by Cat Bauer
Peppy moves close to me and sniffs. “What is that smell?”
I must have vodka breath. I try to talk without opening my mouth. “Well, wasn't he a foreman?”
Peppy turns away from me. She locks the box and pushes it back into the closet. She doesn't put the key back on the shelf. “Harley, I lost your birth certificate when we moved. You needed it for kindergarten. When I sent away to get a copy, your father owned the gas station. He wasn't a factory foreman anymore. It's that simple.”
“Then why didn't you just tell me that? Why did you lie about it?”
My mother grabs me by the arm. “I'm getting a little tired of your attitude, Harley Marie. Go to your room. Get up there and don't come down for dinner. And if I find out that you've been drinking, you will never leave this house.”
I yank my arm out of her grip. I look her in the eye. Her face is a blur. “I am so sick of all these secrets,” I inform her. “I am so sick of all these lies.” I wobble out of the bedroom and grip the banister as I head up the stairs.
I do not want to go into the band room. I do not want to see Johnny. It is too hard to concentrate knowing he is in the back of the room behind the drums. I do not want to play my solo. I am sick of it. I am tired of being surrounded by mutant band members. I heard even Nancy Sidebottom, this total freak who plays the tuba, is going to the Spring Ball. Everyone but me. I open the door and walk in.
Everybody's already got their instruments and they're in the middle of tuning up without me. Marsha Miller, who plays first clarinet, second chair, has got her cheeks all puffed out and is blowing with this smug look on her face, like she is some kind of conquering hero. When the oboe is not there, the best clarinet takes its place. Good. I don't care. I can play the clarinet better than Marsha Miller, but no one else can play the oboe. I am the first clarinet, first chair, or the oboe, depending on the score. Mr. Michaels taps his baton and raises his arms. Everyone stops playing. They all look at me. “Columba, you're late.” Mr. Michaels is dressed in a black suit and tie, as if he is a grand maestro about to open at Carnegie Hall.
“So shoot me.” The words spill out of my mouth before I have a chance to stop them.
“What did you say?”
I don't know what's come over me. “Sorry.”
Mr. Michaels sets down his baton. “I'll do better than shoot you, Columba. I'll demote you. You're now second chair clarinet and Miller is first. There will be no oboe.”
His words sting my face. The rest of the band shifts and titters. I want to burst into tears. But there is no way I am going to stand in the middle of the band room bawling my eyes out with Johnny watching. Instead I raise my chin, defiant. “Fine,” I say. “I quit.”
Mr. Michaels' face turns purple, and for a moment I think he is going to explode. When he finally speaks, his voice quakes. “Get your oboe and get out.”
I march into the back room, where the instruments are stashed. I know I am acting crazy, but I can't seem to stop myself. I pick up my oboe case. I head back through the practice room, ignoring the whispers and the finger-pointing. I sneak a peek at Carla. Carla shrugs and rolls her eyes. I want to look at Johnny, but I don't. I head out the door and listen to the tap of Mr. Michaels' baton behind me. The band bursts into Beethoven's Fifth. Da-da-da DUMMmmm …
“Harley Marie, get down here!” My father is not using the intercom, he just bellows from the bottom of the steps. I open my bedroom door and walk halfway down the stairs.
He stands in the alcove, waving a piece of paper. My report card has arrived.
“C in algebra. C in French. Incomplete in band. C in world history. C in science. C in physical education, for crissake. The only subject you got a B in is English. Not one A.”
“I got an A in art,” I correct him.
“Art doesn't count.”
I say nothing. I just stand there.
“You got all twos in effort and conduct. You are an A student. What is wrong with you?”
I say nothing.
“Answer me!” Roger's face twists into a gargoyle. I gaze at it, amazed by the transformation. “ANSWER ME, HARLEY MARIE!”
“I don't know,” I mumble.
“I don't know,” Roger whines, mimicking me. He sounds like a thirty-four-year-old baby.
“Grow up.” I think this in my head, but somehow the words come out of my mouth.
“Did you say something?”
“Nothing.” My skin itches. I squirm. “Can I go now?”
