Dicey's Song

by Cynthia Voigt

  “Does she have to go to school?”

  “You know better than that, girl. Be sensible.”

  The waitress came and took their plates away. She asked did they want some dessert. Gram said no, thank you, and the waitress went away.

  Dicey leaned her elbows on the table. She didn’t know what Gram was going to think of, what she was going to say next. “I don’t think Maybeth is learning anything,” she said.

  “I agree,” Gram said.

  “When I was explaining fractions, she didn’t learn anything,” Dicey said. “But I had the feeling — if I could do it a different way, then she would.” She stopped.

  “Go on, keep telling me,” Gram urged.

  “Well I wonder — those lists of words she’s supposed to memorize. I don’t think she can learn them.”

  Gram was watching her so hard, Dicey felt like she was sitting too close to the fire. “So if she has a school tutor, wouldn’t she teach Maybeth the same way?” she concluded.

  Gram leaned back and smiled. “Exactly. I just wanted to see if I was the only one thinking that. Sometimes, I get crazy ideas, and I know how stubborn I am.”

  “But we can’t afford another tutor, can we?” Dicey asked. “Because she shouldn’t give up her piano lessons, because I won’t let you do that.”

  “Who said I wanted to do that?” Gram demanded. “Give me some credit, girl. What did your momma do about Maybeth?”

  “She’d pretend it wasn’t happening.”

  Gram thought about that. “Now we know two ways that don’t work,” she said, finally.

  Dicey giggled. Gram gave Dicey one of her sudden smiles.

  “We should have had James along,” Dicey said. “He’s the one with ideas.”

  “I needed just you for this today,” Gram said. “We’ll confer with James when we get home, but I wanted — besides, we never get to talk much, do we.”

  “You’re kept pretty busy,” Dicey said excusing her grandmother. “And I haven’t been much help to you,” she admitted.

  “Well, I’ll tell you, Dicey, I’d be happy not to bother you with this. You’ve already done a lot for your brothers and sister. I don’t say that to you, but I think it.” Dicey felt her face grow hot, and she looked down at her glass. She stirred the ice cubes around with her straw. What was she supposed to say?

  Nothing, apparently, because Gram went right on. “But I’ll tell you something else, too. Something I’ve learned, the hard way. I guess” — Gram laughed a little — “I’m the kind of person who has to learn the hard way. You’ve got to hold on. Hold on to people. They can get away from you. It’s not always going to be fun, but if you don’t — hold on — then you lose them. Now, let’s get going.”

  Dicey wanted to stay, then, and ask Gram what she meant. Not about holding on, because Dicey could figure that out, but what she meant to be saying about herself. Did Gram wish she had held on to her own children? To Bullet and Momma — did Gram think that would have made any difference to Momma up in that hospital, or Bullet dead in Vietnam? And what about her son John, whoever he was, wherever he was?

  But Gram wasn’t waiting for any questions, she was walking on out to pay the bill. Dicey gathered up the bags and followed.

  She thought Gram would go back to the bus stop then, but instead her grandmother went along the fancy department store, past purses and hats, past sweaters, past racks of dresses and mannikins leaning over in impossible poses. She went right into an area where nightgowns and robes hung out, and slips and bras and underpants and girdles. She went right up to a counter and turned, waiting for Dickey to join her. A saleslady came over, her hair brushed high and wavy and held in place by spray so thick it glistened. “May I help you?”

  “My granddaughter needs a bra,” Gram said.

  Dicey looked away. She looked back at Gram, angry. She looked at the saleslady, who was staring at her. She glared at Gram. This was a trick, a rotten trick.

  The saleslady took out a tape measure and measured Dicey. She made clicking noises. Dicey raised her chin, ignoring the woman. Gram pretended to be looking into a counter, but since the counter was filled with thick girdles laid out, like the steaks in Millie’s store, Dicey knew Gram was just pretending. She tried to think of how to get out of the situation. She could run away, she supposed. But she didn’t have any money with her and how would she get home? She could start a fight with Gram right here — but Gram wasn’t enjoying this any more than Dicey was. Dicey could tell that by the way she was pretending to be especially interested in a girdle that was black and lacy, that hooked up the front from your hips to your bosom.

