by Amy Hest
Dr. Chase was old. Just like our doctor in New York, Dr. Mason. He had the same black bag and said MMHMMM like Dr. Mason when he looked in Martha’s throat. After looking around for a while, the news was bad. Tonsils. Martha’s tonsils had to come out. Martha cried and clung to Pop. Then Dr. Chase said the magic word. Ice cream. AFTERWARD WE SERVE ICE CREAM, he told Martha. AS MUCH AS YOU CAN EAT.
So Martha and Pop went for an overnight at the Good Samaritan Hospital, and George and I went for an overnight at the Ben-Elis’. It was my first overnight ever, so I had to give myself a little pep talk, along the lines of: Julie, you may not be homesick. You are much too old to be homesick. Which definitely worked. I was my usual cheerful self, plus an excellent guest. I set the table for dinner, even though nobody asked me to, and scraped carrots, even though I’m terrible at scraping carrots. Mrs. Ben-Eli cooked hamburgers, which I like, and potatoes, which I like, and carrots. But when dinner was finally on the table that I set, I wasn’t that hungry. Bruno sat there stuffing food in his mouth, saying absolutely nothing the whole time. Not that it made the slightest difference to me. At seven we all huddled around the radio, even George, and President Roosevelt talked about the war. I like his deep voice and I like when he says things about standing united and strong. Mr. Ben-Eli made a circle in the middle of the big world map tacked to the kitchen wall. IF MY CALCULATIONS ARE RIGHT, BEN’S BATTALION SHOULD BE RIGHT ABOUT HERE, he said, tapping the circle, and then he said, GOD BLESS. Mrs. Ben-Eli closed her eyes and whispered it, too, GOD BLESS.
The guest room was yellow and the moon was a half-moon that night. I pulled George onto the bed. Which he liked. And hugged him close. Which he liked. But all of a sudden he got up and left, to sleep down the hall with Bruno. Who cares about you? I thought, and started to cry. Which was totally babyish, of course. I wanted Pop. And cried some more, pushing my face in the pillow so no one would hear, especially Bruno. Then I heard Mrs. Ben-Eli at the door. JULIE?— knock, knock — I’VE BROUGHT A LITTLE SOMETHING, TO HELP YOU SLEEP. It was ice cream — two dips — in a green bowl. And I wasn’t even the one with tonsillitis.
When Martha came home without her tonsils, she was allowed to have ice cream whenever she wanted, even first thing in the morning. So we were always running out and I was always riding my bike into town for more. The little pink ice-cream shop — Snowflake — is next to the train station. Sometimes Bruno was there with that friend of his, Kevin, and he completely ignored me. Of course I completely ignored him back. Bruno wasn’t there, though, the first time I saw Tess. Only I didn’t know her name yet, or who she was, or what was in her basket. She was coming out of Snowflake that day in July and all I could think was she’s so beautiful . . . why can’t I be beautiful, too? Then the train came clanking into the station — the 3:35 to New York — and she was running for the train. Come back! I thought. We’ll be friends! But she stepped on board. And never even knew when something blew out of her basket.
By the time I picked it up (It was a little white hat. For a doll maybe? Or a baby?) the 3:35 was moving down the track. I put it in my pocket. In case she came back.
When you go to the hospital, they give you ice cream! And Pop makes you a crown that says MARTHA, QUEEN OF ICE CREAM! And Julie gives you a picture of the beach that she drew! And the Ben-Elis come over for a party! And George isn’t sad anymore. Because now you are home.
Some people are good at everything. They pitch like a major league pitcher and catch like a major league catcher and hit home runs and get straight As and shave. My brother is that kind of person. Then last summer, a whole year ago when I’m only eleven, I’m making myself a sandwich at Ben-Eli’s. It’s afternoon and the lunch crowd is gone and Ben is sweeping up. It’s a pretty big store, and when the front door opens, this little bell rings and wherever you are, you hear ding, ding! So it rings for the thousandth time that day — ding, ding! — and in walks this girl eating an enormous ice-cream cone. Strawberry triple-scoop. She’s older than me, more like Ben. Speaking of Ben, he’s pretending not to look, but he’s looking, all right. Next thing you know, the broom disappears and he’s talking to the girl, making her laugh. It’s a pretty nice laugh. I take a few bites of my sandwich. They talk some more, and there’s that laugh again. I pour some milk and mind my own business. Still, you can’t help hearing things. Like her name, which is Tess, and it’s a pretty nice name. You hear other things, too. Such as this: I JUST GOT OFF THE TRAIN FROM NEW YORK. And this: I’M ON MY WAY TO CAMP MITCHEL, TO STUDY AT THE NURSING SCHOOL THERE. And Ben’s big offer, you hear that, too. I’D BE HAPPY TO DRIVE YOU. IT’S JUST UP THE ROAD. MY CAR’S OUT FRONT. . . .
