Paint Me a Monster (7 page)

Next, Mrs. Burrell says, “I want you to write poems about the four seasons.” She says we will collect the poems into a book called an anthology, and everyone will get a copy. Nothing can top this. The rest of the day I pop, pop, pop, up from my seat to show her all my poems, more than anyone else writes.

“Each one of you will decorate a cover for your anthology,” Mrs. Burrell says, holding up colored paper.

My hands are so excited I have to hold them still. I take crayons out of my desk. The wax smells good. Soon, hungry birds on bird feeders chirp on the cover of my anthology. Time goes by too quickly, and we have to put our art away.

The bell rings. It’s time to go home. Outside, I stop and take an extra look at the trees, the sky, and the apple-green grass. The world looks different today. I wish Mrs. Burrell were my mom, but she already has a child. On my way home, I decide to ring her bell sometime anyway.

Christmas is over, the New Year is four days old, and my sister, brother, and I help Verna and Emmy pack Christmas ornaments in a box for storage. This year’s tree is the fifth one I remember and the biggest of all. Emmy came early today because our new ovens were delivered from Daddy and Pop Pop’s business. Emmy has to make sure she knows how to use them before she cooks dinner. She said working the appliances is a snap. Now she gets to help us help Verna.

“Next year for Christmas, I want Santa to bring me a holiday,” Verna says. “I won’t be cleaning after dried-up Christmas trees. How come Jewish folk are celebrating Christmas, anyway?”

“Because we always do,” I say. “Mommy says Christmas is beautiful. She says it’d be a shame not to decorate the house with winter smells, candles, and a Christmas tree with colored lights that twinkle.”

“When your Daddy gets home from work,
he
can carry this tree to the screened porch. Tomorrow, the handyman will finally haul it away,” Verna says.

“Thank—you—Lord!” Emmy says. “No more tinsel and pine needles dirtying up my afternoon carpets. I have to pick up every time someone tracks that mess through the house. Between Mrs. G’s ‘Can you do this for me,’ and you kids, there’s not a minute’s rest.”

“I’m sorry you’re tired. Liz and I will wrap the ornaments and put them in the box. Emmy. You and Verna can sit and have a cup of cocoa,” I say.

Verna wipes her forehead, and Emmy sandwiches her apron between her rough hands and laughs. “Out of the mouths of babes,” she says. “Oh, honey, our job is to put up and take down, cook and clean.”

“And to take care of us,” Liz says with a smile.

“That’s right, girl,” Emmy says and climbs a ladder so she can reach the angel on the top of the tree.

“Hand me that frosty white snowman, Rinnie,” Verna says. Her brown hands push bundled ornaments against the side of the box. “See if you can slip under the tree and catch that pointy gold star.”

Liz and I scramble on our stomachs to reach it. Verna and Emmy talk softly and I hear them say, money grows on trees in our house, and Santa needs to bring them a tree like that.

After she carries the boxes of ornaments to the basement, Emmy says, “You kids stay clear of the kitchen. Company is coming for dinner, and I have a lot of work to do.”

My sister, brother, and I inspect the empty tree.

“It’s naked,” Liz says. “All its clothes are packed away until next year.”

Evan giggles and runs around the room. “The tree is naked, the tree is naked,” he sings.

I stare at the empty branches. Without ornaments on the branches, it’s easy to look for money.

“Where’s the money?” I say, and shake a branch. Dry sharp needles fall on the carpet. “Where’s the money?”

“What money?” Liz says.

“The money that grows on our trees.”

“Money doesn’t grow on trees.” Liz turns her head, looking at me like I should know that.

“Verna says it grows on
our
trees, and she wants Santa to bring her a tree just like it.”

“Maybe Verna needs more money,” Liz says.

“Is that why she takes Mommy’s old clothes home?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“If Verna had a money tree, she could pick money when she needed some and buy new clothes. She could play golf and tennis. She wouldn’t have to get up and come here,” I say.

“Verna is here because she loves us. Daddies go to work, mommies go to the beauty parlor, children go to school, and Verna takes care of us. She doesn’t need a money tree,” Liz says.

Just in case, I get my piggy bank and shake it until quarters, nickels, dimes, and pennies rattle out.

“Vernaaaa,” I call. “Where are you?”

