Here Today

by Ann M. Martin

  “Probably over at Mick’s,” Holly replied. She stroked Pumpkin, who lay curled in her lap, one paw covering his eyes as if the light in the room were more than he could bear.

  “The new guy?”

  Holly nodded, her mouth full of Bazooka.

  “Do you like him?”

  “Nope.” She blew an enormous bubble that collapsed on her nose.

  “How come?”

  “Because,” she said, pulling at shreds of pink gum and trying not to disturb Pumpkin, “because … it’s hard to describe. He’s not mean, exactly. But I don’t think he has any respect for Mom. And I kind of think he takes advantage of her. Like, he makes fun of her for cleaning houses. She’ll come home in her dirty clothes, her hair up in that cloth, and he’ll say, ‘Hard day at the office, dear?’ And then he’ll ask to borrow money from her.”

  “Well, what does he do that makes him so great?” asked Ellie. She had stretched out on Holly’s bed, but now she propped herself up on her elbows, frowning.

  “That’s just the thing. He’s not even working right now, which is why he needs to borrow money. He lost his job. But when he had one he was the manager of a diner in Pious.”

  “Huh,” said Ellie.

  “I avoid him as much as I can.”

  “Does your mother really like him?”

  Holly nodded. “I think so. She spends enough time with him.”

  “Don’t you wish,” said Ellie, “that our mothers were friends?”

  “They like each other,” replied Holly, surprised.

  “Oh, I know. But, I mean don’t you wish they were really friends? Like Laura Petrie and Millie Helper on The Dick Van Dyke Show. You know, calling each other on the phone all the time, and going over to each other’s houses for coffee, and talking about their problems and asking for advice.”

  “Like we do,” said Holly, “except we don’t have coffee.”

  “Doris needs someone to talk to. Does your mother have anyone to talk to?”

  “Her girlfriends from high school. They talk all the time.”

  “They should talk your mom out of Mick.”

  “Believe me, they try to,” said Holly.

  Ellie flopped down on the bed again and pretended not to see that Holly was eyeing her Mystery Date game. Ellie hated Mystery Date, hated thinking about boys, about dating boys; couldn’t imagine a boy touching her, or being interested in her skinny, one-color body. “What do you think about the Bad Thing?” she asked, examining her ragged fingernails.

  “It’s the first one in two months.”

  “But it’s the third one that’s happened to Miss Woods and Miss Nelson. The third in a row.”

  Holly sighed. “I know. Which reminds me. That’s another reason I don’t like Mick. Mom told him about someone writing ‘queer’ on the ladies’ driveway, and he laughed.”

  “Huh,” said Ellie again. “She should dump him.”

  It was because of The Ed Sullivan Show that Ellie forgot about the Bad Thing. The show came on on Sunday evenings and it put Doris in such a good mood that she would make supper. The menu on the night of the day the Bad Thing was discovered was canned hash, canned okra (from the Bosetti’s shopping spree), and canned peaches in heavy syrup. Dessert was a cake from Deising’s that Doris had gotten for half price because HAPPY BIRTHDAY POLLY! had been scrawled on the top but no one had picked up the cake. “We even have hors d’oeuvres,” said Doris, pulling out the jar of Snappies from Bosetti’s. “Okay, get your TV trays, everyone. The show is about to start.”

  The five Dingmans hurried into the living room with their plates of food and settled themselves behind the TV trays. Kiss lay at Ellie’s feet.

  “Doris, can I—” Marie started to say.

  But Doris hushed her. “It’s starting! It’s starting!” she said.

  And there was Ed Sullivan, standing on the stage of his theater in New York City, looking somehow both proud and uncomfortable.

  “Ha!” cried Doris when the first commercials came on. “I could be on the show. I know I could do something. I could dress up my hand like Señor Wences. Or I could do a dramatic reading. One day I’m going to audition for Ed Sullivan.”

  “When Annette Funicello auditioned for Mr. Walt Disney she sang ‘Ac-cent-tchu-ate the Positive,’” spoke up Ellie.

  “Well, I’m not going to sing,” replied Doris. “That’s not my strong suit.”

  “What is your strong suit?” asked Albert.

  Mr. Dingman looked up from his plate of food, waiting for Doris’s answer.