  The saleslady brought out a handful of bras and asked them to step back to the dressing room, to try them on. Gram wanted to refuse, Dicey saw that as clear as day. “I’ll wait here,” Gram said.

  Dicey felt mean. “You better come with me,” she said. Gram’s chin went up, and she came along. If Dicey hadn’t been so uncomfortable herself, she would have laughed.

  They bought three bras, three little scraps of nylon at four dollars each. Dicey, who agreed to keep one on since it was either that or have a fight with both Gram and the saleslady at the same time, figured it served Gram right. If she was going to insist that Dicey wear a bra, then Dicey wasn’t going to feel sorry at how much money it cost. If Dicey was going to have to go around feeling like a dog with a collar on, Gram could just pay for it, and Dicey wasn’t going to apologize.

  They left the lingerie department silently. Then Gram led Dicey up the escalator to the second floor. Dicey followed without any questions. Let Gram be angry at her. She didn’t care, after that trick.

  Gram went into a girls’ section, where the mannikins were of teenagers wearing slacks or party dresses. They were in the same poses as the mannikins for ladies, which Dicey thought was pretty stupid. The dresses were pretty stupid-looking too. The slacks — well, anybody who would pay the price for those when they could wear jeans was stupid.

  Gram went over to a rack and pulled out a denim jumper. “Come over here, girl, and put down those packages.” She held the jumper up in front of Dicey. It was too short.

  Yet another saleslady came over and asked if she could help. This one wore loops and loops of necklaces and loops and loops of bracelets. She jingled as she walked.

  “Try one of these on,” Gram instructed Dicey. “We don’t know her size,” she said to the lady.

  The lady jingled around to measure Dicey with her eyes. She picked out a jumper and told Dicey to follow her. This time, Dicey didn’t insist that Gram come too. It was going to be hard to keep on being angry.

  The dressing room had mirrors and mirrors and mirrors. Dicey looked at herself, in her boy’s shirt and shorts. She didn’t look too terrific. Her sharp face was reflected back to her, from all angles, front and sides. She could see herself from the back. Her raggedy hair, her old shorts — at least the bra didn’t show. The saleslady slipped the jumper over her head and marched Dicey out to show Gram.

  “Looks all right,” Gram said. She had sat down in a chair with something brown laid over the big bags beside her. “Do you like it?” she asked Dicey.

  “But Gram —” Dicey started to protest.

  “You going to answer my question?”

  “Yes, of course, I do, you know that.” Gram grunted. “But Gram —” How could she tell Gram not to spend the money when the saleslady was listening?

  “I went to your school one day,” Gram said.

  “I saw you,” Dicey answered.

  “I didn’t see anybody in shorts,” Gram said. “I saw some in jeans, lots in skirts and dresses. I kind of liked the way these jumpers looked. They look sturdy.”

  Dicey tried to stop the smile that was about to take over her face. She kept her mouth still, but she had the feeling her eyes were giving her away.

  “She’ll need a couple of pairs of those high socks,” Gram told the saleslady. “In blue. Will you try this on too?” she asked, holding out th
e brown thing.

  It was a dark brown dress, made out of some soft material that looked like velvet but was thicker. The dress had a white knitted collar and matching cuffs; it had a brown belt that went with it.

  “I don’t need a dress,” Dicey said.

  “I just asked you to try it on,” Gram insisted.

  Dicey cooperated, mostly because she wanted to show Gram that she appreciated the jumper. The saleslady hung around while Dicey unbuttoned her shirt, then struggled into the long sleeves. The lady zipped Dicey up the back and watched her put the belt around her waist.

  “Now that’s more like it,” the lady said.

  Dicey looked in the mirrors. The dark brown of the dress was like the soil in Gram’s garden, where Sammy had turned it over. The heavy-soft fabric hung close to her body. Her bosom showed a little, and the belt at her waist made her look curved. She looked unfamiliar to herself, the kind of plain that was really fancy. She stood, biting her lip, looking at the girl in the mirror.

