Ida B

by Katherine Hannigan

So I was thinking I would save a lot of time and energy if I could figure out a way to keep my face clean, and The Soap Mask is what I came up with. “An impenetrable wall of disinfectant for your face.” “A shield that repels germs while it gently cleanses your pores, leaving a spanking-clean exterior.” “Eternal, perpetual, ultimate cleanliness.” That’s what the advertisements would say, I was thinking, when I put it on the market and sold ten million of them.

  Bar soap, I knew, would not work for this project. First off, if you wet it and slather it on, it’s white and foamy and would just look silly. Plus I didn’t think it would be strong enough. I wanted a powerful solution.

  Now, here’s what’s great about dish soap: it spreads around real well but it also sticks in one place; it will dry if it’s left out in the air for a while; it is very strong; it is antibacterial. Perfect.

  After supper one night I took a bottle of our best dishwashing liquid to the upstairs bathroom, closed the door, and smeared a thin layer of the stuff all over my face. Then I sat in my room and felt the liquid slowly drying, getting tighter and tighter, joining with my skin so that my entire face was being transformed into a grime repellent. And I left that soap on all night, too, so its dirt-and disease-killing properties had time to really settle in.

  In the morning my face looked scrubbed, like I’d washed it with steel wool. It was red and shiny and kind of pinched looking. It itched and burned something close to fierce, but I just chalked that up to the The Mask’s potent power.

  I went to the table for breakfast and smiled real big every time I said, “Please pass the milk” or “Please pass a napkin.” And I waited for Mama and Daddy to notice my gleam.

  Finally, after I’d asked for the milk twice when I didn’t need it, there were Mama and Daddy both staring at me, with their mouths wide open. And I was sure it was because of their awe and amazement at my bright sparkliness.

  “Evan, do you see that?” Mama said. “She’s turning bright red and then white, red and white, like a neon sign.”

  “I see it, Ida,” Daddy said back.

  Then everything happened so fast I didn’t have a chance to get a word out. Mama said something about scarlet fever, Daddy said something else about mumps or chicken pox, Mama was calling the doctor, Daddy was wrapping me up in a blanket and putting me in the truck. Next thing, we were all driving into town and they were so quiet and tense it just seemed like it was not a good time to speak, let alone talk about my groundbreaking, earth-shattering invention.

  Well, we got in to see the doctor pretty quick. She looked over just about every part of me, and then she asked me, “Ida B, did you do something to your face?” So I told her all about The Soap Mask.

  She listened real closely, and then she said, “Ida B, your skin’s turning colors and you’re feeling like your face is on fire because the dish soap has irritated it. So we’re going to rinse it off, I’m going to give you some lotion to soothe your skin, and it should be back to normal in no time.” Then she gave me a big smile and said, “But no more masks of dish soap, all right?”

  Now, even though it might not have worked out as well as I’d planned, I believed the doctor was telling me that The Soap Mask, minus the dish soap, was still an excellent idea worth exploring, so I was encouraged. And she was saying that the flashes of flame that kept engulfing my face from the inside out would soon be extinguished with a real simple solution.

  “All right,” I said, and I smiled and looked at Mama and Daddy.

  Up to this point, they were real nervous looking. They were holding hands and staring hard at me, then the doctor.

  But while the doctor was talking to me, they were transformed. First, Mama let out a big sigh, and Daddy smiled and shook his head. Then Daddy picked me up and said, “Oh, Ida B,” and Mama hugged both of us. We were having a Thank Goodness Ida B’s All Right Celebration right then and there, and all that was missing were cake and presents.

  After we were done hugging each other, and hugging the doctor, and shaking the receptionist’s hand, we got in the truck to go home.

  Before Daddy started the engine, though, Mama turned to me and said, real serious, “Ida B, a trip to the doctor is expensive, so you always need to tell us if something’s wrong or if it’s not, okay?”

  I made my brow furrow and my eyes big just like hers so she’d know I was serious, too. “Okay, Mama,” I said.

