Monday I Love You (14 page)

I'd made up my mind I wouldn't tell Ms. Govoni about last night, about Dirk. She had enough to think about without getting that much more tied up with me and my problems. Besides, she was so kind, so caring, it might upset her if I said I thought he was the escaped criminal the police were looking for. When you thought about it, it really
was
scary.

So I told her about saving my baby-sitting money for a breast reduction operation. I told her about the weasely kid calling me fat mama. But all the time I was talking, I was thinking about Dirk. About how he looked, what he said. About him kissing me.

“Poor Grace,” she said. “People are awful. You don't need any operation, though. I believe in staying away from surgery if possible. If you lost some weight and got a really good bra, you'd be fine. Lots of people would envy you your shape. You'll see. And next time that kid calls you fat mama, do one of two things.” She smiled at me. “Punch him in the nose as hard as you can. Or sidle up to him and whisper you'd like to get to know him better. Either way, I bet he runs. You've got to call his bluff.”

We laughed at that. Laughing always makes me feel better, more relaxed. One of the reasons I can talk so easily to Ms. Govoni is that she has a light touch. Even when we discuss serious things, she never gets really tense. Maybe that's because I'm not her kid. I don't know the reason, but it really encourages me to confide in her.

Then, without thinking, I began to tell her about the events of last night, the very ones I'd made up my mind
not
to tell her. I
had
to tell someone. I told her about Dirk coming into the trailer, about the tarp he wore, about how Buster had liked him, about his knife. I told her about my scar and how I'd got it from William. I talked about how he'd traced the scar and asked me where it came from, and how, when I told him, he'd changed. I told her I thought he might kill me or Buster or both of us. Whatever I'd said made him change his mind about killing us, I was sure of that. When I told him about William, he let me alone. He kissed me. I told her that, too.

All the time I was talking, she listened without saying a word. When I was finished, she laid her hand on mine and said, “Well, that's the most fascinating and awful story I've heard in a long time, Grace. And you got through it without losing your cool. Congratulations. Lots of kids, never mind grown women, would've had hysterics. You're very brave. I admire you tremendously for behaving in such a mature way, thinking of Buster instead of yourself.”

I hadn't thought of myself as brave. Maybe I was! I felt proud that she thought so.

“It's hard to escape the conclusion that Dirk and William are one and the same person, isn't it?” she asked me. I nodded.

“Wouldn't that be the most bizarre coincidence?” she said. “William turning up in the person of Dirk in the Browns' trailer after all those years! It really is too much.”

I kept nodding, wanting her to keep talking. She was putting my thoughts into words for me—something I'd been reluctant to do because it sounded so weird. The whole thing was weird. But that didn't mean it couldn't have happened. Like in “The Lottery.”

“How about the police?” Ms. Govoni said. “Did you report it to them yet? Let them take it from there.”

“If I told them, they'd think I was crazy or something,” I said. “They'd think I was a kook. Maybe I'll tell them. I haven't made up my mind yet.”

Then Ms. Govoni cracked a silly joke that broke both of us up. We laughed so much, Rosie and Mack came running, wanting to know what was so funny.

“Time to take Grace home, kids. It's later than I thought.”

The children groaned, knowing they'd blown it. “If only you'd stayed quiet,” Mack said, “they would've forgotten about us, Rosie.”

They raced down the stairs ahead of us, shouting with glee. When you're little, it's easy to be happy, I thought.

We followed more sedately, Ms. Govoni and I.

“You can make something wonderful of yourself, Grace,” she told me. “You have great potential. The important thing is to have faith in yourself.”

“I want to kiss Grace good-bye.” Rosie's wiry little arms went around my neck from the backseat. “I love you, Grace,” Rosie said.

“You just met her,” Mack said in a gruff voice. “You can't love somebody you just met.”

“Yes I can. Can't I, Mommy?”

“Absolutely,” Ms. Govoni said. “That's known as love at first sight.”

Later, I lay awake, thinking about things. Dirk, Ashley, Ms. Govoni, Mack, Rosie. Love at first sight. Monday I love you.

