Jelly Bean Summer

by Joyce Magnin

  “Ninety-six?” Brian said.

  “Yeah, well, Francis Xavier DiaMenti only had twenty-one cents,” Linda says.

  “Not enough,” Brian says. “Close, but it’s not enough.”

  I feel kind of like I do when we lose a softball game. But not exactly. This loss feels deeper. Sadder or something.

  “Minus my licorice whips,” Linda says.

  I punch her shoulder. “Shut up about that. I said you’ll get your stupid licorice. Sheesh.”

  “All right already,” Linda says. “I was just saying.”

  “Now what?” Brian asks.

  I shrug. “We’ll think of something.”

  “Yeah, right.” Brian pushes open the garage door. It jumps the track, which means one of the little wheels somehow comes out of the track. And when that happens, the door is impossible to work. “Now look. Now I gotta fix the dumb garage door.”

  “That’s not so tough. I’ve seen my dad do it a million times,” I say.

  Brian scratches behind his neck. He walks over to his truck and lifts the hood. “No carburetor means it’s the bus for me and no ride of honor for Mike.”

  “Or Bud,” I say.

  “This is too sad,” Linda says. “But my mom always says that stuff happens for a reason. Like maybe it ain’t such a good idea to drive to Arizona and maybe you”—she looks me square in the eye—“ain’t supposed to run away because of a guinea pig.”

  “You don’t get it,” I say.

  “Sure I do. You left the gate open. You gotta live with that whether you’re here or in Arizona.”

  I look at her like she had just that second sprouted broccoli out her ears.

  “I better get home,” she says. “We have to go to Mass.”

  Brian and I watch her leave.

  “She’s right, you know,” he says.

  I kick one of his truck tires. “I know. But at least in Arizona I won’t have to see Elaine’s pig nose or that dumb cage with the black ribbons on it.”

  “Your mom was pretty cool about the whole thing.”

  “Yeah, I guess, but…but maybe I just don’t want to stay here. Because…because of Elaine for one thing, but…what if Bud…dies, like Mike. I don’t want to live here anymore.”

  “That would be rough. But…”

  “But I’m still going.”

  Brian pushes the shoe box into my hands. “You keep the money.”

  “No. You need a carburetor.”

  “I’ll be taking the bus.”

  “But what about me? I want to go to Arizona. I just told you.”

  Brian looks at me. He shrugs. “You can’t.”

  I look at him. Stunned. It is like I am staring at the face of a traitor.

  I take off running. Bud taught me to run when I am angry or sad. He said it always helped to run it out. But it doesn’t really work this time. When I get home, Elaine is sitting on the stoop like she’s waiting for me. It seems as though she’s been crying again.

  “I was only trying to do something nice,” I say. “Even if you don’t care.”

  “How come you didn’t check the gate?”

  “I already told you. I was in a hurry. And I already told you I was sorry.”

  She doesn’t say anything. So I say, “We didn’t raise enough money.”

  “Too bad,” Elaine says. “Now what?”

  I shrug. “Guess Brian will take the bus to Arizona.” I want to sit next to her and tell her how I was gonna go with him, but now I can’t. Instead, I say, “I’ll be on the roof.”

  • • •

  I flop into my beach chair. The sun is high and hot, but I don’t care. The beach umbrella keeps me in the shade. I look toward Brian’s house, and my chest feels heavy. I grab the binocs and look through them, hoping to see him on the roof. Not yet. I’ll wait. I know he’ll get there.

  I read a little Alice while I wait.

  Brian never shows up on the roof.

  • • •

  At supper, Dad taps his iced tea glass with his knife and says, “I want you all to know that I have finished the project and will be rolling it out sometime just before dark tomorrow.”

  That’s right. Tomorrow is the Fourth of July. Fireworks. I’d forgotten, what with all the sorrow over Jelly Bean. I love fireworks. I look at Elaine across the table. She is picking apart her meat loaf as usual. She always finds bits of gristle or fat or what she insists are lungs and brain parts in her food. We pretty much ignore her findings.