  But in my head I was thinking this: that if a child waited to speak until all the grown-ups settled down and gave her some room to say her piece, most important things would never get said.

  Chapter 4

  On nights when he was done with the day’s work, and we were full up from dinner, and Rufus was moping about hoping for some company and travel, and the stars were all out shining and looking like they were so close you could pick them, Daddy might say, “Ida B, let’s take Rufus and go look at the world while it’s sleeping.”

  “All right, Daddy,” I’d say back. And we’d head out through the fields and orchard and around the base of the mountain, Rufus running ahead seeing how many things he could stick his nose into in one night without getting stuck back or stung or sprayed.

  This was when my daddy would tell me deep and abiding truths. So I’d try to stay as still as someone like me can, and listen.

  One night as we were walking along, Daddy took a deep breath, the kind that sounds like you’re smelling something when the air’s going in and you’re sighing when the air’s coming out, and it means something important’s about to be spoken.

  “Ida B,” he said, to make sure I was paying attention.

  “Yes, Daddy.” I let him know that I was.

  “I want you to think about something.”

  “All right.”

  Daddy stopped walking, and then I stopped walking. Because sometimes if you’re saying something deep and abiding, you want saying it to be the only thing you’re doing, and listening to it to be the only thing the other person’s doing. We both looked straight ahead at the fields and the mountain and the sky. And then he began.

  “Ida B, some day this land is going to be yours.”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “And the law is going to say that you own this land and you can do pretty much what you want with it.”

  “Yes, Daddy,” I said again, because I knew he wasn’t going to go on till I talked, too. Like in church when the minister waits for you to say “Amen” before he gets on with his preaching.

  “But I want you to remember this: We don’t own the earth. We are the earth’s caretakers, Ida B.” Here he took another one of those deep breaths. “I’m grateful we have this land and grateful that you’ll have it, too. But we don’t own it. We take care of it and all of the things on it. And when we’re done with it, it should be left better than we found it.”

  Now, you should know that my daddy is a very intelligent man. Most of the time we don’t disagree about much, except things like bedtime and whether children should be forced to eat certain foods. So while I agreed with most of what he said, I was thinking he might want to reconsider one of his ideas. And I was just the person to help him do that.

  When Daddy talks like that, though, I don’t say anything right away. He looked so serious when he said it, “We are the earth’s caretakers, Ida B,” staring off into the sky, wiping his brow, and nodding. I knew I needed to wait a bit before I shared Ida B’s Golden and Supremely Important Nugget of Wisdom. So we walked for a while.

  But when we were headed back toward home and we got to the orchard, I said, “Daddy?”

  “Yes, Ida B.”

  “I do believe there are enough apples growing in that orchard that we could have pie every day of the week, and send a few to the Queen of England, as well.”

  “Hmmm,” Daddy said.

  I gave him a few minutes to ponder that thought.

  When we were passing by the brook I said, “Daddy?”

  “Yes, Ida B.”

  “Sometimes in the summer I’ll g
et to sweating and stinking so bad that Lulu will hiss at me when I get near her and even Rufus will run away. So I’ll come on over here and lie down in the brook with my clothes still on. I’ll let its coolness roll over me and I’ll feel the stink rolling away, too. And, Daddy, it is delicious.”

  Daddy just smiled.

  I gave him some moments to let that idea sink in.

  By the time we got to the edge of the fields, the moon was shining so bright the path looked like it was glowing. Like the moon was showing us the way home.

  So I just pointed. And Daddy nodded his head like he knew what I was meaning.

  Once we were on the path I said, real quiet, “Daddy.”

  “Yes, Ida B.”

  I stopped walking.

  When Daddy saw what I was doing, he stopped, too, and waited.

  “I think the earth takes care of us, too.”

  Well, Daddy looked at me kind of surprised. He stood there for a bit, rubbing his chin and considering.

  Finally he smiled and nodded and started walking again, and I came with him, and he said, “I think you’re right, Ida B.”

