Scags at 7

by Deborah Emin

  Scags at 7

  Deborah Emin

  New York

  Copyright © 2006 by Deborah Emin

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is entirely coincidental.

  Previously published by Kedzie Press, Chicago, IL

  Published by Sullivan Street Press, Inc., New York

  Cover and interior design by Patricia Rasch

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2008912054

  ISBN: 978-0-9819428-0-3 (print)

  ISBN: 978-0-9819428-6-5 (e-book)

  Printed in USA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Suzanne who is always so keen-o

  1

  Names

  I made up the name that everyone calls me. I made it up because I didn’t like the name Mama gave me when I was born when no one could ask me what I wanted to be called. So I’m called, because I say so, Scags. Scags? Mama asked, her voice high and cracking. Scags? Pops said like it was a new penny in his palm. Yes, Scags, I said. That is what I called Pops’ cigar when I was two years old and by the time I was four I told them that’s what I want to be called. Pops shook my hand, picked me up and twirled me around until I felt like a rope waving straight out from him. I felt dizzy.

  Mama said, Your name is Celia. You’re named after my mother, Cordelia. Your name is Celia Harper Morgenstern. I can’t call you Scags, she said. But Pops said to Mama, Of course you can, she looks like a Scags, red curly top like a lit cigar. She seems so happy when she says call me Scags, how can you refuse?

  I was named for my grandmother Cordelia, but she won’t care if I change my name, she’s dead. I say that to Mama, She’s dead. Mama says, I know, gives me a look like it is a big secret, and then says again, I know, don’t remind me. I don’t know why Mama wanted to name me after her mother anyway. Mama told me how Cordelia yelled at her all the time and pulled her braids and laid up in bed asking for a glass of orange juice or a cup of tea, not in a nice voice, but in an if-you-please voice. She demanded it and made Mama clean the house and wash the clothes, and always yelling. Mama said Cordelia was only quiet when she was asleep.

  Scags is a different sounding name. I listen to my Pops come home and call out Scags and I know who I am. I love the name Scags, SCAAAGS. Scags sounds like a car horn beeping once to say hello, like a leap into dry leaves all raked up in a pile, or like the sound a dog makes, his claws racing on the sidewalk when his owner lets him off the leash.

  I think of myself as Scags and that Celia was my baby self, what I was called before I knew what my real name was. Celia’s not a special enough name. I don’t like the sound of it, like a match flame hitting water, like a bad slip in the sandbox, like a spooky sound coming from the trees at night. It ends. It doesn’t begin. When I watch Pops light up his big cigar, take long pulls on it and the tip glows red, redder, orange, it’s just like my hair, that’s like the tip of me too, all my red hair falling down my back, and I know I need to be called Scags.

  I have a feeling about Mama’s and Pops’ names too. Pops, my Pops, with his wavy black hair, black glasses and cigar had me call him Pops right from the start. When I was little it came out of my mouth so fast that I had to say Pops-Pops. But now I just say one Pops and he smiles at me and he is so tall and handsome and fun that I want to be with him all the time. I said to him, All the kids in this neighborhood call their fathers Daddy. Why are you different? Pops says, he knows that and since he is the only one called Pops that if I’m ever in trouble all I have to do is call out Pops and he’ll come running as fast as he can.

  Mama? I ask her, do you like being called Mama? That’s what she told me to call her when I was a baby. I like saying Mama, I like whispering Mama when Pops and Mama are talking and how she looks at me, touches my cheek and continues talking to Pops. When I ask her, Do you like being called Mama, she always says, Yes, yes I do, it’s what I called my mother.

