Paint Me a Monster (11 page)

I think she means in case I get my period, but we don’t talk about it.

Verna bends over my shoulder and says, “Your mama is something else. She’s going to drive me to crazy packing you kids’ trunks. Croquette, get your paws off those clothes. I just ironed them.” Verna shoos Croquie away with the towel that’s tucked into her apron pocket.

I roll my eyes and pull my lips back into my cheeks. “You’re not the only one.”

“SHHHHH! I’m counting,” Mom says, with a pencil between her teeth.

Camp Redwood is an erased memory. I pick up my tennis racket and strum “K-K-K-Katawauk, K-K-K-Katawauk, You’re the only C-C-C-Camp that we adore, and the reason, every season, finds you better than you ever were before.”

I can almost smell the pine trees and stables. I can see the sun’s glint on Lake Katawauk, and I rock as though I am paddling a canoe, solo on the calm lake water. I take a deep breath and cough out the smoke of Mom’s cigarette.

Mounds of blankets, toiletries, swimsuits, and campfire clothes hide the floor. Towels skirt the silk chairs. The sofa is covered with cotton panties folded in neat rows, balls of white socks, and striped pajamas. My riding helmet, jodhpurs, and boots are next to a flannel nightie.

“Seven pairs of high socks, seven pairs of tennis socks, right?” Mom says. “Rinnie, count them again.”

“Seven pair high socks, seven pair tennis socks,” I say. “Can I get a snack?”

This is the most boring job in the world. My mom is crazy about having exactly what’s on the list provided by the camp.

Last week was the same routine, but with Liz, lucky her, she escaped on her bike to the summer recreation program at school. Three times a week any kid can bring lunch and play supervised games on the playground. It’s a lot of fun.

Next week, Evan’s stuff will be packed—only he gets off easy because he’s Evan.

I’ll probably have to help while he goofs off, like now. He’s watching TV in the den and eating folded over butter and sugar sandwiches.

Verna hates the annual routine as much as Liz and me, but she
has
to help. She’s getting paid. I hang around so I won’t get in trouble later and because I feel sorry for Verna. I’ve heard misery loves company and if Verna has to be miserable, then I’ll be the company.

“Check underwear off the list,” says the voice of authority.

“You have the pencil,” I say pulling it out of Mom’s hair.

This is nuts.

I mean, how many times do you have to count the same things to be sure how many things there are? The living room looks like six families moved in and forgot to put their stuff away.

“Where are the T-shirts, the swimsuits, and the white shorts? You need two more pair of white shorts. Rinnie, try these on—see if they still fit.” Mom hands me a pair of last year’s shorts.

“I hate these shorts. They’re too long. They’re gross.”

Last year, it was OK to wear any kind of shorts. I was in the third-to-youngest bunk. The most important thing to me then was making a present for every person in my family before camp ended.

“We’re missing a pair of shorts. Did you move them?” Mom asks.

“One is enough,” I say. “Remember what happens on Sunday?”

Sunday morning at camp is laundry day. Campers and counselors give their bags of dirty clothes to Susie, who is also the person who checks our hair with her rough hands to make sure it has been washed when we come out of the shower. Susie bellows all summer, “Clothes are supposed to have name tags so no one loses anything.” The plan never works. My best friend, Terri, never got her beach robe back from the laundry and had to wear a bathing suit to and from the shower the entire summer.

I imagine sorting 200 piles of clothes: 150 for campers, 50 for counselors. The perfect job for my mother.

Monday is laundry day here at home. Juanita, the laundress, washes, dries, and presses clothes in the basement. I love to visit Juanita while she works. The smell of hot pressed clothes, steamy as a cup of soup, warms me, even in summer.

I picture the campers dressed in their Sunday whites, waiting in line to go to services. No one ever talks about God or Sunday school stuff. It’s more about being grateful and loving nature or at least being aware of her beauty. They are the only services I can sit through without getting antsy. The older campers, the juniors or seniors, give the service and read poems, sing, and tell short stories. Each person holds a folded white piece of paper decorated with just-picked, soft, green ferns. If it weren’t for the paper, the ferns would look like small wings ready for lift off—mini-wings that turn each paper-holding camper into a camper angel. One day, when I help give the service, I’ll be a camper angel too with fresh-picked ferns for wings.

