Cliffs made of huge boulders flung into the water as if by giants nearly surrounded the beach. I could see sea lions lounging on the rocks and barking. And I sure could smell them. It stunk almost like the mudflats at home.
It was a crisp, cloudy day with a wind that blew cool and damp from the sea. Here and there, people sat on the small patch of sand with their faces to the sky, searching for a bit of warm sunshine, and a fisherman in a green hat was casting lines, but there was no one with goggles and a knife except me.
The tide was out, but swells that rolled in all the way from Hawaii or Japan or some other South Seas island still crashed and sprayed on the shore. The waves were big and powerful, their sound was booming, and I was scared but determined to show Mama I could do something useful. I took off my coat, put on Pop’s waders and the goggles, and slogged out through the waves. The beach dropped steeply and the water got deep fast. Breaking waves splashed over me, soaking me and filling the boots with icy seawater. Slosh, slosh, I went, until the next big wave pushed me back to where I’d started.
I brushed my wet hair off my face, drained the goggles, and sloshed out again. It took me many minutes to trudge a very few feet through the cold and churning water. When I finally shoved past the breaking waves, I fought my way closer to the boulders that lined the cove. Sticking my head and hands in the water and trying to keep my balance, I felt for abalone clinging to the rocks but found only rock.
Farther and farther out I waded, and the water grew deeper and the waves stronger. A giant wave knocked me down, tore the sack from my hand, and washed it away. My mouth and nose filled with salt water, and I gagged, spit, and spluttered as I fought the powerful undertow that tried to drag me out to sea. I kicked and paddled furiously, and the next wave washed me back to shore.
I pulled off the waders filled with water and dumped them on the beach. They must have weighed a zillion pounds and certainly weren’t keeping my feet dry. As I started to slosh, slosh back beyond the breakers once again, my arm was grabbed from behind. “No, you ain’t,” said a gruff voice. It was the green-hatted fisherman from down the beach. “You want to get washed all the way to China? This water’s too rough for you.”
I shrugged off his hand but I didn’t go back in the water. “I guess you’re right,” I said. This wasn’t my best idea ever. The waves were too strong, the biggest boulders too far out, and the water too cold. And the abalone apparently clung to rocks much deeper than I could reach. I’d have to be able to breathe underwater. Captain Charlie didn’t tell me that.
I took off the goggles, picked up the boots, put my coat on over my cold, soggy bathing suit, stuck the unused knife in my pocket, and, disheartened, headed for home.
Climbing up to the road was harder than climbing down. As I trudged back to the bus stop, the fisherman, toting three small burlap sacks and a fishing pole, was right ahead of me. I stared at his loot and sighed. I was cold and dripping wet, bedraggled and empty-handed. I sighed again.
He stopped and said, “Say, missy, you sound like you lost your best friend.”
“Worse,” I told him. “I went out to catch us supper and I failed and have to tell my mama that I have nothing.”
“You’re Martin McGonigle’s girl, ain’t you? Your pop and I used to fish together. You tell him Smitty says hey.”
When we reached Prospect Street, I could see the bus coming. I nodded to the fisherman and prepared to board. “Hold on there now, missy,” he said. “I had fine luck today—the fish were just begging to take my hook. Two sacks are enough for me. You’d be doing me a favor if you take one.”
He handed me a sack. Likely not abalone, but it was still supper. “Gee, thanks, Mr. Smitty,” I said, and climbed aboard the bus and sat.
Not wanting to seem greedy, I didn’t look in the sack until the bus had pulled away from Smitty.
Perch.
It was perch. Three of them. Seemed perch lived in the ocean as well as the bay. Christopher Columbus, I was cursed!
I sat there, cold and clammy and smelling of fish. The odor got stronger as the bus got warmer and more crowded. People began frowning and looking around for the source of the stink, so I frowned and looked around, too, as if saying, Who could that inconsiderate person with the fish smell be?
I shivered as I walked home. Mission Bay might be paradise, but it was no place for a girl in a wet bathing suit on a breezy October day. Once home, I stripped down, washed off the sand and salt in the tub, and pulled on pants and a sweater.
