What We Hide

by Marthe Jocelyn

  Dear Jen-Jen, it began.

  “Aren’t you going to read it aloud?” said Penelope.

  “Yeah, come on,” said Oona.

  “Nnn. Don’t think so.”

  “Leave her alone,” said Kirsten.

  Sorry for not writing before. It’s because the whole thing just stinks and I didn’t want to fill up a letter with bad vibes or the lies I have to tell my mother. But I thought of you today when they served up breakfast. The eggs come in a powder that the cooks stir with water before pouring them into the pan. Re-vol-ting! We are definitely bad-food soul mates!

  I feel like I’m ten years older just since getting here. I’ve seen stuff I could never tell anyone at home. Me and the other grunts (that’s what we’re called) eat more secrets than scrambled eggs. Last week the worst thing happened so far. Middle of the night, the VC (that’s Vietcong—we have initials for everything) attacked our base, no fooling around, just bam bam bam, WE were the targets. The jungle is so close and dense, you can never see what’s coming or who’s out there. Anyway, our guys were ready or lucky or maybe it was just a few rogue soldiers on their side, but it was over pretty quick. The bad part was in the morning, going out to find the bodies, moving them, thinking about how it could have been us. Knowing they had mothers too, you know? Someone writing letters. And then the worst thing, we recognized one of them. It was Binh the barber, he was with our camp and we all knew him, but here he was VC all along, waiting to kill us.

  Turns out we’re not fighting for our country or any noble reason. We’re fighting each day to get to the next day, and that’s it.

  What we’re doing is terrible. This is a beautiful country. We’ve even been to the beach a couple of times. They’ve got palm trees crammed full of monkeys. You’d go wild for the monkeys. They wake us up screeching and laughing every day, like we’re living in a zoo.

  Even though I was kind of mad in the beginning, I know Tom did the right thing staying far away from Nam. I’ll tell him to his face when I get out of here in 302 days.

  Please write again. I’ll try to be more cheerful next time!

  Your friend,

  Matt

  “Does he still love you?” said Penelope.

  I used the letter to fan my burning face. Matt was alive. Tears prickled up in an instant. He’d been under attack, he was scared silly, it was horrible, but he was alive. I had to call Tom. I had to be alone to read it again.

  But the other, sneaky relief crept in too. This was proof that I had a boyfriend in Vietnam.

  I had a flash of Matt hunched over this very page, thinking about me long enough to finish a letter. I could ignore the small, itching fact that it was likely only good manners that made him write to a girl who must now feel as far away and insignificant as his gym bag or his science trophies or his affection for Star Trek. I slipped the envelope into my English notebook and clasped it to my chest, holding what only I knew to be true.

  “Ooh, she’s gone all pink!” crooned Oona.

  I didn’t mind them laughing. Matt was alive.

  brenda

  “So. Your dad is Dr. Sperm.”

  “Stern,” said Michael.

  “Oops, yeah.” Brenda’s cheeks went hot as if she’d been slapped. “Stern.”

  “You’re cute, all rosy like that.”

  Rosy? Blazing, more like.

  “Yes, he’s my dad.”

  “Wow. I mean, I knew that. But how does it feel?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Having a”—she adjusted a strap under her top with a little snap—“a doctor, for a dad? He sees a lot of naked people, right? He sticks his fingers lots of … places. So, how does it feel to watch him using the same fingers to … open a letter or pop a chip in his mouth?”

  “He doesn’t eat chips,” said Michael. “He says they’re greasy. I’m not supposed to have them either.” His turn to blush, likely realizing what a prat he sounded. “But I do,” he added quickly. “Whenever I want.” He shoved in another chip as if to prove his daring. He was dead sweet, prat or no. Better a prat than a yob.

  “Doctors see people naked,” he said. “It’s part of the job. I’d rather not think about it.”

  Brenda chewed on her lower lip, trying not to remember the doctor’s hands on her bra.

  “Funny job,” she said at last. “Not the part about healing people. That’s good, of course. But …”

  “But what?”

  “Oh, nothing.”

  He patted his hair again, but caught himself and quickly tugged on his collar instead. Could she ever tell him what had happened with his father?