  We live in a brand-new neighborhood. We moved here when I was a baby. There are still empty lots and places to explore. Pops is Jewish and Mama’s not. Most of the kids here are Jewish and call their parents Mommy and Daddy. We live here with them and I like the name of the street, Kolmar, and the name of the school, Devonshire, and the name of the place, Skokie, and that there is an Indian village Mama took me to called Maskokie Village where she bought me a bow and arrow. Down the road from there is an amusement park called Ride ‘Em where with the tops of milk cartons you can get free rides. I use all my tickets on the roller coaster called Bronco and I sit in the front seat with my best friend Julia whose name I like sometimes and sometimes I get this feeling I’d like to call her what no one else calls her but I don’t know what that would be. We sit in the front seat and after the roller coaster climbs to the top of the track, it goes straight down this long, steep hill and I feel the wind against my chest and we yell all the way down because that’s what roller coasters are for.

  Mama likes to yell too. She’ll yell at me and call me Celia when she’s angry at me, then she’ll yell, Ceeeliaaa, if I’ve left my bike in the driveway, she yells out of her car to move the bike so she can get into her side of the garage. Or sometimes she yells because I’ve messed up my room after Odessa cleaned it and made it neat. Mama does like to yell, but she yells mostly at Odessa. Odessa has to keep the house clean as if it were her house and every bit of dirt was her fault. Mama yells at Odessa a lot, that is, until Pops comes home from work. Then she wants to make it nice for Pops. She wants Pops to enjoy the dinner that Odessa cooks up for him, something much better than Mama could ever cook. Mama is a terrible cook.

  Odessa has a funny name. I don’t know why she has it but it was her Mama’s and her great grandmother’s name. I like saying it. I like saying O—dess-a as if I was chewing Jujubees, O—chew—dess—chew-a, it tastes so good.

  I made up the names for Pops’ parents too. I call Pops’ pop Boomer because he is so big and booms out when he talks and always says “boom” when I land in his lap. I like calling him Boomer, he’s like a baseball caught in a catcher’s mitt. And Pops’ Mama I call Goldie. She is little, with white, white hair and big ears and wears all this gold jewelry on her ears, around her neck and wrists and has a big gold ring Boomer gave her. It all flashes and shines and she is Goldie.

  And if you think those are funny names, how come Boomer and Goldie named Pops’ sister Money? Isn’t that a funny name? Money honey don’t get funny with me. Who’s that funny Money’s honey?

  So we all have our names. I sit on my Pops’ lap blowing bubbles with him, only mine always explode on my nose and he sucks his back and breathes out my name, Scags, and it is my name and he is Pops and no one in the neighborhood has names like us.

  2

  Last Day at School

  I wake up as excited as when I’ve blown out all the candles on my birthday cake in one blow and know I will get my wish. Today is the last day of school. It is my wish to have a great summer vacation and I will, I know I will, even with Julia going away to camp. I untangle my legs from the sheets, jump right up, pull my nightgown over my head, dress, brush my teeth all so lickety- split and when I look at the mirror over the sink I say, now I am a third grader. Oh.

  I go downstairs bringing Odessa my brush so she can fix my hair just right. She is cleaning strawberries, the red of the juice is on her apron and I can tell by how wet her lips are that she h
as been eating them while she cleans them. Odessa’s face is like a soft marshmallow except it is brown instead of white. When she is happy or sad or surprised I can tell by how her eyebrows raise, lower or pucker. And she calls me Funny Face.

  She sees me staring at her and she laughs with a mouthful of strawberries and she calls me that name, Funny Face. I rush to her side and grab onto her, wrap my arms around her, and say, Odessa, do you know what day it is?

  She says, Thursday.

  No, I say, well yes, I say, but do you know what happens today?

  She puts her knife down, rinses her hands. I hand her my brush. She tells me to let go of her so she can fix my long, curly red hair that gets all twisted and knotted in my sleep.

  What day is it? Odessa asks.

  I whisper, because otherwise I will scream, I say, It’s the last day of school.

  Ohhh, she says, then you have to look extra special nice to say goodbye to your teacher. Odessa gets the bristles caught in a tangle that hurts as she pulls on it.

  Ouch, I say, don’t do that.

  We’ve got to little one, you’ve got a head full of knots. She keeps pulling my head back and I feel like crying.