  Anyway, I’m hoping Elaine will smile. But no. Not even fireworks can make her feel better. But at least Dad seems a bit more cheerful. I think working in the garage helps him to not think about Bud and how much he misses him and worries about him.

  “So, Dad,” I say. “Will you tell us what you built?”

  He pulls his fork from his mouth and chews a second or two. “You will all find out tomorrow.”

  Mom slips Polly a piece of meat loaf. “I saw the flying saucer today. Joyce and that boy, Brian, went on with their UFO display.”

  Dad glares at me like he just caught me stealing. “You did what?”

  “It was for a good cause,” I say. “I did it so I could buy Elaine a new pig, but she doesn’t want one.”

  Mom dropped a second helping of meat loaf onto Dad’s plate. She often uses food, especially pie, to keep him from blowing his stack. “It was really very good,” she says. “Elaine designed it, and Brian built it. I think you’d have liked it.”

  That gets Elaine talking. “But she had no right to do it without me. It is my flying saucer.”

  “But I keep telling you I did it for you.”

  “And I keep telling you I don’t want a new guinea pig.”

  “Well, I can’t bring Jelly Bean back from the dead. I would if I could, but I can’t. I ain’t Jesus Christ.”

  Polly lets out two sharp barks.

  Elaine pushes her chair from the table. “Just shut up, jerk.”

  “No, you shut up, pig nose,” I say.

  I drop my fork onto my plate and sip on iced tea to hide the fact that I’m about to cry.

  My father slams his fist on the table. “You both stop. This instant.”

  Elaine runs off from the table and heads for the stairs.

  I look at my mom. I want her to say something. Anything that will make this whole mess better.

  “She’ll get over it, Joyce.”

  “No she won’t. Ever. And neither will I. My life is ruined.”

  Dad chuckles. “I doubt it.”

  I dig away at my mashed potatoes and make a small gravy river that swirls around my plate, catching peas along its path like they’re small rocks.

  “The boy has to move to Arizona,” Mom says to Dad.

  “Yeah,” I say, “because his brother’s dead and so is his mom, and his dad can’t take care of him anymore.”

  “It sounds like the poor kid has had his share of trouble.”

  “I wanted to help him get enough money to buy a carburetor so he could drive his truck and…” I push my plate away and get up from the table. “I ain’t hungry anymore. I’ll be on the roof.”

  • • •

  I am up on the roof not doing anything special except fuming about everything when I hear a noise in our alley. At first, I think it’s Dad, but it’s Brian. He is pulling a red wagon with the flying saucer in it.

  “Joyce,” he calls up to me.

  “Hey,” I say. “What gives?”

  He motions for me to climb down.

  I move quickly but not too quickly because it is almost dark.

  “I brought this back,” Brian says when I finally get down to earth. “You should keep it or give it to Elaine or something. Is she around?”

  “She’s probably in her room.” I swallow.
/>   “I decided to let my aunt Natalie buy the bus ticket.”

  I think for a second or two that Brian is gonna cry. “I’ll just leave the truck here. My father said he’d keep it in the back until I graduate from high school and maybe I can fix it then.”

  The back door opens, and a beam of light shines on Brian’s face. His eyes look tired, and he has smudges of grease on his face like he’s been working on the truck.

  “What’s going on?” It’s my dad.

  “I’m just returning this, sir,” Brian says. “Elaine should have it.”

  Dad moves closer to us and looks at the flying saucer. “So you built this?”

  “Yeah. From Elaine’s drawing.”

  Dad snorts a little air out his nose. “Yeah, that girl is somethin’. Draw anything.”

  “Well, gee,” Brian says. “I just wanted to—”

  “So Joyce tells me you need a carburetor.”

  “Yeah, but it looks like I’ll never get one.”

  “I might just have one,” Dad says. “What kind of truck?”

  “A Ford F-150, 1952,” Brian says. His voice rises a little. “But why would you—”

  “Used to own one of those beauties,” Dad says. “And a few others. Used to work on them all the time. I have some parts in the garage.”

