Toby Lived Here

by Hilma Wolitzer

  “Sweet Daisy,” Toby crooned. “Good, lovely Daisy. I won’t hurt you. Easy now, easy.” She wasn’t sure it was Daisy at all. The two birds looked exactly the same to her, although Mrs. Selwyn claimed she could tell them apart. The small, throbbing bundle in her hands might have been Donald, for all she knew, but it was her tone that mattered, not the words. She had to be gentle and soothing. And her mother was certainly right about the biting. She was grateful for the towel’s protection when she felt the frenzied nipping of the canary’s beak.

  As she approached the cage with her burden, the other bird buzzed close to her face, as if coming to the aid of its partner. Anne stepped back, as far back as she could and still hold on to the cage door with the tips of her fingers.

  This was going to be the difficult part, Toby knew. If it got loose again, and had to be recaptured, it might die of fear, or of exhaustion. She put the covered form carefully against the cage opening and slowly released her hold on the towel. She could feel the bird struggle—how brave it was!—its wings trembling and fluttering, and then it was inside! “Close the door, quick!” Toby cried, and Anne did, almost on Toby’s fingers.

  The canary, after resting for a moment on the papered floor of the cage, hopped up to a perch, ruffled its pale feathers as if to rearrange them, and then settled down, beautifully balanced on one claw. It looked as tranquil and innocent as if it had never left home.

  Toby thought the other one might be trickier. She wondered if it had observed its mate’s capture and had prepared defenses. For a while, it wouldn’t stay down long enough for her to get close. But soon it grew tired and its flights were shorter and not as swift.

  “Ah, Donald,” Toby said. “Sit still for a minute, won’t you? Aren’t you lonely? Daisy is waiting for you. Be a good little guy and go home.”

  “Ladybug, ladybug,” Anne sang, in a tiny, high-pitched voice. “Fly away home. Your house is on fire and your children are gone.”

  The wrong song, Toby thought, shaking her head. That kid. But she didn’t say anything. The second canary had just lighted on the floor, not far from Toby’s feet. Her recent experience and the bird’s fatigue made this seizure easier, after all. Anne didn’t open the cage until Toby was almost there with her prize, and then the canary slipped right in, as if it, too, was glad to be done with the chase.

  Toby sank onto the sofa, her arms and legs flung wide, her heels in the carpet. “Whew!” she said. “I’m dead. Don’t ever do that again. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Anne said sweetly. She was walking around the room with a long streamer of toilet paper, cleaning up the birds’ droppings and picking up the small golden feathers they had shed in flight. “Are you going to tell, Toby?” she asked, as she knelt on the floor.

  Toby hesitated. She knew that what had happened was her fault in a way, too. Anne had set the birds free as a way of showing Toby she hadn’t forgotten their mother, either. A dumb and babyish thing to do, maybe, but she was only a little first-grade kid. And they had to stick together, no matter what. The anger she’d felt before seemed to have been spent in pursuing the canaries. “No, I won’t,” Toby said. She thought for a while and added, “If you don’t say anything to my friend Susan when she goes bowling with us.”

  Anne looked puzzled. “About the birds?”

  “No, about Mommy. About where she is or what’s wrong with her or anything. Do you promise? Do you swear not to tell?”

  “Sure,” Anne said. “And I’m not a stupid baby, like you said I was before.”

  “I didn’t mean that,” Toby said.

  “I thought you said people never say anything they don’t mean.”

  Toby sighed. “You’re getting too smart for your own good,” she said. “Okay, I take that back, too. When you’re angry, you can say something you don’t mean.”

  Anne smiled. She liked to win arguments. She stood up, looking even more pleased. “You’ve got some in your hair,” she said.

  When the Selwyns came home, Toby was in the shower and the birds were singing joyfully in their cage.

  9

  SUSAN’S DOG URINATED ON the downstairs carpet. It was the second “accident” he’d had that week. “Oh, you bad thing,” Susan said. “What am I going to do with you?”

  But Max didn’t even seem to know he was being scolded. He wagged his tail and waddled up to her.

