And so the children and their father entered a sort of showdown on allowance day, whereby he would pretend he didn’t know what they were waiting for - all convened as they were out in the living room – and they would speculate whether he had remembered or forgotten that it was Pay Day, and negotiate among themselves for a spokesperson to approach his room to remind him, and to get an estimated time on the nickel distribution.
Lily placed her open hand on Iris’ back, and giving her an encouraging push she said, “Go see if he’s coming. He never gets mad at you.”
Iris rose from the loveseat and timidly headed for the bedroom door. At that moment, Marguerite breezed into the living room, assessed the situation, and asked, “Waiting for allowance?” The younger children nodded collectively, and Marguerite strode over to the bedroom, nudging Iris aside, and delivered three strong raps to the partly closed door.
“Hey, Dad,” she said. “Can we please have our allowance now?”
Their father opened the door, holding a small rectangular plastic case containing two rolls of nickels. Ceremoniously, he removed the lid, and the children immediately formed a line behind Marguerite, in order of age.
Marguerite held out her hand. Her father counted nickels into her palm, “Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five.”
“Thanks, Dadd-i-o!” sang Marguerite, shaking the nickels in her loosely held fist the way a gambler shakes dice before a throw.
Iris stepped up next, hand out, with the deference and reverence usually reserved for receiving Holy Communion.
“Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, twenty-five, thirty” counted her father.
“Thanks, Daddy!” Iris gave her father a peck on the cheek.
Lily stepped up, hand held out, mouth watering for candy lipstick and Sugar Daddy nuggets.
Her father held the nickels out, as though he were going to count them into her hand, but he stopped and said, “Was it your turn to pick up the apples last night, young lady?”
Lily glanced over at Iris, and then back at her father. “Yes, Daddy,” said Lily, her body growing hot.
“I ran over quite a few with my new lawnmower this morning.”
Lily considered telling him about the bird and how she got sick, and how scary it was, but she just didn’t see the point. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
“Don’t let it happen again,” he replied, placing the nickels into Lily’s palm. Lily stepped out of line and counted.
“How much did he give you?” Iris asked.
“Twenty-five cents,” replied Lily. And even though she received her prescribed number of nickels, Lily felt cheated and guilty.
The book banks were filed on a shelf among many books, and to a casual observer they could as easily have been another copy of Dickens or Shakespeare – which was probably why they were so disguised. Lily had deduced that disguising a bank so that it looked like a book on the shelf was probably to get you to open more books, in the hopes that you might find money inside.
Iris retrieved her bank from among the books, and slipped a nickel into the slot at the top. She held the bank up to her ear and shook it, as if she could judge the amount of money she’d saved by the jingling it made. Satisfied, Iris returned the bank to its place.
“Aren’t you going to save some of your allowance?” Iris asked Lily.
“What for?”
“A rainy day. Or for Christmas, maybe.”
“Well,” said Lily, thinking about which items from The Bungalow she might have to sacrifice if she were to save one of her nickels. “You’re older and you get more. I only have five. If I put a nickel in the bank, you’ll be able to buy more candy than me.” She laid her palm open, showing her allowance to Iris.
“OK,” said Iris. “Then how about if I put another one in my bank? That way we’ll both have four – it’ll be even-Steven!”
Before Lily could figure out what about this arrangement still didn’t seem quite right, Iris had slipped a second nickel through the slot. Reluctantly, Lily pulled her bank out from among the books and dropped a nickel in. It made a lonely plunk as it hit bottom.
11. Iris
Sacred Family had some things in common with St. Augustine’s, some with Fairview Elementary, and some that were totally new. To start with, the teachers were all women, but not all were nuns. The principal was a nun, too, but didn’t seem like a woman, not even in a nunnish way. Even her name, Sister Mary Benedict, was a cross between a man’s and a woman’s, and she was heftier than most men Iris knew, including her father and Uncle Alfred. She was even bigger than Father Delaney, although Father Delaney ruled over everything and everyone, because he was the pastor of the whole Sacred Family parish. Father Delaney was one of the bad things about Sacred Family. He didn’t talk, he yelled. Every time he made surprise inspection visits to the classroom, he yelled at the students, and he yelled at the teachers. He didn’t even care if they were nuns, although everyone knew you did not yell at nuns. He yelled at Iris in the confessional, and he yelled at the entire congregation at Mass. Iris figured he probably yelled at God, too.
There were some good things about Sacred Family, though. Like the fact that the students had to wear uniforms, and Iris got a brand new one, since none of her older sisters had attended the school before her. The girls’ jumpers had pleated skirts, and were green, like Ireland, because Father Delaney loved everything Irish as much as he loathed everything that wasn’t. There was only one thing Fairview had that Iris missed: Lily, who still had not been enrolled at Sacred Family for lack of space. Iris got a shaky feeling deep in the pit of her stomach every morning when she walked to the end of the driveway with Lily, silently counting her paces, until the time when Lily had to turn right, and Iris left. Sometimes, after she kissed Lily goodbye, she only pretended to start off in the other direction, and instead stayed put and watched her sister climb the hill until she was out of view, to make sure she stayed on the shoulder like she was supposed to, and walked past the shortcut Iris had made her promise never to take.