Now if only I had faith in myself.

19

Lucy and I sat on her bed, planning her birthday party. Lucy's bedroom looked like a bedroom in a magazine—all pink and white, billowing organdy. It was a dream bedroom, and even now, if I close my eyes, I can see the two of us sitting on Lucy's white organdy spread.

“We're going to have scads of balloons,” said Lucy, “and a clown.”

“A live clown?” I asked, not willing to show how deeply this impressed me.

“Well, you certainly don't think we're having a dead one, do you?” Lucy's scorn was monumental and shamed me into silence.

“My mother's fixing creamed chicken in those little patty shells you get at the bakery.” Lucy licked her lips and rearranged the mounds of little pillows piled on her bed. What did she do with them at night, I wondered, when she went to sleep?

“And peas, of course. And the cake's going to be chocolate with chocolate frosting and chocolate-chip ice cream.”

I was stunned, never having heard of, much less gone to, such a party. The only birthday parties I knew were made up of one or two guests, pale and silent and ill at ease, children whose mothers were acquaintances, even, perhaps, customers, of my mother.

“That sounds nice,” I said, barely able to contain my excitement.

“And little baskets of candy, and of course”—Lucy's eyes sought mine and I could see even she was thrilled by this tidbit—“everyone gets a favor. My mother says it's not nice for just the hostess to get presents. She says everyone should go home with a little something, just to show they've been to a party. She says when she was a girl in Memphis, they had a silver tea service on the sideboard, and whenever they gave a party, the servants polished the tea service so's you could see your face in it for weeks afterward.”

As if on cue, Lucy's mother appeared in the doorway and said, “Well, darling, and who's
today's
little visitor?” as if they had a constant stream. Even before I stood up, because she was an older person and I'd been taught to stand as a mark of respect, I knew Lucy's mother had dismissed me from her thoughts. Her pale, liquid eyes took me in as Lucy said, “This is Grace Schmitt, Mother.”

“Ah,” sighed Lucy's mother, “Grace Schmitt. And where do you live, Grace?”

I told her, and with a narrow hand she brushed her forehead as if wiping away cobwebs. It was not an address that spoke of pink-and-white bedrooms, nor was it an address that drew anyone's approval. I had never lived at such an address and probably never would.

“Lucy, my love, it's time for the dentist.”

Lucy bounced off the organdy spread, and I knew it was time for me to say good-bye.

“I'll see you,” I said, and Lucy's mother straightened Lucy's collar and whispered something into her ear. I had always been taught it was impolite to whisper.

“Good-bye,” I said as they got into their car. “Goodbye, Lucy, I can hardly wait,” I said. They drove off, leaving me on the sidewalk. I thought I saw Lucy's hand waving to me from the car window, but I couldn't be sure.

I went home and told my mother I had to have a new dress for Lucy's party. She rummaged through the closet and brought forth one of her dresses, which she held against me and said she believed it could be cut down to fit me. Close to tears, I said no, it would never, never fit me. No matter what was done to it.

By great good fortune, next day a local store advertised in the paper a half-off sale on girls' dresses. We hurried on down, and I wound up with a nice, if uninteresting, yellow dress. Yellow wasn't my color, but what was?

My father polished my patent-leather shoes with Vaseline until they shone. I could see my face in them almost as clearly as Lucy's mother could see hers in the silver tea service on the sideboard. I took a bath every day in anticipation of Lucy's party.

My mother gave me a shampoo and a vinegar rinse and would've gladly removed any unwanted hair if I'd had any. The whole family sat back and waited for the invitation to arrive.

“It will come by mail,” my mother announced. “If they're having creamed chicken and all that, they'll mail those invitations. You can be sure of that.”

I saw Lucy every day at school. She didn't mention the party. But I heard her as she reeled off the details to a crowd of eager listeners. Well, after all, I told myself somewhat smugly, I'd heard them first. I knew all about the clown and the favors. As well as the chocolate-chip ice cream. I'd also been the first to sit on Lucy's white organdy spread. You can't have everything.