  “Mrs. Ames will have a fit,” Susan said. “It’s very hard to get out the stain. Not to mention the smell,” she added, holding her nose.

  “Aren’t you housebroken yet?” Toby asked, patting Max, who lavished kisses in return.

  “He’s getting very old, that’s all,” Susan said. She had tears in her eyes as she went to the service porch to get a rag and some cleaning fluid. “He has heart trouble, too,” she said when she came back. She knelt down and began to wash the spot. “He has to take the same kind of medicine my father gives to some of his patients.”

  “Does it hurt him?” Toby asked. “I mean, the heart trouble.”

  “Not too much. Not yet, anyway. But it probably will later. And sometimes he has trouble breathing.” She rubbed at the rug and the odor of ammonia was very strong.

  Max went to another corner of the room and fell asleep immediately, as if their conversation was no concern of his.

  “I looked it up in one of my father’s books,” Susan said. “It’s serious, and it gets much worse with old age.”

  “Does everybody get it, when they’re old?” Toby asked.

  “No, not everybody. It’s inherited, probably. Lots of diseases are. My mother did an article on that.”

  Toby felt a twinge of uneasiness. “How old is Max, anyway?” she asked.

  “Sixteen,” Susan said. “That’s practically ancient in dog years. My father gave him to my mother as a wedding present. They’ve had him much longer than they’ve had me.”

  “He’s sort of like an older brother,” Toby said, and the two girls looked over at the dog, who lay on his side, tail twitching in his sleep, and they laughed.

  Then they went upstairs to Susan’s bedroom to practice their latest song. Susan had taught Toby to sing in harmony. They really sounded good together. The other day Mrs. Schwamm had heard them from downstairs and thought it was a record or the radio playing. “In fact,” she said, “your song sounded a lot better than some of the stuff I hear on the radio.”

  Toby was thrilled. She daydreamed about Susan and herself becoming famous recording stars. They’d sell a million records, maybe even win a Grammy. Schwamm and Goodwin. Goodwin and Schwamm.

  But now it was difficult to concentrate on the music. She was thinking about what Susan had said—about diseases being inherited. What diseases, she wondered. Was her own mother’s sickness something that could be passed on to her and Anne? She felt nervous sometimes. Was that the first sign? She wished she could read Mrs. Schwamm’s article, but she couldn’t think of a way to ask Susan without making her suspicious. Besides, the article would probably be very technical, with long and unfamiliar words. It wouldn’t do her much good to read it if she couldn’t understand it.

  She missed the place where she was supposed to come in during the second chorus of their song.

  “Toby!” Susan said. “You’re goofing off again.”

  “I’m sorry,” Toby said. “I was just thinking.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking, too,” Susan said. “And I want to ask you something. Toby, how come you never ask me to come to your house?”

  Toby hesitated. The first thing she thought was that she didn’t really have a house any more. But she knew that wasn’t exactly true. At least, Mrs. Selwyn had told her that she could have friends visit whenever she liked. And Anne did promise solemnly not to tell Susan anything about their mother. Of course, her promises weren’t usually worth very much, and she kept asking why she couldn’t tell. But Toby guessed she could trust her this time, with another warning, and a reminder about the canaries for good measure. Miss Vernon only came once a mo
nth, and she had been there recently.

  “You’re going bowling with us on Friday, aren’t you?” she asked. “Why don’t you come back with me after school then? We can go straight from there.”

  “Okay,” Susan said. “I was beginning to get worried. I thought you were ashamed of me or something.”

  Ashamed of her! Toby felt deeply ashamed of herself. Her lies were trapping her more and more. But she’d do anything not to risk losing Susan’s friendship.

  “Don’t you have any grandparents, Tobe?” Susan asked.

  “Wh-what?” She had been busy with her own thoughts again and was caught off-guard.

  “Don’t you have any grandparents?” Susan asked again. “Who could take care of you, I mean. When my parents go on a vacation by themselves, or to a medical convention, I stay in New Jersey with mine.”

