A Dream for Addie (11 page)

“I know. I'm dying to take French. But I wish I could just skip high school and go right on to college and get down to some serious things, you know?”

“I know how you feel,” he said. “But you'll have a great time in high school. You don't want to miss all the fun.”

I thought of how much fun it might be. I would be older, and a sophisticated high school student. I would come back and visit the seventh grade and see him. Things would be on a much more adult level between us then.

“Oh, it's all so childish,” I said. “I just want to get started on my career … so I can go to Paris and study art.”

“You'll have a terrific time,” he said, and smiled at me.

That was one of the things I liked best about Mr. Davenport. He took my dreams of being an artist as seriously as I did. Most grownups would laugh at them or patronize me—especially my dad, who thought my paintings were just some cute kids' phase I was going through. But my father didn't understand art well enough to see that I had talent. Mr. Davenport did. He knew about my sense of line and color and knew that I was good. He knew that I meant what I said; drat I was really going to be an artist someday. Dad thought I would just be disappointed for aiming so high, but Mr. Davenport felt the way I did: you had to aim high to reach high.

“Of course you'll need to speak French when you live in Paris,” he continued. “So I guess high school won't be a total waste for you, with French and art history.”

I knew he was teasing me a bit, and I smiled.

“I hope we study a lot about the French Impressionists in high school art,” I said. “That's how I'd like to paint when I go to Paris.”

“Well, you may find a style of your own by then,” he said. “You're very talented.”

“Thanks,” I said, blushing. I looked down at the book again. “Sometimes I get scared, though, when I look at these paintings—like some of the things Renoir did. I don't know if I'll ever be good enough. I mean to make a living being an artist.”

“I think you will.”

“I don't know. Sometimes I think maybe I should try something else. My dad says I should take typing and shorthand in high school, just in case …” That was typical of my dad, the combination of practicality and pessimism.

“That's OK, but you mustn't give up before you even get started,” he said. “That's not like you, Addie.”

I looked at him, trying to tell if he was just kidding me along, but I was sure he meant it. He knew me very well … maybe better than anybody.

“Well, I used to be more confident … about everything I guess when I was just a kid. But when you grow up, you realize how scary things really are.”

“Don't let other people's disappointments keep you from trying,” he said, looking at me very carefully. “You'll regret it all your life if you do.”

I wondered if Mr. Davenport was referring to my dad, but he couldn't have known him that well. Dad, who worked as a crane operator, had never finished high school and had always regretted it.

Mr. Davenport took out his plaid tobacco pouch and started filling his pipe. I had watched him do that dozens of times, and I knew that he smoked a wonderful tobacco mixture called “Rum and Maple.” Whenever I thought of him, I could almost smell the wonderful scent of it. I had never had the courage to mention it to him before; it seemed so personal.

“I love the scent of that tobacco you smoke,” I said as he lit his pipe. “What's the name of it?”

“Rum and Maple,” he said, puffing away to get the pipe started.

I watched him intently. I thought he was more handsome than any movie star I had ever seen. I looked at the tobacco pouch lying on his desk.

“Do you think I could have just a little sample of that to give to my dad?” I asked suddenly. “I think he might like it. If he does, maybe I'll get him some for his birthday.”

“Sure,” he said, looking amused. “Your father smokes a pipe too, huh?”

I felt uneasy. My father never smoked a pipe, and I wondered if Mr. Davenport could know that.

“Well, he smokes one sometimes,” I said hesitantly. “When he's not smoking cigarettes.”

Mr. Davenport had taken a big pinch of tobacco out of the pouch.

“Here,” he said. “How are you going to carry it?”

I quickly took out my neatly folded handkerchief, which Grandma insisted I carry with me every day, and spread it on his desk. He put the pinch of tobacco on it and I carefully rolled it up into the corner and tied it in a knot.

“Thanks,” I said. “I bet my dad will love it.”

“I hope so,” he said. “Well, I have to get busy on these history papers, Addie, if you'll excuse me.”