  Pops arrives in the kitchen, whistling When the Saints Go Marching In, tapping his shiny shoes on the shiny floor. Pops is dressed in his green suit, white shirt, green-and-yellow tie. I see he has cut himself shaving.

  Be with you in a minute, Mr. Morgenstern, Odessa says, and says to me, What did you do in your sleep last night to make such a mess of this hair? There, she says, and hands me my brush. Finally I think and I go sit at my place at the glass-topped speckled kitchen table. When the sun shines on it, it flashes red, blue, green as if it was pointing to buried treasures, as if Mama or Pops had made a place where magic could happen right in our house.

  Pops bends down and kisses me on the cheek. He smells like the purest sunrise and it glows on me. He sits down at the table and Odessa sets his bowl of cereal in front of him. Pops likes Shredded Wheat topped by bananas and strawberries and brown sugar. The bowl sits ready for the milk, which he pours first into his coffee to make it white, then over his cereal.

  Pops says, Boomer said if you get a good report card he’ll take you to Walker Brothers for an apple pancake. You can go downtown to the office with me.

  Oh, keen-o, I say. When? When?

  Soon, Pops says, when things slow down a bit. You won’t have to wait long. You know Boomer, he loves those apple pancakes as much as you do.

  We eat together, making our cereal noises like my Rice Krispies that go snap, crackle, Pops. I finish my glass of milk and go up to Pops and whisper in his ear, I have to go now. Pops taps his fingers on the table.

  Where is Mama? he asks, and presto-chango, there she is dressed and ready for the day. It is shopping day when the refrigerator gets packed with food, so much food you’d think there were more people than just us. I love the smell of the fresh ground coffee from the A&P and the onion bread Mama buys for toast on Sunday mornings with our eggs and bacon—Mama’s specialty.

  I have to go, I say as Mama raises her hand to her black hair, short and curly. I look at her hands. They are so white and soft and she touches her neck, her chest and comes to the table with Pops and me watching her entrance as if she were Queen for the Day. At her place sits half a melon next to a plate of rye toast. She looks at us. She turns to her food and I run down the hall and then I remember I didn’t kiss her, I didn’t kiss the Mama who is going to be the prettiest Mama at the grocery store. I run back to her and make a lot of noise giving her a big wet one so that she will say, Oh Scags. Out the door I go to pick up Julia.

  Julia is waiting on the corner for me. She yells for me to hurry up. I run fast and faster up to her side and tap her on the shoulder and say, You’re it. I run, run, run all the way to school which is three blocks away. Julia stays far behind me.

  When we get to the playground everyone is lined up ready to go inside. I am out of breath and so hot but it doesn’t bother me, I sneak into the line, we march inside to our rooms, and I sit down at my desk in the front row next to Ricky Rappaport. On top of our desks are all the books we studied this year. Our teacher, Mrs. Gillespie, tells the boys to collect the books and for the girls to take the decorations off the bulletin boards and windows.

  Mrs. Gillespie looks very nice with her red dress and red scarf around her neck. She doesn’t look hot at all. When we finish our work we all sit down and Mrs. Gillespie says, I’m going around the room now to pass out your report cards. You were my best class ever. I really think we studied hard together and you will all remember what we studied this year over the summer, not forget any of it. She smiles, she laughs and so do we. Who could forget Mrs. Gillespie teaching us to tell time with her arms in every direction to show the big and little hands? Who could forget the contest to read and report on the most books and getting all those little stars on our charts for each one?

  I am one of the first people she gives their report card to. She bends down, she is very tall. I leave her now, never to see her again and I won’t forget her or forgive her for not being my teacher again.

  Mrs. Gillespie smiles as she says, Good work, Scags.

  I say, This report card better be good because I want to go downtown for apple pancakes. She laughs and sets the card down. I open it. The note says for me to work on my penmanship over the summer and that I’ll do really well in third grade along with a whole line of E’s, the best I can get.

