They're Always With You

by Mary Clare Lockman

  Copyright © 2013 by Mary Clare Lockman

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  ISBN 13: 978-1-940014-97-5

  eISBN 13: 978-1-940014-96-8

  Library of Congress Number: 2013943635

  Printed in the United States of America

  17 16 15 14 13 5 4 3 2 1

  Book Design by Mayfly Design

  Typeset in Janson Text

  Published by Wise Ink Creative Publishing

  Minneapolis, Minnesota

  www.wiseinkpub.com

  To order contact mclockman@msn.com. Reseller discounts available.

  To Ryan and Evan: May you always have a love of books. You’re the best. Love, Grandma

  Acknowledgments

  To all those who came to America in search of a better life for their families. Thank you. To Micky Martinson, RN, for telling me the story of her grandfather making and selling leather mittens during the Depression. And for letting me use it in my book. Thank you. To Marne McLevish for coming up with the perfect title. Thank you. To Connie Hill for reading my manuscript and giving me valuable feedback. Thank you. To Alison McGhee, teacher extraordinaire, for telling me there was a good story there waiting to come out. Thank you. To my family, as always, for your love and support. Thank you.

  Chapter One

  Who Is Daniel?

  Secrets. Every family has them and mine is no exception.

  They stay fiercely trapped within the walls of our house, as much a part of it as the plaster, wood, and nails. They’re seen in the looks and eye contact which make the rounds to everyone in the room but me. They’re found in the whispers late at night as I lay in bed trying to make sense of the jumbled words that float into my ears.

  A name, Daniel, hovers in the air. The voices downstairs lower and soon there is silence. As the silence swells; it surrounds me. I pull the blanket around my arms and shoulders. The name Daniel lingers until its very presence hurts. I wrap the blanket even tighter. Who is Daniel thunders in my brain. I’ll find out if it’s the last thing I do.

  Chapter Two

  Colette

  My name is Colette, Colette Antonia McGiver. I was born on October 12, 1958 in Red Wing, Minnesota, a town of about 10,000 people right on the Mississippi River.

  I live with my parents, John and Gemma McGiver, my mom’s sister, Aunt Florence, and my Grandfather, Antonio Rossini. I call him Gramps. He’s my favorite, hands down. He calls me Bella; that’s beautiful in Italian. One thing I know for sure is that I’m his favorite grandchild ‘cause I’m the only one.

  My family is small by anyone’s standards but especially by my friends, who come from households of four to ten children. I’ve asked every kid in my sixth grade class at St. Anastasia if they have brothers and sisters. I’ve found to my horror that I’m the only person in the whole class of 58 kids who has no brothers or sisters.

  My mom works in the office at my school. Since she has the same days off that I do, she loves her job. During summer vacation, my mom greets me every morning with the words, “My job is worth gold, pure gold.” Then she does a little dance. Because, she says, all it takes is one person with some little ideas and then pretty soon there’s trouble. When she puts it that way, I’ve accepted the fact that my mom will always be home with me.

  Even though we both walk the seven blocks to school, my mom leaves before me in the morning. After school sometimes I’m home before her. I let myself in the back door since it’s never locked. But usually she’s waiting for me when I get home. She always asks me how my day at school was. I say, “Fine. And how was your day at school, Mom?”

  I’ve also accepted the fact that whatever I do at school my mom will know about it. My teachers don’t have to tell me that they’ll be talking to my mom because I know teachers talk all the time. And their favorite subjects are their students and the student’s families.

  Saturday mornings I eat breakfast with Mom, Dad, and Gramps. Aunt Florence works as a nurse in the hospital so she works lots of weekends and holidays. She doesn’t seem to mind the weekends ‘cause she never goes out at night anyway. And I don’t mind her working weekends and holidays because then I don’t have to hear her tsk, tsk as she looks at me like I’m not doing enough to help my mom. I want to say, “Aunt Florence, I’m only one kid and I can’t do everything! Why don’t you help more?” But if I said that my mom would be mad because for some strange reason she’s very protective of Aunt Florence. So I don’t say anything but it bugs me no end.

  This morning I was alone with my mom. Dad and Gramps were shopping in the lumberyard. They’re going to build a new garage in place of the old tumbling down one behind the house. Anyway, I decided to ask my mom some questions during breakfast since there was no one to interrupt us.

  “Did Aunt Florence ever have a boyfriend?” I watched every movement of my mom’s face.

  “Yes, she had a boyfriend years ago.” My mom spooned the scrambled eggs onto my plate. “Enough?” she asked with the spoon poised in the air.

  “Yeah, that’s enough. What was his name?”

  “I don’t remember.” My mom returned the pan to the stove and now was holding another pan. “Bacon?”

  “Sure.” Two pieces of bacon landed on my plate. I moved them away from my eggs.

  “Eat, Colette. Your eggs will get cold.”

  “Was it Clarence, Frederic, or maybe Daniel?” I snuck in Daniel at the end so I could watch my mom’s reaction. I was careful not to emphasize Daniel any more than the others.

  “It wasn’t any of those but I really don’t remember his name.”