I’m dropped back into reality. “The shorts look great,” Mom says. “I think you should have one more pair.”

I agree about them looking OK. I must have grown. This summer I have a reason to look good. I have a chance to make inter-camp sports teams. I almost made the archery team last year, but one of the other girls distracted me. She had her own arm and finger guards, which were polished and smooth—not the cracked and scuffed guards the camp passed out.

I couldn’t stop thinking what a good archer she must be to have her own equipment. When we were given the signal to shoot, I was still thinking about the fancy guards, and I hit the blue instead of the goal. I lost by three points because of how someone looked.

This year, I plan to be prepared. Being prepared is something I’ve been concentrating on.

“Here are the other shorts,” Mom says. “They were under a blanket.”

“Why do I have to try them on?” They look exactly like the pair of shorts I just took off. Mom gives me the don’t-push-your-luck look.

“Try them just in case the laundry shrunk them.”

I put them on. “Perfect,” I say. “Am I finished yet?”

Verna carries in the T-shirts and Mom counts.

“Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.” Mom wants to make sure I have plenty of T-shirts in case I sweat and want to change into a fresh one. “Good. Now how many of them are sleeveless?”

I like the sleeveless tops because, as Verna says, “The sun can kiss my shoulders and leave freckles,” which I like.

I have lots of freckles—the only one of us three kids, and the freckles are all tiny and cute. They are mostly on my arms, legs, and face. Mom says the sun is attracted to me because I have red hair. I am irresistible to the sun’s affection. My friend Julie’s freckles are so huge they hug each other. The sun must have licked her.

Verna counts the T-shirts again. Twelve. She puts them next to the socks: fourteen. Mom counts again—just to be sure. It’s 4:00 P.M., time for Verna to leave so she can catch her bus. I finally get a snack. Mom stands knee-deep in her glory and counts how much more is left to count. She calls, “Rinnie!”

“Grrrrr.” I hug Verna good-bye. She pats my back and brushes hair out of my eyes. Her hands smell like cherry lotion. I take a deep sniff. I won’t smell anything so sweet until tomorrow.

“See you around like a donut,” she says.

“See you later, alligator,” I say back.

“Thanks, Verna,” Mom says. Then we start counting bathing suits.

“You may be the pretty one, but Liz is the one with the personality,” my mother’s friend says.

“She had a head start,” I answer. It’s not the first time an adult has commented on my older sister’s bubbly nature. Liz in action still astonishes me. Her words sail in the air as easily as a bird. Watching them fly quiets me.

“Rinnie, is that you?”

“Dad? Are you home?” I grin so wide he
has
to hear it over the telephone. “Will I get to see you before I leave for camp?”

Liz hears me, twisting the phone so she can hear Dad.

“Allyson and I got back last night. The wedding went off without a hitch. Alana, Amy, and Jake gave their mom away. Allyson’s parents did a fabulous job on their yard. Wildflowers bloomed everywhere, even on the canopy.”

Dad says having a big family will be fun. Maybe for Alana, Amy, and Jake, but not for us.

“When does camp start?” he asks.

“In two weeks. I told you a month ago.”

“Gosh, I’d love to see you, Buzzer, but I’ll be in Europe—the honeymoon, remember? Allyson and I will catch up with you on visiting weekend at camp. I’ll bring you coins from the countries we visit.”

I hear a wiggle in his voice—the kind of wiggle that worms its way into a conversation and fills the space where something else belongs.

“OK,” I mumble.

“Allyson and I wanted you kids at the wedding, Rinnie. But with your camp schedules, the timing was bad. Allyson’s parents had enough to do without planning for three more kids.”

“Tell Allyson I, I . . . ” I don’t know what to say. “Tell her I’m glad you married her.” I bite my lips so the words can’t jump back into my mouth. This isn’t what I want to say.
I want to stamp my feet and yell, “Allyson’s kids were there. Your real kids should’ve been there, too.”

Instead, I pass the phone to Liz, who, with an upward flick of her hand, wipes a smile onto her face. “Congratulations to you, congratulations to you . . . ” she sings.

I give her snake eyes, crossing my arms over my chest to ward off injustice.

“Don’t you feel left out?” I stage whisper.

Liz looks at me with surrender. She flips the phone to Evan who stuffs the last bite of a bread, butter, and sugar sandwich in his mouth.