  Michael’s collar was messed up. She reached over to fix it for him.

  “I have to babysit at four,” she said. “My sister’s kids, who you saw that time.” Ages ago, you gormless git. Where’ve you been?

  She’d been back to the chip shop how many times? Ever so casual, wearing nice tops, putting up with Alec’s remarks when she’d had the bad luck to bump into him. Today was to be Michael’s last chance, she swore. And here he’d been, barely even sheepish, but dead sweet and paying for her chips!

  “Let’s not waste our time in this place,” he said.

  Brenda smashed the chip paper into an oil-stained ball. Her toss arced gracefully and dropped straight into the bin.

  “Goal!” she cried. “Your turn.”

  He missed.

  “Better luck next time.”

  They walked to the river, along the cinder path ending by a fence that protected the railway crossing. They leaned against that sturdy fence and began to kiss. He was a bit slurpy, Brenda remembered as soon as they started, just like last time. But so friendly, pausing to chat, playing with her hair, saying how the afternoon light tinted the river gold and how last winter he’d seen a whooper swan, had she ever?

  But then he went for her buttons and it was like a cube of ice slipped down her front. All she could think about was Dr. Stern’s confident hands.

  “Stop,” she said. “You have to stop.”

  He grabbed back his nervous fingers and shoved them into his pockets, stepping away but oddly bent, so she knew he had that embarrassing situation going on, boys getting hard if you even said the word tit, let alone had two real ones within arm’s reach. Only she couldn’t let him, could she? Wouldn’t that be dead insulting, to have your dad touch your girlfriend more suavely than you? Girlfriend? That was pushing things a bit, eh?

  “Sorry!” he said. “Didn’t mean … You’re just … so pretty.”

  “I have to go,” she said. “My sister’s got work. I’m ever so prompt since the muckup that night.”

  She hurried ahead along the path, letting him unbother himself, praying she hadn’t ticked him off forever.

  “Next week?” he called.

  “Yes.” She paused to smile back at him. Didn’t want to scare him off with grumping. She’d decide later if she had the nerve to tell him that his dad was a bit pervy.

  Tuesday, in the Girls’ Changing Room, between morning lessons and dinner, Oona said, “Who wants to skip Brit Con this afternoon and go to the village instead?”

  “I will,” said Jenny. “I am completely hopeless with the inner workings of the British constitution.”

  “I’ll come,” said Brenda. “If we walk by the high school.” Maybe she’d catch a peek of Michael, show him to the others, get their opinions whether he fancied her.

  Going past the high school took ten extra minutes. A few boys were straggling back from the midday break, but no Michael in sight. Someone whacked Brenda on the bum, jumping into the road as she spun around. “What the hell!”

  It was Alec, looking goofy with his skinhead hair and clodhopper boots along with the school uniform.

  “Hands off!” snapped Brenda. “Or I’ll cut them off.”

  Alec laughed. “Ooh, all Mikey’s now, eh?”

  “Piss off.”

  “You going to introduce me to your posh friends?”

  “Oy,�
�� said Brenda. “What’s the news about your mate, Robbie?”

  “He’s not my mate anymore,” said Alec. “He’s got special friends.”

  “But is he home from the hospital?”

  Alec backed away at the sound of a bell ringing from the school tower. “I’ll see Mikey-boy in maths. Shall I pass him your”—he gave his hips a thrust—“regards?”

  Oona giggled and Brenda swatted her.

  “Don’t encourage wankers,” she said.

  “Ooh.” Alec moved off. “I’m so hurt.”

  “I’m parched,” said Jenny. “Let’s stop at the pub for a lemonade.”

  “Good idea.” Oona swung her handbag on a long strap. “I need the loo.”

  They slammed through the door to the ladies’ shrieking—more than they had to, Brenda knew—but laughing up a ruckus is one of those things it’s easy to do with other girls. They must have mad fun in the dorm, while she was at home watching telly with her dad. Oona’s mouth was stuffed with crisps, but she laughed so hard the crumbs spurted out, making the girls laugh all the harder.

