I Love You, Michael Collins

by Lauren Baratz-Logsted

  “I just need to make a list, so I’ve got a schedule of what I need to do and when. After that you can come over.”

  “You wouldn’t rather come here?”

  I would. Of course I would. We almost always had a better time at Buster’s house than at mine. But somehow, it didn’t feel right. I felt like I should stay at home.

  “I’m going to have to start some of my preparations today,” I said. “If I leave it all for tomorrow, I think it’ll be too much to do in one day. Plus, I’m sure we’ll want to spend a fair amount of time just staring at the TV, waiting for the astronauts to land.”

  “True. So what are you going to be preparing today?”

  “The cake,” I said.

  “The cake?” Buster said. “You’re going to bake a cake in this heat?” Then it was like I could almost see him shrug through the phone. “Okay. What time you want me over?”

  “Is a half hour too soon?”

  It wasn’t, and we hung up.

  I had my sheet of notepaper and a pencil out, and was making my timeline on when I’d need to do everything, when I heard a car horn honk outside, honking so many times you’d have thought there was a fire somewhere. I’d gotten out of my chair to go look out the window, but before I could get there, I heard footsteps quickly padding on the floor upstairs, followed by the sounds of more footsteps and something heavier thumping down the stairs. A second later, Bess came into the kitchen, trailing her blue Samsonite luggage behind her.

  Never mind that this was the earliest Bess had ever been up on a summer’s day unless someone physically dragged her out of bed.

  “What’s that?” I said, pointing at the Samsonite, hating to ask and scared of the answer.

  “My luggage.”

  “I know that. But where are you going with it?”

  Right then, that piece of luggage seemed like everything that’s wrong with the world.

  “Are we going somewhere?” I asked when she didn’t immediately answer, because she’d hauled the luggage up on the kitchen table, opening it and then muttering to herself as she double-checked the contents.

  “Me,” she said, shutting it, satisfied. “I’m going to Vinny’s.”

  Just like he’d heard his name, the car horn blared again.

  “Vinny’s?”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “I’m going over there to watch all the moon stuff with him and his family today and tomorrow…” She trailed off, like there might be an endless stream of days ahead after that, before adding, “His parents said it was okay.”

  “When did you arrange this?” I demanded.

  “Last night. After you fell asleep, we talked about it, he called his mom, she said it was okay.”

  “What about me?”

  “You’ll be fine here.”

  “I’m ten!”

  Sure, I’d been on my own before. But that was just the occasional hour or two after school, sometimes longer. It was never like this, though, with everyone going away for who knew how long and no end in sight.

  “Call Eleanor, then,” she said.

  “But she already said she’s busy this weekend,” I said, but Bess was fiddling with her stuff, so I’m not even sure she heard me. “When will you be back?”

  “Who knows?” she said with a shrug, pulling out a pale pink lipstick that was almost white and applying it. “With everyone else gone, there’s no sense in my staying around.”

  No sense?

  “What about the party?” I burst out.

  That finally stopped her. “What party, runt?” she said, mid-lip-blotting.

  “The Moonwalk Party.”

  “The what party?”

  So I explained, finishing up with, “And I’m going to bake a cake that’s red and white and blue today, and tomorrow I’m going to make the chicken with Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup. You’ve got to stick around for that!”

  “Oh, Mamie.” When she said those two words, there was so much pity in them that, somehow, it was like the worst thing that had happened to me yet. “You’re the only one who thinks that dish is so special. All it really is, though, is plain old chicken and a can of soup.”

  “What about the cake, then?” I tried, but she was already hefting that Samsonite again and Vinny was already blaring his horn again.

  “Will his parents even be there?” I cried desperately. “Will there be adequate adult supervision?”

  She rolled her eyes at me. “Yes, there will be ‘adequate adult supervision.’ You’re worse than Mom and Dad! I already said we’d be watching all the moon stuff with his family, didn’t I? Of course, his parents will be there, Mamie. They never go anywhere.”

