But right in front of me on the sidewalk a German shepherd on his hind legs was prancing behind a white terrier mutt who was attached to his bottom, in other words, two dogs were stuck together at the butt and going in the same direction. They looked like they were in the wheelbarrow race at the Girl Scouts’ picnic. I had a book of dog stamps at home, so I was at least able to identify the breeds. The terrier was yelping; its front paws running in a trot, like it was on a hampster wheel. The little dog kept glancing around at his butt, terrified and embarrassed, even as he tried to escape from it, like he might be thinking: how did I get this other dog stuck to my butt? How did he? How did that happen, exactly?
Then I saw someone run out of one of the houses—it was Mr. Devon, the doctor, chasing them both with a cup of water in his hand, which spilled over the edges. As I passed Peggy Cullen’s house, I could see her between the curtains of the huge glass window gawking at the dogs as they yelped by. I straddled my bike and waved. Peggy was about our age. She and me and Jeannie sometimes played together in the summer, even though Peggy played in the tennis tournaments at Westridge School across the street and lived in a neat house with rugs and non-stained couches. She stepped down the red brick walk between her short and exceptionally green lawn.
“Can you figure that one out?” I asked. “How’d they get stuck?”
“Yeah,” she confided, coming right up to me and whispering. “That’s how grown-ups do it.”
“Do what?”
“You don’t know?”
Mr. Devon stepped in front of the dogs, and with one hand grabbed the small terrier by one paw, stopping them both from going any further. Then he poured water over the bridge of the dogs’ butts. That poor little dog whined and slunk away, its tail between its legs.
“That’s how adults make babies,” Peggy said like she knew.
“What?” I tried to imagine how that would work. “That’s disgusting. They get naked?”
“They strip their clothes off and put their private parts together.”
“Gross!” I looked at her to see if she was pulling my leg. She shrugged. So it was true! This was just getting worse and worse. What humiliation will they think of next?
When I got to the door of the rehearsal hall, the little girls in their pink tights were already at the bar, in first position, completely unaware of what lay in store for them once they got big enough to start growing hairs down there. Mrs. Smider was waiting for me, her pointed stick in hand. I was hoping she wouldn’t notice the bulge in my tights from the sanitary napkin, or if she did, that she wouldn’t call attention to it. And I thought: Mrs. Smider knows all about this. She has hairs down there. She has a period, too. She’s old enough to have a husband. Not only has she been kissed and knows what that feels like, she knows all about “doing it.” She’s probably “done it” herself a few times.
Everything looked completely different to me now.
When I got home, Mother was in the bathroom. I thought I heard her barfing.
My first thought was: I hope she doesn’t give the flu to me. One thing about the flu in our family: when one person gets it, it’s just a matter of time before everybody is spitting up all over the place. Then I felt sorry for her. I hate the flu. And now that we’re talking about it, when does Mother ever get to have any fun?
She was kind of quietly barfing. Then I heard her turn on the faucet, probably washing her hands. And I think she just sat there on the toilet with the lid closed. She was kind of talking to herself softly. It made me wonder about the guy she was married to before. Although why would she be talking to him in the bathroom?
“Hey, Mom, are you okay in there?” I called to her. But she didn’t answer this time. “Mom?” She used to tell me how she admired the Blessed Mother because the Blessed Mother “pondered things in her heart.” So maybe Mother had been pondering and ended up talking to herself.
“Mom? Is there someone in there with you? The next thing I knew, the door was opening and she came walking out. I looked up at her with my books on my lap as she closed the door behind her. She just smiled down at me.
Maybe she was talking to her first husband in there.
“Were you… talking to someone?”
“I was talking with someone,” she admitted.
“Really? Who?” But Mother didn’t answer. Strangely, she was standing still there, just having a conversation with me. “Is she—or he—still in the bathroom?” I asked, trying to see in through the crack in the door. Her hands were in her apron pockets, one on each side of her stomach.
“No, he or she is right here.” She patted her belly.
It took a moment for it to sink in. I stood up, and my books fell to the ground. I put my arms around her.
“Oh, Mom! A new baby! When is it due?”
