by Pam McGaffin
Maybe I’m searching in the wrong place. Maybe I should try their bedroom, which of course is Mom’s room now.
And she’s at work.
The smell of Tabu warns me that I’m entering her space. It’s orderly, intimate—forbidden. The clothes in her closet hang according to item and color, lights to darks. Pants and skirts take up the bottom rod, while shirts, blouses, and jackets fill out the top. Her shoes are all perfectly paired on a rack on the floor. I’m afraid to touch anything for fear that she will immediately spot something amiss. Before I go through anything, I memorize exactly how it’s all arranged.
There’s a big cardboard box on a back shelf labeled “Green Giant Corn.” I pull it down. It’s surprisingly light for its size. I set it down on the neatly made bed, telling myself to remember to smooth the dimples out of bedspread when I’m done. I undo the box’s overlapped flaps to find … baby clothes. There’s the pale blue polka dot dress Mom made for me when I was four. I remember being very excited about it, particularly the pink flower appliqué she sewed on last. On the fireplace mantel is a framed studio photo of me in that dress. It’s the only time I remember wearing it. In the picture, its sheer blue fabric is fluffy as a cloud. Out of the box, it’s flat as a pressed flower. I run my fingers over the girly appliqué and set it aside.
The rest of the baby clothes include some things I remember, some I don’t. There’s a tiger costume I recognize from another photograph, some pajamas with feet, and a pair of swim pants with rows of ruffles over the bottom. I also find a pair of impossibly tiny baby shoes, along with some yellow booties that Nana probably knitted. Underneath it all is a blue book, the Better Homes & Gardens Baby Book. I pick it up and it falls open to the middle pages, where Mom has pasted photos and written in my information. My birth certificate is displayed in a border of pink stars opposite a page, titled “Identification.” There’s a stamp of my newborn foot at the top and a section for “Distinguishing Marks” in the middle. The bottom third of the page is devoted to “Baby’s First Snapshots.” There’s only one photo: I’m asleep next to my mother, who looks very tired, but happy, propped up in her hospital bed. The only part of me that’s visible in the blanket is my red and blotchy face. I’m not very cute. I wonder if Dad thought the same thing as he took the picture, and then I remember that Dad probably wasn’t there. By late May, he was already fishing.
I put the book and clothes back in the order I found them in, fold the flaps closed, and put the box back on the shelf where I found it. I smooth the dimples out of the bedspread and move on to Mom’s dresser. In the top drawer are the predictable underthings, including an unopened box of day-of-the-week panties, as bright and shiny as jewels. A gift from Dad? I’m intrigued by which colors go with which days. Saturdays are black with red stitching, like the devil, while Sundays are white with pink, like an angel.
The lower shelves contain sweaters and knit pants and tops that don’t wrinkle—all very orderly and expected. As I go to pull out the bottom drawer, I’m thinking this is a waste of time—and then it doesn’t budge. I have to give it a good yank to finally open it, and when I do, it nearly falls off its tracks and onto the floor, spilling the top layer of what has to be hundreds of loose photographs, cards, and letters. They appear to have been dumped in there with no thought other than to store them out of the way. The mess is so unlike my mother that I decide she won’t notice if I take anything.
I go through the letters first, because there are far fewer of them and they hold the greatest potential reward. The first one I open is to Mom from her sister, Corrine. It’s mostly an update on all the people Mom left behind in Butte, Montana, along with Corrine’s complaints about how bored she is and how lucky Mom is to have finally gotten out. Anticipating more of the same, I find all the letters from Aunt Corrine—identifiable by her cheerful return-address sticker in the left-hand corner—and put them aside without reading them. There are also letters and cards from Nana and Grandpa Mack, some with yellowed newspaper articles, including two wedding announcements and an obituary for people in Butte I’ve never heard of.
What I want to find is a letter from Dad, but there isn’t one, not even a Christmas or birthday card. I guess he wasn’t ever one to write—but then, why would he need to if they were living in the same town and dating or already married? Come to think of it, he never sent so much as a single postcard from Alaska. He always called, and things were always going well. Maybe he didn’t want to alarm us—or run up long-distance charges—with all the gory details.
