by Caro Soles
Later on, we bake a cake, using margarine instead of butter and water instead of milk because we don’t have either today. It won’t matter because we’re making chocolate sauce to go with it. It’s a special treat for Jonathan, who’s studying hard for his exams as well as doing his tutoring job and practising for the Recital. He spends most of his time in the library and misses all the commotion.
When Mother goes to visit Daddy in the hospital, I am left with a page of math problems to figure out. I almost fall asleep. When I look at the sheet of paper, the numbers dance around and make designs in front of me. I make a guess at the answers and then go downstairs with my skipping rope.
Patricia is spread out on a lawn chair. She is wearing yet another dress with ankle socks and Mary Janes, and a gold bracelet gleams on her arm. It looks too expensive to wear out in the garden. She has sunglasses on and is reading a magazine. I stand looking at her for a moment. She knows I’m there, but she doesn’t glance up.
“Do you want to skip rope with me?” I ask, desperate for company.
She shakes her head.
Her mother comes out and beats a rug vigorously against the wall. I move out of the way of the clouds of dust. She looks at me, then away, without saying a word. I don’t say anything either.
“Keep your sweater on,” she says to Patricia, and then she goes inside again.
I go over and sit on the grass.
“You shouldn’t sit on the grass. It’s damp,” she says, looking at me.
I shrug. “It seems perfectly fine to me.”
“Shows what you know.” She opens the magazine again.
Now that I’m closer, I can see the bracelet she’s wearing more clearly. It’s gold, and dangling from it is a golden charm of a swan with a diamond eye. I stare at it, not believing what I see.
“What are you staring at?” she asks.
A thief, I say inside my head. Out loud I say, “Your bracelet. Where did you get it?”
“Mom gave it to me.” She looks at it with pleasure.
I don’t say anything. Is her mother the thief? But perhaps the box I saw down in the cellar belongs to the O’Malleys after all. Have I made a mistake? The feeling remains: the certainty that this is not hers, would not be something chosen by her mother, does not fit somehow. But there’s nothing I can say without giving myself away.
“So what’s it like being adopted?” Patricia asks, putting aside the magazine.
“It’s like being special,” I say, feeling a slight jolt. I think of the story Mother often tells me about the day she first saw me and knew I was the one. The special one.
Patricia laughs. “Your real mom didn’t want you. What’s so special about that?”
“At least she didn’t leave me alone to roll into scalding water. I’m not the one scarred for life by my mother!”
She stares at me open-mouthed, colour staining her round face like dye spreading through water. I can’t believe I just said these things. I should say I’m sorry, but I can’t bring myself to say anything. I sit very quiet and watch as she hauls herself to her feet, gathers her magazine and sunglasses and hat, and turns away. As she gets near the back door, she begins to run.
I want to cry. I know I’ve been cruel. I don’t know why I hated her so much at that moment, why I wanted to slash at her so hard. But now I’m scared. Her mother will rush out and scream at me, maybe. She might force Rona Layne to make us move away from the Music House. After all, she made us pay key money just to see the rooms we rent, even though the place was already promised to us. She might do anything. Mother says she is completely unpredictable.
I grab my skipping rope and run upstairs and hide in the Everything Room until I hear Mother coming up the hall. It seems like hours, but I know it isn’t.
“What are you doing in here?” she says, looking at me keenly. “You look a bit peaked. Have you been inside all this time?”
“No. I was skipping for a while.”
Mother changes into her cotton skirt and blouse. “Why don’t you collect the small bits of soap from around the basin, put them in the soap jar, and bring it into the kitchen?”
“Are we going to make oatmeal soap?”
“That’s right. And you can make animal shapes out of some of them. How’s that sound?”
“Good,” I say. “Salubrious.”
Mother laughs. “Not exactly,” she says, and tells me to go look the word up in the dictionary.
