CHAPTER 2
The Divorce Express. I don’t have to board it this weekend because my mother’s on a business trip. It’s the bus that leaves Woodstock on Friday afternoons and returns on Sundays filled with kids who live with one parent in town and visit the other parent in New York City. It’s really public transportation, but because of all the kids, it’s nicknamed the Divorce Express.
Maybe not every place has a bus like it, but I know that there are other ways divorce kids travel to see parents. Planes. Cars. Trains. Subways. Cabs.
The transportation industry would be practically bankrupt if it weren’t for divorce. A presidential candidate could run on the platform that divorce is good for the economy. Make it seem patriotic to have kids, then split up. He or she’d probably win—especially since kids don’t vote.
This is my first weekend in Woodstock since school started and my father, the big game hunter who grew up in The Bronx, a part of New York City that is definitely not country, has just trapped a raccoon.
Not just any raccoon—my pet. At least I think of him that way. He came around a lot at night and even though he didn’t eat out of my hand, he was getting close.
Some people may not think that’s such a big deal, but it was to me. Ninth grade. A new school. All of my friends are back in New York City. I went away to summer camp again, so I didn’t meet new kids here—the all-year-round ones. I’ve been in school a whole week and know no one, except to sort of nod hello. It’s really rough. And I can’t even have a cat or dog because my father’s allergic. The only person I really know here is my father. It’s all so different and kind of lonely. I really looked forward to the nights when the raccoon came around. He was my only friend, and now he’s in a trap.
At least it’s a Havahart trap, so that his whole body is inside, instead of just his paws. My father said he wouldn’t use the other kind, where the paws get trapped and sometimes the animal chews off the paw to get out. But, any trap entraps. It’s so gross, I can’t stand it. I guess I should be thankful that he’s not hurt, but my father is still planning to take him away.
“Phoebe, honey,” my father says, motioning me to come over. “Look at it.”
“He’s got a name,” I snarl. “It’s Rocky. Let him go.”
“Rocky keeps knocking over the garbage even when the lids are tied down. He’s got to go.” My father runs his hand over his head. That’s a nervous habit he’s developed since he’s started going a little bald, like he’s checking to make sure there’s some left.
“Let’s keep the garbage in the house,” I say.
“Collection’s only once a week. It’ll stink.”
Personally I think you stink, I want to say to him, but don’t. Instead, I make another suggestion. “I’ll pick the trash up every morning before school.”
He shakes his head. “No. Last time you did that, you went back into the house and threw up from the smell.”
The raccoon is beating his body against the cage, trying to get out.
“The only reason I threw up was because of the smelly yogurt containers. I’ll wear a clothespin on my nose.” I pick up a twig, refusing to look at my father.
The yogurt containers. I came back from camp to find out that my father’s turned into a health nut—no red meat, almost no processed sugar, no cigarettes. Now our garbage is filled with healthy trash—granola boxes, bean sprout wrappers, mung bean, and tofu leftovers.
My father’s got that look on his face that means no fooling. “Phoebe, I’m taking Rocky over to Charlie in the morning and letting his dog sniff him, get the scent, and release him over there. He’ll get away with a fighting chance.”
I pick the bark from the twig. It’s no use. The dog’ll get Rocky’s scent and then when it’s hunting season, my raccoon will be a goner.
My father comes over and puts his arm around my shoulder.
I duck out from under it.
Rocky’s still throwing his body at the side of the cage.
I think about a line from a poem my English teacher read to us in class last year: “I know why the caged bird sings.” Then I miss New York City. New York, where you just dumped the garbage down the compactor and never thought about it. New York, where my best friend Katie lives. Where Andy, my boyfriend until I moved, still lives.
My father smiles. “Look, honey. The cage is made in Ossining, New York . . . the home of Sing Sing Prison.”
Snapping the twig in half, I fail to see the humor.
He tries again. “Come on, Phoebe, he’s got to go. Remember how he tore a hole in the screen door, got in, and practically destroyed the kitchen?”
It’s dark by now. I can’t see the trap but I can hear the banging noise.
“Tomorrow morning I’ll take Rocky away and you and I will go some place special.” My father tries to pat me on the shoulder.
I move away, throwing the pieces of twig on the ground.
Parents think they can bribe you into anything. Well, it’s not true.
I pick up my flashlight and walk across the lawn, careful not to trip over the newly delivered firewood.
My father follows.
The banging noise continues.
Going in the front door of the house, I walk into the living room and look out the window at the Ashokan Reservoir. It’s one of my favorite views, but tonight even that’s not enough to calm me down. Nothing can.
I go into my bedroom, slam the door, and throw myself on the bed. I stare at the Sierra Club calendar that my father gave me and wonder how he can do this to Rocky if he cares so much about nature.
I’m never going to talk to him again.
There’s knocking at my door. “Phoebe. Let’s talk. Or play Scrabble with me. You know you love to play Scrabble.”
DO NOT DISTURB says the sign that my father and I made up the time we worked out a system to allow each of us privacy. I open the door and put it on the outside knob, careful not to look at my father. Then I go back inside.