  “I have a grandmother,” Toby admitted. And then, “But we can’t stay with her. She has this tiny apartment, and she has bad legs.” And a bad disposition, she added to herself.

  “Oh,” Susan said.

  “And the other one is dead.” At least that was the truth.

  “How is your mother feeling?”

  “Oh, she’s getting along. It takes a while, what she has. But she’s definitely getting better.”

  Her own words made Toby feel miserable. They weren’t so much lies, though, as wishes spoken aloud. The other day, when Miss Vernon came, she’d only said that their mother was getting good care. When Toby asked about visiting her, Miss Vernon looked quickly across to Mrs. Selwyn. Then she said, “She’s not ready yet, dear. It’s not that she doesn’t miss you, too. She does. But she needs more time.” She stretched across the table to touch Toby, to pat her or squeeze her arm, but Toby moved away out of reach. Miss Vernon wasn’t bad, but Toby felt she was keeping information back from her. How could your own mother not want to see you? Wasn’t she worried about them, too?

  As if she could read her thoughts, Mrs. Selwyn said, “She knows that you’re safe, Toby.”

  Now Susan said, “You must really miss her.”

  “I do,” Toby said. “But she writes to me all the time, she tells me what she’s doing and how she feels and everything. She can’t wait to see us again.” Any day now, that would become the truth. As soon as there was a letter.

  “Is it catching or something?” Susan said. “Is that why you don’t visit her?”

  Why did she ask so many questions? For the first time, Toby was annoyed with Susan, who seemed to say anything that came into her head, just like Anne. If Susan weren’t so nosy, Toby wouldn’t have to lie so much.

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “Hey, are we going to finish this song or not?”

  10

  THE DAY THEY WERE to go bowling, Toby started worrying as soon as she woke up. Could she really trust Anne not to give anything away?

  There was less than a week to go before summer vacation. Everyone in Toby’s class was restless, thinking about freedom, she supposed, and what they would do on all those long, sunny days. Last summer, she and Anne and their mother had rented a cottage on a lake in New Hampshire for two weeks. She thought of that time longingly now, of the clear green water of the lake, through which she could see her own churning legs and a school of small silvery fish darting between them as she dog-paddled around. Her mother was a strong swimmer, like a fish herself, or a mermaid, her long hair streaming out behind her. She’d taught them to put their faces into the water and blow bubbles, and to move their arms without splashing.

  Toby wanted today to be over. It was hot in the classroom, and through the windows she could see a flawless summer sky. But most of all she wished the bowling trip was behind them. What would Susan think of the Selwyns, and of their house? It was so shabby next to hers. Toby had already told Susan how great their apartment in Brooklyn was. She had exaggerated a little, making it larger and the furniture fancier. And she never mentioned having to share a bedroom with her sister. Thinking of that made her worry even more. What about Big-Mouth Anne?

  But things went well, much better than Toby expected. For one thing, Susan admired her room, especially the wallpaper and the slanted ceiling. She was friendly to the Selwyns, who seemed to like her, too. And Susan was crazy about Anne. “She’s so adorable,” she said, “with that tooth missing and everything. I wish I had a little sister like her.”

  Toby was pleased, even though she had never thought of Anne as being adorable. Susan wouldn’t think so either if she had to live with her. That morning she’d sworn Anne to secrecy again, on the way to school.

  Anne was exasperated. “I said I wouldn’t tell, didn’t I? How many times are you going to say that?”

  “Well, I just wanted to make sure,” Toby said, still not feeling sure at all.

  But now it seemed that Anne was to be trusted. She took Susan’s hand and showed her her own room and her toys, and when they were downstairs having a snack, she sat on Mrs. Selwyn’s lap and didn’t say anything, just smiled sweetly at Susan from time to time. She was really a good little actress.

  Mr. Selwyn had his own bowling ball and shoes. The ball was custom-made to fit his fingers, and he carried it in a zippered case that had his name stitched on it.

  Anne was very excited. She had never gone bowling before, but that didn’t prevent her from predicting she’d beat everybody. Toby had bowled a few times with friends in Brooklyn, but she wasn’t very good at it. No matter where she aimed the ball, it seemed to go its own way, sometimes changing direction at the last moment.