I move on to the photographs, starting with the color photographs because they’re more recent and there are fewer of them. It’s a mishmash of Christmases, birthdays, and—could it be? Yes, there’s Dad in his red sweater on the deck of the Lady Rose. He’s younger in this picture. The date on the side is May 2, 1961. So that’s one departure picture. Where are all the others? I dig down deeper in the drawer, but all I find are early black-and-white pictures of me. It’s a miracle I didn’t go blind from all the flashbulbs. No wonder I look like such a surprised and angry baby.
The toddler photos are more flattering because I’m usually focused on something other than the camera. Also, I have hair by that time, lots of it. Mom says my curls were so pretty that she didn’t want to cut them. There’s one picture of me, at about three years old, standing in the backyard, naked except for a pair of Dad’s black shoes, which look like freighters on my feet. The sun shines on my white body and my mass of black ringlets. I was a lot cuter then.
Toward the bottom of the pile, I come across another baby picture that’s oddly familiar, and then it dawns on me why. It’s almost exactly like the one of Mom and Dad that I saw in Uncle Pat’s photo album, except I’m not crying in this one; I’m staring straight at the camera with my mouth hanging open. Another flattering shot of me. It was taken at my grandparents’ house. There’s Grandma Grace’s shadow box hanging on the wall with all her figurines. When was this taken? The date stamp says March 24, 1949. That’s odd. Someone must have made a mistake. I was born in 1952.
I set the photo down and shove the drawer closed. I’m getting nowhere looking around this house. It makes sense. Why would my parents leave clues to some shameful secret just lying around? I know Mom wouldn’t. And Dad, well, his real home was a place I’ll never see again. The Lady Rose is either resting on the bottom of the ocean or has been changed so it looks nothing like the original. Maybe it’s been painted a different color, with a new name to go with his new life. Either way, I’m out of luck.
CHAPTER 14
Strike
Any hit by a fish taking a lure or bait
Dena pops her gum and curls her pointer finger, motioning us to huddle. Loud as the lunchroom is, I don’t know why she thinks she has to whisper to a whole table full of girls, but I lean in with the others.
“Veronica and Charlie broke up,” she says.
“What?” asks Kathleen, who’s sitting on the end.
“I said, Veronica and Charlie broke up,” she repeats in a louder voice. “You know what that means, don’t you? The two most popular people at this school are without dates for the Valentine’s Tolo.”
“What’s a tolo?” I ask.
Dena rolls her eyes. “Okay, for the benefit of all you young’uns, a tolo is a dance where the girl invites the guy. And Veronica and Charlie are now wild cards, provided they don’t get back together before Valentine’s Day. And I’d say the odds of that are zero to nil.”
“Zero and nil mean the same thing,” Gerry says.
“Why, what happened?” Sophie leans in farther until her nose is inches from Dena’s ear.
“Charlie was cheating on her. Some girl at the junior college.”
Sophie’s eyes widen behind her glasses. “Wow, how do you know that?”
Dena stops chewing her gum long enough to draw a finger across her mouth. “My lips are sealed. I just thought some of you might like to know Charlie’s available. But you better move fast. The dance is
just two weeks away.”
“Heck, I’m going to ask him right now.” Gerry makes a move like she’s getting up, prompting an eruption of laughter. I love Gerry.
News delivered, Dena leans back, takes her gum out of her mouth, and rolls it in the edge of her lunch sack. “I’m thinking of asking Paul.”
I vaguely remember her telling me about the boy in her algebra class. “You should. It sounds like he likes you.”
She takes out her sandwich. “I don’t know. I’m kind of scared.”
“Since when have you been scared of anything?”
Gerry snorts at that.
“What if he says no?” Dena pouts.
“What if he says yes?”
“Okay, if you’re so brave, why don’t you ask Sam?” Dena points her sandwich at me.
I roll my eyes to show her how ridiculous she’s being. “I already told you, we’re just friends.”