  Ricky Rappaport gets his card next. His crew cut is so new that I can see a big scar on his head from where he got hit by one of the swings that cracked his head open. He stares at his card and holds his head in his hands. I know this is bad news. After seeing my report card, I feel great. After Ricky’s it seems unfair, he is not stupid. He just got hurt. I peek at his card and there are lots of U’s. His dad is so strict. Ricky, rappy, rickety Rappaport is going to be a rippling, rattling wreck.

  He closes his card and looks straight ahead. I flunked, he says, I’m going to have to repeat second grade, I hope I don’t get Mrs. Gillespie again. He blinks back his tears.

  I don’t know what to say, so I say, Want to play Horse after lunch? He shakes his head no.

  None of the decorations are left on the bulletin boards. The books have all been picked up and all of a sudden it is dark and quiet.

  I think—it’s summer— and the bell rings—I have the whole summer to play. We all get up and race for the door yelling, Goodbye, Mrs. Gillespie.

  I pick up my report card and run down the hall and I hear Julia yell, Wait Scags, wait for me.

  When we get outside, Julia says, I’ll let you see my grade card if you let me see yours. Julia stands in the sun.Her long blonde hair looks white. It’s all tied up in a ponytail. She is so pretty, so pretty, and she’s going to be away most of the summer, gosh. I hand her my card and we start to walk side by side while we look at each other’s grades. She got mostly the same grades I did, but I got more E’s than her.

  Her smile makes me sad. She has her big teeth straight and white while I still have to lose some before I get my big teeth. We walk home. It is hot and quiet. Julia says, Step on a crack, break your mother’s back, and then she steps on a crack and laughs. What’s wrong, Scags? she asks when I don’t laugh.

  I say, Now we have the whole summer.

  Yeah, she says, and taps me on the shoulder. You’re it. She runs and runs and I walk and walk and never step on a crack.

  3

  Breath

  P ops pops into the kitchen, home from work in the city. He says, Scaags, and then scoops me up, lets my feet touch the ceiling, while my dress falls in my face, and down I come and I set my feet on top of his shoes and we dance that way to his place at the table. Pops sits down and I crawl onto his lap.

  I love the smell of his breath—coffee, cigars and the magic of so many words that escaped from
between his lips today, each of them leaving their scent in his mouth. Mmm. Yes.

  I say, Pops, your breath is mine. I can hold it in my nose for a long, long time. Pops’ breath isn’t like any other adult’s. He doesn’t smell old or candied. Mama is always sucking on a mint that does not do anything to get rid of the pack of Marlboros she smokes all day, leaving them burning in the kitchen for Odessa to put out.

  To Goldie and Boomer I want to say, I don’t like the smell of Listerine. Goldie eats an onion only if Boomer eats an onion and then she says, All’s fair in love and war. Boomer says, The bedroom is the true battleground of humanity. Goldie wrinkles her nose, bites into a scallion and hums.

  Pops is always on time for dinner, he likes Odessa’s cooking. Mama is straightening the silverware at Pops’ place one last time. She bends down and kisses each of us on the cheek. Odessa puts two ice cubes into each water glass, the sound of the ice cracking when she pours the water in makes me think about new pennies. I ask Pops, If I suck on brand new pennies will my breath be bright? Pops laughs at me and says, Bright breaths, as if you could see a breath, as if you would want to.

  Pops, I say, I smell your breath everywhere. I can hold it in my nose for a long, long time. I smell his mouth and hold the scent in.

  Scags, Pops says as I turn red in the face from holding onto his smell, Scags, he says again and rests his hand on my stomach, there are little hairs in your nose and they hold the smell in, you don’t have to choke yourself.

  I let out a huge blast of air because I have to tell him he’s wrong.

  Pops, I say, in science class we learned that the hairs filter and I don’t like that because they’ll take away the cigar and coffee smells. I know you and you could never not have your cigars and coffee.