  “Drama,” replied Doris. “And I swear—one day I am going to audition for the show.”

  Ellie’s father lowered his eyes again, and Ellie thought she saw him shake his head ever so slightly, but she couldn’t be sure.

  “Oh, Doris, you say that every week,” said Marie.

  Which was true. But this time Ellie heard something different in Doris’s voice. Different enough so that Ellie caught her breath and glanced over her tray and across the room at Doris’s face to see what had changed in it.

  Harwell’s Fall Fashion Show was heavily advertised in Spectacle’s two newspapers. The ads didn’t mention Doris, though, which disappointed her. “I don’t understand,” she said. “This is their first fashion show. It’s a big deal. Where’s my name? I should think they’d want to use it. After all, I’m going to be the Harvest Queen in the parade.” Plans for the parade were in full swing, and Doris was to ride on the last float as a beauty queen, just as she had hoped.

  “I think Harwell’s wants to publicize their clothes, not the model,” said Ellie. “It’s the clothes they want to sell.”

  “Well, I’m the one who’s going to sell them,” said Doris.

  “I thought you were going to model them,” said Marie.

  “Same thing,” said Doris. “And they better pay me well, too.”

  “Didn’t you work out the pay ahead of time?” asked Albert.

  “Sort of.”

  Doris was sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, two newspapers spread out around her. “Wow! ‘The Town Topics’ has a huge ad for the fashion show! Look at this. One whole entire page!” she exclaimed.

  Ellie peered over Doris’s shoulder. “I’ll bet a lot of people will see you,” she said.

  “I bet more would come if they knew who they were going to see.”

  “Oh, well,” said Holly, who was sitting behind Ellie, braiding her hair. “People will still see you. When does the show start?”

  Doris jabbed at the ad, and Holly let go of Ellie’s hair long enough to read, “‘Come help us kick off Harwell’s first Fall Fashion Show on Friday night!’”

  “That’s tomorrow night,” interjected Albert.

  “Opening night,” added Doris.

  “‘Free refreshments! We will be open until nine o’clock!’” Holly continued. “Wow, Doris. Are you nervous?”

  “Nope,” said Doris. “I was born for this.”

  The Dingmans didn’t get to see Doris’s opening night at Harwell’s. Mr. Dingman was working late on an indoor job, trying to cram in all the projects he could before the cold weather arrived. So Ellie stayed home with Albert and Marie, made popcorn for them, and told them they could read in their beds until Doris returned.

  Doris swooped through the front door shortly after ten o’clock, wrapped in the glory of her evening.

  “Hello?” she called.

  “Doris!” Marie flew downstairs, still carrying her copy of The Bobbsey Twins and the Mystery at Snow Lodge. Albert was right behind her.

  “How was it?” asked Ellie, who had been reading in the living room, one eye on her book, one eye trained out the window at the dark street with its shadows and secrets.

  “Wonderful,” replied Doris breathily. “Where’s your father?”

  “Right here.” The door had opened again, and Mr. Dingman stepped through it.

  “Oh, darling, there you are. I wish you had been at Harwell’s tonight,” said Doris
. “I was a star.”

  Mr. Dingman leaned down and kissed her cheek. “I’m sure you were.”

  “Will you come see me tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow? Sure. We finished the job tonight. You were a hit, huh?”

  “Mr. Harwell said it went better than he could have imagined. You should have seen all the people. They clapped and cheered. And the outfits I got to wear! Oh, they were something. Mr. Harwell said he wants the show to run the entire week, all day every day. Except Sunday.”

  “Then we’ll come tomorrow,” said Mr. Dingman.

  “You mean Ellie and Albert and me, too?” said Marie, glancing hopefully from her father to her mother.

  “Sure,” said Mr. Dingman.

  “Can the other kids come?”

  “What, all of them?” asked Mr. Dingman.

  Doris beamed. “Why not?”

  “Yippee! I’m a cowboy!” hooted Etienne.

  “Me, too!” shouted Albert. “I’m riding the range!”

  “You kids settle down back there!” called Mr. Dingman from the front of his truck.