WALKING to the library, I catch my reflection in a glass display case and suck in my stomach. I wonder what Sam’s answer would be if I did ask him? Maybe he’d turn me down flat. Maybe he thinks I’m big and ugly. But then why would he go to the trouble of returning my photo? Why would he invite me to the library to share his newspaper? For that matter, why do I keep coming here to see him?
Nothing has changed between us, yet I get a touch of the jitters when I see him sitting at our customary table, his face hidden behind the front page.
My “hi” comes out sounding too high.
“Hi.” He glances at me then goes back to his paper. “The Vietcong attacked the US Embassy in Saigon, but we got them all.” He turns back to page one to show me the headline. EMBASSY SECURED. SUICIDE RAID WIPED OUT.
“That’s good, right?” And here I was, worried about a stupid dance.
“Good we got them. But scary they got in.”
The bell rings. He folds the paper and grabs his books, and we walk to English together. I want to say something reassuring, but he knows so much more about what’s going on than I do, I’m afraid whatever I say will sound dumb. To me, it’s just a war in a far-off place that’s killing our boys, nothing reassuring about it.
My thoughts return to the dance. Do I even want to go? I’ve been to dances before. Everyone stands around. It’s really awkward. I try to picture me and Sam arm in arm, but even my imagination can’t make our pairing graceful. We’re mismatched. About all we have in common appearance-wise is our dark hair. Dad would tell me those superficial things don’t matter—that it’s what’s inside that counts. I’m not sure what Mom would say.
Or Sam, for that matter. He’s so polite, I’m sure he’d reject me in the nicest possible way, but I’d be so embarrassed I’d probably start avoiding him, which would mean no more talking to him. And I do like talking to him. At least I have time to think about it. I doubt any other girl will ask him. He’s cute, but he’s not a hot commodity like the newly eligible Charlie Hanson or even David Mackey, who’s probably been asked already—not that I care.
DENA chickens out on asking Paul, while Gerry and Sophie never get around to asking anybody, so they all ask me to ask Sam to be our shared date, which is much easier than asking him to be my date.
I present it as a sort of charity mission on his part. Actually, I don’t have to try too hard. He just needs convincing that I’m serious.
Deciding to go as a group solves several problems in addition to the obvious one. My mother can’t say no if I’m just going with friends. In fact, she thinks it’s a brilliant idea and even helps us find four dresses at Fine Lines that teenagers would actually wear.
We all pile into Dena’s car—going together has also solved our transportation problems—to pick up Sam. He lives in a basement apartment in a former boarding house kitty-corner from the canneries. We walk down a moldy concrete stairwell. There is no bell, so I knock loudly on the weathered door.
A lady who looks more like Sam’s sister than his mother opens it. She throws up her arms and says something that sounds like, “Oh.” I imagine what a sight we must be—four girls in pastel dresses with big, hair-sprayed ’dos, rather like a girl singing group or a bowl of after-dinner mints. We all file into her small living room.
“Wow!” Sam’s eyes widen as if he’s really seeing a famous singing group. “You’re all so beautiful.”
“Aww, so are you!” Dena says—then, realizing her mistake, adds, “Handsome, I mean.” He’s wearing a tie, navy blue slacks, and a brown tweed sports coat that’s a bit big on him. His hair is greased and combed back.
“Four girl!” his mom says. With her accent, it sounds like poor gull. She leans in to ask Sam a question, and I distinctly hear her say my name. Sam introduces us, calling Dena “Dinah,” and stopping at Sophie, whose name he can’t remember.
“Picture?” Sam’s mom holds up a Brownie camera and motions for us to stand together.
“Wait.” I open the little white box I’m carrying and take out Sam’s boutonniere, a pink rose to go with my dress. Sam is my friend, after all. In my attempt to pin it on his lapel without sticking him, I end up sticking myself. I suck on the end of my stuck finger and shake it.
Sam’s mom poses us for about a zillion pictures, including some of just Sam and me. I’m thinking we probably won’t make it to the dance at all, and then she gets to the last exposure on her roll of film. As we’re leaving, she reaches out and pats my shoulder. “Happy I meet you!” she says, bringing her hand to her throat.
We’re forty-five minutes late to the dance, not because of the pictures but because Dena planned it that way.
