The Divorce Express

by Paula Danziger

  There are scads of people on the street. A lot of tourists. Summer people. Greens people (the ones who sit on the Village Green playing music and hanging out). The Orange people (who belong to some religious group that says they should only wear orange—and now cranberry—they own some sort of religious center nearby). Zen Buddhists, who also have a center. Regular Woodstockers, who become outnumbered by the summer people and tourists.

  We park the car behind Houst’s Hardware store. It’s so hard to find a parking space with all of these people. Now that I’m a full-time Woodstocker, I can see why some of them resent the tourists and summer people, although they bring in lots of money.

  We walk out through the alley. The town’s so pretty—the little shops; a lot of them look like they must have when the village was first built.

  Rosie’s already waiting. She rushes over. “The bus is going to be late again. We’ve got about a half an hour to kill.”

  “Not again.” I move out of the way of a tourist family who are trying to walk next to each other on the narrow sidewalks. “Rosie, this is my father.”

  “I’ve heard so much about you,” they say at the same time.

  Rosie puts her arm around a woman who has walked over to us. “This is my mother.”

  Rosie’s mother’s so beautiful. Long blond hair. Blue-violet eyes. Wearing a long patchwork skirt and leotard top, she looks like a model, except I know she’s not. Rosie told me she’s working as a waitress to earn money while she’s trying to write a children’s book.

  Our parents shake hands and introduce them-selves.

  “Jim.”

  “Mindy.”

  A guy with a camera around his neck comes up. He’s wearing plaid shorts and a striped top. “Could you please tell us where the Woodstock Rock Festival was held?”

  Mindy explains that the festival never was really held in or near town, that the community didn’t want it, so it was held on some pig farm in Bethel.

  The man thanks her and walks over to the Village Green to take pictures.

  I say, “I’d better call Mom and tell her I’m going to be late, not to worry.”

  My father says, “I’ll give her a call later.”

  Rosie’s mother frowns. “You’d better call your father, Rosie. I think that either he or his wife will be home. And remind him that his check is overdue, that I haven’t received it yet.”

  Rosie looks at me and crosses her eyes, careful that only I see.

  I know that the three of them—her father, her mother, and her stepmother—don’t get along.

  “Look,” says Rosie. “You don’t have to wait. I’ll call New York, and then Phoebe and I’ll go to the Laughing Bear Batik. I want to see if the shirt I love has gone on sale yet.”

  “Okay, just don’t miss the bus,” the parents say, almost in stereo.

  Rosie and I kiss our parents good-bye.

  “Nice meeting you,” we say to each other’s parents, and leave.

  We go into the News Shop to use the pay phone. Since it’s also the bus station, there are lots of different types of people sitting around. Most of the ones having coffee and something to eat at the counter are regulars. The people at the tables are sitting there with luggage, waiting for the bus, and reading, talking, eating.

  In the back a few people are checking out the rack of newspapers and magazines. I recognize two boys from school who are sneaking looks at Playboy.

  Rosie calls her father.

  I try to reach my mother but she’s not home.

  We walk through the crowd and head to the Laughing Bear.

  We go inside. On the left side of the store is Jarita’s Florist; the clothes are on the right. There’s no wall separating the two little shops. That makes it nice, a little crowded but nice.

  We sort of walk in sideways. It’s small and crowded with people. The clothes are all different colors, dyed and batiked. One year I bought Katie’s birthday present here—a pair of pajamas with feet, decorated with stars, moons, and rainbows.

  Rosie finds the shirt she wants. It still hasn’t gone on sale. It’s wonderful. Lavender with a unicorn batiked on it.

  “Darn it.” Rosie sighs.

  So do I. I’d love to buy it, too, but it’s more money than I can afford, especially since I’m still paying off the Krazy Glue incident.

  The saleswoman walks up to Rosie and puts her arm around her shoulder. “I try to keep the shirt on the bottom so people don’t see it right away. The sale on summer stuff should start in a few weeks. Maybe it’ll still be here then.”