  All nine of the Witch Tree Lane kids were crowded into Mr. Dingman’s pickup. The youngest ones—Allan, Domi, and Marie—were squeezed into the cab next to Mr. Dingman. The others were gleefully riding in the back. “In the open air,” Etienne said. They weren’t allowed to do this often, but the Fall Fashion Show was a special occasion.

  “I’m not leaving until every one of you is sitting down,” Mr. Dingman went on, leaning out of his window now, and peering back over his shoulder.

  The six kids in the back abruptly flopped down on the dusty metal floor, and Mr. Dingman pulled slowly out of the driveway and turned onto Route 27.

  “Wah-hoo!” yelped David, but he remained seated.

  Ellie eyed the boys, then turned to Holly and whispered, “Why’d we have to come in the truck like this? We look like hillbillies.”

  “Oh, well,” said Holly.

  In downtown Spectacle, Mr. Dingman parked several blocks from Harwell’s, to Ellie’s relief. As the Witch Tree Lane kids piled out of the truck, Mr. Dingman gave them their town instructions. “Okay, older kids are in charge of younger kids, and Allan, Domi, and Marie, each of you has to hold somebody’s hand. Somebody who’s older than you,” he added as he saw Domi reach for Marie.

  Ellie hung back as they walked along King Street. She was finding it very hard to blend in, what with the Lauchaires and their odd assortment of clothing, and her harried father surrounded by eight children and topped off with Marie, who was now riding on his shoulders and “giving his hair a stir,” as she said.

  “Come on, Ellie,” said Holly. “Hurry up. We’re almost there.”

  “Then why do I have to hurry up?” Ellie said, and hated herself for being crabby.

  Holly shrugged. “I don’t care.” She ran ahead.

  Ellie straggled into Harwell’s several steps behind Holly and her father and the kids. She saw the frown on the face of the woman at the information desk as she watched Mr. Dingman, with his stirred-up hair, set Marie on the floor. Saw the frown deepen as the woman caught sight of Etienne Lauchaire in shorts and a woolen stocking cap, then expanded her view to include the rest of the children, most of them scruffy. And saw that she forced the frown off her face as Mr. Dingman approached her, but wasn’t able to replace it with a smile.

  “Excuse me,” said Mr. Dingman, smoothing down his hair.

  “Yes?”

  Ellie, still guilty over snapping at Holly, whispered, “She has a face like an old potato.”

  Holly grinned.

  “Can you tell me where Doris Dingman is modeling the fashion clothes?”

  “Modeling the …?” the woman’s voice trailed off.

  “She’s our mother,” spoke up Marie. “We’re the Dingmans.”

  “Well, not all of us,” said Albert. “Six—”

  “Just go look in the store,” the woman interrupted him. “She’s walking around. You’ll see her somewhere.”

  Ellie stepped in front of her father and said sweetly to the woman, “You’ve been a wonderful help. Thank you so much.”

  “Oh, you’re wel—”

  But Ellie turned away from her before she finished speaking.

  “Ellie,” said Mr. Dingman, a warning in his voice.

  “Let’s just find Doris,” she replied.

  “Look, there’s a whole bunch of people over there,” said Rachel. She pointed to a crowd on the other side of the store, in front of the Evening Wear Boutique.

  “I see her! I see her!” cried Marie. “Wait. She’s coming over here.”

  Ellie gripped Holly’s hand and pulled her away, pulled her behind a display of neckties, then stood, her lips parted, as Doris swiveled toward them, stepping along an aisle that had been cleared of people.

  “She has her own modeling runway,” Holly whispered.

  Ellie couldn’t answer her. She was having a hard time believing that the woman swishing by was her mother. She didn’t look glamorous, exactly. Not like Grace Kelly. But she was stunning in her own way, her long, tanned legs peeking through the slits of the evening gown, a glittering necklace (probably not real diamonds, but still) positioned in just such a way as to make a person very aware of Doris’s voluminous chest. And she had put on so much black eyeliner that she reminded Ellie of an Egyptian queen.

  For a moment Ellie was rooted to her spot behind the neckties. Then she heard Marie call, “Doris! Hi, Doris!” and the spell was broken.

  Ellie stepped forward, smiling, but Doris continued down the aisle, a faraway expression on her face.