  I didn’t believe it for a second. My mom remembered everything. She could tell me stories from her childhood that made me feel I was right there with her. She knew the names of all her grade school friends, every member in their families, and even the name of their family dogs. Sometimes I would quiz her just to see if she really remembered or if she was making it up. She passed my quizzes with flying colors. No problem.

  “Was Aunt Florence in love?” I took a bite of bacon, chewing first on one side of my mouth and then the other.

  “With whom?”

  “With her boyfriend. You know, the one whose name you can’t remember.”

  My mom sat across the table from me. She looked up from her plate of eggs and bacon. “Yes, I think she was in love. Why do you ask?”

  “Because I just can’t picture Aunt Florence in love. She never even smiles.”

  “Florence was always a little serious.”

  “A little?”

  “Being serious isn’t such a bad thing. She works hard and she’s dependable. Why are you giving me the third degree about Florence?”

  “I’m interested, that’s all. I wonder why sometimes she stares at me without saying anything.” Aunt Florence had glared at me in her irritating way last night. I asked her if something was wrong. She said no, like she always did. And then she tightened her lips until they almost disappeared. I wanted to yell, “Then why are you staring at me?” But I just bit my bottom lip instead.

  “Florence has had kind of a sad life. Be nice.”

  “I am nice. I don’t say half the things I think. In fact, I’ve thought about asking her if she could just smile once in a while. Would that hurt her?”

  “I’m glad you didn’t say that.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t say it.” I bit into my last forkful of eggs. “Why was Aunt Flor
ence’s life so sad?”

  “A lot of things happen in people’s lives and some are really sad. You’ll find that out when you get older.”

  My mom always talked about what I would find out and understand when I got older. I was getting older all the time, eleven and a half next month, and I could understand some of these things if she would just tell them to me. “Did her boyfriend, Daniel, leave her or something?”

  “She didn’t have a boyfriend named Daniel.”

  “I thought you didn’t remember his name.”

  “I remember it wasn’t Daniel.”

  I wanted to tell my mom that I’d heard them talking last night about Daniel but I decided not to. I had mentioned the name Daniel twice in the conversation and she hadn’t reacted. Instead I asked a question that I asked about every two months. It usually got a rise out of her. “When is Aunt Florence going to find her own place?”

  “Colette, I thought you were going to be nice. What happened?” My mom cleared the plates off the table. “Are you done?”

  My mom was done with more than breakfast so there was no point in asking more questions. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re my mom instead of Aunt Florence.”

  “I’m glad you’re my kid too. Now I have a question. Did your teacher mention the movie, “Becoming a Woman?”

  I moved around in my chair. “Mrs. Bosworth said something about it.”

  “What did she say?”

  My mom loved talking to all the teachers at school. She said it was a little extra benefit of her job. “I’m sure you talked to her. What’d she say to you?”

  “Well, she said we’re supposed to go to school together on Monday night. They’ll show the movie to the sixth grade girls with their mothers.”

  “Wonderful. Maybe we can skip it.”

  “You can’t skip it, Colette. Mrs. Bosworth said this is an experiment this year. They’ve always shown it to the eighth graders.”

  “Believe me, I can wait till eighth grade.”

  “You’re really funny. Do you have any questions before we see the movie?”

  “No. I really don’t.” I pushed my chair back.

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about, well, about puberty.” She held her hands together in front of her apron.

  “Mom. Stop.” I covered my ears. I stood up.

  “Okay. I know it’s embarrassing so I’ll stop. One more question though. What are you doing today?”

  “Playing basketball at the gym. Some of my friends will be there and I might go over to Sally’s later.”

  “Please straighten your room first. Call me when you get to Sally’s.” My mom took the glasses and silverware from the table and brought them to the sink.

  “Clean it right now?”

  She bent down to get the dishpan and the dish soap from underneath the sink. “Right now.”

  Arguing with my mom made her really stubborn and then she wouldn’t budge in anything. I didn’t like giving up so easily but I couldn’t wait to talk to my best friend, Sally, about Aunt Florence being in love.

  I went upstairs to my bedroom. I loved my room because I had gotten my own record player for Christmas. I still couldn’t believe it. The record player sat on a wooden stand that had a shelf underneath for the records. I kept it away from the window because I couldn’t take the chance that our sometimes blustery weather would blow one of my Beatles records onto the floor. If any of them got scratched or broken, I’d probably scream at the top of my lungs. Then I’d sit on the floor and cry.

  I always put a record carefully on the turntable and watched to make sure the needle didn’t skip. Then I turned up the music really loud and sang along. I knew all the Beatle’s songs. Every single word. My happy reverie usually resulted in a pounding at my door and my mom yelling, “Will you turn it down so the rest of us can think!” I wanted to say, “Why did you get me a record player if I can’t even listen to my records?” But instead, I just mumbled under my breath and then turned down the music.

  I needed music for cleaning so I grabbed an album as soon as I walked into my room. I turned on the record player and pretty soon I was singing away. In less than 30 minutes I picked my clothes up off the floor, put them in the hamper in the bathroom, swept my cold wooden floor, made my bed, and dusted my dresser. Then I raced down the steps and yanked my spring jacket off the hanger in the closet.

