A Tinfoil Sky

by Cyndi Sand-Eveland

  “Will that be everything?” the storekeeper asked.

  “I was wondering if I could also get some change?”

  “Oh, sure. What do you need – dimes or nickels?” the storekeeper asked as he pushed a large key on the ornate cash register.

  The register clunked, a gear was released somewhere within the enormous contraption, and it produced a clear and precise ka ching! as the cash drawer opened. Mel had never seen or heard anything like it.

  “Well, actually, this –” Mel put the three dollars on the counter, “is for the canned milk. I need to bring that change back to my grandmother. I was …”

  “Your grandmother?” the storekeeper interrupted. “Who would that be?”

  “Gladys Tulley.”

  “Gladys. So you’re her granddaughter?”

  “Yes,” Mel said, and in that moment she decided to find another place to get change for the bus.

  As the storekeeper counted the change back, he set each coin on the counter. “Two-fifty, seventy-five, and three.”

  An unusual look moved across the storekeeper’s face. He looked down, and then his head turned slightly to the side. “You’re Melody?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “Cecily’s daughter?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, how about that. It’s been a long time. I don’t suppose you remember me. My name’s Ed Frohberger. I knew you when you were knee-high to a grasshopper.”

  Mel laughed at the thought of being that small.

  “I was a good friend of your grandfather. Thirty years Tux and I were friends.” As he spoke, Mr. Frohberger pulled a half-filled plastic container off the shelf and used the little tongs to fish out a multi-colored gummy. “Here you go, Miss Melody. Welcome back to the neighborhood.”

  “Thank you,” Mel said, but what she really wanted to do was ask him to tell her more.

  “My pleasure,” Mr. Frohberger answered. “It’ll be great for Gladys to have someone around to run errands for her. Give her my regards.”

  “I will,” Mel garbled out as she tried to chew the almost-rock-hard candy.

  Once outside, Mel looked up at the stately trees and worn-down houses. She couldn’t help but wonder what it might be like to be one of these trees, or even to be Mr. Frohberger, or even Gladys. What does it feel like to be in the same place today as you were yesterday, as you will be tomorrow? Cecily liked change. Lots of it. Mel, on the other hand, did not.

  As Mel sauntered down the street to the market, she kicked little bits of chipped concrete from the lifting and tilting sidewalk. When she got there, she picked out a bag of chips, and – although it didn’t feel right using what she was sure was the lawyer’s money – she did it anyway and got the change she needed: three five-dollar bills and the rest in quarters. She’d break the five-dollar bills one at a time as she needed them.

  “My neighborhood,” Mel whispered. “This was my neighborhood.”

  She liked the sound of those words strung together, and she felt happy all the way back to Gladys’s – until she tried the door to the apartment. It was locked.

  “You can’t be leaving the door unlocked when you go!” Gladys snarled as she opened the door. “I’m giving you a key, and I expect you to hang on to it. It’s for the top lock. If you lose it, you’ll have to pay to have the lock changed.” Gladys took the too-short string she’d threaded through the hole at the top of the key and stretched it over Mel’s head. Then, using one hand to take the cans of Red Label evaporated milk from Mel, she held out her other palm. “Change,” she said.

  Mel lifted the key up, dropped it between her shirt and her skin, and then handed Gladys the coins.

  “You can put your stuff on that bottom shelf, but don’t be getting into any of those boxes.” Gladys motioned to the vacant end of the bookshelf that sat across from the couch. “I’ll be leaving for work at six-thirty first thing tomorrow morning,” Gladys added, and then strode into the kitchen.

  Scenes, like those in a film, sometimes played out in Mel’s mind. In this scene, Gladys was telling Mel once again not to touch any of her things. Words ran along the bottom of the screen, like captions.

  There is a way they treat you when they don’t trust you, or don’t want to trust you. It’s in the way they speak, the words they use, the way they hold their body and look at you. Sometimes they look at you for so long it feels like forever, like they have already caught you doing what they think you are going to do, or have already done. Other times, they look past you or through you as though you are invisible.