  Oona slipped straight into the first stall. Jenny and Brenda went to the mirror, did hair stuff and lip glossing, and called to Oona could she have a noisier piss? Oona made a wet farting sound, lips against her arm obviously, and that set them off again.

  But then, in the mirror, Brenda saw a bulgy string shopping bag sitting inside the last stall, next to the toes of ugly beige granny shoes.

  Oona flushed and breezed out, Velcro-zipping her jeans, smoothing her blouse. “That’s better,” she said. “I was brimming.”

  Brenda poked her to hush up, pointing to the feet. They’d been extra rude, thinking they were alone.

  “Oops.” Oona washed her hands, did her hair, glossed her lips, while Brenda crossed her eyes and Jenny banged her bum against the door, waiting. They all puffed out their cheeks to show how hard it was to keep quiet. The woman stayed in her stall.

  “She’s waiting for us to leave,” whispered Jenny. “Maybe she’s afraid of teenagers. It’s called ephebiphobia.”

  “I’m afraid of old ladies in loos,” said Oona. “Let’s go.”

  Back in the bar, they let loose with demented giggling. The barman, Harry Hines, pinned them with the scowly eye.

  “I’m going to buy tea bags,” said Jenny, “soup packets, and cookies. I mean, biscuits. You coming or should I meet you later?”

  “I forgot to go to the loo,” said Brenda. “I’ll catch you up at Bigelow’s.”

  “I’ll wait here,” said Oona. “No cash. It’ll only tick me off to watch you shop.”

  Brenda went back to the ladies’. The bag and feet were still there, exactly as before.

  Brenda used the loo and flushed. Had the woman fallen asleep? Brenda coughed, ran the taps for a sec, watched the shoes. But then, a sort of a moan. Brenda froze. Had they been mucking about too much earlier to hear that sound?

  “Hello?” said Brenda. “Is everything all right?”

  Another little noise. Holy crap.

  “Do you need help?”

  Brenda’s whole body got hot and right away chilled. Ghost trundling over her grave, as her gran always said.

  “Hello?”

  She tapped the stall door a couple of times. Nothing. Really not wanting to, she knelt down for a look under. String bag in front of her face holding a cabbage and a packet of PG Tips. She tried to nudge it aside, only it was wedged. The feet were … Oh, gag me! The feet were not flat on the floor the way they should be if the woman had been sitting up properly on the loo. They lolled over at the wrong angle.

  Holy flipping crap.

  Brenda crooked her neck and pushed her head farther under the door, horrified to recognize Mrs. Willis, who used to work at the post office till she had trouble with her ticker. The restroom door behind her whapped open and Brenda jerked up fast, giving herself an almighty smack on the skull.

  “What the hell?”

  Lucky it was Oona, but it must have looked pretty dodgy.

  “She’s having a fit or something in there.”

  Another of those scary wheezes.

  “We can’t stay here! That’s horrible!” Oona walked right out.

  “Cow!” Brenda scrambled up and went straight to Harry Hines. “Excuse me, but I think there’s somebody dying in your lavatory.”

  He stared like she’d cursed his mother, but must have twigged from her face that she was not joking around. Brenda noticed that her hands were shaking like an old drunk’s.

  “Sylvie!” Harry yelled at the girl wiping a table. “Go in the lav and see what’s up.”

  “You’ll have to smash the door down,” Brenda told Harry. “She could be dead by now.”

  “Lordy,” said Sylvie. “Is it Mrs. Willis? I thought she’d slipped out on me. She usually leaves a bit extra.”

  They went into the loo.

  “In there.” Brenda pointed.

  Sylvie crossed herself, being Irish. “Mrs. Willis?” she hollered. A faint wheeze in return.

  “Saints be cursed.” Sylvie tore out of the room. Brenda gazed down at those pathetic beige feet and whispered, just in case, “If you’re going, Mrs. Willis, I hope you go easy. But hang on if you can, there’ll be help coming.” What if the last thing she ever bought was a cabbage? Made Brenda want to cry.

  “Did you ring the doctor?” she asked Harry outside.

  “Yeah.” He was yanking the fire axe off the wall, sweat popping all over his forehead.