  I come up with a solution. “Let’s pool our money, buy it together, and share the shirt. We can alternate weeks, or you can wear the back and I’ll wear the front.”

  “No way. I may want to be liberated, but there’s no way I’m going to walk around with a frontless shirt.” Rosie smiles.

  “Somehow I knew that.” I pick up the shirt. “So what do you think? We’ll buy it. You saw it first, so you wear it first. Take it this week.”

  The saleswoman says, “Why not flip a coin? That’s what a lot of kids who share purchases do. I’ll flip. You call.”

  Heads. I win.

  We pay for the shirt. The saleswoman takes a penny off the price of the shirt so it comes out even.

  As we leave the store I say, “I’ll wear it when I see Andy this weekend. Then I’ll wash it and give it to you so you can be the first person to wear it to school.”

  The bus arrives.

  We rush, getting in line.

  The line’s not too long. Most people don’t want to leave Woodstock when the leaves are turning. There’ll be more people coming in this weekend and more leaving on Sunday.

  Mostly kids are in line, about ten of them. There’s a little girl of about four holding on to her brother’s hand. He’s about seven. Two junior high girls are trying to finish their ice-cream cones before they enter the bus, and the driver tells them to throw them away. I recognize one or two kids from our school. Rosie was right though. We’re among the oldest on the Divorce Express. Some of the older kids drive in themselves.

  Rosie and I sit together.

  With all of the kids on the bus it’s like a school trip.

  The bus driver announces, “Cigarette smoking is allowed in the last four rows. There will be no smoking on this bus of any other substances, legal or illegal.”

  The driver pulls out, careful not to hit any of the crowds crossing the street.

  I wonder how my grandmother would have reacted to the driver’s announcement. I hope, if she ever comes up to visit, she takes the train, even though it would be a half hour drive to pick her up.

  All the way to New York, Rosie and I talk about our weekend plans. I’m so excited about seeing Andy, Katie, and the other kids. It seems like forever. And none of us has called the other since we last saw each other two weeks ago. I was so busy with all the new kids this week. Last time I saw the New York kids, they kept talking about all the work they had at the private school I used to go to. They kept making jokes about teachers I never had.

  Rosie’s excited because her father’s playing tenor sax at a club and she’s going to hear him.

  Two and a half hours later we go through the Lincoln Tunnel. It’s crazy, but we have to go through New Jersey to get to New York City. Even though I know it will never happen, I’m always afraid that the tunnel’s going to spring a leak.

  The bus goes over some of the dirtier New York streets and pulls into the Port Authority building.

  Everyone starts pulling luggage and bags off the overhead racks.

  Outside some start to line up by the side of the bus, waiting for the driver to open the compartments that store the larger luggage.

  Finally Rosie and I get out.

  Lots of parents are waiting to pick up the little kids.

  We walk through Port Authority. Crowds of people coming and going from buses. Waiting in lines. Sitting on chairs. Some of the people aren’t even going anyplace. They just hang ou
t. Bag ladies, carting all of their possessions in shopping bags or carts. There’s one guy who’s going through garbage cans, looking for something to eat. Cops patrolling. People selling flowers. Some little kid crying because his mother won’t buy him a pretzel. I wish they’d finish rebuilding this place. There are sections that are really nice, but I have to use one of the cruddy old sections.

  Rosie rushes off to catch a subway train to Greenwich Village.

  I get outside.

  Fresh air. Well, at least semifresh air. Well, at least it’s air.

  I take two buses to get to Mom’s Upper East Side apartment. The bus on the East Side is very different from the one on the West Side. Actually the buses aren’t different, just the people. It’s hard to explain. You see a lot more people wearing initial clothes on the East Side—the alphabet-soup gang.

  I have to stand, the bus is so crowded. My bag keeps hitting the person standing next to me.

  Finally I get off at my stop.