She is standing by the front door. The striped scarf Gaga gave her for Christmas is tucked around her neck. She pulls on matching mittens. “Okie dokie, artichokie. Time for me to catch my bus,” she says. I give her a hug.

“Here,” I say, handing her the coins. “They fell from our money tree.”

Verna hugs me back and tells me to plant the money so another tree will grow.

I wave to her from the door. She bends against the wind, wrapped in her old furry coat and new scarf. She looks like a fuzzy brown caterpillar with striped antennae. I hope she’s warm.

“See you when the sun comes up,” I shout through the glass.

It’s the first company we’ve had since Christmas. We all wait for our dinner guest, Rabbi Josh. Especially me. He is tall and handsome like Prince Charming. His eyes are so dark, it looks as if God stuck black olives in his head. His hair and eyebrows are a perfect match. Rabbi Josh, Daddy, and Mommy have been extra-special friends ever since Daddy was president of the Temple. Daddy likes to repeat what the rabbi said at the big meeting when Daddy stopped being president.

“Charles, excuse me, Chuck Gardener continued the work of his father-in-law, Simon. He did a superior job of streamlining Temple operations and was responsible for our three major fund-raisers that benefited Temple Chai more than any other in our history. Chuck was also the first Temple president to invite me to dinner when it wasn’t Shabbat.”

Then Daddy always tells us, “It’s important to help those who help you.”

I think of Verna. She took the last box of Christmas ornaments to the basement today. There is only one more piece of Christmas left in the house.

“Good-bye shiny balls, good-bye tinsel, good-bye candles,” I say to myself.

Emmy won’t let us in the kitchen because she’s cooking a special dinner.

“Let’s play library while we wait for the rabbi,” Liz says.

Evan ignores her and bangs on his new kiddie piano.

The library is in Liz’s bedroom, and Liz is always the librarian. There is one bookcase with three shelves. To me, the best thing about the bookcase is that it’s lavender and matches the bedspreads. Liz has arranged all the books in groups. Mysteries, books Mommy wants her to read, and ghost stories are on the top shelf. Books about famous people and our Sunday school books live on the middle shelf. A dictionary shares the bottom shelf with a book of maps of every place in the world, along with Liz’s collection of fake turtles.

“Can I check out this book?” I say, handing her a book with a picture of three men holding three swords that meet in the air.

“Not yet, Rinnie!” Liz says. “You have to enter the library first and remember to whisper.”

I place the book back on the shelf, go into the hall, shut the bedroom door, open the door to the “library,” and walk in.

“Good morning, young lady, are you looking for something special?” Miss Liz says, in her cheeriest librarian voice.

“Yes, I would like a book on dogs.”

“I’m sorry, all of our dog books are checked out.”

“Do you have any books on monkeys?” I ask.

“We have one, but someone stuck gum in-between the pages, and we had to send it to be repaired.”

“How about raccoons?”

“Rinnie! Play right,” Liz says.

“Excuse me,” I say. “Do you have any books about famous people or detectives?”

“Why yes, we do. Let me show you where they are,” Liz says, turning from her desk to the bookshelf. “You may browse as long as you like. Bring your book to me when you’re ready, and I’ll check it out.”

“Eeny meeny miney mo catch a tiger by the toe. . . .” I say to myself, finger hopping from one book to the next. “Eeny meeny miney mo! This one looks good,” I say handing the book with the three men and their swords to the librarian.

Liz writes
T-H-E T-H-R-E-E M-U-S-K-A-T-E-E-R-S
in her best cursive across the top of a note card. Beneath this, she pencils in Rinnie Gardener, January 4.

“You may keep the book for one week. If it’s late, you’ll be fined ten cents a day.”

“What if I’m late because of a snowstorm?” I ask.

“Do the best you can,” Liz says with a bob of her head to the left, then the right.

I write my name on the card and hand it back to Liz before leaving the library. “Come again soon. It was a pleasure to help you,” Liz calls.

The smell of sugar and chocolate fills the house. Mommy leans out her bedroom door and tells us to wash our faces and change our clothes. The rabbi will be here soon. She doesn’t have makeup on, and she ducks back into her room to put on her face. I can almost taste Daddy’s spicy aftershave as it floats out the door. It mixes with the smell of candied carrots, roasted meat, and chocolate.

“Emmy’s frosting the cake. Let’s ask her if we can lick the bowl,” I say, running down the stairs.

“I have to dust the books,” Liz shouts.