  “Go show your grandmother that,” the saleslady said, obviously pleased.

  Dicey walked out again, feeling foolish, feeling different.

  Gram just nodded, as if she had expected to see exactly what she saw.

  The saleslady waited for one of them to say something, then said it herself: “She’s a pretty child.”

  Dicey looked up, alarmed.

  “I don’t know why they dress the way they do,” the saleslady said to Gram, leaning confidentially over in an adult-to-adult position.

  Gram looked up at her. “You don’t? I do.”

  The lady’s mouth tightened, and she jingled herself up straight again.

  “Those shoes,” Gram said to Dicey, her mouth twitching. “We’ll have to see what we have at home. I like it, girl.”

  “Me too,” Dicey said. She spread her hands down the soft fabric over her hips. “But — ”

  “We’ll take the two, then,” Gram said, “and the socks.”

  Dicey went back to change into her shorts and shirt. She felt utterly confused, but not displeased. She remembered to thank Gram, but her grandmother ignored that, except for a nod of the head. “I don’t know when I’ll wear it,” Dicey said.

  “That’s all right,” Gram answered. “You’re not going to grow that fast any more. It’ll wait.”

  They went down the escalator and back out into the mall. “Can we go home now?” Gram asked Dicey, as if Dicey were the one who had thought up these errands.

  Dicey just grinned. Then, walking along beside her grandmother, she had an idea: “We can’t tell James we know what he did, can we? Or why.”

  “I agree,” Gram said. “And we should tell Sammy we know, but we have to do it. . . . ”

  “Indirectly,” Dicey finished.

  “It’s not as if we want him to go out and get into fights,” Gram agreed.

  They waited by the bus stop. The wind had gotten colder, like knives with edges. Dicey tried to ignore the cold in her legs. “What do we want to tell him?” she asked.

  “That the way he is is all right, good and bad. That Sammy is who we want him to be, not some idea that teacher has of who he should be. I didn’t much care for her. But I’m not known for liking many people. That he doesn’t need to change himself for us to think he’s all right.”

  That was it exactly, Dicey thought. “You know about us,” she said to Gram.

  The bus rolled up then, and they climbed into it. Dicey sat by the window again. She didn’t interrupt her grandmother’s thoughts until they were almost outside of the city limits. “Gram?”

  Gram turned her face to Dicey.

  “I understand what you mean about holding on. It is what I want to do,” Dicey said.

  “I think so,” Gram remarked.

  “And Gram?”

  Her grandmother turned back again.

  “We’ll ask James what he thinks about Maybeth tonight. After the little kids are in bed. He’ll have an idea.”

  “He’ll have seven ideas, if I know him,” Gram remarked. She turned away, leaving Dicey to her own thoughts. One of Dicey’s thoughts was to wonder what it was that Gram was thinking so hard about. They were about halfway to Crisfield before she got the answer.

  “There’s one other thing we have to talk about, girl,” Gram’s voice spoke in her ear. Dicey jerked herself back from her mental picture of the little boat, newly painted, next summer.

  “What’s that?”

  “You.”

  “I’m all right,” Dicey said.

  “You’re on my list,” Gram said, with a small smile. “It’s not just the bra, Dicey.”

  Gram’s cheeks were pink.

  “The bra is just the beginning,” Gram said.

  Dicey understood. She grinned at her grandmother, who opened her mouth to protest. (“I’m not joking, girl,” that was what her grandmother was going to say, Dicey knew it.) “It’s OK, Gram,” she said, glad that she could make this at least easier for Gram. “I know about menstruating.”

  Gram nodded and shut her mouth. Then she took a deep breath and opened it again.

  Dicey cut her off. “And I know about sex,” she assured her grandmother.

  Gram looked doubtful, hesitated, started to speak, stopped, started again.

  “I’ll tell you what I think,” Dicey said, to help Gram. “You can decide if there’s stuff I should know more about.” She wasn’t enjoying the conversation any more than Gram was. “I think that, even though I know how it works, sex — I don’t know how it feels.”

  Then Dicey heard what she had just said, and she felt her face burn hot. Now Gram was smiling.