Pop was on Lily’s bed reading to her. “Where’s Mama?” I asked. I was eager to show her the dinner I’d caught, even though I didn’t really catch it and it was just perch.
“You remember Mama’s old friend from North Park, Billie Harlow,” he said. “Her son Garland is having a birthday party, so Mama took Pete over. Pete drew a picture of the Lone Ranger for a present, and your mama taped a nickel to it.”
“You know,” I said, “Pete will have that nickel off and into his pocket before they get anywhere near Garland.”
Pop shook his head but smiled. “That’s my boy.”
My fishing expedition had left me exhausted. Almost drowning was enough to tire anyone, but I still had to turn Smitty’s perch into dinner. I was cleaning the fish in the kitchen when Pop came in. I told him how I got the fish and gave him the hey from Smitty.
“Good old Smitty. Where’d you run into him?”
I shrugged. “At the beach.” Pop didn’t ask where exactly, and I sure didn’t bring it up.
He took the remains of the fish to the garbage can and washed his hands. “I had some extra shifts at the Burger Shack this week, and I think we deserve a treat. How about you and Lily and I go see the new Cary Grant movie?”
I was never too tired for a movie. I stashed the cleaned perch in the icebox. Then, hands washed and hair and teeth brushed in record time, I hurried to the door. “Come on, let’s go,” I called.
But no one came—only the sound of wheezing and coughing, Pop murmuring, and Lily mumbling tearfully. I knew what that meant. No movie today. I made a face in Lily’s direction.
“Too much excitement,” said Pop when he came out. He put his arm around my shoulders. He smelled like pipe smoke and burgers.
“Millie, tell me a story,” Lily called from the other room.
“Not now,” I shouted back. “I’m not in the mood.” I dropped onto the sofa and Pop sat next to me. “It burns me up, Pop,” I muttered through clenched teeth. “Weren’t we doing just fine without her seven years ago, just you and me and Mama? Why did you have to go and mess it up by having Lily?”
“Millie, you don’t mean that.”
“I do. Christopher Columbus! I’m tired of missing out on things because of Lily. Remember last year when we were going to the zoo? Lily threw up and we stayed home. In June we went to Balboa Park for a picnic for Gram’s birthday. Remember? Lily had an attack right there at the park. She wheezed and coughed all the way home on the trolley. People moved away from us like we had the plague or something. Pop, it was utterly humiliating.”
Pop got his pipe from his shirt pocket. “I know it’s hard on you. I could give you the money for the bus and a movie ticket, but I don’t like the idea of you going by yourself. With hundreds of the new workers at the airplane plant and all the naval activity, there are so many strangers in town. I wouldn’t feel right.”
I didn’t tell him I’d already been to La Jolla and back that day with lots of strangers. Pop thinks I’m still a kid. If he asked, I’d have to tell him, but I was volunteering nothing.
He stuck his pipe between his teeth and lit it. “I’m sorry. I know you’d enjoy the movie, and we don’t often have enough money for…I don’t make enough…Jobs are…” He fell silent and puffed on his pipe.
I had a new worry. What if no one bought burgers anymore and the Burger Shack didn’t need Pop? What if we ran out of money?
What if we were poor from now on? What if I had to go to school in rags?
Pop looked old for a minute, with his sagging cheeks and sad eyes. No joking around today. Taking a deep breath, I decided to let up on him a little. “It’s not your fault we don’t have money, Pop. You didn’t cause the Depression or lose the store on purpose.” I took his hand. “Still, people, even poor people, sometimes need what Mama calls frills to keep our chins up. And then when we plan for them, Lily keeps us home.”
Talking to Pop like that was weird, but I appreciated him listening and not telling me to cheer up. I huddled close, breathing deeply of his sweet-smelling tobacco. I supposed you could call tobacco a frill but I said nothing. Pop felt bad enough.
Instead I pinched my lips and went outside to throw stones. Into the bay. And the sky. And at the window in the bedroom. “Take that, Lily, you killjoy,” I muttered. “I hope your doll’s stuffing all leaks out!”
I felt better.
