Downtown

by Norma Fox Mazer

  “Why didn’t you?”

  She shrugged. “My social worker was satisfied, but one of their other foster daughters didn’t like me. Venda. I’ll never forget that girl. She couldn’t keep her fists off me. She stole some of my jewelry, too. So, finally, my social worker said I could go live with the Yanceys. And here I am. The end for the moment.”

  Her face was pale and tense. She looked ready to cry. I touched her arm. “Cary—Cary—when my parents—I used to cry every night for my mother.”

  She stood up and swung her leg over her bike. “Listen, Pete, I don’t need your pity. Yours or anybody else’s. And let me tell you something else. I never cried for my mother. Never.” She pedaled down the road and out of sight.

  Gene and I were watching a TV show a few nights later when Cary called. “Hi, Pete? Is this a good time for you to talk?”

  “Cary?” I carried the phone from the kitchen into the dining room and sat on the staircase where I could look into the living room and watch the show. “Martha?” Gene said. I shook my head.

  “About Sunday,” Cary said. “I shouldn’t have just gone off and left you. Did you get home okay?”

  “I’m here.”

  “You’re mad, and I don’t blame you.”

  “Not mad exactly.” I walked back into the kitchen with the phone. “It’s just—hey, where do we stand? I like to know where I stand with people. You jumped down my throat a dozen times and at the end there—”

  “I know, I know,” she interrupted. “I got into this beastly mood.”

  “Well, I guess it was kind of a tense thing for you, telling me all that.”

  “That’s no real excuse, although that’s sweet of you. But I have to work on myself, I should be able to control my moods better.”

  Things started crackling after that. I guess we both felt better and we talked until her mother blew the whistle. Just before she hung up, I asked her to go to one of Gene’s play rehearsals with me.

  “Yes, sure, that sounds like fun.”

  As she said it, I heard a car door slam outside. And then footsteps, with that hollow sound they get at night. All at once I had the sensation that this had happened before in exactly the same way.

  Hanging up the phone—no, not the phone, a microphone, yes, a microphone in a drive-in movie—and then hearing the car door slam and footsteps approaching. Then the man in the clerical collar opening the door of Gene’s Volvo and beckoning me.

  Three years ago. Autumn. Gene and I were in North Carolina, Hilton Head, at a drive-in movie. The last night of a vacation that Gene had dreamed up suddenly. Just decided one night at supper to close the office, take me out of school for a week and go see the beaches in North Carolina. No sooner said than done.

  The beaches were great. We stayed in a motel and ate out every night in a different restaurant. On the last night, Gene said he wanted to see Fantasia, which was playing at a drive-in theater. “I saw it when I was a kid and I’ve always wanted to see it again.” But I was bored and ready to leave at intermission. Gene said no, he wanted to stay through. He left to buy hot dogs and fries, and I hung up the mike.

  A moment later I heard a car door slam, then footsteps. The back of my neck chilled, as if I knew what was going to happen before it happened.

  A tall thin man, wearing a white collar turned around like a priest’s, bent into the car. “Hello, Pax.” He handed me a box of popcorn and said he would bring me to my parents. He held my arm, not hard, but firmly. We walked across the lot to another car. Laura and Hal were inside. This time I knew them.

  We all sat tightly together in the front seat and ate popcorn. It was soggy and it stuck in my teeth. The movie came back on and an elephant danced on the screen. Laura and Hal asked me questions. Are you eating? Do you sleep all right? How about school? Do you get along with Uncle Gene? And all the time their eyes swiveled back and forth, looking out the windows and into the mirrors and out the windows again.

  There was a pain in my chest that ran like a burrowing mouse into my stomach. I started begging them. I wanted to be brave, but I couldn’t help myself. Take me with you. I won’t be any trouble. I’m old enough. I’m thirteen. I can be helpful. Take me with you.

  Hal hugged me. Keep the faith.

  Laura kissed me and kissed me. Soon, soon, we’ll all be together again.

  “Pete?” Abruptly I became aware that Cary was still on the phone. “I have to hang up now. Let me know about that play rehearsal.”

