Nobody's Family is Going to Change

by Louise Fitzhugh

  Copyright © 1974 by Louise Fitzhugh

  All rights reserved

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner without written permission of the publisher.

  Please direct inquiries to:

  Lizzie Skurnick Books

  an imprint of Ig Publishing

  Box 2547

  New York, NY 10163

  www.igpub.com

  ISBN: 978-1-939601-50-6 (ebook)

  For Lois

  Contents

  Nobody’s Family is Going to Change

  The Principal Characters

  DRAWINGS BY THE AUTHOR

  Willie Sheridan

  Emma Sheridan

  Mrs. Sheridan

  Dipsey Bates

  Mr. Sheridan

  Humming “Me and My Shadow,” Willie Sheridan did a shuffle-ball-change and two flaps as he squeezed out the toothpaste, then did a soft shoe and brushed his teeth simultaneously. His older sister, Emma, started her morning complaints outside the bathroom door. He paid no attention to her, finished his teeth, changed his humming to “Tea for Two” in cut time as he washed his face, then slowed as he combed his hair. Finishing that, he put the comb back, turned, did a hop-shuffle step, saw himself in the mirror, and picked up the rhythm.

  “Man, if Bill Robinson was handsomer, he’da looked just like me.” He gave himself a big smile and did two pullbacks and a riff.

  Emma’s voice came loud and clear through the door. “Get your habeas corpus out of the bathroom!”

  The door opened and Willie did a buck-and-wing past her through the door.

  “Faggot,” said Emma right in his ear as he went by.

  “I’ll punch you right in the hoo-hoo,” called Willie over his shoulder as, never missing a beat, he disappeared into his room.

  Emma’s eyes glowed with hatred as she looked down the hall of the East End apartment after her seven-year-old brother. “Revolting,” she muttered to emptiness. She stomped into the bathroom, slammed the door, and gave the same look of hatred to her own reflection in the mirror. She took in, with no surprise, the four brown punching bags that made up her arms and legs, the well-rounded mound of stomach under her striped pajamas, the Afro hair which, for some reason, did not stand up like everyone else’s but grew sideways, reminding her of a bird she had seen in the Bronx Zoo.

  “Monster,” she whispered to herself. “Disgusting. You are truly and completely disgusting.” She turned herself sideways to get a better view of her stomach, then advanced to the mirror until her nose touched. Widening her eyes, she tried to take in her own reality. It didn’t help. The fat brown girl with funny hair had the audacity to smile at her. “But you’re smart. You’re smarter than all of them.” Before the idiot in the mirror had a chance to retort, Emma thumped away to the sink. “You’ll show them all,” she muttered through the toothbrush. Brushing as though she had six cars to wash before noon, she began her day.

  Willie missed a step as the bathroom door slammed behind him. He didn’t have to see his sister’s face to know what it looked like behind the door. He and his father called her Piggy. He liked her, but he was frightened to death of her. She was smart. When she looked over her glasses at him, she could turn him to jelly.

  Man, I better hurry, he thought, looking at the clock. I’ve only got five minutes to practice before Dipsey gets here. One lesson a week. How can I make it on one lesson a week?

  He rooted around in the bottom of his closet until he found his tap shoes, jammed them on, threw back the small rug, closed the closet door so he could see himself, and started to work.

  He started off real nice and easy with a slow time step, humming “Way down upon the Swanee River,” real easy, cool, slow. He speeded up then, did three breaks, and was doing his first buck-and-wing when the door opened quietly.

  His mother’s face stopped him in his tracks.

  “Willie,” she said softly, “your father was up until three working on a brief. He goes to court today. You’ll wake him up”.

  “But, Mom, Dipsey’s coming and I got to—”

  “You can’t have a lesson this morning. It’s too noisy. I know how much you care …”

  Willie looked at her in horror.

  “… but it just makes too much noise.” Mrs. Sheridan stiffened against what she knew was coming.

  “Mom! Dipsey can only come this one time and if we can’t do it now I don’t have a lesson this week!”

