by Peter Hedges
“Say you’re sorry,” she snapped.
“But I’m not.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t you get it?”
Twister, the game of knots. Scotty got it.
“I get it,” Scotty shouted.
“Not you, stupid,” Andrew Crow said. Then he spoke to Maggie: “Let’s do it again.” He snapped his fingers and Scotty resumed his spinning.
Andrew stretched over her, around her, his legs wrapped, intertwined, with hers. “Pretzels,” Scotty wanted to yell. But Andrew kept glaring over at Scotty, as if to say “Keep spinning!”
“Right hand red. Left foot green. Right foot green.”
The black needle circled the spinner board. One time the needle was between colors, so Scotty spun again. The black plastic needle going round and round. He called out feet and hands and which color, talking as fast as he could, until he saw Andrew Crow standing before him, his shirt untucked.
“Stop, Scotty,” Andrew said.
And Scotty stopped.
“We’re thirsty,” Andrew said, pronouncing each word with immense care, the same way Mrs. Boyden said words during the weekly spelling test. Andrew repeated, “Thirsty.”
Scotty knew where to find Kool-Aid in a pitcher and paper cups that could be pulled out of a dispenser. Andrew whispered, “Take your time,” to Scotty as he headed toward the basement stairs.
Turning back, Scotty saw Maggie lying back on the plastic Twister sheet, her body surrounded by bright colored circles. The barrette in her hair had fallen out; her cheeks were flushed, her mouth open. She was panting, which reminded Scotty of the Conways’ collie, her tongue hanging down, slobber.
Everyone was happy.
***
Upstairs, Scotty found the Dixie Riddle cups and the pitcher of Kool-Aid.
Downstairs, “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” played on Andrew’s stereo. Andrew knew the drum solo and had developed a pantomime imitation, which he’d hoped would qualify for Bill Riley’s Talent Sprouts. Andrew could swing wildly at the air with such precision that one would think that he was the actual drummer for Iron Butterfly.
Scotty hurried to put away the pitcher of Kool-Aid; then he pulled at the basement door only to find that it had been locked. He pounded on the door, but the drum solo on the record drowned out any noise he made. So Scotty sat with his back to the basement door, waiting for the music to stop.
Maggie emerged much later. She wouldn’t look at Scotty. She went home.
Andrew Crow followed after and said, “No one made her do anything.”
Scotty didn’t understand. He handed Andrew a cup full of warm cherry Kool-Aid.
Then Andrew brought his pointer finger up to his nose and sniffed around it. He said, “I’m never washing this finger again.”
***
At dinner Scotty studied Maggie to see if she was upset. When she said what she was thankful for, she wasn’t specific, other than to say she was glad she was alive. Then she smiled slightly. She appeared normal. The same.
The following day she returned to Andrew Crow’s basement, and Scotty wasn’t allowed inside. As he paced in his backyard, Scotty decided Claire had been right—Andrew Crow was trouble. He had destroyed the Barbies; what was he doing now to his sister?
It was Scotty’s fault.
That night at dinner, the Judge was furious at having burnt the pork chops. Maggie’s job had been to remind the Judge to take them out of the oven, but she forgot. She’d been, Scotty decided, probably daydreaming about Andrew Crow. Claire argued that Maggie was only human. But the Judge shouted back, “I told you to remind me!”
As they ate, the Judge continued to yell.
After dinner Scotty walked over to where the new house was being built. Even being several houses away, Scotty could still hear the Judge slamming kitchen cabinets and shouting. It would soon be dark and he had only until the streetlights came on. Then he would have to go home, something he didn’t want to do.
The construction on the exterior of the house was almost complete. Soon they’d install windows and doors, lay down fresh sod, and new neighbors would be moving in.
Scotty walked around inside on the plywood floors. He liked seeing the support beams and the frame. The smell, too, of sawdust. Nice. He picked up an unused nail near the front-door area and tried to think up a use for it. As he imagined driving it through the palm of his hand, the streetlights came on.