  “Bye, Mom.” I yelled as I ran out the back door.

  Chapter Three

  One-on-One

  I sprinted down the back steps. Even though it was early March, most of the snow had melted except for stubborn icy patches in the shadows of our evergreens. I breathed in the crisp newness in the air.

  My bike waited in our tumbling down garage. I rolled it away from its spot leaning against the wall. Soon I was out in the sunshine pedaling the eight blocks to the gym.

  I was ecstatic this year because I actually made the Varsity team. I practiced every day after school for an hour and a half. That was required of everyone so Saturday practice was optional. I liked Saturdays the best because boys were there from the boy’s basketball team. They played hard and they weren’t afraid to grab the ball away from me so I’ve learned to be quick. Since I’m only four foot eleven, my quickness has given me a little edge. Anyway, I had to practice every chance I could because the 1970 City Championship game was only ten days away.

  I walked into the gym. I waved to Shannon Doyle and Kate Gustafson. They were eighth graders on my team and starters for every game. I heard my name above the clatter of basketballs being dribbled and bounced.

  “Hey, Colette, how about some one-on-one,” Bobby Bennett said. Bobby was a sixth grader who was on the boy’s team.

  “Sure, I’m ready.” Who gets the ball first?”

  “You got it last time.”

  “Okay. Up to ten.”

  “Okay.” Bobby bent down at the waist and started dribbling as he looked into my eyes. He switched the ball from hand to hand and then shifted suddenly to the right. I moved with him and kept flicking my hand toward the ball. He smirked a little, stopped, and did a jump shot. Swish. The ball sailed through the net. “Try to beat that,” he said.

  “No problem.”

  Rules for girls were different than for boys. The girls could only dribble three times and then we had to pass the ball. Since I was a pretty good dribbler, it bugged me no end. It was hard to set up strategy when you had to stop and pass, stop and pass. Each team had three guards on one side and three forwards on the other so we could only go as far as the center line. The coaches said it kept anyone from being a ball hog.

  If they’d asked me, I would have said there were plenty of ball hogs to go around. Like Patty Bloomer, for instance. She got the ball, took her three dribbles, and then she’d shoot this wild shot from wherever she happened to be. The other team usually didn’t even guard her. They just let her shoot the ball nowhere near the basket and then we all scrambled for it. Luckily, she didn’t play very often. Even though she was in eighth grade and it was her last year on the team, the coach only put her in when we were way ahead. The bad thing was she came in when the sixth graders did so I had to play with her. I would dribble three times and then look around for the other forward who had two guards surrounding her. I ended up passing to the Bloomer, as we called her, and then raced lickety-split for the basket. Then I planted myself right by the basket and waited for the air ball that was sure to come.

  The rumor was that the rules were changing next year. In the meantime, it wasn’t hard to understand why I loved Saturday practice. I could dribble a hundred times if I wanted to before I took a shot.

  I grabbed the ball from Bobby and got ready. I held the ball with both my hands and moved to the left. As quickly as I did that, I changed direction and went to the right. Bobby couldn’t keep up with me so it was an easy score. I put the ball into the box on the backboard and it went right in. I didn’t need to say anything; my raised eyebrows and smile did the job.

 
; We were neck and neck up to nine. Nine to nine and you had to win by one.

  Bobby tried a fake but I was ready for him. I batted the ball away and we both went after it. I got to it before it went out of bounds and pivoted around.

  I’d been watching the Harlem Globetrotters on television so I liked to dribble really low to the ground. Bobby didn’t try to get the ball; he just waited patiently for me to either shoot or drive towards the basket. I felt pretty confident that I was going to beat him so I decided to get it over with. I stopped dribbling, set my feet, and Bobby was all over me. His arms were waving in all directions. “Foul,” I yelled. “You can’t do that.”

  “Who said? Go ahead and shoot.” Bobby continued moving his arms wildly.

  “You’re cheating.” I couldn’t dribble any more because I had stopped and I couldn’t shoot either. “You don’t win if you cheat.”

  “Okay, I’ll let you shoot.” Bobby hung back a little. “But I’m not admitting that I’m cheating.”

  I knew this was my only chance. I arced the ball toward the basket. Bobby leaped towards the ball and blocked it mid-air. He dashed behind the free throw line, dribbling all the way, set, and did a jump shot. I couldn’t stop it. Swish. It went through the basket without touching the rim.

  I stood there for a minute while Bobby whooped and laughed. Then I remembered I had to go over to Sally’s to talk about Aunt Florence. “I still say you cheated but I gotta go,” I said.

  “Two out of three?”

  “Nope, I’m going to Sally’s.”

  “Next week?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”

  I rode my bike the five blocks over to Sally’s. I heard the noise in her house while I stood on the porch waiting for someone to answer the bell. Sally had an older brother, John, who was two years older than her, and four younger brothers and sisters. I liked the noise in her house most of the time. Sally said my house was heaven because it was so quiet and there were no little brothers and sisters wrecking my things or bursting in on me when I changed clothes.