  Bess sounded disappointed when she said that last part—so disappointed, I knew it must be true.

  “Here.” She quickly wrote something at the top of my notepaper. “Vinny’s parents’ number. Use it if and when our parents come home.”

  The horn blared again.

  “But what about before that?” I yelled after her as she opened the door. “What about me?” I yelled again as she hurried down the path.

  “I already told you: call Eleanor,” she said over one shoulder. “I’m sure you can talk her into coming home. Once you tell her I’ve left, she’ll have to do it.”

  “Eleanor said she’s too busy this weekend!” I said again, this time at a shout, but it was too late.

  Bess was already in the car, and then she was gone.

  I thought again, right then and there, of calling my mom at Aunt Jenny’s. I would tell her how Eleanor came and went, how Bess just took off to stay at Vinny’s parents’ house. If I did that, she’d have to come home, wouldn’t she? But if I did that, what would it make me? I’ll tell you. It would make me a tattletale, that’s what.

  When you were my age, Michael Collins, was being considered a tattletale just about the worst thing a person could be? Because sometimes it seems like that’s the way it is now. Whether it’s at home with parents (“Don’t tell on your sister—no one likes a tattletale”) or at school with teachers (same thing, but replacing “sister” with “classmate”), the message is clear: tattletales are the worst. I’m not sure why that is, why it is worse to tell the truth about the wrong thing someone is doing than the wrong thing is itself, but that is the world I live in. People act like “Don’t be a tattletale” is as strict a rule as any of the Ten Commandments—stricter, even! Between you and me, I do not see “Thou shalt not be a tattletale” on any tablets, yet there you have it.

  I didn’t want to be alone, but I didn’t want to be a tattletale either.

  One thing I don’t think a person can ever truly know, unless of course you carry a mirror around with you at all times, is how we look to other people.

  So when Buster came through the door five minutes later, the door that I hadn’t even bothered to shut before plopping down at the table after Bess had left, I can’t even imagine what I must have looked like to him. Sitting there. My stupid list in front of me now with stupid Vinny’s parents’ number at the top of it. Tears in my eyes.

  No, I don’t know what Buster saw when he looked at me right then, but I know what he did. He sat down in the chair closest to mine, and then he did something he’d never done in all our years of best friendship.

  He reached out one hand and covered mine with his.

  “Mamie,” he said softly, “what is it? What’s wrong?”

  So I told him. I told him about Bess leaving with Vinny. I told him how she was going to miss the Moonwalk Party. I even told him what she’d said about the chicken.

  He didn’t react as strongly to that last part as you would think. But I suppose we all have our things that rile us up most, and his was this: “How could she leave you here alone?”

  “I’m not alone,” I said. “Campbell is still here.”

  “Campbell is a cat.”

  “I know that. But she’s still here. Somewhere.”

  “I don’t understand how Bess could leave you alone like t
his,” Buster said. And this was followed by, “You have to let me tell my mom now, Mamie. But it’ll be all right. My folks really like you. I’m sure they’ll let you come stay with us as long as you need to, until one or both of your parents come back.”

  If I’d thought I felt panic when Bess first told me she was leaving, that panic getting worse when she left, it was nothing compared to what I felt then.

  “NO!” I screamed at Buster, something I had never done before, not like that. “You can’t tell her!”

  “How come? It’s nothing to be ashamed of. None of this is your fault.”

  “That’s not it.”

  “Then what, then?”

  “If you tell her,” I said, “I won’t have any choice. I’ll have to go stay at your house.”

  I could see Buster struggling not to look offended at this. “I thought you liked it at my house.”

  “Of course I do,” I said. “Most of the time, I like it better than here!”

  “Then what, then?” he asked again.

  “What if one of them calls?”