  Wilbur, the doorman, is on duty. He’s my favorite. I’ve known him since I was a little kid. He’s always been real nice to me, sort of like a grandfather. Both of mine died before I was born, so he’s the closest thing. Once I told that to Grandmother Brooks, and she said, “Ridiculous. How inappropriate to think of a common doorman as a grandfather of yours.”

  I’m glad that I hardly ever see her much. Since she’s moved to Florida, all we usually get are letters and phone calls.

  Wilbur opens the door. “Hi, Phoebe. How’s it going? Glued any desks down lately?”

  I put down my suitcase and stop. “No more. It caused too sticky a situation. I’ve reformed.”

  He groans, and I say, “How’s it going with you?”

  “I can’t complain. The missus and I just got back from a vacation. We visited our daughter and her kids in Spirit Lake, Iowa.”

  It’s kind of weird to think of Wilbur having a life outside the apartment lobby.

  Looking around to make sure that no one can hear him, he whispers, “People in this building are really fighting, now that there’s talk about going co-op.”

  Going co-op. That means that apartments that were rented may now have to be bought, like houses, with maintenance fees instead of rent payments. The owners will also have to pay mortgages. My mother likes the idea, thinks it would be a good investment as long as her business continues to do well. I worry though that some people may be evicted, especially some of the poorer people and some of the older people on fixed incomes.

  He shakes his head. “Neighbors yelling at neighbors. I’ve never seen the building like this. People not speaking to each other, pretending that they don’t see each other. I like New York better whenever there’s an emergency, like a power failure. At least then, the people band together and aid each other.”

  I think about Woodstock and how whenever there’s a problem, people hold benefits, auctions, and concerts and help each other out.

  He says, “You better go up now. Your mother’s called down here twice to see if you’ve arrived. I’ll call her on the intercom and tell her that you’re on your way.”

  I pick up my bag and wave good-bye as I hear Wilbur say, “Mrs. Brooks, your pride and joy is on the way up.”

  Oscar, the mean elevator man, is on duty so I don’t say a word to him. The only time he’s nice is around Christmas, when it’s time for tips.

  My mother’s waiting for me, with the door open.

  We hug.

  She hugs me so tight, I feel like my ribs are going to break. It’s nice being loved, but I hate to be bruised.

  When she lets go, I kiss her on the cheek, walk in, drop my bag in the foyer, and head for the kitchen. “I’m starved. What’s to eat?”

  “I stocked up with all your favorite snacks. But first please put your bag away. Does your father let you leave a mess?”

  Parents.

  I put the bag in my room and then we sit down and talk.

  As my mother tells me about her latest client, some guy who wants his Fifth Avenue apartment redecorated after his divorce, I notice that her hair’s getting grayer. It’s weird to think about parents getting older.

  I tell her about Rosie and how I’m starting to make new friends. I don’t mention how wonderful Woodstock looks with the leaves starting to turn colors. That was the only time she liked it up there, except for when she went antiquing.

  Protecting parents’ feelings can be a full-time job.

  She tells me of all her plans for the weekend—dinner tonight, then a movie. Clothes shopping tomorrow and then a matinee. She knows I want to go to a party tomorrow night, so she’ll go out with Duane, this guy she’s been dating since she redid his office. He doesn’t impress me, to say the least. In fact, I think he’s a real creep. He’s the kind of guy who donates money to educational TV but watches football games—and that’s one of his better qualities.

  My mother continues telling me what we’re going to do. Sunday brunch, and then she’ll make me an early dinner before I have to catch the bus.

  “Great,” I say, wondering when I’m going to have time to do my homework and not sure that I should tell her that my father and I have made dinner plans for Sunday.

  Before the divorce, and even when they both lived in New York, I had more time to do nothing with them. Now it all seems so busy.

  Oh, well, it’ll all work out. I’ll talk to Andy and Katie and then I can let my mother know if I have to change some plans.

  I go into my bedroom and call Andy. The line’s busy.

  I call Katie. Her line’s busy too.