Days passed. Finally, unable to stand the suspense any longer, I asked Lucy what day the party was to be. What time. I was going out to buy the present that very afternoon, I told her.

“Oh,” said Lucy, putting her hand to her mouth, widening her eyes in perplexity, “I'm not inviting you.”

I stood very still, afraid if I moved, I'd overflow, like a jug of water that's filled too full. I put out my hand and said, “But you told me I was. You said, you told me about everything. The clown. Why did you tell me? I have a new dress, even. I thought I …”

Lucy stamped her foot. I had made her angry. “Oh no,” she said in a pitying tone. “I never said you were invited. We can only fit in ten. My cousins are coming
just
for my party. There isn't room. I did
not
say you were invited. You just thought you were.”

And she spun on her heel and left me there. I could barely move, surrounded as I was by ruined pride and hopes and dreams. I don't remember the rest of that day. But I do remember how my mother and father looked when I told them it had all been a mistake. Their faces crumpled, as if they'd been made of some soft stuff that came apart at a touch.

“She has to have her cousins, you see,” I announced in a feeble attempt at not caring. “They only have room for ten. Her cousins are coming all that way just for the party.”

I escaped then, ran into my room and slammed shut the door.

For once, my mother didn't come tapping, asking me what was wrong.

For once, she knew.

The thing that nagged at me, after the pain had gone down a little, was: What were the favors?

I would never know.

20

I've decided two things: One, I'm not having any breast operation. Two, I'm not ratting on Dirk. I can't. He might be William, my first real friend. I'll probably never know for sure. It's better that way. I'd hate to think William had turned to a life of crime. And if it really was Dirk and he had spared my life for some unknown reason, I can imagine him the way he was when he kissed me. It's very complicated. I still don't have it sorted out in my head. Maybe I never will.

I played hooky on and off after everything had happened. I felt too frail for any kind of encounter with anyone. I was tempted to play sick, stay in bed, but I knew if I did, I might never get up.

It turned out all right. I acted as normal as I could. Nobody said anything to me. I saw Ashley from a distance. She steered clear of me.

It's got so I sit for Rosie and Mack every Saturday. Four straight Saturdays now I've sat for them. We do exercises on the living-room rug. Ms. Govoni believes you're never too young to keep the bod in shape. She has them, and me, doing sit-ups, stretch exercises, leg lifts—all that kind of stuff. At first I was self-conscious in front of the kids, but they acted as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world for the three of us to be out flat on the floor, so now it's fun.

Ms. Govoni's taking a psychology course at the community college. She plans on getting a degree in child psychology. “Children need help,” she told me, “and I'd like to be able to give it to them.” She doesn't want to be a gym teacher all her life, she said. “I'll probably have to take out a bank loan to see me through. I don't like to borrow money, but if I do, I want to be sure it's for a good reason. I guess education's as good a reason as any.”

It's also got so that when Walter (Croc) comes to deliver the paper every Saturday, he winds up hanging around for a while, shooting the breeze with me and the kids, even peering into the refrigerator now and then to see what's what. He never takes anything though. He knows better.

When I pay him the money Ms. Govoni leaves, it's amazing the way he just eases himself into a sitting position while still standing, bends his knees just so and backs up to the couch gradually until, next thing I know, he's sitting there, smiling around the room, the uninvited and expectant guest. I can't remember ever asking him to sit, but there he is, settling in for a good chat.

“You ever try octopus?” he asks, letting his ropey old hands hang down between his knees, studying them like there's a message written on them.

“No,” I tell him, thinking that's a funny way to start a conversation, “I never did.”

Rosie and Mack, who are never far away, come bounding out from wherever they're hiding, shouting, “Oh yes, oh yes, octopus is very delicious!” Then Rosie rubs her stomach and proclaims, “Octopus is very yummy and tasty,” as if she's heard it described on TV that way. As if octopus is a cereal with sugar coating.

Walter pauses, scowling, tapping a long finger against the side of his head.