  Of course, as far as I knew, other than the calls I’d answered from Buster, the phone hadn’t rung at all when I was home, unless it was Vinny calling for Bess when she was still here. I supposed it could’ve rung when I was out in the morning picking up the newspaper from the pavement—I didn’t think to take it off the hook when I was doing that. Or even when I was in the bathroom with the door closed and the water running loud because I was brushing my teeth. Maybe not. But maybe.

  “What if they call and I’m not here?” I said. “How will any of them be able to find each other again if I’m not here?”

  Buster looked at me.

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “I don’t know why I have to stay here. I just do.”

  “Okay, then. That’s what we’ll do.” I felt his hand leaving mine. “How can I help?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “We were going to make the cake today, right?”

  So that’s what we did.

  I was still a useless puddle, so while I was still being that, Buster rooted around in the cabinets until he found the Betty Crocker white cake mix, which is a great cake to make if you ever have to make one. He studied the instructions on the back of it. Then he set the oven and got out the pans we’d need and the mixer and the other ingredients we’d have to add, like oil and eggs.

  By the time he was ready to pour the dry mix into the mixing bowl, I was ready to join him, after setting up the portable fan so we wouldn’t get too hot. And then we just worked together side by side. Sometimes I would feel Buster’s eyes on me, but he didn’t say anything more about the situation with my family, not even when, occasionally, I’d feel a tear tracing its way down my face.

  When we were done mixing, and it came time to pour the batter into the pans, we decided to leave more than the usual amount of batter in the bowl for licking later. There was no one to tell us not to, so we enjoyed that as an early lunch during the forty-five minutes it took the cake to bake in the oven. Because of the amount of batter we’d reserved for lunch, the cake came out a little flat and thin, but we didn’t mind.

  I know I told you how on the Fourth of July, my mom usually sets out red Jell-O next to a white cake with frosting dyed blue. But I figured that since this was my party, I’d improve on that and make the frosting extra special by making it two-toned. Once we’d prepared the icing, added blue food dye to half of it and red food dye to the other half, and then frosted the whole thing, that cake stood up real proud. Or at least, plenty proud enough for us.

  Buster asked what else we needed to do to get ready for the party, but I told him nothing. I wanted to do the rest of it myself tomorrow. I wanted for at least some of it to be a surprise to someone.

  And then Buster just stayed with me the whole day. We played a rousing game of astronauts, although Campbell was even less a participant than usual.

  When it came time for dinner, Buster called his mom for permission to stay and she said yes. I made us each one of the TV dinners Eleanor and I bought yesterday. It turns out Mrs. Whitaker has never bought a TV dinner before either, and Buster agreed with me that with all those compartments, they are just something special.

  We watched the news together, which is how I learned about John Fairfax and how we learned for sure that you and the astronauts are at the moon now, orbiting it, so close, having come so far.

  Even after it got dark, Buster stayed with me as long as he could. The first time his mom called, he asked if he could stay a little longer and she said yes. But by the third time she called, there was no little longer to be had.

  When I asked Buster if he’d come over first thing tomorrow morning, he reminded me about church.

  Church? I’d forgotten all about church. But Buster was right. Tomorrow was Sunday.

  “You can come with us,” Buster offered. “I’m sure my mom will say it’s okay, and I won’t even tell her about your parents.”

  So that’s the plan we made.

  After Buster left, I realized that between church and the party tomorrow, I should take a shower so I could wash my hair and get clean. It seemed like it had been a long time since I’d gotten clean. My mom always says I should be sure someone’s nearby when I take a shower, just in case I fall, but I couldn’t see any way around it, so off I went, being extra careful not to slip and crack my head, because there would be no one but Campbell to call for an ambulance for me if I did.

  Since it was just me, I left the door open a bit, hoping I could hear the sound of the phone over the rushing shower water. After a while, I thought I did hear something, but when I hurriedly turned off the water, I didn’t hear a thing. I stood there, shampoo in my hair, hoping so hard that the phone would ring, but it never did.