Ben. That’s my brother. He gets As and home runs and trophies. And the keys to my father’s car . . . so he can drive a girl named Tess to nursing school.
Her name is Miss Bancroft, but we call her The Driver and she’s always on time. Ten o’clock sharp. She comes three days a week and her car is a big army jeep. She drives Pop to Camp Mitchel, past the guards, so he can interview the soldiers there. EVERY SINGLE SOLDIER HAS A STORY, Pop says. Of course Martha turns into this sad little sad sack when he leaves. So I take her next door. Grown-ups always love Martha. Especially Mrs. Ben-Eli. You can tell, the minute she opens the door. I WAS JUST THINKING ABOUT YOU TWO, HOPING YOU’D STOP BY, that kind of thing. We just kind of follow her around for a while. One time she was knitting a scarf for Ben. HE’LL NEED TO BE WARM OVER THERE, COME WINTER, she said. Another time, she was making red checks on a long list of books she was ordering for the new children’s library. IT’S A LABOR OF LOVE, she said, MY WORK AT THE LIBRARY. Then there was the time we watched her write a letter — an actual letter — to Eleanor Roosevelt! She wrote, I AM THE MOTHER OF A BRAVE YOUNG MAN STATIONED OVERSEAS. I WANT TO PERSONALLY THANK YOU FOR YOUR SELFLESS TRIPS TO VISIT OUR TROOPS IN THE PACIFIC. YOU BOOST THEIR SPIRITS, AND MINE. Mrs. Ben-Eli folded up the letter to mail and said, HOW NICE IT WOULD BE TO MEET HER SOMEDAY. I never knew she would want to meet Eleanor Roosevelt.
When Mrs. Ben-Eli goes off to work at the library, Martha and I go down to the ocean with pails and shovels, the beach ball, and George. Mostly, though, we’re just waiting for noon, when Pop comes back. Martha keeps looking at my watch. WHEN WILL IT BE NOON, JULIE, WHEN WILL IT BE NOON? And finally it is. HERE’S YOUR POP, says The Driver. SAFE AND SOUND! One time they were late. Really, really late and I was really, really mad. DON’T BLAME ME, joked Pop. WE GOT A FLAT — joke, joke — AND WE HAD TO CHANGE OUR FLAT TIRE! We got a flat. Our flat tire.
Miss Bancroft is in the army, I think, and her lipstick is called Red Roses! One time she let Julie and me sit in the jeep! First we sat in the back seat. Then we sat in the front seat. Then we sat in back again. I’M NEVER GETTING OUT, I said. Miss Bancroft turned on the radio and there was singing on the radio! Then Pop got in the front seat, and they went away and Julie took me to the beach. We made a thousand sandcastles.
When it rains in Belle Beach, I get to go to the movies with Julie. One time there was kissing in the movies! POP SHOULD KISS MISS BANCROFT, I said. DON’T BE RIDICULOUS, Julie said. POP IS NOT A MOVIE.
If my dad ever finds out, no big deal. But if my mom finds out, I’m cooked. It happened last year when I was eleven, and it was after Ben enlisted but before he went overseas. Okay, that day he’s driving me home from Kevin’s and it’s just the two of us in my father’s old yellow convertible and the top is down so the wind is blowing Ben’s words around, but a few words stick. Words like NEW YORK . . . GOING TO THE CITY TONIGHT . . . I HAVE TO SEE TESS BEFORE I’M SHIPPED OUT. . . . Then all of a sudden he pulls into this empty parking lot behind Belle Beach High School and says, WANNA DRIVE, BRUNO? Are you kidding me! Then Ben gives me an actual driving lesson! Me! Driving! Forward. Stop. Right turn. Forward. Stop. Left turn. Forward. Stop. I never wanted it to end. I was pretty good, by the way, Ben said I was good. His exact words: NOT BAD, BRUNO. NOT BAD AT ALL, FOR A BRAND-NEW DRIVER. It was the greatest day of my life. My dad is the kind of p
erson who would appreciate a good story like that, so maybe I’ll tell him someday. If my mom finds out, I’m cooked.