I feel happy and safe with Mother, standing beside her in the tiny kitchen a few minutes later while she cooks the soap and some other things in our largest pot. She cools it and adds the oatmeal at the end, and then I get to squish it in my fingers and squeeze it into shapes. This is the best part. I make teddy bears and dogs and some turtles mostly, but the bears are the easiest. Mother says she’ll take my best teddy bear to Daddy tomorrow so he can have his very own soap and think of me when he washes his hands. Oatmeal is good for the skin. I like that idea.
We pour the sticky mess out on cookie sheets and take them into the living room to work on. Mother just makes hers into boring bars, but I like to be more fanciful.
“Don’t waste any,” Mother warns. “Gather up the fragments so that nothing is lost. When we’re finished, I’ll check your homework.”
I decide to take as much time as possible with my soap shaping and am busy doing a teddy when there’s a knock at the door. Mother looks startled. We rarely have unexpected visitors. She dusts her hands off with the small towel we use when we make soap and goes to the door.
“Yes?” she says, looking at the man in the brown hat who stands there. He carries a briefcase, but a small one, not like the Fuller Brush man’s.
“How do you do. My name is Miles Runyon, and I’m the truant officer for this area. May I come in?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Mother says.
“Please, ma’am. We’ve had a complaint. I need to come in and discuss it.”
Silently, Mother opens the door wider, and the man comes in. I can feel the electricity in the air, sudden and fearful. Truant officer. School. Complaint. I think of Patricia’s red face, the tears welling in her eyes, and I know it’s all my fault. Mrs. O’Malley has sent the truant officer because I have done things I ought not to have done and there is no health in me. Selah.
13. SCHOOL
MOTHER SENDS ME TO THE KITCHEN to make tea. Waiting for the kettle to boil, I put some soda crackers on a plate and cut up the end of the cheddar cheese into tiny cubes. We don’t have biscuits or cake or other tea things, so I hope this will do. One part of me feels like bursting into tears, but some other part is excited, waiting to see what will happen, how this will change my life. I vow to throw away the prism. It has brought bad luck, not good. It was stolen after all, like Patricia’s bracelet. But perhaps nothing will change. Mother has a letter from my eye doctor, so that will probably work. Or maybe the rheumatic fever I had two years ago will help. But do I want to stay here in the Music House forever? I shiver, afraid of what might happen, but excited in spite of myself. Brian is right. It’s hard knowing what you want.
I arrange the six crackers we have left on Grandmother’s Wedgewood plate, put the cozy over the teapot, and carry it all into the living room. Mother is looking tense. The truant officer has his briefcase open on the floor at his feet, and I almost stumble over it as I put the heavy tray on the table with a thump. Mother whispers, “Sugar,” and I get the sugar bowl and rush off to the kitchen to fill it. Our family doesn’t use sugar, and I always forget it for company. We ran out of milk yesterday, so I put evaporated milk from the can in the little blue willow pitcher and hope he doesn’t notice.
Back in the living room, the truant officer is showing Mother an official-looking letter. Mother has pulled out a few letters of her own from the worn brown folder tied with faded red ribbons where she stores impo
rtant papers, and is now pushing them at him.
“Yes, yes, but things have changed since you arrived here four years ago, Mrs. Dudley-Morris,” he says, reaching absently for his tea. “This new sight-saving class is a godsend to our handicapped children.”
I can feel Mother recoil. It is only her reaction that makes me realize he is talking about me. I take a cup of tea and sip it slowly, nibbling on a soda biscuit. Mother’s hand trembles slightly as she pours her own cup.
“I am sure it helps many poor children, but Vanessa is doing well at home with the teachers I have for her, and as I already told you, I am a trained teacher myself. I am perfectly willing to have the department send someone to test her at whatever level you think right for her age. I have no doubt she will excel.”
I look from Mother to Mr. Runyon as a sudden bolt of anxiety shoots through me. I do not share Mother’s faith in my ability to pass a test, especially in math. Should I say something before it is too late? I clear my throat. Mother shoots me a warning look. I finish the biscuit too quickly, and now I have nothing to do with my hands. I clasp them on my lap and pull my fingers anxiously.