  Mel’s eyes returned to Gladys, who was futzing in the kitchen, and then to her backpack, and then to the shelf.

  13

  Tinfoil Sky

  Late that night, with the crocheted blanket wrapped tightly around her, Mel peeled back a corner of the tinfoil from the window beside the couch, and looked out at the stars. Air – cool, clean, and fresh – blew through a thin crack in the paned glass window. If there was a window where Cecily was, Mel was sure Cecily would be looking up at the night sky and thinking about her, too. Mel brought a handful of her spiraled ringlets close to her face. Her hair still smelled of the menthol cigarette smoke Cecily blew over her head at the courthouse.

  She thought about the list Cecily would be making. It would be a list of all the things they would do when this was over – when things got better. Cecily was going to come by and get her, and together they were going to find a place of their own. They’d make a list of places they’d like to live, a list of all the details of the perfect home, and a list of things they’d need.

  “You have my heart, girl,” Cecily would tell her. “You’re my grounding force. You’re my gift from God Almighty Himself.” Then Cecily would start singing: “I need you, like the flower needs the rain, you know I need you” – or some other silly love song. Cecily’s voice always made Mel smile when she was sad. It made her feel warm when she was cold, and it made her feel safe when she was scared. And when Cecily was finished singing, she’d say, “Girl, let’s write a list.” The list would include all the places they were going to tour when they got enough money together to cut their first record, a list of festivals they’d sing at, and a list of songs they were going to sing – in the order they were going to sing them. Mel always went along with it, but what she didn’t tell Cecily was that – secretly – she hoped they’d find one beautiful place, and they’d stay there. They’d have a garden, flowers, and, maybe, if Cecily could afford it, Mel could get a kitten.

  Cecily talked about being onstage, in front of thousands of people, and about jamming with other musicians backstage as though it was destined to happen. It would be Cecily’s moment of fame. When Cecily talked about her dream, Mel always felt guilty, wondering if she had been the reason Cecily hadn’t been able to pursue her dream. Cecily had only once told her about the moment everything changed. Cecily had been drinking and let the words slip out. She said that everything had been going great, that she was on her way, playing lots of festivals, that there had been talk of a record. But then Cecily had started partying a lot, and the next thing she knew, she was pregnant.

  But Mel didn’t want to think about that, and she let her mind wander back to Frohberger’s. If Cecily had been there today, she’d have seen the four-leaf clovers. They would have been a sign of impending good luck. Mel wanted to believe it was true.

  Pulled back into the present, Mel heard someone or something stumbling up the stairs and then down the hallway just outside the apartment door. She quickly unfolded the little piece of tinfoil and pressed it back against the cool windowpane, eliminating the sliver of light it afforded. She tucked her head under the crocheted blanket, breathing in her own steamy breath, and she waited. Her fingers traced the pleats of the threadbare satin pillow, and her other hand clutched the key to the door. The little apartment wasn’t big, it wasn’t fancy, but there were doors, and they were locked, and she was safe.

  When all the noise moved behind a closed door do
wn the hall, Mel got up from the couch and checked the deadbolts. All but one was set; duct tape prevented it from locking. Surprised that all the yelling hadn’t woken Gladys up, she tiptoed back to the couch, rearranged the pillows, lay down, and tucked the satin pillow under her head. It was early morning before she heard another sound.

  Mel woke to Gladys pushing on her shoulder.

  “Get up! You’re going to make me late for work.”

  As Mel sat up and looked at Gladys, she noticed the words “Fan’s Dry-Cleaning” embroidered on the front of Gladys’s smock. Gladys was still working at the cleaners.

  Mel pulled on her jeans, leaving on the T-shirt that doubled as pajamas. She slipped her feet into her flipflops, lifted her backpack over her shoulder, took the plate and toast from Gladys’s outstretched hand, and walked through the doorway and into the hall. Mel thought that she must be going to work with Gladys.