  Brian just stands there. Dumbfounded or something. It is like he can’t find any words, so I say, “Really, Dad? You got one? I mean, you had one all along?”

  “Maybe. Let me take a look.”

  And I thought Mom was the one who kept everything. Now it turns out that Dad is a pack rat too.

  He is just about to open the garage door when he says, “I’ll go in through the house.”

  “His secret project is in there,” I say. “He is unveiling it tomorrow night, and we’re not allowed to see.”

  Brian and I wait. I am kind of hoping Elaine will come down, and she and Brian will make googly eyes at each other, and maybe things will get back to normal. Romance. I hate romance. But tonight, I’ll put up with just about anything if it will help.

  “I still want to go with you,” I whisper. “If Dad has the carburetor. I can’t stay here because, well, you know…because of stuff.”

  The door opens, and Dad emerges out of the yellow basement light, holding a crumpled box.

  “It’s all in there,” Dad says. “You’ll need to rebuild it, clean it real good, but it should work. Even some spare parts.”

  Brian takes the oily box from Dad. For a second, I think he might cry. He digs around and pulls out a weird, almost square contraption with lots of openings and flaps. He holds it up in the light. “That’s it. This will work, sir, thank you. But I can’t pay you.”

  “No need. Now you go on, and be sure to come around tomorrow night just before it gets real dark. I have a surprise.”

  “You want me to come around?”

  Dad puts his hand on his shoulder. “Sure. The whole neighborhood will be out. You’re part of the neighborhood, aren’t you? Tell your father to come too.”

  I look at Dad and Brian, and it reminds me of Dad and Bud and how they used to talk to each other and sock each other in the shoulder and make wisecracks. And I know I should feel good for them and even happy for Brian that he got his carburetor. But my insides hurt. I feel sad. Happy and sad at the same time, and it is hard to know which feeling is more important. So I don’t choose either one.

  Nineteen

  That night as I lie on top of the sleeping bag inside my tent, I think about heading out west with Brian. I even say a little prayer that he will get the truck fixed fast and we can leave.

  Morning arrives with a shaft of bright sunlight shining into my tent like car headlights. It is the Fourth of July—Independence Day. More importantly, fireworks day.

  The ladder is a little slippery from the dew, so I go down carefully.

  “Where’s Dad?” I ask when I get to the kitchen.

  “Basement,” Mom says.

  I sit at the table. Mom’s making French toast. She makes the best. With cinnamon and vanilla. I’m eating mine with butter and sugar this time. Everyone else uses maple syrup.

  Mom sets a plate in front of me. “Go on and eat. Elaine will be down soon. I heard her get up a few minutes ago.”

  “Big deal,” I say with a mouthful.

  “Don’t be that way, Joyce Anne. It takes time.”

  That’s when we hear it. An explosion. Of sorts. Not a big one. But loud.

  “What was that?” My fork drops onto my plate. And for an instant, I remember the doorbell and the army officers and the telegram and everyone being sad.

  Mom looks stunned for a second too, and then she says, “I’ll bet it has something to do whatever your father is doing down there.” BAM! Another one.

  I chew instead of talk and finish my two slices real fast. Mom drops two more onto my plate, and that’s when Elaine shows up. She is wearing a tube top and shorts. Mom gives her a scrutinizing look but doesn’t say anything. Elaine’s hair is tied back in a ponytail. She takes her usual seat and looks across the table at me.

  I look away the instant our eyes meet.

  “Did you hear that noise?” Elaine asks. “It scared me and—”

  “Dad,” I say.

  Elaine shrugs.

  “That boy was here last night,” Mom tells Elaine.

  “Brian?” Elaine says. And then she gets all dreamy-eyed again. “When? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “He came to see me,” I say, even though that wasn’t the whole truth.

  “He brought back your flying saucer,” Mom says as she sits at the table.

  “And Dad gave him a carburetor,” I say.

  Elaine doesn’t say anything right away. She looks at her plate and uses the tip of her fork to swirl melted butter into syrup. “That’s nice.”