I love our little cottage, especially the upstairs deck. You can see the world up there. The sand and the sea and moon and the stars at night and maybe even Jupiter. One night, I decide to do something exciting for a change. I’M MAKING MYSELF A SLEEP-OUT ON THE UPSTAIRS DECK, I say. JUST ME AND THE STARS. Pop and Martha watch me pack and they both make a point of looking a little too sad, too left out. I’M JUST GOING UPSTAIRS, NOT TO AUSTRALIA, I say and start up the stairs. That’s when Martha starts with the sobbing. Which, of course, is a lot louder, a lot more tragic, than her regular crying. I’LL MISS YOU SO MUCH, JULIE — sob, sob — I WANT TO SLEEP UNDER THE STARS, TOO — sob, sob. Honestly, the sound of Martha sobbing like that, it makes you feel terrible. It makes you feel mean, and I hate feeling mean, so I back down the stairs, put an arm around Martha, and say: OKAY, FINE, EVERYONE’S INVITED. INCLUDING GEORGE. More packing: blankets and pillows and the big flashlight and cookies and hot cocoa in a thermos, because even though it’s summer, we all like cocoa. Stubborn old George refuses to climb the stairs, so we sing his good-night song — GOOD NIGHT, SWEET GEORGE! GOOD NIGHT, SWEET GEORGE! — and leave him in the kitchen. But about two minutes later, he comes on up, curls into Martha, and goes snoring off to sleep. Then Pop clicks on the flashlight and tells the scariest ghost story you ever want to hear, and Martha and I are squeezing each other and shaking! When the story is over, Pop falls asleep — snore, snore. Then Martha — snore, snore. So now everyone’s sleeping but me. I stare at the sky, looking for stars, but there are none that night. No stars. No one to talk to. Nothing to do. I’m just thinking what an idiotic idea this was after all, that nothing exciting ever happens to me, when something finally happens. Rain! Pouring, soaking rain! Now everyone’s up! Everyone’s drenched! And yelling and running downstairs, even George!
And that, my friends, is the end of the Sweet Family Sleep-Out.
I like the sound of the ocean at night. You can see the whole beach, right to the end of Long Island, if the moon is out bright. Like the night I saw Pop and Miss Bancroft out there, sitting on our big beach blanket.
One night I couldn’t fall asleep. And I still couldn’t fall asleep. And I still couldn’t fall asleep. So Pop took me for a walk on the beach at midnight! We saw five million stars! Then Pop told me a secret! This is the secret: ONE SUMMER, A LONG TIME AGO, I WAS WALKING ON THE BEACH — THIS VERY SAME BEACH — AND IT WAS DEFINITELY MY LUCKY DAY, BECAUSE IT’S HERE I MET YOUR MOTHER. HERE ON THE BEACH. HER BATHING SUIT WAS RED. Then we went home and I got in my bed. Then I got out again. And snuggled up close to Julie in her bed and tickled her ear. WAKE UP, JULIE! I KNOW A GOOD SECRET ABOUT MOMMY! WAKE UP NOW! But she wouldn’t wake up.
Ben and Tess. Tess and Ben. On the beach, holding hands. You see them from your bedroom window, and when you’re standing on the porch. Summer was nearly over, and when it was, Tess would be going home to New York, to the boardinghouse on East 39th Street. A house for independent young ladies, she called it. They were always holding hands. Even in line at the movie theater. Even inside Snowflake. Even in front of my parents, at the kitchen table, when Tess came to dinner those times. And always on the beach. It wasn’t like I went out of my way to follow them. Why would I? But there they were — the night she graduated nursing school — side by side in the sand. I see her white cap in the sand, thanks to the moon and all the bright stars that night.
THREE OF THEM ARE ENLISTED MEN. Bruno told me that. About Kevin’s brothers. Kevin is his best friend. Not that Bruno ever says it. Boys don’t care about having a best friend. Not the way girls do. I used to have a best friend. Linda. We both have April birthdays and green eyes and little sisters. Then last year Linda pulled me aside at recess and whispered, PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT CALLED MY FATHER. WE ARE MOVING AWAY SO MY FATHER CAN DO SPECIAL SECRET WAR WORK, FOR PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT. So Linda moved away and that’s why I don’t have a best friend anymore.
Bruno’s best friend, Kevin, is not my type. Talks too much. Oh, and if you want to hear a dumb joke, just ask Kevin. His mom’s name is Charlotte but everyone calls her Charlie, which I know because I see her sometimes at the library. She’s one of the Good Ladies. Which is short for the Good Ladies of Belle Beach Library Committee. There are fourteen of them, Kevin told me that. Fourteen Good Ladies building a new children’s library. They paint and hammer and saw and drill. They even do plumbing, and they all report to Mrs. Ben-Eli. She’s the boss of the library. Which Kevin told me but I already knew, and I even went to her office. I went to her office the day she made me a Junior Library Volunteer. If you want to be one, if Mrs. Ben-Eli picks you, you have to come to the library Tuesday and Saturday mornings from nine to noon. You wear a badge that says I AM A JUNIOR LIBRARY VOLUNTEER. Kevin’s working, too, only his mother makes him volunteer and he won’t wear his badge. One Saturday he told me three dumb jokes in a row. I pretended they were funny, all three.
Then something terrible happened. The worst thing in the world happened. One of Kevin’s brothers died in the war.
