Growing Up Ivy

by Peggy Dymond Leavey

  To her surprise, in spite of its stained glass windows, the interior of the church was almost dark, lit only by the flickering orange light from rows of candles burning at the front. There were many strange smells, but the predominant one was of dampness — a sharp smell that bit the back of Ivy’s throat. The still air was so chilly that Ivy didn’t stop shivering until she was finally out in the June sunshine again.

  “If you don’t mind, Grandmother,” she said. “I’d rather just stay home next time.”

  “Suit yourself,” Maud said. It was such a quick response that Ivy decided her grandmother was afraid that continued exposure to the cold church would cause her to get sick. Her grandmother wouldn’t want that on her conscience when her father finally found her.

  7

  The Family Record

  Ivy was finding it harder and harder to keep the game of “let’s pretend” going in her mind. Instead of living in Camelot, life with her grandmother had a way of jarring her back to reality. She missed her mother’s nightly stories and longed for something to read.

  The only book Ivy ever saw in Maud’s house was a big old Bible that suddenly appeared one afternoon on the table in the kitchen. Her grandmother had gone up the street to deliver some eggs, so Ivy sat right down and opened the book.

  She was both horrified and fascinated by the many scary illustrations scattered throughout the pages of the Bible — Abraham preparing to sacrifice his son, Isaac, on the altar of wood; Samson pulling down the house of the Philistines on top of all the people gathered there.

  Her grandmother had left a pencil in the middle of the Bible, where there was a special section called “Family Record.” Ivy read what had been entered there with great interest:

  “This is the Family Record of Maudie Stricker.”

  How long ago had her grandmother started keeping the record? The handwriting of that first sentence looked as if it had been done by a child.

  Under the heading “Births,” a new notation had been pencilled in at the bottom. The record of family births began, “Maud Ilene Stricker, Feb. 5, 1872,” in the childish hand.

  Then, in ink, “Arnold Chalmers, Apr. 25, 1874,” followed by “Alva Stricker Chalmers, May 1, 1896.”

  That would be Papa.

  There was another page, headed “Marriages,” and under it, “Maud Ilene Stricker & Arnold Chalmers, June 4, 1892” and “Alva Stricker Chalmers & Dottie (Dorthy?) Bailey, January, 1917.”

  Who was Dottie Bailey? And how could she possibly be married to Papa?

  Then came, “Alva Stricker Chalmers & Frances Mary Johns, November, 1917.”

  These were Ivy’s parents. But the previous entry meant that Papa must have been married for a few months to someone else, before he married Frannie.

  The next page, headed “Deaths,” provided the explanation. There were two entries: “Arnold Chalmers, 1906” (Ivy’s grandfather) and “Dottie Bailey, 1917.”

  So, Papa’s first marriage had ended in Dottie’s death. That was sad, certainly. But had it not happened, he would not have married Frannie, and Ivy would never have been born.

  Ivy turned back to the “Births” section, smiling to herself at the latest entry in Maudie Stricker’s family record: “Ivy Rose Chalmers, August 13, 1918.”

  At times, Ivy felt so insignificant that she suspected she might be invisible. But seeing her name on this page was acknowledgement of her existence.

  This last notation must have been the reason for Maud’s bringing the Bible to the kitchen table that afternoon. Ivy closed the book, thinking more than ever now that there were many things she didn’t know about her Papa.

  ***

  From the very beginning, Maud had made it plain that she considered cultivating one’s imagination a waste of time. But when she discovered that Ivy could be kept content for hours on end writing stories, she made sure that the girl was never without a stub of a pencil and some paper.

  Along with string, boxes, jars, and elastic bands, Maud Chalmers saved every scrap of blank paper she got her hands on, even opening out any envelopes that arrived in the mail, in order to use the clean surface on the inside. She willingly shared this supply of paper with Ivy.

  One morning Maud returned from St. Basil’s to find, as usual, Ivy bent over her writing on the top step of the front porch. She stopped at the foot of the steps and scowled. “Don’t you ever go to school?”

  Ivy could tell by the way her grandmother had come limping up the sidewalk that her bunions were bothering her. She wished she hadn’t added to the woman’s misery by telling her, before she left for mass, that something had chewed off a whole row of cucumber vines in the night. No wonder her grandmother was feeling cross.

  “I’ve been to lots of different schools,” Ivy replied. She studied the writer’s callous she was developing on the middle finger of her right hand. “I know all about King John and the Magna Carta, and I already know my twelve times tables, by heart. Want to hear them?”

  Maud ignored the question. “I think you should take a walk over to the school after lunch,” she said. “Just so’s you’ll know where it is, when the time comes.”

  “Seems sort of silly for me to start school now,” Ivy said, trailing behind her grandmother, into the house. “Won’t it soon be out for the summer?”

  Slipping her arms into the wraparound apron in the kitchen, Maud’s gaze fell upon the empty dish rack beside the sink. Ivy had dried the breakfast dishes that she’d left there and had put them all back into the cupboard.

  “That’s true enough, I suppose,” the woman conceded. “Likely won’t hurt you to miss the last day or two.”