  Outside, the footsteps slowly receded.

  Seventeen

  “Now where exactly is this place you want to go to with Cary?” her foster mother said. She cut a peach into sections and handed Cary a slice.

  “The old Temple Beth El on Water Street,” I said. “The Winston Theatre Guild took over the building a few years ago and they do everything there. All their rehearsals and then when they’re ready to open the show—”

  “That’s a Jewish church, isn’t it?”

  “They don’t use it as a synagogue anymore.”

  Cary leaned on her foster mother, not saying anything, just a little smile now and then for me as the questions flew thick and fast.

  “There were a few little details Cary was unclear on. Give me the plan again. What’s going on, how you’re getting there, and what time I can expect Cary home?”

  “My uncle Gene’s rehearsing for a play. It’s called Charley’s Aunt. You’ve probably seen the movie, it’s always on the late show with Ray Bolger—”

  “Ray Bolger? He’s the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz, isn’t he? We watch that every year.”

  “Rehearsal should be over around ten o’clock,” I said.

  “Too late. I want you home by ten, Cary. That’s late enough for a school night.” Cary nodded and Mrs. Yancey turned back to me. “I know you don’t live in this neighborhood, Peter, but I hope you’re planning to see Cary back here.”

  “Yes, sure.” Since, according to the Yancey Rules of Conduct I could not be Cary’s boyfriend, but only Cary’s friend who was a boy, I had half-expected to be told that I couldn’t come back to the house with her.

  “Does your uncle have a car?”

  “Yes, a Volvo.”

  “Do you drive?”

  “I had my permit, but I never took the test.” Now she’d want to know why. Fear of failure? Too stupid to pass?

  “Good, because we don’t like Cary to go out in cars, especially with teenage drivers.”

  I glanced at Cary. Didn’t it bother her at all that her foster mother talked about her as if she were closer to seven than seventeen?

  “At your age,” Mrs. Yancey said, “I did everything wrong, believe me. I was on my way to being one truly messed-up kid. My problem was I didn’t have enough discipline at home. I’m not letting that happen around here. I tell Cary, you can holler and yell all you want, but when you’re my age you’ll look back and say, Now she had the right idea!” She hugged Cary. “Okay, go on and have a good time for yourself.”

  Outside, it was a warm overcast night. We waited at the corner for the downtown bus. Across the street, a pink neon sign on a restaurant flickered on and off.

  “I’m in such a good mood,” Cary said, when we got on the bus. “You don’t have to worry that I’ll go off and leave you tonight.” She looked at me and laughed. “Just before you came, my mother and I were talking, and she hinted really strongly that she and my father are going to give me a very special birthday present. You know what I think it is?” She leaned toward me. “They’re going to adopt me!”

  “Really?” I was surprised that at her age she still wanted to be adopted and even more surprised that people would adopt a teenager. “I always thought adoption was for little kids.”

  “Well, you thought wrong,” she said. I could tell that she was annoyed by my remarks. “Some people even adopt people in their twenties or thirties.”

  “Oh.” That seemed sort of bizarre to me, but this time I kept my mouth shut.

  Reh
earsal was already under way when we arrived. We took seats in back of the darkened theater. Martha was there, and I whispered introductions. The stage was full of people. “That’s my uncle,” I said, pointing. “The one in the striped—”

  Someone clapped loudly. “Quiet back there, please!” Cary and I looked at each other and she squeezed my hand. A small woman in a black sweater and jeans ran up the stage. “Now, Lord Fancourt, let’s stop and talk out this scene. What I want you to do on your entrance—”

  “This is so neat,” Cary whispered.

  Later, the director called a break. “Why don’t you take Cary backstage?” Martha suggested. “Tell Gene I’ll be waiting for him when he’s done, okay?”

  Backstage, I introduced Cary to my uncle. “Delighted to meet you, young lady,” Gene said, going courtly on us. “Are you enjoying the rehearsal?”

  “I think you’re terrific, Mr. Greenwood.”

  “Well, thank you!” He gave Cary a big smile. “How’d my accent strike you, Cary? Honestly, now.”

  “Excellent. It was so real.”