  “Slide the plate under the door when you’re finished,” Gladys said after she locked not only the top lock, the one Mel had a key for, but also the bottom lock, using a different key.

  “You’re locking me out?” Mel asked.

  “No, I’m locking my things in,” Gladys snapped back.

  “I have no intention of taking any of your things,” Mel said.

  Gladys drew in a stiff breath, as though she was somehow justified in leaving her granddaughter out in the hallway.

  Only after she had taken seven steps – Mel counted them – and was about to turn the corner and walk down the main hall, did Gladys pause. She turned, walked back, and unlocked the bottom lock, the lock that Mel didn’t have a key for. “I guess it doesn’t really matter,” she hissed. “Your mother took most of what had any value.”

  Mel didn’t look at her. She gave no indication that she’d heard what Gladys had said, or that she was grateful to have access to Gladys’s apartment. Instead, she stared out the window. What she thought of adding to Gladys’s proclamation was Cecily isn’t only my mother; Cecily is also your daughter.

  She listened to the sounds of Gladys’s shoes snapping on the stairs. As the downstairs door opened, a breeze swept through the hall, carrying with it dust from the floor and stairs. Mel felt it whisk by her on its way to the partially open hall window beside her. From her vantage point, she watched Gladys walk down the sidewalk, cross the street, and sweep past Frohberger’s. Mel didn’t expect her to look back, or maybe she did. Either way, she felt a guilty streak run up her back when Gladys, upon turning the corner toward the bus stop, cast a quick glance directly at the window.

  Mel slid to the floor, her back against the wall, and ate her toast. When she was done, she removed the key that hung around her neck and set it on the plate with the crumbs from the toast.

  “You can keep your key, Gladys Tulley,” Mel whispered as she slid the key and plate under the door of the apartment.

  Mel surveyed the hallway. The library wouldn’t open for three hours. She closed her eyes and thought about which books she would check out, and before long drifted into a light sleep.

  Two sets of footsteps could be heard racing through the hall and then down the stairs.

  “Come on! We’re going to miss the bus!” someone called out.

  Mel realized it might be the same bus she needed to get to the library. She stood up, grabbed her bag, raced out of the building, and followed the two young men to the bus stop. The two men got on the first bus, but Mel sat on the bench and waited. According to the posted schedule, the Downtown 42 would be along in ten minutes. She was the only person to get on the bus when it arrived.

  The winding bus route followed along the river, and Mel watched the usual mix of nicely dressed people, their coffees in hand, move promptly toward their shops and offices. The bus made stops at the courthouse and the community center. Mel saw a few people asleep on benches; others pushed loaded shopping carts filled with their belongings. The driver pulled up to the stop by the soup kitchen and waved to a few regulars as they dismounted. The library was just ahead. The excitement of checking out the books she’d been yearning for was becoming difficult to contain.

  Mel didn’t think about not getting a library card. She didn’t think about anything stopping her from having one. But she quickly realized that she had never thought about how she would actually get the card. At least until her eyes met those of the librarian. “Hi, I’m Mel …” she said, her voice quivering with anticipation.

  “Ah, so you’re Miss Tulley,” the librarian said. “Well, how about that. I’ve seen you in here recently, right?”

  Mel was caught off guard. She hadn’t realized that anyone had noticed her daily visits. She read the name on the tag of the woman’s vest: Marilyn.

  “Great! Let’s get started,” Marilyn continued. “Most of the paperwork is already filled out. I need one thing, though: an address and phone number for your grandmother. Did you bring that with you?”

  “No … I didn’t.” Mel lifted one foot and ran the tip of her flip-flop down the back of her other leg to the floor. She curled her toes into the soles of her feet and drew in a deep breath. The embarrassment was drowning her; she was going to have to divulge that a judge had granted her the card. “Your Honor, the judge …,” Mel started to explain.

  “Oh yes, I know. Judge Pullman is a friend of mine. He’s already had someone come in to sign for your card. I just need a phone number and an address to fill in the forms properly. Can you remember any part of it?”