The morning was cloudy with a promise of sunshine. I pulled a sweater on over my bathing suit, put my book in the pocket, and headed out. Pickings on the beach were slim, but I found a few sand crabs and part of a jellyfish. It was hard to believe it was a living thing. Or had been. It looked more like pale jelly or a slimy cloud. Odd and interesting. I drew it carefully in my book. Finally I signed McGONIGLE in the mud and turned for home.
“Hi,” called someone running up beside me. “I’m Rosemary Fribble, but I guess you know that already. Call me Rosie. Aunt Bertha told me to get lost, so I packed some sandwiches and grapes for a picnic. Want to join me?”
I hesitated. She was a Fribble, after all.
“They’re peanut butter and bacon,” she said.
Bacon? I hardly remembered the taste of bacon. It was a frill. This Fribble hated Icky and had bacon. She could very well become a friend. “Sure,” I said. “Do you want to run home and change first?”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“Those,” I said, gesturing to her wool plaid skirt and saddle shoes. “They’re not exactly beach-picnic wear.”
“My legs are cold, and I don’t like walking barefoot on stones and sticker plants. It hurts my feet. I’m fine the way I am.”
I shook my head. Hurt feet? My own bare feet were summer-tough all year round. I could walk on stones and stickers and maybe even glass. We beach kids are proud of that. “Okay,” I said. “Let me grab something for us to drink and I’ll be right back.”
And I was, with a thermos of lemonade and towels to sit on. “Let’s go to the island. It’s right out in the bay. I’ll row.”
“Wow. You have a boat?” Rosie asked. And then, “Aw, birds!” she said as a flock of gulls flew past. “Hey, birdies, are you hungry?” She tossed a handful of grapes into the air.
“No, don’t!” I shouted, but it was too late. A swarm of gulls, screeching and fighting, raced in, circling us and diving for food. One swept close to Rosie’s hair, and she flapped her arms and screeched even louder than the birds.
I thought the scene pretty funny, but it was obvious that Rosie wasn’t enjoying it. “Scat! Scat!” I hollered, chasing them and waving a towel. “Get away, you flying rats!” That’s what Mama always says.
The tide was turning, and the weather was clearing. We climbed into the boat and I rowed in silence until we reached a spot where the bay was smooth and deep. I rested the oars, and a calm feeling settled over me like a soft cloud as we bobbed.
“I’m sorry your mama is sick,” I told Rosie.
“Thanks. She’s doing a little better. The fresh sea air helps her.”
“How do you like living with the Fribbles?”
“Are you kidding? Uncle Vernon’s okay but he’s never home, and can you blame him? The others are horrid.” A flock of gulls squawked by. Rosie watched them for a minute and said, “Sorry for being a baby back there. The birds scared me. We don’t have seagulls in my part of Chicago.”
“What do you have?”
“Pigeons. Lots of pigeons. And robins. Sometimes you can see a hawk. And Bears and Cubs.”
“You mean in a zoo?”
“That was a joke. They’re sports teams. And we have skyscrapers forty stories and more, trains that run on rails in the sky, mansions on Lake Shore Drive, fancy stores on Michigan Avenue where you can buy anything you want.” She took a deep breath before continuing. “There’s a planetarium, where you can lie back and watch the movements of the stars and planets on the ceiling, and the Field Museum, with Egyptian mummies and—”
“Enough, enough. I’m just a country bumpkin,” I said, “overwhelmed by the wonders of the big city. But I can tell you miss it.” I dunked my feet into the water and kicked softly. “Mission Beach might not have mummies and skyscrapers and fancy stores, but I love the feel of the morning sun on my face, the misty air on a cloudy day, the sound of the foghorn.” I looked around at the bay and the beach and smiled. “I like the warm sand on sunny days and the way early-morning fog surrounds me, shelters me, like I was in a snow globe.”
“Gee, Millie,” Rosie said with a sigh. “That’s almost poetry. You’re a real Laura Ingalls Wilder.”
Not such a country bumpkin after all, I thought. I rowed the rest of the way to the island, where I beached the boat and we climbed out. The island was sandy, its dunes speckled with scrubby grasses, pickleweed and bearberry, and sticker bushes. I took Rosie to my favorite spot, the small pond where you could sit on driftwood and dunk your feet in the water. I called it a lagoon, like Jon Hall found in South of Pago Pago, so I hummed “Lovely Hula Hands” while we settled.