“Only dorks show up on time,” she says.
The gym has been transformed into a ballroom with the help of low light and a professional DJ, a giant of a man with a growly voice and a small, pointy beard. Even though we’re late and the song “Cry Like a Baby” is definitely something you can dance to, we don’t dance. We stand. We sit. We walk around and try to talk to other people who are standing and walking around, but the music is too loud to really hear each other. To have an actual conversation, you have to go to the restroom. I hesitate to leave Sam alone, but I’m dying to talk girl stuff and make sure my beehive is still standing up straight.
I needn’t have worried. Sometimes having thick, naturally frizzy hair is an advantage. My beehive is stiff as a Brillo pad. Sophie’s, meanwhile, is leaning dangerously to one side, and no amount of bobby pins and hairspray can get it right. In frustration, she rips out all the reinforcements and lets her hair flop like one of Nana’s cakes. We all stare at her sad reflection in the mirror and decide there’s only one thing left to do.
“Ouch!” She winces, eyes tearing, as the three of us work together with wetted combs to get through the rat’s nest one tangle at a time.
“Sam’s such a cutie, I just want to hug him!” Dena wiggles her tongue at me.
“He’s obviously sweet on Ida,” Gerry adds with a wink in my direction.
I blush.
“Ooh, and Ida’s sweet on him! She’s turning red,” Dena says to my reflection in the mirror.
“Stop it, you guys.”
Once Sophie’s hair is combed out and my regular skin tone returns, we all head back out to find Sam holding up the wall near the restrooms. Now I feel more responsible for him than ever. If he’s bored and miserable, he might stop liking me. I don’t want him to stop liking me, now that I realize I like him.
Thank God for Aretha Franklin. “Respect” comes on. Gerry squeals, “I love this song!” and pulls Sam out into the throng of couples dancing. He has no choice. Neither do we. When she sees Dena, Sophie, and me standing with the spectators she runs over and corrals us in, too. My movements are awkward and jerky at first, but pretty soon I forget myself and just go with the music. Gerry is in heaven, and the rest of us, even Sam, can’t stop grinning. The five of us dance to the next three songs.
Then the DJ puts on a slow one, and everyone stops.
I’m turning to go back into the margins when Dena pushes
Sam and me together and leaves with Gerry and Sophie before we can object. The song is “My Special Angel.” Sam shrugs and reaches out one arm and then the other, taking me in a loose embrace with his hands light on my back. We rock back and forth, taking tiny steps in what can hardly be called a dance. With my hair, I’m at least three inches taller than he is.
The song ends and we pull apart. We turn to join the others, who are sitting somewhere along the dark outer edge of the gym. I don’t notice what’s happening at first because I’m walking ahead of him, but there’s no mistaking that word.
“Hey, Chink!”
I turn around. Three guys have blocked Sam’s way. I recognize one of them, a thick kid with blond hair, from that afternoon in the woods. I stand beside Sam.
“We have a score to settle,” says the blond boy. “Lose the dogs and meet us outside?” Dogs? Then it dawns on me that he’s talking about me, Dena, Sophie, and Gerry.
“We’re a whole lot more attractive than your dates,” I say, giving him and his cronies my best stink-eye. I take Sam’s arm.
“So now you’re letting your girlfriend fight for you?” the boy shouts above the music, which has started up again. “She is a lot bigger than you are.”
Sam’s body stiffens next to mine. “Don’t take the bait!” I say into his ear. As I try to pull him away, the blond boy gets in one last dig.
“Must be nice having a bodyguard,” he says. “But who’s on top? Girl like that could crush you like a bug.”
Sam springs. The kid’s face registers shock as they both go down.
“Sam!” My shout is lost in the growing commotion as everyone starts to react to the fray in their midst.
Sam and the boy roll on the floor, punching and clawing at each other. Sam’s smaller but a better fighter, getting in two sharp jabs for every sloppy punch the other boy throws. I’m desperate to stop them, but my reflexes twitch uselessly as I watch Sam land blow after blow. Around me, some kids have caught on and made way, shouting “Fight! Fight!” as if this is some featured entertainment.
