned peasant skirts, the kind I’m always looking for—you know, gathered tight at the waist and swinging out real full down to the middle of her calves. Her blouse is great too, with puffed lacy sleeves and a scoop neck. Sometimes, if you’re mega-lucky, you can pick up things like that in a thrift shop. Like I said, her clothes are sensational, but you should see her shoes and socks. You wouldn’t believe how gross they are. Her shoes look exactly like men’s brown loafers, and to top it off she’s wearing heavy white gym socks. And if that isn’t horrendous enough, she’s got shiny copper pennies stuck inside the front slot of each shoe. Ugh. I’ve got to tell her what a big mistake she’s making. Maybe later, when we get to be better friends. Though actually, it feels like we’re pretty good friends already. Like I said, sometimes it just happens that way.

  Right now, standing here and staring at Cici, it’s really beginning to bug me that she looks so familiar. I bet I know her from some place. Maybe summer camp. I go over to where she’s standing and ask her if she’s ever been to camp. She says she has and names three camps that I’ve heard somebody mention—I can’t remember who—but when I try a few names on her—Judy Rubin, Cait Clancy, Jill Schwartz—she doesn’t know them. And she’s never heard of the camps I’ve gone to. Maybe I don’t know her, but she absolutely reminds me of someone I do know and it’s going to drive me batty till I remember who.

  As I look around, it hits me that the people going to Queens look a lot like the people in Penn Station, who don’t look much like the people I’m used to seeing every day. Which makes me think that either fashions change faster than I thought or the people in Queens are about thirty years behind the times. I guess you can see how hard I’m trying to squeeze everything into plain old ordinary explanations. I don’t think it’s working too well.

  The train rumbles on with the lights blinking on and off every now and then. At one point in the darkness, cut off from Cici, a weird scary feeling comes over me that the car is really empty and I’m all alone. Not just here in the subway, but everywhere. It’s sort of like that Aristotle thing again, except that when the lights come back on and I look around, I know all this couldn’t be my creation. If it was, then I wouldn’t feel so out-of-place—and I really do.

  I can’t explain why I’m getting spooked now or why this all seems so weird. I mean, when you’re riding on the subway to Queens, how far out can it be? That’s just what makes it so bizarre, when something that should be so ordinary is so unusual. Take these people. They seem like plain old everyday New Yorkers—dressed up in costu
mes. Which is something even plain old everyday New Yorkers just don’t do when they ride the subway.

  Even the subway car is different. Very old-fashioned, as I mentioned, but also too clean. There’s only one tiny bit of graffiti and it doesn’t even make sense. It’s a little picture of a guy’s eyes and nose peeking over a line with the words “Kilroy was here” underneath. And the advertisements. I’ve never even heard of half of them. What’s Citronelia? Where’s Luna Park? And now I take a good look around, Cici isn’t the only girl in those awful shoes.

  The train pulls into Ely Avenue and some people get off. Cici pokes me and points to two empty seats. We sit down and she takes some grimy piece of grayish-white material out of her bag. It’s all rolled up in this disgusting ball held closed by a needle with some gray thread. She unravels a tiny corner and starts to sew with the most grotesque stitches you’ve ever seen. Beats me what that rag could be and why anyone would bother sewing such a thing. I’m about to ask about it, but I catch myself at the last second and instead ask what stop we get off at.

  “We gotta go to the end of the line,” she says. “Parsons Boulevard. Are you hungry? Pm starving.”

  I’d forgotten to even think about food, but now that I do, I guess I’m kind of hungry too. “Yeah,” I say, “I could eat.”

  “Terrif,” she says. I notice that she uses that word a lot. “We can grab a chow mein sandwich at Woolworth’s.”

  Talk about grossing me out! I love Chinese food, but a chow mein sandwich on white bread toast probably, with lettuce and a pickle sounds horrific, but I don’t want to hurt her feelings so I pretend I’d love one.