  “I primed her for that answer, Gene. I told her you lapped up flattery like a cat in the cream.”

  “Pete, you did not!”

  Gene winked at her. “Don’t worry, I live with this scoundrel, I know all his tricks.”

  I kept waiting for him to ask my opinion on how his character, Brassett, was shaping up. I had my answer ready and, naturally, I hoped it would impress Cary. But Gene seemed to have forgotten all about asking my advice. It was Cary this, Cary that.

  “Now, did you notice that bit with the dustcloth, Cary—”

  “Hold it, Uncle G,” I interrupted on about the fifth question. “It’s time for us to go.”

  “Already?” Cary said.

  “Come on, you know if you’re not home by ten o’clock, you turn into a pumpkin.” Oops. I wasn’t supposed to say things like that. Oh, well—I was feeling too good to feel bad.

  “You’re lucky,” Cary said, as we walked toward the bus stop. “Your uncle is really nice.”

  “I see that you go for these good-looking, slightly overweight, elderly types.”

  “Your uncle’s not old.”

  “Right next to Methusela.”

  She laughed. And, oh, how I wanted to kiss her; I’d been thinking about it all evening. Should I just—do it? Should I put my arms around her first? What about the no-boyfriends rule? She probably needed a signed application from me, swearing that it would be just a kiss between friends.

  To Whom It May Concern: I, Pete Connors, the undersigned, hereinafter known as The Friendly Kisser, do solemnly swear that I have no evil, lewd intentions toward Cary Longstreet, hereinafter known as The Friendly Kissee. The Friendly Kisser herein certifies that The Kiss will be a Genuine Friendly Kiss, to be returned in like manner by The Friendly Kissee.…

  I didn’t want a friendly kiss. I wanted the real McCoy, a kiss that would make her cheeks burn and my ears smoke. We walked along and I just kept thinking about it. Suddenly I leaned toward her, aimed for her lips, and landed on the corner of her mouth.

  “Oh, Pete. Like this.” She took hold of me by the ears and kissed me long and soft on the mouth.

  Eighteen

  A clap of thunder shook the window of the Nut Shoppe just as I walked in. “Hi! Got room on the ark here?” Cary was in back of the store, emptying a tin into one of the nut bins.

  “How you’d get here so fast? I’ve just been here five minutes myself.” She put the tin down and we smiled at each other.

  “Ran all the way. How’re you doing?”

  “Good. How about you?”

  “Same.” Not a very exciting conversation, but I loved it.

  All of a sudden, the sky darkened and the rain came, drumming against the window and door. Outside, people ran past with newspapers and briefcases over their heads.

  A streak of green lightning forked down the middle of the street. “Did you see that?” Cary said. Thunder shook the windows again, the lights flickered, and the peanut-roasting machine stopped. Cary turned off the gas on the machine. There was a moment of eerie silence, then another flash of green lit the sky, and the lights went out.

  “There’s a fuse box in back,” Cary said. In the dark, we fumbled toward the back room. “Ouch!” she yelled. She must have run into something. A moment later, we collided. “Oh, sorry,” she said, “I can’t see a thing.”

  “That was terrible. Uh, I’m hurt. Uh, uh.” I groaned and groped hopefully toward her, but she was already past me.

  “I can’t find a fuse,” she said. “See if you can find one, will you?”

  “Negative.”

  “Great. I bet Mr. Blutter will find a way to blame me for that, too.”

  “Blutter? As in Blutternut?”

  “Blutter, as in raging bull. If you knew that man—I cringe every time he comes in here. He doesn’t know what it means to talk like a human being. Last week he popped in to tell me—excuse me! I mean yell at me about a few million things I was doing wrong. I went home shaking.”

  We went back into the shop where there was some light from the street. “Why don’t you get another job?” I said.

  “Think they grow on trees? I did housework before this, and even with Mr. Blutter, this is better. I really hated cleaning other people’s messes.”

  “Why’d you do it then?”

  “Same reason I stay on this job.”

  “Doesn’t the county social services department, or whatever they call them, pay for things for you?” I said.