“March, next year.”
“Number fourteen! A boy or a girl?”
“Only God knows.”
“Oh, I hope it is a girl!”
A new baby. Mom was going to have a new baby. This would change things.
Now we would be tied with the Feeneys.
Chapter 16
a surprise for rosie
July 13 – Dear Blessed Mother, Somebody important from Washington went to Russia to talk about a treaty on nuclear bombs. He brought three tons of American equipment to set up the red telephone hotline between Washington and Moscow. I hope it works, because I have been losing sleep over the possibility of being turned “ashes to ashes and dust to dust” (“If the Lord won’t take you, the devil must”) under a mushroom cloud while I’m dreaming. Good thing we’re still saying our rosaries for the Russians, because you can’t trust those Commies. Clara’s been gone for about a week, and we all miss her. But something fun and exciting is about to happen, and it’s an absolute secret. Rosie is having a birthday party on the weekend, (July 13th) and she doesn’t know anything about it.
Rosie is the smallest in her class of seven-year-olds, and somehow, looking at her short self amidst her lanky classmates, I realized that when Rosie was born, Daddy and Mother named her perfectly. Rosie, to me, seems like the name of someone you treasure and love.
The best part about Rosie is her brown eyes. They’re soft looking, like a deer. When she looks up at you, quietly and patiently, you just wonder what she could be thinking. Being that she’s so small, has such big eyes, and goes around a little shell-shocked about everything, you can’t help but feel sorry and affectionate towards her at the same time. She lives in the same mess and chaos we all do, but she gets lost in it. That could be it. Maybe there are just too many of us, too much noise, too many saints who are perfect in the midst of too much dirty-everything everywhere you go, and the whole scenario is overwhelming for Rosie.
At home she drifted, like a lazy shadow on a hot afternoon. As if she was waiting for something to happen. Which it usually did. Rubber band fights broke out regularly after school, with somebody crying at the end, or being put down for a nap. Once, she went missing for a few hours and I found her in the tool shed, standing next to the boxes in the dark, sucking her thumb. She had been playing Hide ‘n Seek and was still hoping someone would find her.
Everyday after dinner you had to light a fire under her butt, and you had to say to her, “Rosie, it’s time to do your homework now.” Maybe she was on the couch, recovering from the rosary and all the images of Christ being walloped by a whip on his bare back or having huge nails pounded into his hands. That kind of violence could be tough for a seven-year-old, especially if you have a good imagination. I’m not sure how I got through it myself; I was always cringing at all the blood and torn flesh. But Rosie would sit there, staring at nothing, holding her patch of blanket. All that was left of her babyhood was about four inches of unraveling, faded green/yellow plaid cloth. She held onto it wherever she went and didn’t even try to hide it. Everyday as we counted heads after packing into the Volkswagen on the way to school in the morning, on the list to check was “Rosie’s blankie.” One of us wo
uld gently take it out of her hand and say something like, “We’re just going to take your blankie and keep it safe so it will be here for you when you get home from school.” The expression in her eyes, as she looked back at all our faces surrounding her in the car every morning, was terror.
So I’m not sure, but maybe Mother noticed this about Rosie and thought a surprise party would bring her out of herself.
I jumped at the chance to try making something for her birthday. Ever since we visited the artist in Glendale, I began seeing things, like the shape of the branches on the oak tree and how they looked like bony arms scratching at the sky. Or the shades of gray and brown on the bark of the Eucalyptus tree. I couldn’t wait to put something together out of some rocks and twigs and white paint from a watercolor set that I bought with my babysitting money. Everyday after school, I went down to the bomb shelter; I got this feeling inside of me, a certain excitement. No one knew where I was. As I walked down the steps to the lower level, I could feel the coolness of the cement against the earth surrounding me. I always hid the ingredients in the bottom shelf of the cupboard, behind broken pots and old newspapers. I pretended I knew what I was doing, like the artist.