  “What’s she looking at?” asked Ellie. She had thought Doris would be sweeping the crowd with her gaze, as she had done in Ellie’s classroom. But while Doris’s shoulders and hips turned this way and that as she went slinking through the store, her head remained oddly stiff, her expression bland.

  “Oh, she’s doing what all the famous models do,” said Holly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “They all look like that. It’s sultry.”

  Ellie turned her attention to the clingy evening gown Doris was wearing. It was black, dripping with sequins, and puddling down around her feet so that Ellie expected her to trip over the bottom of it.

  “I’ll bet no one here has ever seen anything like that,” said Holly.

  Ellie, taking in the crowd in Harwell’s, was pretty sure Holly was right. She noticed two salesgirls, dressed in suits with nylons and low-heeled shoes, glance at each other, then at Doris, then at each other again before erupting into giggles and rolling their eyes. Across the runway Ellie saw two young men fasten their eyes on Doris. The eyes slid down her body, up, down again, and then the men grinned in a way that made Ellie think of the boys in the cars riding along Route 27, honking at Doris in her bathing suit. And made the two sales-women smirk and shake their heads.

  She looked around for her father and saw that his own eyes were fastened not on Doris, but on the men. And she looked away quickly, down at the ground, at a button someone had lost.

  “Ellie! Hey, Ellie!”

  A familiar voice was calling, and Ellie turned around.

  “Hi!” Tammy White had stepped between Ellie and Holly. “Ellie,” she said, “this is so cool! Wow!”

  “Hi, Tammy,” said Holly.

  Tammy turned briefly to Holly. “Hi,” she said, then faced Ellie again. “Gosh, look at that dress. Does Doris get to keep the clothes?”

  “Keep them? I don’t know. I didn’t think about that.”

  “Either way, she’s so lucky. You’re so lucky.”

  “Tammy, Tammy.” Someone thrust out an arm and grabbed Tammy’s hand.

  “Oh! Oh, hi, Maggie,” Tammy said and, with a glance at Ellie, slid back into the crowd.

  “’Bye,” Ellie called after her.

  “What a jerk,” muttered Holly.

  Ellie felt a tug at her sleeve. “Ellie? Doris didn’t say hi. She didn’t even look at us,” said Mari
e.

  Ellie stooped down. “She’s busy. She has to be professional.”

  “Well … that was rude.”

  “Did you like her dress?”

  “I guess.”

  Doris had disappeared, had floated somewhere out of sight.

  “Can we go now?” asked Marie.

  “Already? I’ll bet Doris will come out in another dress if we wait a few minutes.”

  “I don’t need to see another dress.”

  “How about ice cream?” said Mr. Dingman.

  Marie brightened. “Really? We can get ice cream?”

  “Sure. Ice cream for everybody. Let’s go to the Dairy Queen.”

  Mr. Dingman and the Witch Tree Lane kids pushed through the crowds. As they approached the information desk, Ellie called, “Thanks again for all your help,” to the potato-faced woman, then followed Albert outside into the autumn air.

  “Look, there’s Doris modeling in the window,” said David.

  “Why’s she holding so still?” asked Allan.

  “I think she’s pretending to be a mannequin,” Holly replied.

  “I don’t care. Let’s go get the ice cream,” said Marie.

  “Okay, okay, keep your shirt on,” said Albert.

  “Daddy, pick me up, please.” Marie leaned imploringly against Mr. Dingman, and he reached down to her.

  There was a line at the Dairy Queen, and they had to wait nearly ten minutes before the boy behind the counter, paper cap perched crookedly on his crew cut, said sullenly, “Can I help you?”

  “He should say, ‘May I help you,’” Domi whispered to Ellie.

  “Ten medium vanilla cones, please,” said Mr. Dingman.

  “Ten?” repeated the boy.

  “Ten.” Mr. Dingman indicated the kids.

  “Okay-ay,” said the boy in a bored, singsong voice.

  “I hope we’re not putting him to too much trouble,” Ellie said to Holly.

  The Witch Tree Lane kids sat at two picnic tables next to the Dairy Queen and waited. Mr. Dingman carried their cones to them two by two, starting with the younger children. Ellie was just taking the first lick of her ice cream when she looked across the table at Allan and saw that he was slurping the last of his out of the bottom of the cone, which he had bitten off.