“OK,” I said, reluctant to leave. “You're coming to the Valentine's Dance, aren't you?” I asked.

“Oh, sure,” he said. “I wouldn't miss it. We used to have them when I was in grade school, too.”

“Yeah, they're such kid stuff,” I said. “I'd rather curl up at home with a good art book, but I guess we should all go since it's a class project.”

“Of course,” he said. “After all, they're crowning the King and Queen of Hearts. You don't want to miss that.”

“Well, it's kind of silly,” I said, trying to sound as blasé as possible. “Anyway, everyone knows it'll be Billy Wild and Carolyn Holt.”

“I hope you'll be there,” he said, and started shuffling the history papers around on the desk again.

I knew it was a signal that the conversation was over, but I hated to leave.

“Is there anything you want me to do around here?” I asked. “Put stuff away or something?”

He looked around. “No, nothing tonight, thanks,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”

“OK.
Au revoir
,” I said.

He laughed. “
A bientôt
.”

As I went out the door, I had a sudden moment of insight. I knew what had been the matter with me the last few weeks; something I thought would never happen to me in a million years. I was in love.

Chapter Three

Our house was only two blocks from the school, and I raced home through the biting cold February afternoon, carefully guarding the treasure tied up in my handkerchief. I went directly to the bedroom that Grandma and I shared and pulled the old bird's-eye maple dresser away from the wall to get at the keys hanging on the back. One of them unlocked my private drawer, the top left-hand drawer of the dresser. Grandma's private drawer was the top right-hand drawer, though she never locked it. Dad had a private drawer in his mahogany highboy, and he never locked his, either. I seemed to be the only one in the family with any real secrets.

Locks or not, it was an absolute rule that no one looked into anyone else's private drawer in our family. I knew my memento of Mr. Davenport would be safe there. What's more, I hoped it would scent all the things in my private drawer so that I would be reminded of him whenever I opened it. I hoped Dad and Grandma wouldn't notice if I began to smell like Rum and Maple. I closed my eyes and took a long, deep breath of the tobacco. I could see Mr. Davenport sitting at his desk, lighting up his pipe as we had one of our private talks. I carefully placed the knotted hanky in the drawer and locked it again.

I gathered up the red paper, lace doilies, ribbons and paints I had been making valentines with, and started for the kitchen. Our house wasn't very big. It had only two bedrooms, a kitchen, and a living room; and the kitchen was usually the center of activity. Grandma was almost always there, baking or canning or preparing something on her old cast-iron stove, and Dad and I just naturally gravitated to the good smells and coziness of the kitchen.

Dad had just come home from work and he was talking with Grandma. They didn't realize I was coming toward the kitchen, and I could overhear their conversation.

“She wants me to go to the dance, but I told her no,” Dad was saying.

I couldn't imagine what dance he was talking about, or who would want him to go. He never went to dances. He was a quiet, reserved person who never went anywhere, in fact, except uptown for an occasional soft drink.

“Why not go?” asked Grandma.

“Well, I don't know—about Addie,” he said.

“You're going to have to tell her sometime,” said Grandma.

I stood very still, listening. I knew it was wrong to eavesdrop, but I couldn't have stopped if my life had depended on it.

“You know how Addie is,” Dad said. “She's funny about people sometimes. I don't know how they'd get along.”

“Irene Davis is a nice woman,” said Grandma. “I think they oughta meet.”

I froze. I couldn't believe it. Irene Davis! I thought I knew everything there was to know about Dad. I never imagined he had any private life other than the one he shared with us. He had never dated anyone since my mother had died twelve years ago. And Irene Davis of all people!

Irene ran one of the two beauty salons in Clear River. She had been widowed several years ago when her husband had been killed in an accident in the railroad yards, and she lived alone, operating her beauty salon out of an extra room in her house.