“What else can we do?” she shrugs.

“Ha, whoa. Dad?” Evan says, swallowing.

Evan’s eyes shine like polished ebony. He’s happy to have a brother.

Dad must have asked if Evan was eating healthy stuff because Evan said he eats vegetables and fruit every day.

Yeah,
I think. Only it’s in the form of potato chips and jelly. Before Evan says good-bye, I signal for him to hand me the phone.

“See you in six weeks,” I say. “Don’t forget.”

I hang the phone up and wonder what I am supposed to call Allyson.

Mom isn’t a great letter writer. She writes four letters during the eight weeks I’m at camp. You’d think by now I wouldn’t be excited to get a letter from home, but I am. This one is a real eye-opener. Last weekend, Mom and Barry Segal got married. Two weddings in one summer. My parents are couples again. Only with other people.

“You can see the wedding photos when you get home,” writes Mom.

Like I want to. My reason to see the pictures would be to make a match between my ears and my eyes.

“I wore a white lace suit with blue trim and carried pale yellow flowers that matched my hair. Everything was gorgeous—the weather, the sky, the flowers. It was perfect.”

No kids perfect.
Barry doesn’t look like a peanut, but that was his nickname in college—when he and Mom were sweethearts. She said he had hair then. Now he has a fallen halo of hair. Barry’s taller than my Dad, and his voice is softer. I used to call Barry, Mr. Segal. Maybe I’ll call him Barry. If he’s around a lot, maybe I’ll call him Dad.

At least he’s nice and treats us like real people, a much better choice than Tom Waistman, who talked to us like we were some kind of circus poodles. “Come here, Rinnie. What a good girl you are, Rinnie. Rinnie, your mother says you made choir, sing a few bars, Rinnie. . . . Evan, run for the ball when I throw it. . . . Lizzie, my little Lizzie. . . . ” Better than Paul Blennon, too. He crooned “Fly Me to the Moon” when he came to pick Mom up for a date. When he blew his nose, the windows rattled. Barry may have a big nose, but he’s never rattled the windows, or us.

We’re headed northeast on Interstate 71. Then, between pit stops on Interstate 76, we zoom past fields stamped with cows, sheep, and metal silos. Liz, Evan, and I are home from camp. Our new and improved family is on the way to Dad Barry’s hometown to meet his family. Leafy trees remind me of giant stalks of broccoli, and the evergreens could be upside-down ice cream cones. What’s familiar becomes strange. The landscape mirrors my family, no longer familiar to me. I have extra siblings, parents, and grandparents. It could be Fantasyland or
The Twilight Zone
.

Barry tells us about his life growing up. Burton, his father, who was a magician, owned a chain of toy stores. His magic wand was passed to Barry and his brother, Marvin.

“Marvin and I used to put on magic shows for our friends. There was only one person who didn’t pay admission, Elaine Elliott. Marvin fell in love with her in the fourth grade and married her on his twenty-fifth birthday,” Barry says. He goes on, “I didn’t want to be in the toy business like my father and brother. I preferred to work with numbers.”

“That’s how I won your mom the first time. I was good with figures.” Dad Barry chuckles at his joke. We flick each other on the legs and make smirky smiles.

Billboards line the road like giant goalposts:

Take a hike—The Mountain State

Wheeling, West Virginia, Statehood 1863

Need a car? Visit the Auto Warehouse, next exit

Best Breakfast East of the Mississippi. Bacon and Beans Café, three miles ahead

Like the billboards, Dad Barry draws us a verbal map of his relatives so we know where we’re headed.

“Grandma Sher had four sisters, one so smart she went to law school long before it was common for women to go to work. Grandma Sher was the youngest sister and helped her mother in the kitchen. That’s why she’s such a good cook,” Barry says.

“What does she cook?” Liz asks.

“Everything,” Barry says. “Latkes, tzimmes, blintzes.”

“What about our new cousins?” Evan says. “Tell us about them.”

Barry uses the last few miles to give us the lowdown on his nephews. Cousin Danny is the same age as Liz, and his brother Dennis is the same age as Evan.

Barry taught the brothers how to play chess, and they taught him how to do flips off the diving board. Dennis likes lunch and gym. Danny, gym and history. Blah de da dada. The only thing Liz and I care about is if they’re cute.