Scotty knew he’d better head right home. He started to walk; his shoelaces were flapping on both shoes, so he knelt down near a rock pile and tried tying them. But he couldn’t so he tucked the laces in his shoe. It was then he saw an odd-looking rock, surrounded by a patch of dead weeds. He moved closer only to discover it was Tom Conway’s grenade.
“Scotty!” the Judge shouted impatiently. “Get home now!”
He touched it with his finger.
He looked around to see if anyone was watching.
“Scoootteeee!”
He stuffed it into his pocket.
Then he walked home.
WHAT WAS LEARNED
(1)
After a lengthy discussion and on their third vote, the Judge and his children finally reached a decision: kidney shaped. Maggie had lobbied for a figure eight design, but Scotty wanted none of it. Claire negotiated the compromise. The pool would be seventeen by thirty-three feet, mid-sized, but outfitted with every perk: a diving board, a seven-foot blue fiberglass slide, underwater lights, and a small, cabinlike structure that would house the filter and pump and have storage room for water toys and cleaning materials. Their chain-link fence would be replaced with a six-foot wooden-slatted fence giving them privacy.
The Judge explained that it would take six to eight weeks to build. “If we’re lucky, it’ll be ready by the Fourth of July.”
Claire asked how they could be of help.
The Judge advised they stay out of the workers’ way. “Especially on days when they’re digging or pouring the cement.”
Scotty said that he knew a quick way to dig the hole.
Maggie said, “These men don’t need your help. They’re experts.”
And before another argument could break out, the Judge interrupted. “And do you know why we’re getting this pool?”
No one answered, for they weren’t sure.
The Judge said, “Because you kids deserve it.”
(2)
On the morning of the last day of school, Scotty and his classmates cleaned out their desks. While the others threw away most of their contents (and then ran outside for an extended recess), it took Scotty until lunchtime to fill the grocery sack he’d brought from home. He carefully considered each item: his old papers, drawings, colored pencils, a used Big Chief notebook full of scribbles, a box of mostly broken crayons, his green-handled scissors. He decided to save everything.
In the afternoon, while the third, fourth, and fifth graders attended Track and Field Day out on the playground, Mrs. Boyden had an annual awards ceremony for her students. Each year she made sure every one of them was honored for something: “Most Sincere,” “Best Listener,” “Most Improved Reader.”
Scotty waited patiently for his award. He’d been surprisingly well behaved the last several weeks. Mrs. Boyden did not know the reason, nor could Scotty have explained it, but it was a combination of things: a sadness about his mother, elation at the spring weather and the construction of the swimming pool, and, perhaps most of all, the confidence of having his own grenade, which sat, hidden at home, in his sock drawer.
When Carole Staley won “Best Girl Artist,” Scotty knew he would be next.
As she handed him his “Best Boy Artist” certificate, Mrs. Boyden tried to remember an anecdote she could retell that would send him off into the summer happy and hopeful. All she could think of was his naked portrait, however; so she said nothing other than a remark about how she’d enjoyed teaching him as much as his sisters.
Scotty carefully folded his certificate and slid it into h
is back pocket.
In the final hour of second grade, Mrs. Boyden rushed to review what she had taught them. “So what else? What else did you learn?”
She pulled down the world map and pointed to places. They called out, “France” and “the Arctic Ocean.” She reminded them of all they had done. “And remember we learned how to tell time? How to read, how to add and subtract, remember?” She concluded that they had covered a great deal, that all her students were smarter than they were when the year started. “I can only imagine,” she said, minutes before the final school bell of the year rang, “what a world this will be if you keep learning at the rate you’ve been learning. Don’t you agree?”
Scotty joined the others in saying, “Yes, Mrs. Boyden.”
“Next year you have multiplication and writing cursive. You have so much to look forward to, don’t you?”
“Yes, Mrs. Boyden,” the kids said.
“I’ve been teaching over thirty-five years,” Mrs. Boyden announced, “and each year I improve a tiny bit. And thirty-five years of tiny improvements add up.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Boyden,” David Bumgartner said out loud.