At this desolate time of year, there was no shoulder. There was nothing except snow and ice the same blank non-color of the sky. Iris hated walking to school during winter, slipping and sliding in whatever leaky leftover boots fit her at the time, which she customized with a plastic bread bag lining that helped keep her feet dry, but not warm. By the time she got to school, she couldn’t feel her toes at all, or her bright pink thighs either, and she was exhausted from traipsing up and down the snow banks that instead of melting kept getting taller and taller each time the plow passed. Iris never tried to keep up with Henry or Louis; the twins would only laugh at her when she slipped, and throw snowballs at her instead of helping her up.
Some days, Iris felt so cold after walking to school, that it was lunchtime before she warmed up. That was virtually the only time of day she didn’t feel frozen, because after cafeteria, the students were all shooed outdoors for recreation, which to Iris meant finding a place near the trees that might shield her from the biting wind, where she would stand and shiver uncontrollably as she played the balmy strains of Uncle Alfred’s Hawaiian music over in her head, until one of the nuns opened the door and let them back inside.
As Iris took her bologna and cheese sandwich from a wrinkled brown bag, she sighed at the prospect, and wished with all her might that she could go to the library and read instead of going to recreation, but you had to be almost dead before they would let you do that. She stared at the sandwich in her hand which, to make matters worse, had been rolled flat by the apple, which somehow always ended up on top, despite the care she took to pack her lunch properly. She unwrapped the sandwich and nibbled on it slowly, concentrating on chewing each bite before washing it down with cold milk from a carton. But the smell of hot cafeteria food was more effective at making Iris hungry than her bologna sandwich was at satiating her. She sat alone, without raising her eyes, her mind wandering as she chewed and sipped, imagining the components of her lunch on their descent t
o her stomach: the spongy white bread coated with a thin layer of mayonnaise, the dry brown crusts that stuck in her throat, the slippery round slice of pink lunch meat, the orange square of American cheese she had lopped off the brick in the refrigerator, the creamy white milk. Each morsel of each element would soon lose its individual identity, as the separate colors and textures were lumped together in a masticated mush. The thought of the food sitting in her stomach disgusted Iris so much that if she hadn’t been so starving, she might have stopped eating altogether.
When her sandwich and milk were gone, she refolded her lunch bag and rose, brushing the crumbs from the table and chair. Glancing around quickly as she left, she caught the eye of Mrs. Fish, the hunchbacked, white-haired lady who tended to the cafeteria. They smiled at each other: Mrs. Fish in silent approval, Iris in polite pity. She left, apple in hand, and spotted another student heading up the stairs as she approached. Not feeling equipped to face Don O’Donnell, Iris slowed her pace, since it was too late for her to turn around without looking dumber than she probably already did. Everyone said Don was the coolest kid in class; no matter what kind of trouble he got himself into, he never stopped smirking, even when he was being reprimanded by the formidable Sister Mary Benedict, whom he referred to as “Big Ben” behind her back, which made everybody laugh, though Iris did not think it was particularly funny. Sister always found plenty of reasons to scold Don, like catching him with an unbuttoned button, or a spot on his green tie, or with his hair so long in the back it touched his collar. Though Iris didn’t approve of his behavior, and was often irritated because of the time it made them waste in class, she was fascinated by the way Don flirted with danger. He had never spoken to Iris directly before, or even acknowledged her existence in any way, and she was taken aback when he halted abruptly on the stairs, then backtracked a few steps, causing her to bump into him. As soon as she did, Don stuck a hand into his left pocket, and pulled out a rectangular object wrapped in foil. Without turning around, he mumbled over his shoulder.
“You can have as much of it as you want, you know?”
Iris looked around, thinking his words were directed at someone behind her, but she saw that they were standing alone on the stairs; he in front, she a step behind.
“What?” she asked, as her heartbeat accelerated, squirting her cheeks and neck with enough blood to ensure her embarrassment would be complete should he pivot to face her.
Don snapped the foil-wrapped object in two. “Here,” he said, furtively passing a piece to Iris. She looked down, and found herself holding a chunk of chocolate that looked suspiciously like the bars the students were selling for the school fund-raiser. Iris hadn’t tried to sell any yet because she abhorred the idea of ringing the doorbells of strangers to try and peddle them anything, let alone chocolate she hadn’t even tasted. And no one she knew would buy that fancy chocolate, when you could get twice as much candy for the same money at The Bungalow. Just the same, Iris had read the mouth-watering descriptions in the handout several times a day, and was sure it must be delicious.
“Try it,” Don said.
As Iris raised the chocolate to her mouth, her nostrils flared, titillated by the scent of pure cocoa, forcing the banal aftertaste of bologna and cheese still lingering on her palate to scamper away in shame. After glancing up and down the stairs to make sure no one was watching, she bit off a piece of chocolate and placed it on her tongue, her eyelids instinctively dropping in pleasure. The candy was softened from being in Don’s pocket and began melting instantly, infusing Iris with its exquisitely sweet taste and velvety texture, punctuated by crunchy slivers of roasted almonds. The thought of Don’s thigh warming the chocolate as it lay hidden in his pocket, and that same chocolate now sending waves of pleasure to her mouth, was almost too much to bear.