  “I know, son, it’s too bad, but—” The doorbell rang. Willie ran as fast as he could to the front door. Mrs. Sheridan followed him. She closed the door to the bedroom hall behind her as Willie let his uncle in.

  “Ta, da, ta, da, da, da!” said Dipsey and did a big break at the door. “Here’s your old dancing master!” He picked up Willie and spun him around in a hug.

  “Hush!” said Mrs. Sheridan.

  Dipsey said, “Hey, man, how’s the old one-two?” before he heard her. “Hi, Ginny!” Then, more softly, he said, “What’s the matter, Sis?”

  “William is sleeping. He worked late and he goes to court at ten. I’m afraid we can’t have any noise this morning.”

  Two pairs of big brown eyes gave her the same look. “Oh. Can he miss his first period at school? I could wait, we could have a lesson and then he could go on to school.”

  “There’s no one to take him there if he misses the bus.”

  “Oh, I could drop him off in a cab. How about it, Sis?”

  “I think,” she said slowly, “that we had better have a talk.”

  “Aw, Mom.”

  “Uh, oh, this don’t sound too good, Willie. Come on, let’s go on and get this over with so we can settle down and have ourselves some fun.” He had his arm around Willie and he pulled him over to the couch.

  Willie laughed. They both sat down and looked at Mrs. Sheridan.

  “Don’t look at me that way, Dipsey, because you know full well what I’m going to say.”

  “Uh-huh. Big William don’t like the idea of Little Willie here going on the big bad stage.”

  “Dipsey …”

  “And furthermore, he don’t like it at all that Little Willie even thinking about being a dancer, because being a dancer is something that Big William just don’t cotton up to. Fact, he just don’t see no point in it nohow, at all, any which way!”

  “Dipsey. Try to understand what you’d feel like if you had a son.”

  “If I had a son that could dance like Willie here, that boy would have been on the road before his mama got him out of diapers. Because this boy’s got it, Ginny, that’s what you and William never seem to get. I’m not just talking about any boy. He’s really got it, and if that big bull—”

  “Dipsey!”

  “—bullheaded husband of yours could just see that. Scared you, didn’t I?” Dipsey laughed his good laugh.

  Willie couldn’t believe his ears. He knew how his mother and father felt and he knew how Dipsey felt, but he had never heard it all out in the open like this.

  “He’s not bullheaded!” Mrs. Sheridan was getting angry. “You’re making too much of this … this talent Willie has. It might occur to you that it’s looking at you that makes William not want his son to grow up to be a dancer.”

  “What’s the matter with me?” Dipsey stared at her openmouthed. He turned to Willie. “You see anything the matter with me?”

  Willie laughed, but he was getting nervous. What was the matter with dancing? He had the feeling that if he stuck with Dipsey, Dipsey would win out over everybody—but maybe he shouldn’t be wanting to win this fight. Maybe his father knew something that he didn’t, something even Dipsey didn’t know.

  Dipsey got up an
d strutted around the room. “He couldn’t possibly find anything wrong with me!” He did such a funny little step that even Mrs. Sheridan laughed delightedly in spite of herself. He ended up right in front of her, stopped suddenly, and pointed a long skinny brown finger right at her nose. “You know and I know and even Little Willie knows that William thinks Dancing Is Sissy!”

  “Well, I’m not sure that’s the—”

  “Don’t you not-sure me this and not-sure me that. You know like you know my name, and I know too, what’s bothering old William. Now I ask you …” He hunched his shoulders and towered over Mrs. Sheridan. “Am I sissy? Do I really look to you like I’m swishing round here?”

  Willie laughed. Mrs. Sheridan began plaintively, “Dipsey …”

  “On the other hand,” said Dipsey in a high, fluting voice as he pirouetted across the room, one hand on his hip, and did a high chorus walk back toward them. “Now some of those gypsies in the chorus, ooooh, Mary.”

  Mrs. Sheridan stopped herself from laughing and frowned severely at Willie, who was holding his belly and laughing uncontrollably. “That’s just the kind of oversophisticated thing that William is talking about that you want to go and expose him to. Look at him. He doesn’t even know what he’s laughing at.” She pointed to Willie, who was still writhing around, giggling.