  “I mean, how it feels to want to. I mean — I don’t know — I’m much too young,” Dicey wailed.

  “That’s all right then,” Gram said. “You would ask if you had any questions.”

  Dicey nodded.

  “Because I get the feeling you’re not too pleased about growing up,” Gram said.

  Dicey looked out over the tall marsh grasses, blowing in the wind. If the wind blew, the grasses had to bend with it. She wondered how they felt about that. “It’s just,” she said to her grandmother, “I have the feeling that I know who I am, only I’m not any more.”

  CHAPTER 5

  MR. LINGERLE stayed to have supper with them, stayed for music after supper, stayed even after Sammy and Maybeth had gone upstairs to bed. Dicey regretted having built a fire, when she came back into the living room to see him sitting in front of it. He leaned toward the crackling logs with a dreamy expression on his face. Gram was coming out of the kitchen with another cup of coffee for the man. She looked at Dicey and shrugged her shoulders. What did that mean? Dicey wondered.

  Mr. Lingerle took the cup and said, for about the tenth time, “I should be going.”

  “Have I thanked you properly?” Gram asked him.

  “For what? For staying out here today? I enjoyed myself. Didn’t I, James?”

  “I think he did,” James assured his grandmother. He and Dicey were playing a game of parchesi on the rug in front of the fire. Dicey’s right side felt hot, and her left side felt cool, and that reminded her of every other time she had sat in front of fires. She kind of liked the way fires went to extremes: either it was too hot or too cold. It had been the same way with the big kerosene stove they used the heat their drafty cabin back up home, in Provincetown. She rattled the dice in her cup and let them roll out onto the board. James looked at her roll and then studied the board to see what moves her men might make.

  “James,” Gram spoke. He looked up. “Dicey and I were talking about Maybeth today, and we thought you might have some ideas.”

  Mr. Lingerle put down his cup, so fast the china clattered. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize,” he said. He started to push himself up, out of the chair. “I’ve stayed too long, I was just too comfortable, I’d better be going.”

  Dicey knew she shouldn’t have been surprised at his quick perception of what Gram was saying; but she was.
She kept making the same mistake, she guessed, thinking that because he was heavy and clumsy in his body, he was the same way in his mind. She should have known better, from listening to his piano playing, if for no other reason, or the way he joined in with harmony when they sang. Or the way Maybeth trusted him, she reminded herself.

  Gram answered Mr. Lingerle. “You might as well stay. You know Maybeth, so you might be able to help.”

  He hesitated, rocking up and back to get out of the chair, then sitting back, then lurching forward again.

  “I thought about it, young man, before I brought up the subject.”

  “If you wanted me to leave, you’d say so, wouldn’t you?” Mr. Lingerle asked. He answered himself. “Yes, you would. I don’t know you well, but I know you that well.”

  Gram just waited for him to finish. “Now, about Maybeth,” she began. She told them what Maybeth’s teacher had said, and the notion she and Dicey shared about Maybeth not being able to learn the way this school taught reading.

  While Gram was talking, James quietly picked up the pieces and dice, the cups and the board, and put them back into their box. Dicey didn’t say a word. Neither did Mr. Lingerle.

  “She said Maybeth is flunking?” James asked at last. “She said that?”

  “Not exactly. She said, at this rate, Maybeth could never complete the work for third grade.”

  “It’s only November,” James protested. “How can she know? What’s she like, anyway, this Mrs. Jackson?”

  “She’s perfectly ordinary. Except, she’s one of those people who think that if you just work hard enough, everything will go your way,” Gram said. “That’s why Maybeth puzzles her. Upsets her.”

  “What’s wrong with Maybeth, anyway?” James demanded.

  Dicey thought she knew what he was thinking — that Maybeth was like Momma. “Nothing’s wrong with her,” she said quickly. “You know that and I know that, James.”

  “All right,” he agreed, looking down at his hands. “It’s just — besides, she’s making friends, isn’t she?”

  “She’s slow,” Dicey said. “We’ve always known that. Slow at school.”

  “Because she’s shy,” he pointed out.