“Holy cow … this really is divine!” Iris whispered, “Nothing like the stuff they sell at The Bungalow. Did you buy it yourself?”
“Yes and no,” replied Don.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, what I mean is, I bought it, but I didn’t pay for it.”
“So who paid for it?”
“No one.”
“But someone had to pay for it.”
“That’s what I thought, too,” replied Don, still talking over his shoulder. “But no one ever asked.”
“What do you mean, no one ever asked? Can I have another piece?” Iris asked from behind him.
“Sure. I told you. Have all you want. What I mean is, they just let me have it.”
“You mean, you just asked, and they gave it to you?” Iris asked, incredulous. “Will they give some to me, too?” A group of kids rushed passed them, their giggles propelling them up the stairs.
“Follow me, and I’ll explain,” Don said, as he started climbing again. Iris followed him up the steps and down the hallway, to the empty library. He glanced around surreptitiously, then slipped between the stacks, nodding for Iris to join him. Iris spotted the book entitled St. Thérèse, the Little Flower, which she had returned that very morning, sitting on a cart, waiting to be stored in its proper place on the shelf. She felt uneasy about engaging in a clandestine conversation with Don in front of the heaven-cast gaze of the saint on the cover. She flipped the book over.
“What I’m gonna tell you is top secret, dig?” Don began.
“Sure thing.” Iris was dying of curiosity, but uneasy about being sworn to secrecy before the nature of the confidence was revealed.
“You know those order forms they give us?” Don asked. “You have to write down how many bars of each kind people order, right?”
“Right,” Iris nodded.
“Then you add the numbers of each row across, and the grand total at the bottom. You line up at the cafeteria, show Mrs. Fish the form, and she gives you the number of bars on the order.” Iris nodded again; that was easy enough to understand.
“But,” he said, raising his index finger, and lowering his voice another notch, “you don’t have to turn in the money until after you deliver the candy, right?”
“And so?” Even if she hadn’t sold any candy yet herself, she knew that was how the system worked. She wondered what he was getting at.
“So, I just figured I’d add a few extra bars to my order, fill out the form in pencil, then erase the number and change it to the right amount when I bring the money in. How’s that for smart?” Don grinned.
“I guess,” Iris said. “But isn’t that stealing?”
“Nah, not really. Everyone gets what they paid for. And we get a little bonus for doing such a good job. Me and two other guys in our class have already pulled it off a few times, and it works like a charm. We could use a new partner for the pick-ups before Big Ben gets suspicious. You’re smart, you never get in trouble, and you never talk to anyone. You’d be perfect. Plus, you have to start placing orders soon if you don’t want to be last in the class.” His trademark smirk left little room for discussion, and the index finger he touched to the tip of her nose electrocuted any remaining doubts. “So? Can we call it a deal, or are you as much a Miss Goodie Two Shoes as you look?”
The hairs on her neck bristled, just like when Alexander or John called her “Spoiled Brat” because she got to spend weekends with Auntie Rosa. She was not a Goodie Two Shoes, and she was not a Spoiled Brat. Suddenly, she was inundated with a desire even greater than the longing for some more of that heavenly chocolate. At that moment, more than anything, she yearned to be included. She was intrigued, and knew how to keep a secret. And maybe Don might touch her on the nose again. What was the worse thing that could happen?
“Count me in,” she said.
“Cool! Wait here for a minute after I leave. Then meet me in the cloakroom after recreation, and I’ll slip you one of my order forms.” Don squeezed her left arm above the elbow so hard it hurt. The skin of her uneaten apple stuck to the palm of her hand as she watched him walk away, then rushed to join her class for recreation. Maybe getting some fresh air wasn’t su
ch a bad idea.
Second thoughts assailed Iris as she waited in line to place her order the next morning, her mind searching for justifications for the act of deception she was about to commit. Don said they deserved the chocolate, but Iris couldn’t quite see why. There were many things Iris wanted, but didn’t feel she deserved. The closer she came to the front of the line, the more jittery she felt. She probably would have chickened out, if Mrs. Fish’s hunchback hadn’t prevented her from looking Iris in the eye when it was her turn to hand in the order form. When she walked away with five bars in excess of the bona fide order she had squeezed out of neighborhood clients, she trembled with fear of getting caught, and with excitement at how easily she had pulled it off.
She sighed with relief when she sat in her seat and raised her desktop to drop the goods inside. She caught Don’s eye as she pulled out her Ancient History textbook, and nodded. He winked at her. She blushed. When they met in the cloakroom again at the end of class, Iris handed over three of the five extra bars she had procured; three were for the team, two she got to keep for herself. She couldn’t wait for school to be over so she could go home and give one to Lily, and they could eat them together while they hid out in the sun room and listened to music, even if there was no sun.
Iris had just opened her book for the day’s English lesson, when the door snapped open, and its frame was filled by the ominous form of Sister Mary Benedict.
The Complete Series Page 17