  And we were quiet the rest of the way home, just enjoying the breeze that was blowing through the stars.

  Chapter 5

  This is what I eat for breakfast every single day: hot rolled oats with raisins and milk, no sugar. Even in the summer. Especially in the winter.

  Every once in a while Mama will ask me, “Don’t you want a little variety, Ida B?”

  Now, when we get up, most times it’s still dark outside. Sometimes at breakfast I’m so tired it’s all I can do to keep my head propped up by my arm on the table. And I only open my eyes to make sure the oats are on the spoon and heading toward my mouth, but I close them while I chew. I am not ready for deep thoughts or surprises.

  So when Mama asks me that I say, “It’s too early for variety, Mama.”

  This is what I have for lunch every single day: peanut butter on one slice of bread, milk, and an apple, preferably a McIntosh because they’re tangy with a thin skin, which Daddy says resembles me at times.

  “Don’t you want to try something different, Ida B?” Daddy will say.

  Well, by lunchtime I’m wide awake and I’ve already been busy doing my chores and learning and having some fun. I’ve got a list of things that I can’t wait to do in the afternoon, my head is filled to the rim with interesting ideas and plans, and that’s exactly how I want it to stay.

  “There are too many things to think about in this world besides what I’m going to have for lunch, Daddy,” I say, and he looks at me like I am a true mystery.

  This is what I have for dinner every day: whatever Mama and Daddy are fixing, and lots of it. Unless it’s lima beans or brussels sprouts.

  Mama and Daddy might ask, “Would you like some more, Ida B?”

  And most often I will say, “Yes, puh-LEEZE.” Especially if it’s dessert.

  Otherwise, at dinnertime we just chat about the day and what we want to do tomorrow and they ask me questions like, “What is the verb in the sentence: Mama reluctantly served Ida B another slice of pie?” or “Ida B, can you spell ‘rambunctious’ and use it in a sentence?”

  And I answer. Unless, of course, my mouth is full.

  Now, talking like that at dinner might seem kind of strange, because I’ve been at other people’s houses for meals and they don’t ask each other “What planet is closest to the sun, dear, and would you please pass the potatoes?” Mouths full or not.

  The reason we talked like that is because up until last year I was home-schooled. That meant I’d get up in the morning with Mama and Daddy and help with the chores. Then Mama and I would learn math and science, like the eight-times tables or the parts of a plant or “Ida B, if I give you twenty dollars to go to the store to buy some flour ...”

  And before she could get any further I’d say, “Which store?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “Well, am I walking? Because I think it’s too far for me to walk to the store in town and carry a big sack of flour back with me.”

  Then she’d frown at me and say, “Oh, Ida B, now let me finish,” like I was seriously trying her patience.

  But I wasn’t being a cause-for-a-headache on purpose. It just seemed like she was telling me a story about me and I wanted to know for sure what was happening so I could make a plan. Because I’ll tell you something else about myself: I believe good plans are the best way to maximize fun, avoid disaster, and, possibly, save the world. I spend a lot of my time making them.

  So then Mama’d say, “Let’s start again. Billy Rivers’s mother gave him twenty dollars to go to the store—”

  “Who is Billy Rivers?” I’d ask.

  “Nobody real. Just pretend.”

  “Then could he be a girl instead of a boy? And could she be named Delilah? And could she have green glasses that sparkle—”

  “Ida B!”

  “Okay, then, go on.”

  She’d give me the rest of the information, I’d put the numbers down on the paper, and get the answer right about ninety-nine percent of the time. And Mama’d say, “Good job, Ida B, once you get to it.”

  Later on in the afternoon, Daddy would read with me in the big chair or we’d write stories. Most of the time, though, we would just be living like always, and talking about things, and then we’d make the solar system out of vegetables.

  Or Mama would have me figure out how much change we should get at the checkout at the store, and I’d say, “Seven dollars and eighty-six cents.”

  “She’s very smart,” the woman at the cash register would tell Mama.

  And Mama’d say, “Hmmm ...” with only one side of her mouth making a smile.

