When the stew had finished cooking, I served it up. Tommy helped too. We ate it out of bowls, with slices of white bread to sop up the gravy.
“What do you think?” I asked Lainie.
“Not bad,” she admitted.
Dad smacked his lips. “Very tasty!”
“Delicious,” Mom agreed. “From now on, you guys cook supper, okay?”
I knew she was only kidding, but that comment made me feel good. Dad didn’t cook a lick. “I couldn’t boil water if my life depended on it,” he freely admitted. I think this was the first time somebody other than Mom ever cooked a meal at our house. I felt proud that I knew how to do something my father couldn’t do.
Daydreamer
WHEN I WAS in grade five an oceanographer visited our class. He brought in a right whale’s baleen (the material that hangs down from the jaw of a whale and is used to filter small shrimp and plankton from the seawater). He passed it around so we could each have a turn holding it. This oceanographer talked nonstop about sharks, plankton, mollusks, and squid. He also explained how an oyster creates a pearl, which I found fascinating. It starts when a little piece of grit gets inside its shell. To protect itself, the oyster coats the grit with nacre or mother-of-pearl, a natural substance that’s shiny. The oyster covers the grit with layer upon layer of nacre, which eventually creates the pearl.
“It’s beautiful, no doubt,” the oceanographer told us, holding up a pearl for everyone to see. “But never forget that it started with a piece of grit or sand. And that grit is still there, buried deep in the center of the pearl.”
The oceanographer’s visit excited our whole class. Afterward I dreamed about becoming an oceanographer. What a job that would be! I could explore the oceans like the great Jacques Cousteau, and protect them from harm.
I daydreamed constantly about my life and what my future might hold. Daydreaming felt like being in a trance—I was there, but I wasn’t there. One afternoon, while riding home on the school bus, I was daydreaming when I felt someone poking my side.
“Ralph!” Andy prompted.
I blinked. “Huh?”
He shook his head. “Daydreaming again?”
“Yeah,” I mumbled sheepishly.
It became one of my favorite pastimes. I daydreamed about playing baseball in the major leagues. I pictured myself racing back to spear a line drive, tumbling but miraculously hanging on to the ball and jumping up, my uniform streaked with dirt, while the astonished crowd roared its approval.
Other times I daydreamed about becoming a writer, creating wild adventures and baffling mysteries. I daydreamed about books, movies, war, and ghosts. In school, when I should have been paying attention to the teacher, I daydreamed about girls in our class.
Steve Fishman’s house was surrounded by a large field filled with ragweed, Queen Anne’s lace, thistle, and milkweed. In October, after the temperatures plunged, the milkweed pods started cracking open, releasing a stream of tiny silver balls. I thought they looked like little spaceships, flashing in the sun, floating all over the neighborhood. My daydreams were like that, spilling out of my head and drifting into the air.
I daydreamed about sleeping in a faraway wilderness, tucked in a cozy tent. Boy Scout camping trips had opened up that world to me. Usually these overnight trips involved only our troop, but once we went camping with another troop. Their scoutmaster was Mr. Schnayerson, a man with a passionate personality that made a sharp contrast to the mild, soft-spoken Arnold Briggs, our troop leader. Mr. Schnayerson gathered us at the beginning of the hike and gave a short, inspirational talk. He challenged us to “hone our vision” and to “summon the courage to follow our dreams.”
During the hike some of the younger kids had trouble keeping up; Mr. Schnayerson asked me to accompany them while he and Mr. Briggs went ahead to locate our campsite. At one point Scotty Heimbecker, the youngest kid in Mr. Schnayerson’s troop, tripped on a tree root and badly twisted his ankle. I had studied first aid, so I treated his foot the best I could. I didn’t have any ice in my pack, though luckily I had brought an Ace bandage. I carefully wrapped Scotty’s injured ankle, using a straight stick to immobilize it and offer extra support. I told the boy to lean on me and not put any weight on his bad ankle. Together, we hobbled forward. Walking slowly, stopping often, we finally caught up to the others.
That night, while we were sitting by the campfire, Mr. Schnayerson motioned that he wanted to have a word with me. He led me a few steps from the fire.