She was in her early forties, tall and blond and very good looking, if you liked the obviously glamorous type. I thought she was a bit too done-up for a little Nebraska town like Clear River, but I guess she thought her high heels, bright red nail polish and swept-up blond hair were good advertising for her salon.

Irene played the organ for the Methodist church on Sundays, and, though most people thought she was very talented, some of the more conservative members claimed she put too much rhythm into the hymns. My family went to the Baptist church, so I had never heard her Sunday performances; but I had heard her play at a couple of wedding ceremonies, and I thought “Here Comes the Bride” did sound kind of jazzy the way she did it.

She was always laughing and talking and obviously having a good time wherever she went, and sometimes I would see her at the bar in the back room of Cole's Confectionery, having a beer with a group of people. There was something just a little too bold about her that scared me in some way. Nobody in my family ever behaved that way, and I wasn't sure how to react. But to imagine her with my dad, with his stern, quiet manner, was simply crazy. It must be some kind of mistake. I had to find out more about it.

I couldn't stand there listening any longer, so I went into the kitchen with my armload of valentine makings and pretended that I hadn't heard anything but the last remark.

“Who ought to meet whom?” I asked as I plopped down at the table with all my stuff.

“Oh, nothing,” said Dad, looking uncomfortable. “Just talking about some folks we know.”

“Don't get all settled there,” said Grandma. “Dinner's almost ready, and you'd better set the table.”

“In a minute,” I said impatiently. “Who were you talking about?” I asked Dad again. I was enjoying putting him on the spot. It seemed we did that to each other a lot; sometimes in fun, sometimes to see who would get the upper hand. We had always had a talent for annoying each other, but now that I was growing up I was getting better at holding up my end of the struggle. Dad seemed more and more confused about how to deal with me as I got older, and I soon learned that his puzzlement was my best weapon. In spite of all the sparring, however, Dad and I liked each other a lot.

“You just tend to your own business,” he said.

“Well, what's going on?” I asked.

“Now, Addie,” said Grandma. “You mustn't butt into other people's business when they don't want to discuss it.”

Actually Grandma would be the first to confide something like this if she could do it without making Dad angry.

“My gosh!” I said. “We're in the same family, aren't we? What the heck's the big secret?”

“I don't butt into your private business, do I?” asked Dad. “I don't read your diary. I don't ask who those mushy valentines you're making are for, do I?”

“These are not mushy!” I said. One of them was kind of special, though, and I quickly covered it up so he wouldn't see it. It was for Mr. Davenport. The other valentines were for Dad and Grandma and Carla Mae and a few of the other kids I especially liked.

“I'll bet the sweetest valentine is for Billy Wild,” said Grandma, teasing me. I knew she was helping Dad change the subject.

“It is not!” I said hotly. “Yuck! I can't stand him. You should see the way he behaves—like a three-year-old.”

I busied myself with the cutting and pasting of lace doilies over the red construction paper. I was trying to think of a way to find out more about Irene.

“I wish we had a telephone,” I said to no one in particular. I said that often, but Dad never would spend the money for a phone.

“So Billy Wild could call you?” he asked.

“No!” I said. “Honestly, I don't know where you two get the mistaken idea that I like him! Nobody could be that desperate!”

Actually he was right on target. I would have to go to the dance with somebody, and it might as well be Billy Wild.

“Huh!” said Dad.

“I mean we should have a phone so anybody could call us,” I said. “Or like for an emergency or something.”

“Like talking to boys, I suppose,” said Dad.

“No!”

“No use havin' a phone,” said Grandma. “It's just a nuisance. It rings and you just have to run and answer it.”

Grandma always said that when I suggested a phone, and I had tried forever to make her see that answering the phone when it rang was the whole point, but she just refused to understand. Grandma was in her seventies, and she had been around long enough to have her own way of looking at things. She seldom changed those ways, either.

“Well, like I always say,” said Dad, “if anybody wants to talk to us …”

“I know, I know,” I interrupted glumly, finishing the sentence with him. “They can write us a letter or knock on the door.”