  It meant we’d read and talk about the rocks in our valley and the mountain, and how they’ve been around for so long and they change so slowly and they were here way before us and will go on after us, too. Then, when I’d go and put my cheek against the big rock that sticks out of the side of the mountain and feel its warmth run into my body, I’d listen hard for its voice. When I finally heard it, it was like a low, gentle hum that went on and on, for all of time. And all that stuff I’d learned about rocks made sense, in my head and deep inside me, too.

  Being home-schooled meant I didn’t have to ride squished on a smelly old bus, or sit still in a stuffy room all day long. Mama made me take a test every year, and every year I’d pass with super-brilliant-flying colors. And I got to stay right where I liked it best: hanging around with Mama and Daddy, Rufus and Lulu, the trees and the mountain and the snakes and the birds. All day, every day.

  It seemed like the best plan in the world to me.

  Chapter 6

  When I was five years old, I went to school for two weeks and three days. I was in Ms. Myers’s kindergarten class at the Ernest B. Lawson Elementary School.

  Ms. Myers had pretty brown curls around her face and smiled a small sad-happy smile, where your mouth turns up but your eyes look pained, almost all of the time.

  On the first day of school she stood in the doorway and said “Hello” to every one of us as we came in. She told each of us to find a seat on the big circle that was on the floor. So I did.

  After everybody was sitting down, she brought a chair over and sat at the top of the circle and said, “Good morning, everyone. I’m your teacher, Ms. Myers. The first thing I need to do is to start learning your names. So when I call out your name, please raise your hand and say ‘Here,’ all right?”

  We all nodded yes.

  Emma Aaronson who, when she’s in church, is always making her mouth move like she’s singing whether she knows the songs or not, was first.

  “Here,” Emma said.

  “Good morning, Emma,” said Ms. Myers.

  And Emma gave a “Good morning” right back.

  “Ida Applewood” was next, and Ms. Myers looked around the circle to see who that might be.

  “Here,” I said, but I only raised my hand halfway,
because that was just a part of my name.

  “Good morning, Ida.” Ms. Myers smiled and started looking for the next name on her list.

  But before she could get away from me I told her, so we could get it straight right off, “It’s Ida B.”

  Ms. Myers looked up, with a couple of wrinkles between her eyes. “Excuse me?”

  “It’s Ida B,” I repeated. “My name is Ida B.”

  She stared down at her list again with an expression of deep pondering and some displeasure. But after a few seconds, that look of calm and sure delight people get when they figure out they’re right and they’re itching to tell you all about it spread across her face.

  “Now Ida,” she said to me, “I know that at home your family might call you by a nickname, like ‘Ida B.’ And that’s just fine at home. But in this classroom, we’re going to use our given names, not nicknames.” Then she gazed around the circle with that sad-happy smile. “Does everyone understand that?”

  And all of the kids nodded their heads and smiled right back except me.

  “Now, let’s continue,” she said.

  “Samuel Barton” was next, but I was stuck back at “Ida Applewood,” and I stayed there for the entire list of names and “Good morning”s.

  Because anywhere in the world we’d ever been, Ida Applewood was Mama. And any time I’d been around people for more than the little while and a bit it took to get to know somebody, I was Ida B.

  So, I was wondering and worrying about how my head was going to remember to look up or say “Yes, ma’am,” whenever Ms. Myers called out “Ida,” when an even bigger problem occurred to me.

  I realized that maybe having this new name that wasn’t mine wouldn’t just be for today or this year, but it might be my not-for-real-and-not-anything-like-me-but-I’m-stuck-with-it name for every school day for the rest of my life. That, I knew, was a whole lot of days of being Ida, and not being Ida B. So many days of being Ida that I might forget what being Ida B was like.

  And with that thought a bad feeling came over me that started in my stomach and traveled out my legs and arms and ended up in my toes, my fingers, and even my tongue. Like everything was being tightened up and shrunk down and squeezed into a too, too tiny space.