“You handled that situation with Scotty really well,” he said quietly. “I’ve noticed your leadership qualities.”
“Really?” I was surprised to hear that.
“Not everybody can lead, but you can,” he continued. “You know, Ralph, you could become a great man if you put your mind to it. I’m serious.”
I shrugged with embarrassment, not sure what to say.
I never told anybody about that short conversation, until now. Who could I tell? And how could I tell it without sounding braggy? So it was one of those things I just kept to myself.
In the years that followed I didn’t know how to categorize this experience—the words Mr. Schnayerson said to me that night, and their impact on me—though I daydreamed about it many times. You could become a great man. I wanted to believe him, but I wasn’t sure. It felt like a small bit of sand stuck in the center of my soul. But it also gave me something to aspire to—the idea that I might have that potential buried deep inside my own pearl.
Transistor Radio
WHEN I WAS young, transistor radios were like cell phones today—every kid wanted one. Andy Hunt saved up enough money to buy one of his own. Each night he’d climb into bed, insert the earplug, and listen to music as he drifted off to sleep.
“It’s a beautiful thing,” he told me, flashing a serene smile.
I envied him something fierce. I wanted a transistor radio of my own, badly. I ached for one. So I was especially thrilled when I opened a birthday present to find a jet-black pocket Zenith. The tiny radio was surprisingly powerful; it could pick up stations from as far away as Connecticut and New York.
That transistor radio became my secret shelter, a special place where I could go whenever I needed some privacy (which was every day). It was my connection to the outside world. The moment I switched on my radio and closed my eyes, a magical world of sound materialized. And, equally important, my chaotic family life disappeared for a little while.
I loved baseball. At night I had that little radio pressed to my ear as I listened to Curt Gowdy and Ned Martin broadcast Red Sox games on station WHDH. They described each game in such detail—the afternoon sunlight, the shadow creeping across the diamond—I felt like I was at the ballpark.
One night I stayed up way too late listening to the Red Sox battle the Yankees into extra innings. I had school the next day and knew I should turn off the radio, but the game was riveting and I couldn’t switch it off. I just couldn’t. The game moved to the bottom of the eleventh inning, with the Sox clinging to a one-run lead. One out. Two outs! I smelled victory. Then the Red Sox pitcher walked a batter, and the great Mickey Mantle came to the plate. Mantle was near the end of his career; still, he was very dangerous with a bat in his hand.
“Okay, here’s the pitch…” Ned Martin said.
I heard it: CRACK.
“Uh-oh!” I could hear the alarm in Ned Martin’s voice. “There’s a LONG DRIVE TO CENTERFIELD. That ball is going … going … GONE! Home run! Yankees win. Mercy!”
I listened in disbelief as Yankee Stadium erupted in jubilation. Heartsick, I turned off the radio and closed my eyes, though I knew sleep wouldn’t come easily that night.
* * *
One of my favorite things was to lie in bed listening intently while the DJ counted down the top ten songs from the Billboard chart. He started by playing song #10. A few minutes later, he’d move to #9. The suspense kept building as he played the countdown. “Hard Day’s Night” by the Beatles. “House of the Ri
sing Sun” by the Animals. “Do Wah Diddy Diddy” by Manfred Mann.
“Only two songs left!” the DJ crowed. “Stay tuned to see what’s this week’s number one hit!”
Mom chose this inopportune moment to poke her head into my bedroom.
“It’s late. You should turn off your radio.”
“I will,” I promised, though I couldn’t turn it off just yet. The instant she left, I closed my eyes and sank back into the music.
The DJ announced, “This week the number two song is …‘Baby Love’ by the Supremes!”
My heart leapt. If “Baby Love” was #2 on the chart, by process of elimination, the #1 song had to be “Pretty Woman” by the great Roy Orbison.
And it was. I listened, enthralled by Orbison’s amazing voice. I hung on every beat and note and word until the part where he sang, “Pretty woman, yeah yeah yeah…”
That was it—there!—my favorite part of my favorite song. At that moment it seemed as if the night melted and broke open like a chocolate cherry, dissolving in my mouth, flooding me with impossible sweetness and bliss. I felt positively holy, like I’d been blessed by the music, when I finally drifted off to sleep.