  “Sure, basic stuff. Room, board, clothes—sort of—and medical bills. If I want anything extra, it’s up to me. Mom and Dad don’t have a lot of money either, you know. Do you get an allowance? I bet your uncle is really generous.”

  “Well, he is, but I work for my money too,” I said, a little defensively. Obviously, my working for Gene was a whole lot different from Cary’s working for Mr. Blutter.

  We peered out the window. The whole street was dark. Rain poured down in hard gray sheets. There wasn’t a soul in sight. “You know what,” I said, “a fuse wouldn’t do you any good anyway. The whole area’s down. It’s probably a transformer.”

  “That’s what I was just thinking. I better call darling Mr. Blutter and let him in on the good news.”

  “No power?” I could hear him as clearly as if he were bellowing in my ear. “Close up! I’m not paying you for time you don’t work. Close up!”

  Cary banged down the phone. “How am I supposed to close up in the dark? He has fits if I miss a millimeter of a peanut when I sweep.”

  “I’ll help you. Where’s the broom?”

  By the time we were finished the rain had let up, but there still weren’t any lights on. I wasn’t eager to leave. It was cozy being in the dark store together. “Why don’t we hang out here for a while?”

  “Are you kidding? I shouldn’t have let you stay this long. If Mr. Blutter ever found out I had a friend here—” She drew her finger across her throat.

  “Let’s go to my house, then. It’s just a couple of blocks away.”

  “I don’t think so, Pete. My mother has fits if I don’t come home on time.”

  “Cary, are they your parents or your keepers?”

  “Look, Pete, they love me. When people love you, they don’t let you just run wild.”

  I heard Mrs. Yancey in those words. I could have argued the point—was coming home a few minutes late now and then running wild? But I bit my tongue—I’d already said enough, and upsetting Cary was definitely not my first mission in life.

  But a moment later she peered at her watch and said, “Actually, I have an hour—if I don’t miss the bus …”

  “You won’t,” I said. “I promise you won’t.”

  Nineteen

  Our house is tucked, or maybe squeezed is more accurate, between a couple of big office buildings while, at the same time, it is set quite far back from the sidewalk. “I never noticed this house,” Cary said.
“All the times I’ve been down this street—”

  “You’re not the first one.” I unlocked the door and held it open for her. “Nobody expects to see a house downtown, so they don’t. Want something to eat?”

  “Not now. Is it okay if I look around?”

  I trailed after her as she went from room to room downstairs, looking at everything. I don’t think she missed a thing. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she’d opened the refrigerator and taken inventory. In the living room she examined every picture on the wall.

  “I know, I’m terrible,” she said. “I’m fascinated by other people’s houses. Every time I baby-sit for someone new, I have to roam through their entire house. Who are these people? Relatives?”

  “That’s my uncle’s shrine. They’re actors, writers, directors—people in the theater that Gene admires.”

  “Here’s Joanne Woodward. Does he know her?”

  “Doesn’t he wish. He thinks she’s great, even if she is in the movies now.”

  “What’s wrong with the movies?”

  “Nothing, but Gene’s a theater snob, he thinks all the real actors are on a stage.”

  “Who’s this black man?”

  “Paul Robeson. He’s dead now. He was a great actor, with a fantastic singing voice. He was one of these super people. Phi Beta Kappa in college, All-American in football, that sort of stuff. That one’s Laurette Taylor, she’s dead too. Gene saw her a million years ago on Broadway in a Tennessee Williams play. She was a drinker and falling apart, but he says she was still a superb actress. He was only a kid then, but he was pretty stagestruck and he got her autograph after the show.”

  “Do you know everything about all these people?”

  “No,” I said, but Cary went from picture to picture anyway, asking for details, and I told her whatever I knew. I was surprised how many of Gene’s stories had stuck with me.

  I got us both soft drinks and Cary said, “I might as well see everything. What’s upstairs?”

  “Not that much. Just our bedrooms.”

  On the way up, Cary stopped to look at one of Martha’s watercolors that was hanging in the stairwell, an old willow tree growing over a stream, and in the background a faded red barn. “This is beautiful. Did someone famous paint this?”