“Go ahead.” He is disgusted. I turn and walk up the steps. Far away, I hear his voice. “I don't know what we're going to do with you. I just don't know.”
“Can you stay a minute, Harley?” Mr. Angelo is discreet and asks me after most other people have left. “What's your next class? I'll give you a pass.”
I am completely thrown. Mr. Angelo has never asked me to stay after Honors English. Never. “Uh …
French,” I stammer. “No, wait … Lunch. I have lunch.”
“This'll only take a second. Sit down, Harley. Don't look so scared.” Today Mr. Angelo's tie is bright blue with little gold stars.
I plop down at the closest desk. I hit my knee. “Ouch!”
“You okay?” Mr. Angelo's eyes are concerned. I nod. “Good.” He paces. “I'll come right out and say it. Is something wrong? Your grades are slipping. You're not paying attention. You don't participate in class like you used to. You were one of my top students. Now you're not even doing average work.”
I wish everyone would get off my back, I really do. I fidget and gaze out the window.
“Harley, are you doing drugs?”
“NO!” I am so surprised, the words burst out of me. “Did you think it was that? It's not that.”
“What, then?” Mr. Angelo is trying hard, he is, but I have been trained to state only my name, rank, and serial number. I can't look at him. I say nothing. I cannot tell a stranger as nice as Mr. Angelo about the horrors of the House of Columba.
“Harley, listen to me. I saw you smoking a cigarette the other day. I saw you get into an older boy's car. I was crossing the Pond Hole just when you were getting in.”
So that's it. He thinks I'm a druggie because of Evan. “I don't smoke,” I say. “It was my first one.”
“I see,” he says, and turns away. What I see is that Mr. Angelo doesn't believe me. Fine. He is a grownup and not to be trusted. For a second, he almost had me fooled.
I offer him a crumb. “I'm adopted,” I hear myself say. Mr. Angelo's face gets all surprised. Then he tries to act like he hears this news every day.
“That … that must have been a shock for you. To find out.”
“Yeah.”
“When did your parents tell you?”
“They haven't told me anything, but I have plenty of evidence.”
Mr. Angelo gives me that doubtful “I see” again.
“I've always known I was adopted.” I want him to believe me. I want anyone to believe me. “Ever since I was little.”
“All kids feel that way at one time or another.” Mr. Angelo puts his hand on my shoulder. It feels weird having a teacher touch me. “Harley, you are a smart young lady, and I'm going to give you some advice.” Oh, no. Mr. Angelo is morphing into a geek right in front of my eyes. “Get a job, Harley. Be independent. Earn some money. People like you need to be on their own.”
Right. I'm not even old enough to flip burgers at McDonald's. “Doing what?”
“I'll talk to Mrs. Sousa. You know her, right? She's a guidance counselor.”
“You mean a shrink?”
Mr. Angelo laughs. “No, she just steers you in the right direction. Like careers, college, jobs. Things like that. Okay?”
I am suspicious. “Okay.”
Instead of study hall, I am in Mrs. Sousa's office. She is two thousand years old, all bent over, with gray hair and knobby fingers. The only guidance she looks like she can give is where to buy a cemetery plot.
“Now, honey, what are your goal
s?” She sniffs, and her upper lip brushes against a big wart on the tip of her nose.
I sigh a Peppy sigh, long and deep. “My goal is to be an artist.”
“An artist!” she cackles. “My, my! A lofty pursuit, but impractical.” Mrs. Sousa's eyelashes are white, like spiderwebs. Her teeth are kernels of corn. Every sentence that comes out of her mouth sounds like it's from some how-to-be-a-good-guidance-counselor textbook. “Even though you're a freshman, you must think about your future. You should be taking computer classes. That's where the jobs are.”
I am amazed. “You mean I should study computers whether I like them or not? Just to get a job? Is that what you're saying?”
“I'm saying that you must prepare for college.”
“I'm not going to college. I'm going to art school in New York.” Now that the words are out of my mouth, I realize that yes, this is exactly what I'm going to do. “John Lennon went to art school before he became a Beatle. That's what I want to do.”