Before I put one foot in the kitchen Emmy says, “Don’t mess the pillows on the sofa. I just fluffed them.” She puts a smoked salmon cheesecake topped with black fish eggs next to a plate of crackers on the mirrored table. “And don’t take the first slice. That’s for the rabbi.” She narrow-eyes me and turns toward the kitchen.

The doorbell rings. Rabbi Josh is here! He squats down and claps my hand. I look into his black eyes. They shine like wet olives. His dark whiskers draw a line around his smooth white skin. There are no pits in his nose like Pop Pop’s or brown spots on his thick hands. But mostly, his face is soft sort of like he’s never said “No.”

“Shalom, Rinnie. Have you had a fun winter vacation?”

“Rabbi, Rabbi!” I tug his coat sleeve, pulling him down the hall to the back porch. I fling back the curtain to show the rabbi the last best bit of my vacation. “Look!” I say. “We took our Christmas tree down today.”

Daddy says it is always better to ask a question and know what you’re doing before you do it. Today, I folded five sheets of notepad paper in half and taped the loose pages together. On the cover I wrote, A LITTLE BOOK OF QUESTIONS. On the inside flap is a big pink question mark. Across from the mark it says:

Why can’t people sleep with their eyes open?

How does a pebble in your shoe cause so much hurt?

Why doesn’t soap get dirty?

I’m off to a good start.

At home, Evan and I sit next to each other at the dinner table. We play games with our feet like “Got You Last.”

“Sit up straight, stop wiggling, and eat your corn,” Mommy says. “Rinnie, your example lacks decorum. Emmy worked hard on this dinner. Eat it.”

What the heck is decorum?
Under the table, I lift Evan’s napkin from his lap and drop it on the floor. Evan swipes a buttery hand across his mouth to wipe off kernels of corn. Yellow bits stick to the sleeve of his wool sweater.

“Evan, please use your napkin,” Mommy says with a tilt of her head and shoulders.

He can’t find it.

“There it is on the floor,” I point.

Evan ducks under the tabletop and puts the napkin back on his lap, kicking me.

Slowly, gently, I lift the napkin off Evan’s lap and drop it on the floor again. It is so hard not to giggle until five fat fingers twist a handful of my leg.

“OUCH!” I jump and my hand knocks over the glass of milk in front of my knife. Slowly, then fast, the tablecloth turns into a soggy clump of milk.

“Dammit, Rinnie, that’s the second time this week.” Daddy points to the straight-backed chair in the living room, the Bad Chair. “Go. Now!” he says. “And no Croquette.”

Evan snickers. Liz gives me a “Not again, Rinnie” look. She knows what I did.

I am not allowed to talk to anyone, and no one can talk to me. I’ve spent so much time sitting in the Bad Chair and looking at the planter next to it, I’ve named each plant. The two yellow speckled ones are Liz and Evan. Mom and Dad are the tall spiky ones. I am the one with the leaves that fold under and look like miniature umbrellas.

While everyone else finishes dinner, I tell stories to my plant family. When Emmy clears the dishes, I sneak a peek at the table. I don’t like being separated from my real family. I miss my turn to share about school. And I miss dessert. It’s too hard to have good manners when I sit by Evan.

It’s Sunday, and Verna isn’t here. Bad words and screaming float up like ghosts from under my parent’s bedroom door. I know to be quiet. Liz taps Evan and me on our shoulders and waves for us to follow her. We tippy-toe to the basement to hide from the scariness upstairs. On the way, Liz closes the open windows downstairs.

“This is private,” she says. The good smell of new grass and the bad smell of fertilizer is shut out.

When the noise stops, I push myself up the steps to see what’s happening. I hear Daddy stomp across the floor in his bedroom. Mommy is wrapped in a towel in the bathroom I share with my brother and sister.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

Mommy sits on the edge of the tub and lets out a sound like a clock that’s running down.

“My heart is sad,” she says, giving herself a tight hug. “I’m tired, and my heart is sad.”

Water runs into the tub. “You have rabbit eyes, Mommy. They’re pink! A bath will make you feel all better.”

“Oh Rinnie, go away. Life is falling apart in here.” One hand rises to her forehead and pulls the skin first one direction then the other.

The “I’m the boss” part of her voice is missing. Mommy looks like one of my rag dolls. Her shoulders are falling over.