  The bowling alley was wonderfully cool, and everyone greeted Mr. Selwyn like an old friend. The man who rented the shoes said, “Is it hot enough for you, Jim? Say, is this your new team? They’re a lot better-looking, anyway.” He told them to take lane number 9 and he leaned across the counter and pinched Anne’s cheek.

  Mr. Selwyn was the best bowler Toby had ever seen. He stood very still, staring down the alley, holding the ball in front of him, and then he moved, as gracefully as a dancer, into the position of the gilded man on the trophies and sent the ball swiftly and smoothly ahead of him. The pins made a racket when they went down, strike after strike after strike. And when he finally missed, he didn’t even seem very upset about ruining a perfect score. He was patient, and quiet, the same way he was around the house, where the smoke rising from his pipe sometimes seemed to take the place of words.

  Anne couldn’t bowl at all. The first four times she tried, the ball went into the gutter, twice on one side and then twice on the other. She kept looking at her score, as if she expected it to change from zero by itself. The fifth time, she dropped the ball, just missing her foot, and began to cry.

  Mr. Selwyn wiped her eyes with a big handkerchief. “Come on, Annie,” he said, and he showed her how to hold the ball. He kept his hand on it, too, explaining that she had to stand a certain way and not twist her wrist when she let go. This time the ball went straighter, but so slowly that Toby thought it would stop dead in the middle of the lane. It didn’t, though, and when it reached the pins, it knocked two of them down. They seemed to fall almost as slowly as the ball had rolled. Anne was overjoyed. She jumped up and down. “Two! I got two!” she yelled. The people in the next lane smiled at her.

  Toby’s and Susan’s scores were pretty close, 63 and 61 in the first game, 60 and 62 in the second. Mr. Selwyn asked if they wanted some help, too. He told Toby that she had a good, natural hook and only had to learn how to control it. He suggested that Susan try a lighter ball and bend a little lower at the knees.

  In the third game their scores were in the seventies, and they were as pleased with themselves as Anne had been. No wonder he had won all those trophies.

  The Selwyns’ old car rattled and throbbed and stalled a couple of times on the way back. Toby looked at Susan, wondering if she was comparing it to her own family’s car, which was this year’s model and very, beautiful. But Susan only said what a good time she’d had and that now she and Toby had a bowling goal of one hundred
points. Mrs. Selwyn had invited Susan to stay for supper. When they got back to the house, the table was set and Toby could smell something good cooking. She looked critically at the table, trying to see it as Susan would. The dishes were plain, but Mrs. Selwyn had used a blue tablecloth instead of the place mats, and she had cut roses from the garden for a centerpiece.

  In her own room before supper, Toby was glad that she had remembered to put a large book over the place on the night table where Constance had carved her name. How would she ever have explained that to Susan?

  At dinner, Anne bragged about the way she had bowled. She had actually gotten one strike, with Mr. Selwyn’s help. It was almost an accident, Toby thought. Again he had guided her hand, and again the ball traveled as slowly as a tortoise. But this time it landed in the right place and one by one the pins went down. Anne still had a terrible score, but she didn’t care. “I got a strike. I was the only one,” she told Mrs. Selwyn, not mentioning the fact that she’d been helped.

  “She did, Sylvia,” Mr. Selwyn said. “I saw it.”

  “Good for you,” Mrs. Selwyn told Anne, and she smiled and winked at Toby over Anne’s head.

  Everything was fine until dessert, when Anne licked chocolate pudding from the back of her spoon and said to Susan, who was sitting next to her, “I’m going to tell Miss Vernon about my strike when she comes next month.”

  Toby stretched her leg out and kicked as hard as she could, hoping she’d get Anne and not Susan by mistake. She did, and Anne yelped. “What did you kick me for?” she cried.

  Toby wanted to rush around the table and clamp her hand over Anne’s mouth. She should never have trusted that little tattletale. Instead, she gripped her spoon tightly and glared at her.

  “Who’s Miss Vernon?” Susan asked.