“This isn’t negotiable, I’m afraid,” Mr. Runyon goes on. “We did send a letter a while ago, which you ignored.”
“Because it was about handicapped children! My daughter is not handicapped. She merely has eye problems.”
“And that is exactly what this class is geared for: children with eye problems.”
“I will fight this,” Mother says, her whole body shaking as she rises to her feet. “I will not send my daughter to that … that…”
“I’m afraid you have no choice, Mrs. Dudley-Morris. Your doctor should have explained this to you.” He pulls his briefcase onto his lap, pushes the last paper inside, clicks it shut with finality, and stands up.
Mother is already at the door, her face red and eyes flashing in anger. “You haven’t heard the last of this,” she says. “I’ll fight this tooth and nail!”
Mr. Runyon makes a peculiar little bow. “Next Monday at Jesse Ketchum School, Mrs. Dudley-Morris. Vanessa’s name is already entered in the class.” He smiles and goes out the door.
“What a pompous, smug, unimaginative little toad,” Mother rages, pacing the floor. “How could he sit there and say those things, dismiss all we’ve done, just like that? Lump you in with the halt and the lame!”
“But it’s a sight-saving class,” I say. “Why would they be halt and lame?”
“Just you wait. You’ll see!”
Lame ducks, I think. I’ll be a lame duck.
She is still raging when Jonathan comes home for lunch twenty minutes later, but by now she is on the telephone. I follow Jonathan out to the kitchen where he opens a can of tomato soup and begins to make sandwiches.
“When did he get here?” he asks.
I tell him.
Jonathan sighs. “I warned her she couldn’t just ignore those letters.”
“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” I say tentatively, watching his face for a reaction.
He doesn’t say anything for a minute. Then he hands the plate of sandwiches to me. “Cut those in quarters,” he says. He pours the soup into three bowls. “You know, even if it is hard at first—a new routine, all those new people—it’s June. School will be over in less than a month.” He smiles. “You can do a month, right?”
“Right,” I say, and we go back to the living room for lunch.
I don’t know whether it is Jonathan who convinced Mother to stop fighting—or maybe it was Daddy, or her friend Dr. Hazel, or maybe the government man on the telephone—but two days later she announces I am going to school on Monday. We go down to Northways and buy two new blouses and two pairs of navy-blue knee socks.
On Monday morning, she takes me to Jesse Ketchum School, checks with the office to make sure I am registered, and leaves me there in the huge schoolyard, which is teeming with noise and motion.
“When the bell rings,” she says, just before she leaves, “line up with the other girls and march into school. Your room is on the second floor—number 214. Your teacher’s name is Miss Beaumont. Be brave. Jonathan will pick you up at four. Don’t leave the schoolyard, whatever you do!”
I nod and watch her go. I don’t know how I feel. Excited, nervous, a little afraid. But isn’t this what I really wanted all along? To go to school like Janet? Like everyone else?
I stand alone, watching the others mill around me. I don’t know how to approach anyone, what to say, who might be in my class. No one else is wearing a tunic like I am. The children are all sizes; some of them are really, really big. Grade eights, I guess. They make a great deal of noise, yelling at each other. Some boys are fighting on the ground, screaming and kicking. One has white hair. A small woman in a black cardigan marches over to them, leans over, and says something I can’t hear. Their fists slow down, and they slowly get to their feet, looking sheepish. They are taller than she is, but they hang their heads. She scowls and reaches to grab hold of the ear of the dark-haired boy and leads him inside, his head twisted at an awkward angle. The white-haired boy laughs, his hands on his hips. His teeth are big and widely spaced. He winks at me, then ambles over.
“You new?”
I nod.
“Sight-saving class?”
“How did you know?”