Mrs. Sousa looks at me as if I am brain-dead. “Honey, you must get your head out of the clouds. Only a handful of people succeed in the creative fields.” She coughs and blows out a puff of garlic. Eew.
“Well, why can't I be one of the ones who do? I mean, somebody's got to, right?”
Mrs. Sousa waves away the question with her gnarly hand. “My job is to give practical advice, not encourage pipe dreams.”
I am getting a little impatient with this woman. This is such a waste of time. I squirm in my chair. “Look, Mr. Angelo said you could help me get a job. I need money. My parents don't give me an allowance.”
Mrs. Sousa brightens. “That I can do. In fact, a woman phoned this morning, Mrs. Tuttle, asking for a girl to help her with housework after school, once a week. Are you interested?”
Housework has never really interested me, but I need the money. The dragons will let me out of the dungeon to go to work, I'm sure. With my own money, I could get to New York City, no problem. I wouldn't have to beg from Peppy and Roger anymore. I would be an independent woman. “I'll take it.”
My new employer, Mrs. Tuttle, lives across town on Washington Hill, the ritziest section of Lenape Lakes. Two marble lions guard the entrance, an invisible line that separates the folks on the hill from the rest of the serfs of Lenape. A polished brass plaque reads Washington Hill Estates. Enter at your own risk.
I step across the line. A blue jay swoops down and screams, “Intruder! Intruder!” Maybe I should have worn a dress.
Old oak trees line both sides of the street. Their roots poke through the sidewalk, cracking it into raised chunks. No tract homes up here; these houses are historic. Everyone's really into brass plaques over the door, engraved with words like Warwick House or Built 1697. I walk past a stone house that says it was the headquarters for the Continental Army and that George Washington slept there. I think that's where this snoot named Lucy Stowe lives. I wonder if ol' George sleeps in her bedroom, haunting her. I see an acorn still in its shell on the sidewalk and put it in my pocket. I will plant a piece of Washington Hill in my own backyard.
I walk up to number 401 and stop. Mrs. Tuttle's house is a three-story white wooden manor with a porch that circles the entire house. A wicker swing sways in the breeze. Whoa. I've always dreamed of living in a house like this. Well, now I get to clean it.
I ring the bell. I hear high heels click to the door. A silver-haired woman opens it, her skin the same color as the porcelain face of my harlequin. She looks like a grandmother you don't really hug.
She smiles. “Hello! Come in. You must be Harley Columba. I'm Eliza Tuttle.” She has a singsongy voice, gentle and creaky like a rocking chair. She offers me her hand.
I reach out and shake it. “I'm very pleased to meet you,” I say, all formal and polite. I stand up straight, put my shoulders back, and walk into the house.
It's a museum. Oriental rugs cover the hardwood floors. Oil paintings decorate the walls. Plants and trees and bushes bloom from every corner like some mad gardener has been on the loose.
I check out this huge painting of a woman holding a bunch of drooping red roses. “Nice.”
“Do you like it?” Mrs. Tuttle blows a puff of dust off the corner of the gold frame.
“Yes, very much. I love the use of contrasting colors.” I speak as if I'm this informed art critic.
“Oh? Do you paint?”
“Yes, yes I do. Right now I'm painting a portrait for the school play.” I swear, I don't know what's come over me. I'm talking like some prep school geek. It must be the vibe of the neighborhood. “But I'm probably going to have to use acrylics 'cause we've got no budget. It's difficult to get the flesh colors right.”
“Oh, don't get my dander up,” says Mrs. Tuttle. “Taxes, taxes, and not a penny for the arts.” She gazes up at the woman with the drooping roses. “I used to dabble myself, you know.” I notice the signature on the painting. It says “Eliza Tuttle.”
“You painted this?” I am impressed.
Mrs. Tuttle sighs, all wistful. “A long time ago. When my son was still in diapers and the light was right for painting.” She flicks on a lamp. “When did the light change in here….”
“Well, you should keep it up. It's fun.” Listen to me, giving this rich lady a pep talk.
“Oh, honey, I've tried. I can't seem to capture the feeling.”
On the coffee table I see this huge book called New York City. “Ooo, have you been to New York?”