The memorial was on the beach. They had it at sunrise and the whole town was there. Every single person, I think, even summer people. Pop woke us early that day so we could pay our respects to the family. The sky was pink and you couldn’t see Kevin anywhere. Not until he stood on a bench to talk about his brother. You could hear people crying and sniffling, blowing noses. Dogs ran in and out of the ocean, barking. American flags, everywhere you looked, American flags. They were beautiful. There was a bugle.
Afterward, Pop took my hand and we walked up the beach for a while and Martha ran ahead. She did cartwheels in the sand. IT’S A GOOD THING YOU’RE OLD, I told Pop. YOU CAN’T BE AN ENLISTED MAN IF YOU’RE OLD. YOU CAN’T GO DYING IN THE WAR. When we got back to the cottage, I washed my hair, then Martha’s. She yelled, as usual, when I combed out the tangles. And I told her, as usual, she better hold still. We dried our hair in the sun. Martha read out loud, something about President Roosevelt’s dog. THE DOG’S NAME IS FALA, she read. Six years old and reading out loud for the last two years. Martha might be some kind of genius.
Pop and Julie were serious, so I was serious, too. A lot of people were crying. Even grown-ups. I hate when grown-ups cry.
There’s nothing we look forward to more than mail. That is a direct quote. And you know who wrote that in a letter to Kevin? His brother Paul. He wrote it before he died over there. There’s nothing we look forward to more than mail . . . so keep up the good work . . . keep sending those wonderful letters about everything that reminds me of home.
Six. I’ve been to six of them altogether. Six memorials on the beach. All because of the war. I guess you could call it the Belle Beach way of saying goodbye to a hero. The first five were bad. But this was really bad. This was Paul’s memorial service, Paul’s goodbye. Paul, the brother who taught Kevin how to ride a bike and float in the ocean the summer we were four. I didn’t want to go. My parents kept saying things like KEVIN’S YOUR BEST FRIEND, BRUNO. WE SHOW UP FOR FRIENDS. I still didn’t want to go and even faked a stomachache, faked throwing up. IT’S GOING TO BE A ROUGH DAY, they said. GO GET DRESSED. A million people showed up on the beach that day. It was hot and I was stuck in long pants and a jacket and tie, even though Paul’s not the kind of guy who cares if you don’t wear a tie. The priest from their church said a bunch of things about Paul. Most of which I couldn’t hear because of the ocean and the waves and some little kids screaming somewhere. After the priest, Kevin got to talk. He talked loud, like he was shouting, and he read that letter from Paul, and I started to cry. Just so you know, I wasn’t the only one crying. I couldn’t stop and then my parents were hugging me. In public, can you believe they would actually do that? A lot of us went back to Kevin’s house after. There was a ton of food. I was really starving and Kevin was, too, so we loaded up our plates a few times and it was really good food. Then we took off our ties and threw a ball a
round Kevin’s yard until some girls from school came by and he decided to have, well, you know, a conversation with the girls. I went home. And walked around Ben’s room for a while. I sat on his bed.
It was early in the morning and Mrs. Ben-Eli was walking all by herself on the beach. She looked lonely and I didn’t want her to be lonely, so I caught up to her and said HI, MRS. BEN-ELI and she said HI, JULIE! The sky was pink. I LOVE THE BEACH AT SUNRISE, she said. ME, TOO, I said, I LOVE IT, TOO. Her sweater was red with a hood and mine was blue with a hood and the water rolled over our toes. I’M HOPING FOR A LETTER FROM BEN TODAY, said Mrs. Ben-Eli. IF YOU WANT, I COULD DO A LITTLE PRAYING, I said. I’LL PRAY YOU GET A LETTER FROM BEN. Baby birds ran across the beach, making teeny little footprints in the sand. Mrs. Ben-Eli smiled at the baby birds and the teeny little footprints. Her hair was wavy and brown, just like my mother’s. Usually I don’t say too much about my mother, but that morning I told Mrs. Ben-Eli, MY MOTHER’S NAME WAS ELEANOR. JUST LIKE ELEANOR ROOSEVELT. Mrs. Ben-Eli smiled some more. WHAT A SPLENDID NAME, she said.
Pop took a picture of George on the beach. I’m in the picture, too! Doing a cartwheel in the sand! It’s the best picture you ever want to see. I look at it fifty times every day! At night it goes under my pillow. I showed it to Mrs. Ben-Eli and Mr. Ben-Eli and Bruno, and they all like the picture of George on the beach and my cartwheel. I might send it to President Roosevelt. He doesn’t like the war (Pop told me that), so my picture will make him happy. President Roosevelt likes dogs. And children. Mrs. Roosevelt likes them, too. Pop told me that. My pop knows everything.