  “He knows, oh mama, he knows. He can’t be in school two days in New York City and not know that.” Dipsey flopped down on the couch, giving Willie a shove on the head. “Ginny, what’s happening to you? You and me used to laugh at William and how stuffy he was. Now you getting the same way.”

  “Dipsey, I’m warning you …”

  “Okay, okay, but let’s look at this thing sensibly. What is a man? A man does what he wants to do, and if he does it well, ain’t nobody going to say he ain’t a man. And if what a man wants to do is dance, then he better dance better than anybody. I know, baby, I know because I’ve lived it.”

  “You’ve lived it. That’s just my point. It’s your life, not necessarily Willie’s. And he isn’t a man. Really, you’re being melodramatic and absurd. He’s seven years old.”

  “And how old was I? You remember? You were there cleaning my ears. How old was I?”

  “Three, but Daddy was in show business. Momma and Daddy had an act. It was different! And besides, that’s your life. You think you’ve had a particularly good life? Now, be honest!”

  “Honey. It don’t matter a bit what you say. I’m just trying to save you a lot of grief. When somebody has got what Willie here has got, they know just where they’re going and there’s just no point in trying to stop them.” He looked at Willie, who grinned at him. “Where you going, Willie?” he asked.

  “Broadway,” said Willie, grinning.

  “Oh, this is ridiculous,” said Mrs. Sheridan. “He’s a child. His mind is being formed this very minute. How can you fill him up with dreams that will hurt when they don’t happen?”

  “Have you taken a look lately at all those people walking the streets that don’t have any dreams? It’s better to have a busted one than none at all, and his isn’t going to get busted. He’s going to make it. Why can’t you understand that? Let me have him just this one summer—”

  “He doesn’t know what he wants, Dipsey. His father wants him to be a lawyer just as much as you want him to be a dancer, and I want him to be happy.”

  “One summer, just one summer in stock, and after that we’ll talk again.”

  “You know and I know that what his father is worried about has some validity, that if he spends one summer in stock he may never be the same again. Things happen. Think, Dipsey, think!”

  Dipsey stood up. He appeared to be leaving. “You know, Sis,” he said slowly. “I just got me an idea. I think old William and maybe you are scared to death that this boy here is going to have more fun in life than you’re having.”

  Emma was standing and looking into the refrigerator when her mother, infuriated by Dipsey’s last statement, came into the kitchen.

  Emma jumped as though she’d been caught nude.

  Mrs. Sheridan looked at the remains of what Emma had already eaten. She looked at her daughter in despair.

  “Darling, that’s enough for breakfast. You don’t want to grow up to be a fat woman. If you keep on like this, it’s only going to be much harder when you get older. Why do you do this?”

  Emma didn’t say anything. Her mother’s face was worried, but her eyes were loving. She’s looking at me, Emma thought, like I’m a word that doesn’t fit the crossword puzzle.

  “My teeth were itching,” said Emma unexpectedly.

  “Darling.” Mrs. Sheridan put out her hand to touch Emma’s head.

  “Ick. Mush,” said Emma, and thumped heavily back to her room.

  That afternoon Willie did a fast shuffle down the aisle of the school bus, then a big leap out the door. The other children laughed and waved at him. He did a time step for them until the bus roared away.

  He looked up Eightieth Street. The garbage truck was standing at the corner. Charlie, the big fat guy, waved at him and did a funny little tap. Willie did a little tap back like an answer. Nick, the skinny one, yelled, “Hey! Willie!”

  Willie danced over to them, trying to wave his briefcase like a straw hat. Charlie emptied a can into the churning back of the truck, dropped it with a clatter, and started to dance like crazy, flopping around and twirling his arms like big pinwheels.

  Willie kept up a fast time step, dropped his briefcase, and clapped his hands, humming “Way down upon the Swanee River.” Nick slapped down another can, ran over to Charlie, and they did an old vaudeville exit like two hoofers with canes. They were all three shouting the song, screaming and laughing.

  Nick came running back from around the truck where they’d disappeared, and started shuffling like a mad thing. “That’s a shag, baby, ever seen the shag?” He panted, he was going so hard.