“No need to thank me, David. I’m just passing it on. That’s what we’re called to do, as teachers, I think.”
The last day was always emotional for Mrs. Boyden—particularly the moment when she passed out their teacher assignments for the coming year.
Carole Staley, Dan Burkhett, Tom Conway, Jimmy Lamson were among the others who would be Scotty’s classmates in Mrs. Tompkins’s third grade class. Mrs. Tompkins was the most popular teacher at Clover Hills Elementary. Scotty was pleased.
With seconds left, she said her final words misty-eyed, “Good luck, sweet children.” Then the bell rang and the children were gone.
(3)
The picnic had been Joan’s idea. What better way to celebrate the completion of another year of studies? It would be nice, she thought, to honor her children who, as the Judge liked to say, “get smarter every day.”
The plans had been agreed to a week in advance. Joan had discussed the specifics with Claire, who passed the phone to the Judge to make it official. Joan was to do the cooking, a menu of the kids’ favorites: She’d bring silverware, napkins, paper plates, the requisite red-checkered tablecloth and wicker picnic basket. She’d bring everything except beverages. A time and place were determined. The Judge would drop the children off and Joan would return them. The Judge asked that they be home by dark. Joan said, “Of course,” and then hung up.
On the appointed Saturday, Claire filled a thermos with lemonade, another thermos with black cherry Kool-Aid. Maggie was sent to find Scotty. She stood on the porch and yelled for him. She listened for an answer. She prepared to yell again when she saw the top of Scotty’s head inside the Judge’s car.
Stupids, Scotty thought, I’m ready.
***
“This was the park of your mother’s childhood,” the Judge told them as they drove across town. “It will have special meaning for her.”
In Des Moines proper, near Joan’s childhood home, Green Valley Park sat at the end of a street of one-story homes. The park had a few rusty swings, a slide, a chin-up bar, a shelter for rainy days, and a small pond, where Joan had learned to ice-skate when she was a girl.
The Judge checked his watch and said, “What time do you have?”
Scotty looked at his watch. “Two minutes after.”
“Go ahead, Dad,” Claire said. “We’ll be fine.”
The kids climbed out of the car.
“If you need anything, I’ll be at my office.”
“Good-bye, Dad.”
The Judge forced a smile, shifted gears, and drove off to an afternoon of work. At his office, he moved around stacks of papers and sorted mail. He wasn’t to get much done that day. Thoughts of his children with his ex-wife consumed him. He considered returning to Green Valley Park, and leaving his car on a side street. He’d peer around a tree or crouch behind bushes: He’d watch how his children behaved when they were with their mother. He feared what he’d see. The only thing he had on a healthy Joan was his dependability. When she was on her best behavior, there was laughter and games. He knew the children would choose her over him, even with the swimming pool.
***
At the pond, Maggie pointed out the colored fish. “Look, that one is gold and silver. That one is gold.” She claimed to have seen a fish with black-and-white spots. Claire reported all she knew about fish. Ignoring them, Scotty gathered a handful of rocks and tried to skip them. The first one plopped. The second sank with barely a sound.
“You need flatter rocks,” Maggie said to Scotty.
Claire nodded. “She’s right, Scotty. If you want them to skip, you’ve got to use the appropriate rock. Flat rocks skip farther than round ones.”
The girls had begun to move around the pond. Maggie held a stick, pointing out more fish.
Scotty moved to the edge of the park and stood on the curb. He looked up the street in the direction of where he guessed his mother would be coming.
“Scotty, come here! There’s a whole school of fish!”
“No!” Scotty shouted back.
His hands, he realized, were dirty from the rocks. He wiped them on his shorts but they were still dirty. Was anyone looking his way? No. He dropped a ball of spit into his cupped hands. He rubbed the spit all around. This washed most of the dirt away. He dried his hands using his shirt. His fingers felt sticky—but better sticky than dirty.
“Scotty, you’re missing something special!”