  They did take a walk together one afternoon, when Maud’s feet were less painful, in the direction of the stone school that sat at the end of the main street. Before they got there, however, Ivy discovered a library, halfway down the block.

  “Why didn’t you tell me there was a library in Larkin? Oh, Grandmother, this is one of my most favourite places in the whole world. Please, let’s go in.”

  Maud had never been inside the building before but she agreed to accompany her. She even took a nickel out of her purse and bought the girl a library card. Then she went out and stood on the steps while Ivy chose her books.

  “You might have left some for the other children, Ivy,” Maud grumbled, eyeing the load her granddaughter was carrying.

  “They only let me take five this time,” Ivy said, “because I’m just new.”

  “Five? How are you going to read all those and do your chores, too?” There was no point in continuing their walk now. Burdened as Ivy was, they might as well just go home.

  “If you were to go to school, Ivy,” Maud said, when they turned in again at their own gate, “you might meet some children your own age.”

  A train was chuffing slowly down the track toward them, shaking the ground under their feet. Ivy hurried ahead to set her books on the porch steps and ran back to the fence to wait for it.

  “Don’t worry about me, Grandmother,” she cried. “I’ve never needed other kids. I’m happy with you and the chickens. And now that I’ve joined the library, I’ll never be lonely.”

  Maud opened the front door and disappeared inside.

  The trains that used the single track on Arthur Road ran to a switch farther along the rails, where the rear cars were shunted onto a short line to the canning factory. They would be slowing down by the time they reached Maud’s house, and Ivy liked to catch the eye of the engineer as he passed.

  This time, both the engineer and the man hanging onto the last car, ready to unhook it, saw her and waved. Ivy turned with a satisfied smile to find Maud staring at her from the other side of the screen door.

  “Stop wasting everybody’s time, Ivy,” she said. “I want you to get the basket and pick some lettuce for supper.”

&
nbsp; “Wouldn’t you love to be going with them, Grandmother?” Ivy mounted the steps. “We could make believe they’re headed for Samarkand and loaded with treasures from the Orient.”

  Maud held the screen door open for her. “I have no time for daydreaming. That train’s just going to pick up a load of canned peas. You live in the real world, Ivy. The ones you and your mother created do not exist. And you both know it.”

  Ivy said nothing, but went to fetch the basket at the back door. Maud followed her, continuing her harangue.

  “You might as well face facts, Ivy. You’re almost thirteen, not a baby anymore. It’s time to grow up. This is a harsh world you and I live in.”

  Ivy stepped back from the door so quickly that she trod on Maud’s bunion. “Don’t you think it was harsh for Momma and me, too? Every house we ever lived in was full of cockroaches. And sometimes we had to get into bed right after supper just to keep warm. We couldn’t always afford to rent a room where the landlord would give us any heat. But nobody could stop us from pretending that things were better than they were.”

  Maud snorted. “The biggest fact you need to face up to is that your mother has deserted you.”

  Ivy dropped the basket and gaped at her grandmother for a full five seconds. How could anyone be so cruel? Let her pick her own lettuce! Ivy turned and fled upstairs to her room.

  All the rest of the afternoon she waited there. She expected her grandmother to come up and apologize to her, imagined the sound of her footsteps on the stairs.

  “Ivy, darling girl,” she would say. “I’m so sorry. That was very unkind of me. Sometimes, the words just pop out of my mouth before my brain can stop them. Please forgive me.”

  But the voice in Ivy’s head belonged to Frannie, not her grandmother. And her grandmother never came.

  8

  The Rescue

  “There! I knew she would write!”

  On the last day of June, after living at her grandmother’s house for the best part of a month, a letter finally arrived for Ivy.

  She picked at the glued flap on the envelope with anxious fingers, until Maud slapped a knife on the table in front of her. “Slit it open, Ivy. Don’t destroy it.”

  Ivy withdrew a single, folded sheet of paper and let the envelope flutter to the table.

  Dearest Ivy,

  I miss you so much, darling girl. I hope you are having a fine time in Siam with your grandmother. Remember to treat her with respect. I know you will be kind to each other.

  Did you find a school close by? A library, too, I hope, so that you can have lots of new adventures.

  I am having the loveliest time here. You should see how many theatres there are. New York City is such an exciting place. I saw the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building, and even had a ride on the Staten Island Ferry.

  The streets are crowded with people hurrying here and there. And all the tall buildings — they really do seem to scrape the sky. Not that I get much time to spend looking at the sights. One day you must come here, and we’ll spend days and days just craning our necks.

  The director has found a new play for me that will open later in the summer. I am to have the lead role, and judging by the crowds in this city who flock to the plays, I will soon be famous.

  Stay healthy, my darling. Remember that with your imagination you can be wherever you want to be.

  Your loving Momma,

  Frances.

  xxxxxxxxxxx

  Ivy read the letter a second time, this time out loud.

  “Momma sounds very happy, doesn’t she? But she’s forgotten to put her new address in the letter.” Ivy picked up Frannie’s envelope. “There’s no address here either. How could she forget? I was supposed to write her back.”

  “Maybe your mother’s not quite settled in one place yet,” Maud said.