  The truck door slammed and the driver came bowling around the side. It wasn’t Frank, the regular driver. It was another man, who didn’t look too friendly. Nick stopped abruptly and grabbed a full can from against the building.

  “What the hell is this, the Ted Mack hour? You guys pick up the garbage as fast as you dance, we get New York cleaned up in a week.” He looked angry. Charlie winked at Willie behind the driver’s back. Willie picked up his briefcase.

  “Who are you?” asked the driver, hands on hips, looking down from six feet.

  Nick was next to him suddenly, and Charlie ran over. Nick put his hand on Willie’s head. “This my boy Willie. He’s going to Broadway!”

  “No kidding? This your son?” The driver was smiling now.

  Nick laughed. “No. I sure do wish my son could dance like that.”

  Willie felt an astounding sensation. He wanted to leap, as high as he could, as high as the building. He couldn’t even look at Nick.

  “All right, come on, guys, let’s get it moving.” The driver was bored now. He turned his back and started toward his cab.

  “Don’t worry about him,” said Charlie. He jumped up on the back of the truck, his balloon body moving so fast it was surprising.

  Nick threw the last can against the building with a satisfactory clamor. “Give ’em hell, Willie!” he yelled as he jumped up beside Charlie. The truck started to move away. Willie stood watching.

  “Give my regards to Broadway,” Nick sang above the roar of the truck. Charlie joined: “Remember me to Herald Square …” Together: “Tell all the gang at Forty-second Street…” They were turning. Now Willie couldn’t see the truck. “… That … I … will … soon … be … there,” came to him ghost-like from around the corner. Silence was there. Willie felt odd. He walked toward his apartment building.

  “Hi zer, Villie,” said the doorman, who was of an undetermined Baltic origin. He bore a strong resemblance to Dracula, and his doorman’s cape didn’t help.

  Willie barely heard him. Concentrating, he walked in, smiled absently at the doorman, pu
shed the elevator button, and walked through the opening doors.

  “Ess,” said the doorman behind him, breathing through his teeth.

  Willie danced wildly, impatiently, by himself in the elevator as it was going up. He felt his feet were making angry sounds.

  Old Mrs. Goldstein was waiting for the elevator as he danced out. Tapping in place, he held the door for her. “A regular Fred Astaire,” she muttered as she went past him slowly.

  The door closed. Willie practiced dancing up the wall as he’d seen Donald O’Connor do in an old movie. It was hard. He went to his own door, fished around for his key, and let himself in. “I’m home!” he yelled.

  “Ter-rif-ic,” he heard Emma say from her room in a deep, sour voice. She slammed her door.

  He went into the kitchen, started looking for cookies. “Well, if it isn’t Bill Robinson.” It was Martha, the maid. She was white and wildly freckled, but Willie liked her. Sometimes she had a sharp tongue that could make him feel like a worm, but she was there to come home to every day, and friendly most of the time.

  She gave him a toothy grin. Her teeth stuck out. He jammed a cookie in his mouth and started tapping down the hall to his room. “Here, now, get this book satchel out of my kitchen.”

  He danced back and got it.

  “Can’t you even say hello?”

  He stopped. He usually said hello. I am going to do something, he thought. I don’t know what it is that I am going to do, but I am going to do something and I am going to do it soon.

  “Hello.” He smiled, then danced out. “Helloooo,” he wailed like a ghost as he ran down the hall.

  “Between you tappy-tapping and your sister the district attorney, a person could go starkers around here,” Martha called after him. Martha was always talking to herself. Martha talked all the time, whether there was anybody in the kitchen or not. He closed the door on her voice.

  He flung down his briefcase and ate his cookies to a slow soft shoe in front of the mirror. “If Nick were my father” raced through his head and was stopped like a car at a light. A vision of summer stock rose in his mind, as firm and as sweet as the cookies, pictures of him and Dipsey having dinner at four o’clock because they had to go on at eight and it didn’t do to be too full when you danced, pictures of backstage, pictures of footlights blinding and—suddenly he saw his father sitting in the audience, ashamed of him.