He yells, “I’m sorry, but we’ve got to do this. Rocky’s a nuisance.”
So are you, I think.
Finally I hear him go away.
I lie on my bed, on my side, staring at the picture my father painted of me sitting by the pool. He’s so hard to understand. This move has really confused me. I don’t even have a place to go if I run away. My friends in the city don’t have that much room. Anyway their parents would tell on me. My mother would just send me back. She’s too busy looking for perfect antiques for other people’s houses. I could sneak out in the middle of the night and free Rocky, but my father’d never forgive me and I’ve got to live with him. There’s no way to win.
Some days are just awful. This has been one of them.
CHAPTER 3
The phone rings, awakening me.
I look at the clock. It’s six thirty in the morning. There’s no one who’s going to call me at that time. It must be for the big game hunter. Let him get it.
The phone keeps ringing.
I put the pillow over my head.
Where is my father?
Why doesn’t he get it?
The phone keeps ringing.
I reach for it.
It falls off the nightstand.
As I go to pick it up I yell, “Hold on. I’ll be right there.”
It’s under the bed.
Finally I get it, making a sound that I hope passes for hello. Mornings are not my best time.
It’s my father. At first I figure he’s picked it up, finally. I listen to figure out what nitwit is calling at this hour.
The nitwit is my father.
“Phoebe, I’m over at the gas station. I took Rocky away this morning, early, so that you wouldn’t have to deal with the situation. Listen, don’t hang up on me. I’ve got something important to tell you.”
I listen, saying nothing, twirling the phone cord.
“Are you still there?”
“Yup. I just got to sleep after worrying all night.” Sometimes it
’s good to make a parent feel a little guilty.
There’s a pause. “I didn’t sleep well last night either. So about four o’clock this morning, I checked up on you. You were sound asleep,” he answers.
Sometimes a parent likes to make a kid feel guilty too.
“We’ll discuss all of that later,” he says. “Right now though, we’ve got a problem.”
I thought we already had a problem.
He continues. “Charlie says that Rocky’s not a he, she’s a she.”
He woke me up to tell me that?
Sometimes he’s very hard to understand.
I mumble something without really saying anything.
“She’s a nursing mother,” he says. “The babies will die if I don’t bring her home. It’s probably crazy, but I’m bringing her back. We’ll get stuck with Rocky and her babies knocking over our garbage . . . but I just can’t let them die.”
I wake up. “Oh, Daddy . . . . Thank you.”
He sighs. “We’ll be home soon. Why don’t you get breakfast going?”
“I’ll make you the best breakfast ever.” I want to hug him.
“See you soon,” he says. “Phoebe, I love you.”
“Me too—I love you too. I think you’re wonderful,” I gush.
“Look, honey, I’ll be home in a few minutes. I’m just going to stop off for the Sunday paper.”
After we hang up, I jump out of bed and get dressed, putting on my new jeans and sweat shirt, which I was saving for a special occasion.
The sweat shirt’s a little tight, the way they always are when they’re not broken in. Pulling it out, I try to stretch it.
That’s one of the reasons that I need to have a best friend in Woodstock. That’s what best friends do—help you stretch your sweat shirts . . . talk . . . have pimple-squeezing sessions.
I really miss Katie, my best friend in New York City. We used to do lots of things together, like the time we took five rolls of toilet paper and completely covered her older sister’s room with it. And the time we roller-skated in the fountain in Central Park. We could also be serious. Like when my parents were getting a divorce and when her father found out he had cancer. We really helped each other through both of those things. Sometimes I want to slug the grown-ups who say that childhood is so easy and fun. It isn’t.
I know that Rocky’s not the answer. A raccoon can’t do the things Katie and I used to do together, but at least having her around will make me feel better until I do make a friend.
I rush into the kitchen and start the breakfast—melon, peppermint tea, carrot juice, pumpkin bread, and an omelet—all things that I know my father loves.
When the car pulls up in the driveway, I rush out and hug my father.
We get the cage out of the car trunk.
Rocky’s not moving much. I’d be pretty scared and tired, too, if I’d been through all that.
My father takes a stick to open the cage door. “Stand back, Phoebe. She may be angry. I don’t want to have to take one of us to Kingston General Hospital with a raccoon bite.”
The cage door opens.
We step back.
Rocky just sits there.
My father prods her with the stick.
Looking carefully at us, Rocky steps out.
She’s so cute—those little paws, the way her face looks like she’s a bandit with a mask.
She’s not moving.
I kneel down and talk to her. “Go, Rocky. Go back to your babies.”
“She’s afraid to lead us to them. Let’s go inside.” My father takes the paper out of the car.
We start walking down the path, arm in arm.
I turn around.
Rocky’s rushing off.
“Daddy, thank you.” I pat his arm. “I promise to clean up the messes.”
“I’m going to have a trash bin built.” He sighs. “Then we won’t have to worry. We should have done that from the beginning. I just didn’t want to spend the money on it.”