  “That must be it.” But it was hard to swallow her disappointment. Ivy had been composing letters to Frannie in her head ever since she arrived.

  Ivy had been on her way out to fill the water trough for the hens when the mail arrived, so now, with her letter in her pocket, she opened the back door to go finish the task. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Maud drop Frannie’s envelope into her basket of scrap paper.

  ***

  As Ivy was returning from the library a few days later, her bag of books knocking gently against her bare legs, she came upon a peculiar sight out front of her grandmother’s house.

  It was a covered wagon, built like the ones she’d seen in books that told how the American pioneers had travelled west. Except that the material stretched over the ribs to form the roof of this wagon had been painted blue and green and was daubed here and there with garish orange spots.

  To Ivy’s mind, it looked like something that might belong to a travelling magician. She hung her book bag on the picket fence and ventured over for a closer look.

  A large grey horse stood harnessed to the front of the wagon, and the animal was nibbling on the grass that grew between the road and the tracks. Keeping a safe distance, Ivy circled the strange contraption.

  There was a window in the back of the wagon and a stovepipe that stuck up through the roof. A two-wheeled cart was attached behind, its contents hidden beneath a canvas sheet.

  At the front of the wagon, above the horse, there was a wide seat for the driver. Two wooden doors were hooked open behind it. Ivy craned to see inside, but from street level it was impossible.

  Who did all this belong to? Since it had stopped out front of Number 54 Arthur Road, could the owner of the mysterious wagon be inside?

  Entering the front door of her grandmother’s house, Ivy saw someone sitting in the kitchen at the end of the hall. Because of the bright sunlight coming through the window behind him, she saw him only in silhouette.

  Maud was standing at the sink, scraping carrots. Her back was to the visitor, a clear indication to Ivy that the man drinking tea at the table was no stranger. She set the book bag down with a clunk, and Maud fixed her with her usual glare. The man studied Ivy with a careful smile.

  “Well, this here’s the girl, Alva,” Maud said, and wiped her hands on her apron.

  “So it is.” The man rose halfway to his feet and then sat down again, as if his legs had suddenly given out on him.

  “This here’s your father.” Ivy’s grandmother was addressing her.

  Her father?

  Ivy froze. This slight, rumpled man with the dark hair that began well back of his forehead, whose calloused hands gripped the table in front of him, was her father? This wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. Where was the white charger?

  “Papa?”

  Could it be?

  The man nodded and cleared his throat nervously. “I don’t know about the Papa part,” he said. “But I’m your dad, all right.”

  Ivy’s mouth fell open. She sank down onto the chair beside his and stared at him, noticing the narrow, rounded shoulders, the off-white shirt buttoned around a thin neck where a few untrimmed whiskers grew.

  “You’ll be catching flies like that, Ivy,” Maud said.

  A smile began to creep across Ivy’s face. “I told Grandmother that one day you’d come and find me.”

  “Well, it’s more an accident than anything,” the man said. His speech was gentle and unhurried. “I just dropped in because I was coming this way and …” He hesitated, then shook his head, as if he realized that he was about to spoil the girl’s pleasure at their meeting. “And here you are!”

  For a long moment they both sat there, taking each other in. It was as if they were the only ones in the room.

  “So.” Alva Chalmers was the first to speak. “Mother tells me Frannie’s gone off on her own.”

  “That’s just till she gets to be a star,” Ivy said. “She’s an actress, you know. One
day she’s going to be famous. Then she’ll come home and be able to get all the parts she wants.”

  The man who was her father didn’t argue the point the way her grandmother might have, and Ivy felt grateful to him for that.

  “Is that your wagon out there?” she asked.

  “Well, the owner called it a caravan. I’ve rented it for the summer. The big wagon’s all fitted out inside, so a body can live in it while he travels around the country.”

  “It’s very colourful,” Ivy said. “It made me think it might be a magician’s wagon.”

  “No, it’s only a traveller’s wagon.”

  “And that’s your horse?”

  “She’s mine now. Her name’s Dora. Would you like to meet her? I’m sure she’d be very happy if you were to take her one of Mother’s carrots.”

  Still chewing on long strands of grass, Dora swung her head to watch the girl approach. She seemed to sense that Ivy had something for her, and she tried to get close enough to take it.

  The horse made hollow, snuffling noises, her lips peeled back from big, yellow teeth. Afraid that Dora might take her fingers along with the carrot, Ivy tossed it onto the ground in front of the horse’s hairy front hooves and stepped away.

  Back in the kitchen, her father was just getting up from the table. “Did Dora say thank you?”

  “Oh, I didn’t know she was a talking horse,” Ivy said. Could she have found in this man a kindred spirit? “We could pretend that she is.”

  “Don’t encourage the child, Alva,” Maud said.

  “Well, now.” Ivy’s father pushed his chair back into the table. “I’d best be off, Mother. Dora and I have to put in a few miles before my first call. Thanks kindly for the tea.”

  “You’re leaving?” Ivy was bewildered. “Then you didn’t come here to get me? To take me with you?”

  Her father frowned. “I didn’t even know you were here, child.”

  “But I could go with you, couldn’t I?”