“We used to go all the time before my husband died.” Mrs. Tuttle brushes her fingertips across the cover of the book as if she is caressing a cheek. “I still go in from time to time to see my son. Have you?”
“I was born there, but I've never been back. I plan to visit soon. That's why I took this job.”
“Any special reason?”
To find my real parents, I want to say. “No,” I fib. “Just to see the sights. The Metropolitan Museum. You know.”
“Well, it's just a bus ride away.” When she says that, I realize she's right. New York City is just a bus ride away, not four zillion light-years. I can go there. By myself.
Mrs. Tuttle gets me started dusting. She tells me she has a regular housekeeper but she needs me for extra jobs. She turns on some classical music. Flutes and violins skip through the air. Happy Mozart music. For a moment, it makes me wish I still played the oboe.
I polish the wood and realize how nice the furniture is compared to the junk at the House of Columba. She has a whole wall of figurines from other lands, like Europe and Asia. I pick up each piece and pretend I'm in that country. A beer stein. Poof! I'm in Germany. A carved wooden lady with a basket on her head. Poof! I'm in Africa. It's fun. Civilized.
I buff the coffee table. The New York City book lies there, tempting me. I lift the cover and sneak a peek. I open to a dark castle called the Dakota, surrounded by a wrought-iron fence and gargoyles. I try not to gasp, but out comes a soft “Oh!” I know the Dakota is the building where John Lennon lived and died. Here, I think. Here is where he took his last breath. I am so lost in the photograph that I don't hear Mrs. Tuttle come into the room.
“Teatime!”
“Aah!” I jump. “You scared me.” I shut the book with a bang.
“Sorry. Come sit down, Harley. Take a break.” I follow Mrs. Tuttle into the kitchen. “Oh, it's good to have a young woman in the house!”
On the table, she has laid out two cups of tea and cookies, which, she informs me, are biscuits, like tea in London. I pull out a chair as if I live here. I realize that I feel at home. Comfortable. I sip my tea and munch on a biscuit. Mrs. Tuttle chats about her last trip to Paris and how the whole city lights up at night. She talks about foreign countries like they are right next door, not impossible dreams. I listen, enthralled. I wonder if she has hired me to do the housework or just to have someone to talk to.
After tea, I finish dusting, and then Mrs. Tuttle hands me some cash. “Next week we'll start on the windows. Okay?”
“Su
re.” Cleaning windows doesn't sound like as much fun as dusting, but I think I would pay her to visit this house again.
“Would you like to borrow that New York book? I know it's a little heavy….”
Oh, boy, would I! “Oh, I couldn't….”
“You can return it next week. Go on.” Mrs. Tuttle picks up the book and hands it to me. It weighs five tons, but I don't care. I put the money in my pocket and the book inside my backpack and head home. I am starting to feel better. I am a working woman.
On the way home, I swing by the bus stop, which is the old railroad station. Some businessman converted part of the station into a luncheonette after the trains stopped running through Lenape, but he is not a local, and business is not good. The natives are like that here, circling like a wagon train. They boycott newcomers right out of town.
A red caboose is moored in the parking lot just for show. A long-haired guy with a green duffel bag climbs into an idling bus with a big New York City sign lit up across the front. New York City. Just a bus ride away.
Outside the luncheonette is a rack of schedules. I open one up and read. A bus leaves every hour, every half hour in the morning. I stick three schedules in my backpack and head home on the train tracks, the railroad ties forcing me to walk in a rhythm of their own.
I mosey into art class and Miss Posey is all smiles and hugs. “Close your eyes, Harley!” She grabs me and drags me over to the side of the room. “Okay, open them.” I blink. “Ta-da!” she shouts. There, in the corner, is a large canvas, taller than me. CANVAS. Canvas is gold. I stare at it with my mouth open.
“You are so lucky, Harley. Someone just donated this to the art department. Even me, the old pro—I've never worked with a canvas this large.” Miss Posey is bouncing on her toes, she is so excited.
“I … never expected canvas.” I am in awe. I walk over and touch the edges of the coarse cloth. Pure. White. Big. I wonder if I can actually do this. “I love it.” My voice is a whisper.