Then Mother said it was my job to find Rosie’s friends in second grade, so we could invite them. The problem was, at school it was only Graciela and Rosie. She and her little friend trailed around together in the schoolyard, on the periphery of the action, (good use of “on the edges,” Annie!), quietly watching tetherball or marbles from the side. So I reported that to Mom. Mom said, “In order to have a party, Annie, we have to invite someone.”
So Rosie and I sat together on the couch with her class group photo and I pointed, “Is she your friend?” And Rosie shrugged. “How about this boy? Do you play with him?” We did get to one boy named Roger and when I said, “Do you like this person?” She emphatically said, “No!” and started kicking her legs out, and crossed her arms, and turned her head away from me. But if she got a sort of pleasant look on her face, I would ask her that person’s name and write it down. That’s how we got the list of the nine kids for Rosie’s party. We also included Clarkie Franklin, the littlest of our next-door neighbor’s three kids, who carefully picked his nose in public, like he was trying to figure out what, exactly, he was going to fish out of the darkness in there. And then he got this satisfied look on his face when he got the gob on his finger. You had to look away with Clarkie.
As Rosie’s birthday got closer, I worked away at her present. Back at the bomb shelter, I found some curly sticks from the oak tree and green acorns (the kind with the hat), and I glued them to the top of a flat rock. By about Thursday I had the idea to paint some white onto the rock and a few spots on the branches.
When Rosie woke up that day, she stumbled out to the dining room table in her rumpled bunting, looking for her presents, because that’s how it’s done at the Shea Family Home. A stack of presents first thing in the morning, and you know you were really born in this family and someone noticed. Cake at dinner with candles and the song. But there was only one present at Rosie’s place that morning; pea green pedal pushers and a yellow top with a daisy for show. She didn’t even get filler presents like socks or underpants.
Rosie didn’t say anything about the lack of presents that birthday morning. Maybe she had faith that the one pedal pusher outfit was due to the bunny. She had to appreciate the fact that getting a bunny of your very own in a family of thirteen children was truly a unique and special event and didn’t require presents of a more ordinary nature. I thought Rosie getting a bunny was so rare as to be practically unbelievable, but as it turned out, the bunny was part of the master plan. It was a decoy trip to get Rosie out of the house. While Daddy and Rosie were gone getting the bunny, all her friends came over in their party dresses with presents. We set the table, blew up the balloons, and got the cake out of hiding. I had invited Wanda to sleep over and help me with the party. This was the kind of thing we both loved to do.
Mother, Madcap, and Jeannie made the cake and cleaned off the picnic table under the oak tree out back. Jeannie answered the doorbell and wrote out the nametags. Wanda and I handed out party favors— yellow crepe cups with jellybeans, nuts, and Chex cereal. We made Jello the night before. The pigs-in-a- blanket were puffing up in the oven.
Back at the bomb shelter, I kept looking at my creation before I finally had to cover it up with wrapping paper. I really appreciated the natural quality, how it looked like an oak tree with snow on it, clawing the sky. Rosie could put it on the ledge by her bed and see it whenever she wanted. Finally, I wrapped it in newspaper that I had painted myself to look like the pants of the artist, splattered with every color of the rainbow. I counted the minutes until Rosie could open the present I had made for her. Even Wanda didn’t know what I had done.
Everything went off without a hitch, as the cowboys in the Westerns would say, until Jeannie ran back and said, “She’s here! They’re parking the car!” It was a moment of breath-holding. We all ran to our seats at the table. Wanda and I sat shoulder to shoulder, and when we saw Rosie coming around the corner, holding this trembling white creature in a black cage, all the voices cried out, “Surprise!”
Rosie’s mouth dropped open, and then she burst into tears. I felt so sorry and happy for her at the same time, and I ran over and knelt down and hugged her, and then I looked back at what Rosie saw. A whole bunch of kids in pastel dresses and a huge stack of colorful presents on the picnic table. Balloons on strings bobbing over the presents. A big cake with seven-minute frosting and seven candles in the middle of the table. Our bouncy dog, yipping and barking while all of Rosie’s classmates chattered like a flock of birds. It was like a painting. Everything that your eyes looked at was sparkling and new.