  Jenny came in from the street just then, with her sack of supplies. “What’s taking you?” she said. “I thought we were meeting at—” She gaped as Harry swung the axe over his shoulder.

  “The police’ll want to chat with you lot.” Harry strode into the ladies’, as if slashing down loo stalls was an everyday thing.

  Jenny tugged on Brenda’s arm. “What the hell?”

  Brenda told her. “And! Oona’s done a flit. If we talk to the sodding police, it’ll come out that we’ve skived off school.”

  “We can’t not stay,” said Jenny. She was the opposite of Oona. “What’s a detention compared with this?”

  Four seconds later, two coppers hurtled into the bar, with Dr. Stern half a step behind. Brenda would swear her tits buzzed when he recognized her.

  “Where’s the patient?” he asked.

  Jenny said, “Ladies’ room,” hopping over to hold open the door for the whole parade.

  The first good bit was riding straight past Oona on the York Road, her with another mile to go. Next was coming up the school drive in the back of the police car, waving to No-Face and Nico kicking a football on the playing field. Penelope had caught sight from the dorm window and spread the word, bringing an audience to the front steps as Jenny and Brenda climbed out of the car. Richard had been telephoned and was there to speak with the coppers. The girls were to wait on the bench outside his office. Deep in Brenda’s chest something burned, warm and steady. Mrs. Willis was on her way to hospital instead of to the morgue. Brenda felt pretty tip-top, thank you very much. Jenny was right, what was a detention compared with this?

  “Shouldn’t we agree on a story?” said Jenny.

  “How about the truth?” said Brenda.

  Jenny went in first and came out grinning three minutes later. “Your turn,” she said. “I told him it was my idea. But he knows Oona skipped too.” Her shopping bag bumped Brenda’s knee, a reminder there’d be biscuits later, whatever happened.

  Richard sat behind his desk, tapping his chin with both his forefingers. Brenda had not been in his office before. Her tip-top feeling wavered as she absorbed the smooth wooden loveliness of the room. Richard was gazing at her and she had to gaze back, chin up, no fidgets.

  “Is there anything you’d like to say?” asked Richard.

  “Does my father have to know?” Brenda had a painful flash of Richard shaking hands with her dad, who’d be wearing his work gloves and have those rings of sweat he got under his arms from lugging mattr
esses out of the lorry all day. Could she lose her scholarship for skiving off? Her dad would strangle her with a bedspring.

  “For now the story stays in this room,” said Richard. “But I’d like to hear your reason for being at the Red Lion on a Tuesday during lessons.”

  “We shouldn’t have been there,” said Brenda. “I know that. But …”

  Oh, but why? Be up front.

  “But … we’ve got double Brit Con on Tuesdays. It can be as wretched as having chicken pox at Christmas.”

  Richard’s face showed that he understood that much at least.

  “But we were there. I found her, didn’t I? Did the right thing, despite my sister saying I never do. Even the medics, they said she would’ve died in another few minutes, and then it would have been Sylvie, the server, who found her. Only too late. It was pretty ghastly even with her being alive.”

  Richard nodded, so Brenda kept going. “What I’m wondering is, does God let us do wrong things if they lead to doing right? I was skiving, which was wrong. But it was right that I was there to help Mrs. Willis. Wasn’t it? And let’s say there’s a doctor who does a wrong thing in one part of his life but then does all the good of healing? Or Mrs. Willis, even, who has a drink too many most days. If she’d had her fit at home, she’d be dead right now. Her nip at lunchtime meant she was in the right spot for me to find her. So how can we ever know? Right or wrong?” Brenda stopped. She’d been rattling on.

  Richard rubbed his thumb across his chin about thirty times. “There is a poem by Robert Frost,” he finally said. “I would like to recite the last verse.”

  “All right, then.”

  “ ‘I shall be telling this with a sigh …’ ” He used the voice that made them crack up in Meeting, important and rumbling. “ ‘Somewhere ages and ages hence.’ ” He looked at her, as if to make certain she was paying attention. “ ‘Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—I took the one less traveled by; and that has made all the difference.’ ”