  Taking the picture off my dresser, I sit down and look at it.

  It’s Andy and me on the school trip to Bear Mountain.

  Andy’s so cute—brown hair, brown eyes. He’s getting so tall. Over the summer he must have grown about three inches. When we used to slow-dance, I could put my head on his shoulder. Now it’ll be kind of under his armpit.

  He’s also really smart, nice, and a good kisser. It’s a shame we didn’t start going out until near the end of the school year.

  I can’t wait to see him.

  CHAPTER 8

  I finally got through to Katie and almost wish I hadn’t.

  I’m not sure what to do or feel.

  Katie and Andy have started going out together.

  The conversation started out normally. How’s school? What are you wearing to the party? Any good gossip? All the questions that I normally ask.

  Then she said, “Listen, Phoebe, I don’t know how to tell you this . . . .” And then she told me.

  I hung up on her.

  She called right back, but I told my mother to say I just left.

  When I get upset or angry, I need time to figure things out or I say things I don’t always mean, that I may regret later.

  What choices do I have?

  Do I tell them what creeps they are, what louses, traitors, cruds that are lower than earthworms? No—because they really aren’t like that. They’ve always been my friends because they’re wonderful people.

  Should I go to the party, pretend I don’t know them, and flirt with Charlie Shaw, who’s had a crush on me since second grade? No—I do know them, and it’s not fair to Charlie, who’s a nice kid but not my type.

  Should I try to find an excuse—like Andy’s only going out with her because she’s a real slime queen? She isn’t. She doesn’t. She has the same standards I do.

  Should I rant and rave and carry on, sob that my life is over and no one’s ever going to go with me again? No—that’s not my style.

  I’m not even sure of what I feel. I’m glad that ambivalent was on the English vocabulary list last week. It means having different feelings about the same thing. I guess that’s the way it is for me. I like them both and think they’ll be good for each other. Katie’s been my friend since kindergarten. Andy was only my boyfriend for a couple of months. Part of me, though, also wants to wring their necks. Another part of my New York life is changing. But that’s th
e way it’s got to be because now I have to face the truth. Woodstock is the place where I have to make a new life. Thank goodness for Rosie.

  What should I say to them? How should I handle this? Life certainly gets complicated. I guess that I’ll have to take it all as it comes.

  The phone rings again.

  My mother comes to my door. “Honey, it’s Andy. Is everything all right?”

  I shrug and debate whether to take the call. “I guess I’ll live. I’ll take the call. Please hang up the phone in the other room. I’ll take it in here.”

  Andy starts to explain right away, how they both missed me a lot and spent lots of time talking about me when school first started. Then they both were elected homeroom representatives and spent even more time together.

  I just listen, saying nothing except “Uh-huh.”

  He continues. “It’s hard with you gone. I want to go out and do things, and you’re not here. My parents kept yelling about my calling you, that the phone bill would be too high. It gets lonely and boring, and Katie’s a nice person—like you.”

  I say, “I guess it was kind of dumb to promise not to see other people.”

  “It just doesn’t work long-distance, but I hope we can always be friends.”

  “Sure. Me too,” I say, and realize it’s true. We’re only fourteen years old. It’s just the beginning. And I think that one of the reasons I didn’t make friends in Woodstock when school first started was because I gave off bad vibes about being there. Part of me really wasn’t there.

  After we hang up, I think for a minute, then pick up the phone to call Katie. A friend of my mother’s once said, after the divorce, that relationships with men may not always last but that a good friendship between women is like gold. I’m not sure if my mother agreed, but I thought about it a lot.

  Katie and I talk for about five minutes. We both cry a little, but I think it’s more from relief than sadness.

  She asks me if I’m still going to the party, that all the kids want to see me.

  That would be too hard. I couldn’t stand having everyone look at the three of us and think, Poor Phoebe. “My mother and Duane want me to go out with them,” I say, hoping it was true. “They’re going to a play. I’ll see you all the next weekend I come down.”