“We can leave some leftovers out for Rocky and her babies.” I open the back door to the kitchen-dining area.
My father goes inside.
I follow.
He’s talking to himself. “Full-time country living takes some getting used to. It’s so different. I hope I made the right choice.”
Me too, I think, making the omelet. Sometimes late at night I think about what it would be like if we could move back. But when I mentioned it, he got upset. So now I just think it, I don’t say it.
I make the omelet while my father starts The New York Times crossword puzzle. Scrambling the eggs, I mix them with onions, mushrooms, pepper, and cheese.
Now that there are just the two of us, I do a lot of the cooking.
The breakfast’s on the table. It looks great but I’d love to have bacon. My father’s turned into a semi-veggie, so I have to wait till I go to New York for my meat fix.
My father tastes the food. “This is really good. Listen, there’s a terrific band playing tonight at the Café Expresso. Let’s go.”
“I’d love to.” It’ll be like a date with my father.
“I’m going to spend the day painting. Mind making the dinner tonight? I’ll be on food detail tomorrow.”
“Leave it to me.” I clear the table. “It’s going to be a meal you’ll never forget.”
CHAPTER 4
Whenever I cook, I think of Missy Mandelbaum. She was the only kid in the Shake, Bake, and Make elective back in my old school who got an A-plus. I wish she were here now to help me prepare this meal. It may turn into a dinner my father will never forget because it’ll be the pits.
I’m not a fantastic cook—or even a good one. In fact, I’m a pretty lousy cook. I’ve been trying, but it’s not easy.
Before the divorce I helped out in the kitchen, but helping out is not the same as making an entire meal.
How do people get complicated meals together, set the table, and smile at the same time?
I started out my cooking career after I returned from camp. Macaroni and cheese from the package was my first solo attempt. “Not bad,” my father said, so I made it every night for three nights. “Boring,” he said, so I made it the next time with tuna fish, thinking maybe he wouldn’t notice that I was still using boxed macaroni and cheese.
He noticed. He also read the ingredients on the package.
“Enough” was his response.
Now I’m trying out new menus, but there have been several disasters, like the time the recipe said “Blend the salad” and I threw it in the blender. That night we had salad soup.
I want everything to be special tonight, to celebrate Rocky’s release and going to the Café Expresso to listen to live music.
The main course is easy. Cheese fondue. The bread cubes are cut and the cheese is grated. All I have to do is melt the cheese down with some wine in the chafing dish. The vegetables are cut and ready to steam. The salad is made, tossed—not thrown in a blender.
It’s the dessert that’s driving me nuts. My father loves mocha Bavarian cream, even if he is trying to stay away from sweets. It should be easy to make. My mother never had any problems with it. The recipe calls for two tablespoons of strong coffee and heavy cream. I’ve used the beaters on it, but it looks pretty weird.
I put my finger in the mixture and lick it.
It tastes pretty weird.
Times like this (and other times), I miss my mother.
She’s out of town on a job and left a number to call in case of emergencies.
This dessert is a disaster.
Disasters are emergencies.
Therefore I can call her.
I dial the number my mother’s given me.
I ask the person who answers to please put my mother on the phone.
The voice that answered sounded southern. I sometimes wonder about the people my mother decorates for. What they look like . . . what their houses looked like before . . . what they look like after she’s done . . . . Sometimes I
resent the people because my mother has to meet with them when it’s convenient for them—like on a weekend I’m supposed to spend with her.
Finally my mother comes to the phone. “Phoebe, what’s wrong?”
“Hi, Mom,” I say. “How are you?”
“Out of breath from running to get to this phone.” She takes a deep breath. “Is everything all right? Are you okay? Has anything happened to your father?”
I realize that I’m probably going to be in deep trouble for making this call. “Mom, everything’s okay. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m trying to make mocha Bavarian cream and I’m having trouble. I need your help.”
There’s a long pause, a very long pause.
“Mom, you don’t have to help me if you don’t have time,” I say.
“You shouldn’t have called me at a client’s home unless it was an emergency. I was frightened to death. You should be more responsible.”
“I’m sorry.”
There’s another pause and then a sigh. “Okay, just don’t do it again.”
“I promise,” I say. “And, Mom, I guess I just wanted to talk to you. I miss you.”
As I say that, I realize it’s true. I do miss her. Whenever I’m with one parent, even if I’m having fun, there are times when I miss the other one.
She calms down. “I know, but you should have called tonight at the hotel, not here. Use the emergency numbers just for that.”
“I promise. Honest.” Sometimes parents think they have to tell you something twelve times before it sinks in.
“Now, as long as you’ve already gotten me out of the consultation, tell me what the problem is with the recipe.”
I explain. “I took out the coffee beans, ground them up, and put them in the cream and beat them. The mixture tastes awful, gritty and yucky, not the way it is when you make it.”
She laughs. “Phoebe, you’re supposed to make the coffee first and then put in two tablespoons of liquid. That’s what went wrong.”
No wonder.
I feel like a real airhead.
She keeps laughing.
The Divorce Express Page 2