A salty breeze blew in from the west. The island was quiet and peaceful and empty. Sitting in a sunny spot with our backs against a beached log, Rosie and I ate her sandwiches. “I needed this,” I said. “My sister, Lily, is feeling really bad today. When she struggles to breathe, it’s like she’s sucking all the air out of the house.” I wrinkled up my nose. “The whole place stinks of Vicks VapoRub, Jungle Gardenia, and Edna’s fried Spam. I had to get out.”
“Same with my mother, but it must be harder on a little kid.” Rosie licked peanut butter off her fingers. “I’d love to have a little sister. The only relatives I have are my brother, Leo the goon, and Dwayne and Dicky Fribble. Talk about stinking up the house. Do you have fun with Lily? Play games and tell her stories?”
“Nah. I avoid her as much as I can. Lily’s a pill. Besides, she’s sick all the time. That’s why we moved to the beach. I love the beach but I’d trade Lily for a dog any day.”
“But you’re her big sister.”
“Phooey. She’s still a pill. Like this: the Randalls’ dog had puppies. Six soft and cuddly puppies!” I flung my hands up. “I really wanted one. I’d call her Sophronia, after the girl in The Five Little Peppers, but no. No dogs. Lily’s allergic. Instead I got a goldfish. Pete flushed it down the toilet. He was teaching it to swim.”
Rosie laughed, leaned back, and lifted her face to the sun. “I think you should give her a break. Lily may be a pill but she can’t be as bad as my cousin, the beastly Dicky. He could have been the model for the obnoxious Tootsie McSnoots in the Little Orphan Annie comic strip.”
I snorted. “I remember her. We should call Dicky Icky McSnoots. Or maybe Icky Snooks, after bratty Baby Snooks. I used to listen to her on Maxwell House Coffee Time at my friend Florence’s house before she moved away. So funny.” I giggled, remembering. “Baby Snooks is why Florence and I invented the wet-diaper scale. Once Florence peed in her pants from laughing at her. Ever after, something really funny we’d call a wet-diaper event. The range is one to three.”
“I’ll bet I got two diapers when I went loco over the seagulls,” Rosie said.
“On the button,” I said, tapping my nose.
Rosie smiled. “What’s on the other side of the island?”
“Follow me!” We raced up a small rise, tripping over rocks and stones and clumps o
f dry grass.
Rosie got there first. “I see water. And sandbars. And a motorboat on the beach,” she said. “And…Millie, there’s someone there. A man. He’s doing exercises—touching his toes and, oh, Millie, he doesn’t have any clothes on! Quick! Come look.”
I peeked around her shoulder and, with a squeal, dropped to the ground. “It’s Rocky! And I think he saw us. Get down! Get down!”
Rosie laughed, but I slithered away on my belly, oohing and oofing over stickers and rocks. “Whoever Rocky is, he won’t recognize us,” Rosie called to me. “We’re strangers.”
“I’m not. He knows me. At least he’s seen me. I think.”
We finally scrambled back to the beach. “We need to get out of here fast.” I jumped into the boat, and Rosie followed. I rowed furiously, yanking so hard at the oars that one of the oarlocks snapped right off.
“Holy moly! Now what?” I tried rowing with one oar, but that only took us in circles.
The wind was rising and the day grew cooler. And the boat began drifting, not toward the beach but toward the channel and the Ocean Beach bridge and then the open sea.
“I can swim back to shore and get help,” Rosie said. “I had swimming lessons at summer camp last year.”
“I’ll have drifted to China before you get there and back.”
“We could both swim back to shore.”
“I don’t want to abandon the boat.”
“We could tow the boat.”
“No, we couldn’t.”
“You’re right. We couldn’t, but those are all the ideas I have. What’ll we do?”
As we got closer to the bridge, the water got deeper and the swells larger. When we passed under the bridge, I reached out and grabbed one of the pilings that supported it and hung on. The boat crashed against the piling and stopped drifting.
We sat there as the boat beat rhythmically against the bridge. “Knock, knock,” Rosie said.
War and Millie McGonigle Page 5