Graciela, in a blue pastel Easter dress, white socks, and white First Communion shoes, ran over to greet Rosie. Her skin was nut brown and her eyes were almost black, so the contrast was sharp and pleasing. I kept staring at her. She looked like a present, too. No wonder Rosie liked her.
“Look what I got, Graciela!” Rosie said. Then they huddled.
There is nothing quite like a brand new toy, still smelling fresh and plasticky, with no smudges, dressed up with its wrapping paper still around it. Every time Rosie opened up another one, a checkers set, a Barbie doll, a toy bracelet, I cringed when they bunched the paper up to throw it away. I wanted to smooth it out so I could use that beautiful colored paper in my next art project. But mostly I couldn’t wait until she ripped off the paint-spattered newspaper and discovered my own, first artwork.
Finally, Madcap handed her my present. It was an unusual shape and Rosie stared at it. Just as the wrapping paper fell from her hands, a little smile began at the edges of her mouth.
“What’s that?” Jeannie asked.
“It’s a… sculpture!” I said, “I made it myself.” Jeannie grabbed it from Rosie by the stick. In her hand the stick dislodged from the rock and fell on the table, breaking into pieces. Rosie looked at me like she had been stung by a bee, but was so stunned by the surprise of it that it didn’t occur to her to cry. I stopped breathing.
“It’s not a sculpture,” Jeannie announced. “It’s just a rock and sticks!”
I could feel my neck getting hot. I tried to swallow, but I had to finally gulp in some air. I looked around to find Mother. She was walking over towards the garbage can by the side of the house, her arms full of wrapping paper. She had missed the whole thing. I sat down so I wouldn’t fall over. Then I saw her stuff all the torn, beautiful wrapping paper into the garbage can.
And then I realized something: even if she had seen my present to Rosie, Mother might also have thought it was “just a rock and sticks.”
“You broke it!” I cried, my eyes stinging. It sounded so infantile and obvious but couldn’t think of anything else to say. Rosie inched over to me from where she was standing. Her little palm slipped into my hand. I looked down at her. She looked up at me. I whispered into her ear
.
“We’ll fix it, Rosie, don’t worry.”
•••
That night I woke in the dark because I was cold. Somehow my pajama top was gathered around my neck and my covers were down at my waist. I pulled them up around myself, shivering. I was drowsy and not sure if I had imagined a shadow in the doorway. Was there someone creaking on the stairs or not? The house was so still except for the usual sounds of sleep breath, the snoring and gurgling of Jeannie and Rosie. The moonlight shone through the slats onto the floor like it was daylight. It felt like the whole house was frozen in that eerie moment.
I curled up into a ball and tried to go back to sleep. Even saying Hail Marys didn’t help. There was a panic alongside me, as if something bad had happened to my guardian angel, and then I started to think about how Daddy used to drive to China Lake alone in his car for the Navy and I would be afraid he would never come back. I heard the clock chime two times in the living room, the lonely sound of the bell being struck and echoing against the silence. I imagined it sitting there on the mantle protected by all the statues. And I had this idea then and there that the statues were empty, that all the saints had fled somewhere and we were all alone under the stars and the moon.
The universe was way bigger than it had ever been.
Chapter 17
meeting aaron solomon
July 28 – Dear God, Yesterday you went on a killing spree. Two airplane crashes in one day. In one of them, 26 Boy Scouts from the Philippines died on their way to the World Scout Jamboree in Greece. Then, at about 5:30, you killed Bitty. Obviously the Blessed Mother would never let this brutal murder of a beloved being happen, so it must have been You who did this. HOW CAN YOU LIVE WITH YOURSELF? You killed my beloved friend and cat through a man and his motorcycle. As you probably know, if you were paying attention, this is what happened. After school at 3:45, I went downstairs to the basement and I petted kitty for the last time. I fed her out of the baby doll bottle that I was feeding the baby cats with. I said, “Bye” and left. I didn’t know it, but I would never see her alive again. Then I went to ballet. As I was riding my bicycle up the street on the way home, Jeannie called out to me that Bitty was dead. I thought she said, “Daddy is dead” so at first I was relieved it was only Bitty.
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