  After I finished my shower, I made sure all the doors were locked and got into bed, but I couldn’t really sleep, for thinking about today and tomorrow.

  And it was so hot.

  That’s when I realized something.

  No one else was here.

  I know, I know, I told you that already. And I certainly know it well enough myself.

  But this time when I thought it, it hit me what I could do, and I thought, To heck with all of them. I grabbed Campbell up out of my hot bed, went down the hall to my parents’ bedroom, turned on the air-conditioning unit in the window, and then lay down on the floor, listening to the hum of it as cool air began to wash over me.

  The cat and I just lay side by side, limbs spread out because it was the kind of hot where a person doesn’t even want any of her skin to touch any other part of her skin if she can possibly help it. I suppose when you are a cat, the same applies to fur.

  I stayed like that all night.

  There was no one to say yes. No one to say no.

  Who knows, Michael Collins?

  Maybe tomorrow, I will have cake for breakfast.

  Sincerely yours,

  Mamie

  Sunday, July 20, 1969

  Dear Michael Collins,

  I’ve got to tell you something, and I’m not sure if even you know it yet, but it’s this: just when you think the worst thing that could possibly happen happens, something else will happen that’s even worse to wipe that right off your radar.

  This morning, with no one left here but me and Campbell, I got up, brushed my teeth, and went down for breakfast. Before pouring a hearty bowl of Froot Loops for myself, I opened the back door just to see what the weather was going to be like today.

  And that’s when it happened.

  You may have recalled me telling you about my cat, Campbell, and how she is an indoor cat unless I carry her outside. Well, as soon as I opened the door, she scooted right past me. And even though, as I have perhaps also told you, she has been getting fat and slow, no matter how I chased her, no matter how loud I called for her, after a time I had to admit that I simply could not find her anywhere.

  First my mom. Then my dad. Then Eleanor. Then Bess. Now Campbell.

/>   Do you know what happened next, Michael Collins?

  I will tell you.

  I stood in the driveway and screamed.

  And what I had to say was:

  “What is wrong with you people? And cats?”

  Followed by:

  “DOESN’T ANYBODY STAY WITH THE SHIP ANYMORE???”

  That is what I said, Michael Collins, and I am not even ashamed of myself because it is, in the end, simply the truth.

  Doesn’t anyone stay with the ship anymore?

  After my dad left a few days ago, and I shouted in the driveway, I felt so bad afterward that I hurried inside, shutting the door behind me. Now I didn’t care who heard me screaming. But I did have to go back inside the house. I needed to get ready so I wouldn’t be late for church with Buster’s family.

  As I neared the door, I could hear the phone ringing. I hurried to pick it up, but of course, of course, when I did, only a dial tone was there. I stared at the phone, hoping whoever had tried would call again, but that didn’t happen. I was so lonely in that moment, I thought about calling my mom or Eleanor—Bess, even!—but I pushed that idea away. They left me. If they cared, they could call me. Still, I stared at the phone a moment longer, hoping. Eventually I had to just give up and go get dressed.

  I was so worried for Campbell, I had to keep brushing tears away as I looked for something appropriate to wear. But then I decided to push the worry somewhere deep inside myself where no one could see it. If Buster’s mom saw me with tears all over my face, she’d be bound to start asking questions. And if I started talking, who knew what might come out of my mouth?

  So I went on autopilot again. You know what I’m talking about.

  As I went through the items in my closet and drawers, nothing looked right to me. Everything looked so babyish: the dresses with lace collars and other stupid stuff. I wanted something better than that, more grown-up. I wanted something in red and white and blue to honor what was going to happen later. That’s when I got the idea of raiding my mom’s closet.

  Normally, Michael Collins, I would not go in there, and I certainly would never take her things, not without permission. But there was no one here for me to ask, and I’m sure you will agree and forgive me when I say: I am no longer living in normal times.