Scotty didn’t hear her. He was staring at a speck of yellow at the top of the hill. Was it her? Could it be a mirage? He watched as the yellow speck came closer. The moan of the broken muffler and orange sparks from the dragging tailpipe did not convince him. Even when he thought he could make out her face through the windshield, he didn’t believe.
This must be a mirage.
The car swerved from one side of the street to the other. It must be windy, Scotty thought. But the tree branches above him and the bushes to the side of him did not move. Even his hair, combed in his mother’s favorite way, wasn’t being blown about. There was no wind.
Joan Ocean didn’t see Scotty. She was busy trying to drive straight. When she suddenly hit the brakes, the tires screeched. The girls, who were still at the pond, looked in Scotty’s direction and saw their mother’s car stop in front of him, only feet away.
“You came outta nowhere,” Joan said with a smile. “Outta nowhere!”
He walked around to the side. She kicked open her car door, pulled his head toward her with her hands, said, “Hello, baby,” then planted a long kiss on his mouth. Scotty thought, This is how a girlfriend is supposed to kiss me.
He helped Joan carry the picnic basket to the nearest picnic table. Claire and Maggie came walking from the pond. Joan shouted to them, “I made your favorites!” Claire looked to Maggie. They knew immediately. Yes, their mother had been drinking, but at least she was playful and funny. At least, she wasn’t that drunk.
Everyone helped unpack the picnic basket.
Claire told Joan she had news and for her to guess.
Joan said, “Mother doesn’t like to guess.”
“But guess what? Guess what?”
Joan took the last cigarette from a pack of Salems.
“I got my uhm…”
Joan searched for matches in her purse.
“My (period)”—Claire mouthed the word.
Joan looked at Claire, who smiled. Maggie jumped up and down. Scotty felt instinctively that the women were speaking in code.
“Oh honey, I’m so proud,” Joan said, lighting the wrong end of the cigarette. It flamed like a flare. She threw it to the ground. “You got to warn me about that, kids! Help your mother!”
Claire said three sorrys, and then, after getting a hug from Joan, stepped back and smiled.
“I’m so proud,” Joan said. “And Maggie, you’re next.”
Maggie pretended she didn’t care. But in truth, she couldn’t wait. If she were alone with Joan, she would confess as much and tell about her first boyfriend, Andrew Crow.
Scotty, too, had a surprise, and it was in his pocket. He would wait his turn.
Joan stood up, her fingers gripping the checkered tablecloth, and recited the litany of foods: potato salad, coleslaw, rolls. “And my specialty,” she said, setting down the dish with the fried chicken. “Favorites for my favorites.” She lifted the lid in grand fashion. “Who wants what? We have legs, breasts, thighs. Who wants what?”
Joan stabbed a wing with her fork and held it up. The chicken had been partially rolled in flour and partially dipped in breadcrumbs. Egg batter dripped off it.
“Mom,” Claire asked, “is it cooked?”
“Of course, honey. You want the wing?”
“I do,” said Scotty.
She plunked the wing down on the plate and used her fingers to hold it as she pulled the fork away. “There.”
“I mean,” Claire said, “did you cook it… enough?”
“Of course. Who wants a drumstick?”
“I do,” said Scotty.
Claire shook her head at Scotty, mouthing “No.”
“More, Mom.”
Joan loaded up Scotty’s plate. “That’s my little love.”
Claire poked Maggie, signaling her to stop Scotty.
“Maggie, Claire—what will it be?”
“Mom,” Claire said, “it’s not cooked enough.”
“Yes it is.”
“Mom, I think it’s raw.”
“Eat up,” Joan said. “Eat! Come on! It’s your favorite! Please eat! Scotty?”
Then Scotty said, “I’ll eat it.”
“Don’t,” Claire said.
“Why shouldn’t he? It’s perfectly good.”
Scotty kept saying “I’ll eat it” as Claire wrestled the chicken from him. “I’ll eat it.”
Suddenly Joan stopped and sat down on the picnic bench. Claire hugged her. It was hard to understand Joan when she cried, but she kept saying the word “pool,” and how she wished she could give them one.
Claire said, “But we don’t need two pools.”