That little radio was a lifesaver to me. With my earphones plugged in and my thumb working the dial, I had a portal to another world that was all mine, secret and private.
Square Dancing
FIFTH GRADE: I was eleven years old. We had all the usual activities for physical education (or PE, as we called it)—kickball, dodgeball, rope climbing, gymnastics—but one day the gym looked different. All the balls, mats, cones, and ropes had been put away. I was surprised to see that a record player had been set up on a small table flanked by two speakers. Our gym teacher, Shirley Trout, motioned us to gather around her.
“We’re going to do something a little different today,” Mrs. Trout declared. “Today we’re going to be square dancing. I can promise you this—we’ll have fun!”
Kids laughed, moaned, giggled, and gasped in disbelief. A few girls made little yelps of excitement. My friends and I looked around nervously. Square dancing? It was the LAST thing I expected from PE class.
“Get into groups of four,” Mrs. Trout instructed us. “Each group should have two boys and two girls.”
More giggles.
“It doesn’t matter who you pick,” she added. “By the end of class, every boy will have danced with every girl.”
I tried to wrap my head around that.
“Do we have to?” a kid asked.
“Yes you have to.” Mrs. Trout glared. “If you don’t dance, you’ll fail PE. I don’t think you want an F on your report card, do you, Bruce?”
“No,” he said meekly.
I joined a foursome along with Andy Hunt, Janet Anderson, and Marilyn Swan. The girls smiled with anticipation as the first lively notes came out of the speaker—toe-tapping, fiddle-playing, knee-spanking bluegrass music. Mrs. Trout grabbed the microphone.
“We’re gonna have ourselves a real hoedown in this here barn!” she drawled.
Andy rolled his eyes.
“Gentlemen, bow to your partner,” Mrs. Trout cried.
Turning to Janet, I gave her a quick bow.
“Ladies!” Mrs. Trout called. “Curtsy to your partner!”
The girls curtsied gracefully, and the square dance began.
I’d never done this before, and so I found the whole thing monstrously confusing—the loud music, the rapid-fire instructions barked by Mrs. Trout, the sudden stops and starts and changes.
“Hold hands,” Mrs. Trout called, “and circle to the left! Now circle to the right! Now swing your partner.”
Another thing that rattled me: During the square dance I had to continuously touch my partner. There was absolutely no way around it. It was only touching her hand, or her side, but still. It was a girl’s hand. A girl’s side. We had to stand so close to each other we were practically breathing the same air.
Swinging Janet Anderson (who was taller than me) made me feel dizzy, though I tried not to show it. I had just begun to get used to having Janet Anderson as my partner when the first round ended. The couples got scrambled, and I found myself with a new partner, Meg Dubois.
“Promenade your new partner,” Mrs. Trout called. “Okay, now shake hands with your new partner!”
The music paused, and I tried to catch my breath. Around me other kids were laughing, giggling, and whispering. The girls seemed to revel in this new activity. A few of the boys liked it too, though this group did not include me. I felt awkward.
The music started up again. The square dance had multiple rounds. Two rounds later I found myself partnered with Lee Clapp. She was wearing a red dress, and it hit me she must have specially chosen to wear it because of the dance. Earlier in the day, I had noticed several girls in our class wearing fancy dresses. Some had even fixed up their hair. Now I knew why. Somehow the girls had found out about the square dance ahead of time. As usual, the boys didn’t have a clue.
Lee’s face was flushed. “Having fun?”
“Not really,” I admitted. “Anyway, you look nice.”
Shyly, she smiled. “Thanks.”
Later, Mrs. Trout put another record on the stereo.
“Watch me,” she instructed. “Follow my movements.”
When the music started, Mrs. Trout began dancing and singing at the same time.
“Heel, toe, heel, toe, step baby step—OH! Heel, toe, heel, toe, step baby step.…”
I felt like an idiot moving my feet in that way. In desperation I glanced at the clock and was shocked to see that only twenty minutes had gone by. There were still another twenty minutes—an eternity!—until the class would end.