  But I know she really doesn’t think it’s nice. I know she’s upset about it because it means Brian is going to head west and she doesn’t want him to do that.

  “Anyway,” Mom says, “don’t forget Dad’s big surprise this evening. He wants you kids to meet him out back before he unveils the surprise.”

  “OK,” I say. “I can’t wait. What is it, Mom?”

  Mom shrugs. “Don’t know. As long as it’s not more lamps, I don’t care.”

  • • •

  After breakfast, I think a little bit about going over to Brian’s. I figure he will be working on the truck. But, nah, I end up hanging out with Linda Costello mostly at her house. We listen to music and play with her stupid Barbie dolls, which I hate, but I do it because my mother told me it is nice to do things your friends want.

  I remind her to come by my house for my father’s big event—the grand unveiling of whatever he’s been building in our garage.

  “So what’s he got in there?” Linda asks as she pulls a tight-fitting purple dress onto her Barbie.

  “Nobody knows, but it’s going to be spectacular.” I kept tugging on a pink top, trying to get it over Barbie’s breasts, but it keeps getting stuck, which makes me think that it’s probably a good thing that no real girl has breasts like Barbie’s.

  “How do you know it’s gonna be spectacular? It might be a big, fat bust.”

  I laugh at the accidental pun Linda has made concerning my Barbie’s big bust. “No it won’t. You’ll see.”

  We play a little while longer before I tell her that I am still planning to go to Arizona with Brian as soon as he gets the truck running.

  She laughs at me.

  It hurts my feelings.

  “You’ll never go,” she says. “And besides, it’s a lame-brain idea. Your folks will never let you.”

  “I’m not gonna tell them,” I say.

  Linda pushes shoes onto her Barbie’s feet while I wrestle a looser-fitting yello
w blouse onto mine. “Hey,” she says. “What about my licorice and my Dots?”

  “Oh yeah,” I say. I guess I had hoped she’d forgot because my mother took the money and wants me to give it to poor kids, even though Dad says we earned it.

  Linda doesn’t want to hear any of that.

  “I think my mom put the money in the mason jar in the kitchen. My father says we should get it. Split it up between you and me, Elaine and Brian.” I grab a piece of paper and do the division.

  “That’s three dollars and twenty-four cents each.”

  “But the licorice is coming out of your half.”

  “Not half. Quarter. And all right. I’ll get your licorice.”

  I shove Barbie into her pink case and close it like a coffin. “Let’s go. I’ll get the money, and we’ll ride up to the candy store.” Anything is better than playing with Barbies.

  Linda jumps on her bike, which is leaning against the tree in her front yard. She rides slowly while I walk beside her.

  When we get to my house, she drops her bike on our sidewalk.

  Polly is in the yard. She barks hello.

  Linda pats her head. “Wish my parents would let me get a dog.”

  “Come on,” I say. “I’ll have to sneak the money.”

  We tiptoe into the house. Mom is not in the kitchen. The mason jar is on the counter with the money still inside. I twist off the lid and snag a dollar. Plenty for licorice. Then I count out Linda’s share and replace the lid, put the jar back and whisper, “Let’s get out of here. I’ll tell Mom I owed you. She’ll understand.”

  We tiptoe back outside. I hop on my bike, and off Linda and I ride.

  The candy store isn’t far. We ride down Oak Avenue and then cut across the Presbyterian church parking lot to the other side where the shortcut dirt road is. We pretty much ride side by side the whole way to the store and drop our bikes right out front. There are a few other bikes there also. The candy store is a pretty neat place. You have to walk down some concrete steps to get into the little shop, which is under a hardware store.

  The store is run by Mrs. Walker. We call her the Candy Lady. She has bright-yellow hair and wears bright-red lipstick. She likes to wear cowgirl shirts with rhinestones and sequins and fancy buttons. She always wears jeans and cowgirl boots, although there is nothing in the store that would make you think she had any other interest in cowgirl things, except one picture hanging on the wall of a Palomino horse with a little girl holding the reins. I figure there’s a story to be told, lurking behind that picture.