“Those coke-bottle glasses kind of give it away.” He laughs again, but it’s not a nasty laugh, so I guess he’s all right. “I’m in that class, too. It’s not so bad. I’m Cedric.”
“I’m Vanessa.” I look at him more closely. He’s not wearing glasses, but his eyes are pink and seem to be moist and sore-looking. And he’s big, much older than me. “You tore your shirt,” I say, looking at the rent on his sleeve.
He shrugs. “That Eddie’s a mean one,” he says. “Watch out for him.”
The ringing of a bell pierces the playground noise and confusion, and at once the groups break up and reform into lines—girls on one side, boys on the other. I hesitate and look at Cedric.
“You go there,” he says, pointing. “Wanda! Hey, here’s the new girl.” He gives me a little push in the direction of a thin girl with glasses and a bad squint. She wears a tired dress that was once red plaid but now looks like the life has been washed out of it. She pulls me into line beside her but doesn’t say a word. I shake her fingers off my sleeve and turn my back on her. There’s something peculiar about her that unsettles me. Already I want to go home; I want to get away from all these strange noisy children, the huge concrete playground, and the vast school looming over us—all those windows watching, waiting. I haven’t even done anything yet, and I am already tired. This isn’t like the schools I’ve read about.
At some unseen signal, the front lines lurch forward and wind untidily into the building, followed by the next one, and the next. Then it is our turn. I shuffle along with the others in my group, following them up the stairs to the second floor and turning into the third door on our right. I stop, looking around. The room is large and bright, filled with desks in orderly rows. At the front are chalkboards coloured green instead of black. Miss Beaumont’s name is written with yellow chalk in perfect round script on the board, with my name underneath it. I stare at it. The letters up there surprise me, make me see myself as a different person, a person who goes to school with all these other children, some of whom are really big. I glance at Cedric. He is sprawled at his desk, punching the boy in front of him on the shoulder.
“Settle down, children, settle down.” Miss Beaumont is tall, with little curls arranged on top of her head in pale rows, pink skin showing in between. She stoops forward as she talks, as if she is trying to shrink. She holds her arms in front of her, hands curled, reminding me of the pictures of a kangaroo in my animal book at home. Her bright-blue eyes blink out at us steadily. “This is Vanessa,” she goes on, coming towards me. I tense, but she doesn’t
touch me; she just smiles down in a fake sort of way and then motions to an empty desk in front of Wanda. “This will be your desk, dear,” she says. “I gather you haven’t been to school before, so you’ll have a lot of catching up to do. This is the section for grades one to three.”
“But I’m ten,” I say. “Shouldn’t I be in the grade five row?” Mother told me this earlier so I’m pretty sure I’m right, but Miss Beaumont stares at me.
“You have a lot of catching up to do,” she repeats and points at the same empty desk.
I sit down and take out the books I find on the little shelf underneath. I laugh. Everything gets quiet.
“Something funny, dear?”
I stand up and clear my throat. “Someone left these Dick and Jane books here,” I say, handing them to her. “Could I have the proper ones for me, if you please?”
“Those are yours, dear,” she says, her voice syrupy. The class titters.
I wave the books at her. “I need real ones,” I say, but I can tell these aren’t the right words.
“Dick and Jane are real books, aren’t they, class?”
“Yes, Miss Beaumont.” A ragged chorus.
“But they’re too easy.” I learned to read when I was four. “I read books like Treasure Island now. And Ivanhoe,” I add, in case she doesn’t know Treasure Island.
Everyone is staring at me, their eyes—behind the glasses most of them wear—looking large and bug-like. But I can tell Miss Beaumont is getting cross. I hear Mother’s voice in my head: No one likes a showoff. I sit down and put the Dick and Jane books away and fold my hands on the desk, waiting to see what will happen next.
Miss Beaumont gives me a final scowl and goes back to the front of the class. Behind me, Wanda is whispering. I turn around, and she hisses at me, her tongue darting in and out like a snake’s. Fascinated, I stare at her.