* * *
After school I took a walk in the woods with Andy. He had been one of the few boys who enjoyed dancing.
I looked at him in disbelief. “You actually liked that?”
“Yeah, I thought it was a fun thing to do in gym,” he told me. “You gotta admit it was a heckuva lot better than tumbling.”
I said nothing.
“Why?” he asked. “You didn’t like it?”
“No.” I shook my head. “I didn’t like having … a partner. You know, being paired up with a cute girl like Beth Byers or Lisa Kennedy.”
Andy smiled. “Dancing with Beth Byers? You like that girl, don’t you?”
“I don’t know,” I mumbled. “If I ever have a girlfriend, I want to choose my own girl.”
At these words, Andy suddenly slammed on the brakes and stared at me in disbelief.
“They were your partners in a square dance!” He laughed. “You danced with each girl for maybe three minutes. Jeez Louise, Ralph, you make it sound like you were getting married to them!”
He was right, of course, but I couldn’t help how I felt. I don’t know exactly what I had found so unnerving about the square dance. I think it had something to do with being face-to-face with the girls. Their frank, bold smiles. The girls scared me, although the more I thought about them, they intrigued me too. They seemed to possess some secret knowledge I hadn’t yet discovered. More fuel for my daydreams.
Gwen Givvens
ONE GOOD THING about Sunday school: It only lasted an hour. That and Gwen Givvens, the girl who sat directly behind me. She didn’t go to my regular school, so Sundays were the only time I got to see her. Gwen hardly ever spoke. She was small, so much so it was hard to believe she was a fifth grader too. Mrs. Wrenham, our Sunday school teacher, encouraged us to bring in treats from home, but on the first Sunday I forgot. I had to sit there, trying to act like I didn’t care while other kids tore into their goodies. Tantalizing smells of brownies, cookies, and Rice Krispies treats erupted around me. My stomach started rumbling.
“You like Necco Wafers?”
I was startled to realize Gwen Givvens had spoken to me.
“Well, yeah.” I mean, who doesn’t like Necco Wafers?
She offered me the roll. After a moment’s hesitation, I reached
out and removed one wafer—pink.
“Take a couple,” she urged.
So I took two more Necco Wafers—yellow and gray.
Gwen gave me a sly smile. “Aha, lemon and licorice. Excellent choices.”
The following week Mom packed me three Toll House chocolate-chip cookies for Sunday school. I had just taken my first chewy bite when a voice behind me whispered, “Want a Necco Wafer?”
“Thanks,” I told Gwen. “But I’ve got a snack.”
“This isn’t just an ordinary snack, Ralph.” She screwed up her face and made her eyes sparkle. “These are Necco Wafers.”
I smiled. “Very true.”
“Take a couple,” she urged, offering me the roll. “They’re small—like me.”
“You’re not that small.”
“Thank God,” she muttered, making a comical face.
It became our weekly ritual—talking about Necco Wafers. One Sunday when she offered me her roll of Neccos I removed the brown one: chocolate.
Gwen smiled. “The browns are my favorite.”
My eyes grew wide. “Mine too!”
She nodded. “They’re so good! So why do they only put a couple in every roll? You know what they should do? They should make a whole roll of just brown wafers. Wouldn’t that be great?”
I looked at her closely, surprised to hear so many words spilling out of her. And she wasn’t done yet.
“Do you know what Necco stands for?” she asked.
“Uh, no.”
“New England Confectionery Company. Guess how I found out? My uncle works there.”
“Wow. Does he get all the Neccos he wants for free?”
“No. But I think he gets a discount.” She leaned toward me. “Wouldn’t it be cool if he got paid in Necco Wafers?”
I nodded. “Yeah!”
* * *
Soon the holidays arrived, Thanksgiving followed by Christmas. We had a Christmas party in Sunday school. Gwen wore a red dress.
“You look nice,” I told her.
Blushing, she smiled. “Thanks.”
They didn’t have Sunday school over the Christmas vacation, so I didn’t see her for a while. After New Year’s Gwen wasn’t in Sunday school that first week, or the next week, either. I missed seeing her.
The In-Betweener Page 3