  The librarian’s voice was kind, but in that moment, Mel couldn’t even remember the street name, let alone the number.

  “Okay, so how about you go ahead and pick out the books you want, and I’ll put them on hold for you.”

  “No, thanks. I’ll come back.”

  “Are you sure? It’s not a problem for me to do this.”

  “I’m sure.”

  Mel left the library empty-handed and began the long walk back to Gladys’s apartment. The return trip took an hour, partially because she walked so slowly. Mel did the math: thirty-nine dollars would give her at least thirty trips from Gladys’s to the library. If Cecily was in jail for thirty days, and if it took them a month to find a place to live, the money wouldn’t last. If Mel walked one way every trip, and didn’t go every day, thirty-nine dollars could last two months. And maybe there’d be a bit left over to spend on things they’d need for their apartment. And there was no use rushing; Gladys wasn’t home, the door was locked, and Mel no longer had a key.

  Mr. Frohberger was standing behind the counter when Mel walked by the store. He waved and smiled. She couldn’t help but wave and smile back.

  Mel continued to Gladys’s. She made a mental note of the building number, relieved to have at least one piece of information for the librarian. She climbed the stairs, walked down the hallway, turned the corner, and sat down across from the apartment door. The apartment number, an old-fashioned 2, had been removed, but a clear outline of it remained just below the brass peephole on the varnished wooden door.

  Mel leaned her head back against the wall; her stomach reminded her that she was hungry. “I should have gone by the soup kitchen first,” she whispered into the vacant hallway. But with the sun shining through the window and onto her face, she drifted into a place halfway between wakefulness and sleep.

  “What?” Gladys asked when she saw Mel sitting outside the apartment door. “Didn’t like any of those books at the library?”

  Mel started at the sound of Gladys’s voice, then turned her face up to the window, eliminating the possibility that Gladys could look down on her.

  She doubted Gladys ever went to the library, but still, Gladys’s voice cut the little excitement that remained of the day into pieces, and Mel could feel them disappearing into the dark and dusty corners of the hall. She decided not to ask Gladys for her phone number. Instead, Mel planned to find all the information she needed in the apartment, and look at it without Gladys knowing. The librarian hadn’t asked for a signature; the judge had seen t
o that. All Mel needed was an address and phone number. It was a formality.

  Gladys unlocked the door and pushed it open. The small plastic plate and key appeared. Gladys bent down and picked up the plate, then walked inside and into the kitchen. She said nothing about the key.

  Moments later, she reentered the living room. “So what? Now you don’t want the key?”

  “No,” Mel told her. “I don’t. I’d rather wait in the hall.”

  “Well, fine then.” Gladys paused, and Mel knew Gladys was readying herself to launch another attack. “But if I were you, I wouldn’t be burning any bridges because the only thing you got going for you right now … is me.”

  Mel turned to stare at the drapes that hung in front of the window, as though she could see through them, past the tinfoil to the sky.

  What stung the most was that it was true. There were no aunts, no uncles, no cousins. There was only Cecily and Gladys, and Cecily was in jail.

  “And didn’t I tell you to take the papers and cans down to Frohberger’s the other day when you picked up the milk?”

  Mel didn’t answer. Instead, she picked up the top stack of newspapers and set a box of flattened cans on top.

  “Is there anything you need?” Mr. Frohberger asked when she dropped off the last box of flattened cans – it had taken three trips to get them all. Only a few days ago, the judge had asked her the same question.

  “No, thank you,” Mel answered. “I’m just dropping these off.”

  She left the store and walked slowly back to the apartment. The door was locked. Mel knocked, then waited. Eventually, Gladys obliged. This would become a contest for control between them – Mel refusing the key and Gladys refusing to rush. Eventually, Gladys chose to leave the door unlocked each afternoon until Mel’s return, so as not to be interrupted.

  Mel went into the kitchen and reached for the broom behind the door. If she was going to be spending her mornings in the hall, it would be nice to at least sweep up the thick layer of dust.