The Divorce Express (11 page)

Dave and my father shake hands.

They look each other up and down, trying not to let it show, and then my father “casually” starts asking questions.

“How are you? How old are you? Have you been driving long? What time do you expect to be home?”

I giggle. “Dad—Dave’s a solid citizen, honor society, never a car accident.”

“I used to be a Boy Scout. You know what good clean lives they live.”

My father grins. “I hope that you got a merit badge for proper conduct on a date.”

Dave grins right back at him. “Yes, sir. I also got one for not making fathers worry unnecessarily.”

“Fine.” My father nods.

I can tell that they like each other. Good. I don’t mention that while Dave might have been a pillar of the Boy Scout community, I dropped out of Brownies before I even got into Girl Scouts. And the only badge I hope that Dave earned was in lifesaving—specializing in mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

As we walk out the door my father yells after us. “Dave.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I was once a Boy Scout too. Watch it.”

Finally we’re out the door.

Dave and I look over at the reservoir. It’s beautiful, clear, starry, a full moon.

It’s also very cold. Winters in Woodstock are frigid—it’s only November and already I’m freezing,
even with my new coat, boots, and leg warmers on. I’ll probably thaw out in the spring.

I shiver, and Dave puts his arm around me. “We better get into the car.”

I nod, shaking a little.

He guides me to the car and opens the door. “I know—you can do it yourself but not with your hands in your pockets.”

I get in on my side.

He gets in on his, turns on the motor, and takes my hands in his to warm them up.

“Tiny hands,” he says, putting his right hand flat against my left one.

“I know.” My teeth are chattering a little. “I buy my gloves in the children’s department.”

He smiles and, still holding my hand, kisses me.

I kiss back.

We look at each other and smile.

“Dinner,” he says. “How about The Little Bear?”

I love that place. Chinese food. I nod.

He puts the car into gear, and we drive up the road. It’s easier now to see the houses that were hidden when the trees had leaves. Woodstock, changing seasons, is a magical place . . . familiar but new.

As we drive I say, “You got a haircut.”

“I got a lot of hair cut.” Dave frowns. “I know—bad joke . . . bad haircut . . . . My mother said if I wanted to borrow the car, I had to go to the barber. I can’t wait till I save enough money to buy my own car . . . . Does it look awful?” He runs his hand over his forehead.

I shake my head. “No. I was just looking forward to pushing the hair out of your eyes.”

“Pretend,” he says.

I do, as he pulls into the parking lot of the restaurant.

As we park I see a car with a deer tied to it. Hunting season. It makes me sick.

It must show, because Dave says, “It bothers me too. Don’t look.”

He parks far from that car and we go into the place.

We walk up to the woman who is to seat us. The restaurant looks crowded, as always. I hope we don’t have to wait too long.

“A table reserved for Shore,” Dave says.

This kid’s got class, I think.

Once we get seated at a table near the stream, I
look out the window. It’s the same stream that Rosie and I sat by, only it’s much farther down the road. I think about how happy I am.

We order ginger ale and look at the menus.

My parents and I used to come here a lot before the divorce, but my dad and I haven’t been here lately.

I say, “This isn’t cheap. We’re definitely not at a fast-food place. Let’s go dutch.” Even though I’m not sure I’ve got enough money with me to pay.

He shakes his head. “Not this time. I raked a lot of leaves to pay for this. It’s worth it.”

“This meal could probably have paid something toward buying your car, a tire at least.” I decide not to make him feel uncomfortable and say, “I know this menu. I want the chicken, veggies, garlic, and mushrooms. It’s my favorite.”

“Good. I’ll order the shrimp and the appetizer assortment for two.”

“Great. I love to share.” I can feel my mouth start to water.

This is definitely not cafeteria food on the way.

As we eat he tells me more about his family. “It was the pits being the youngest. My older brother
and sister always used to pick on me. When we visited my grandparents’ farm, Doug named a stream after himself. Denise got the bridge.”

“What about you?” I say, trying to coordinate my chopsticks around a dumpling.

“They named a puddle after me.”

I laugh. “Not fair.”

“It was seasonal. Besides, the puddle only filled up when it rained.”

We both laugh.

He continues. “And once they were both remembering how our grandmother used to warn them to be careful when they walked in the field or an eagle would swoop down and get them.”

“That must have really scared you,” I say.

He shakes his head and smiles. “No one ever warned
me.
In fact, when I was older Doug said he’d taught me to say ‘Here, birdie’ and then sent me into the field . . . . We tease each other a lot but really do care.”

“I miss a lot being an only child.”

He nods. “There are good and bad things about having a brother and sister, but I mostly like it.”

I think about how Rosie is the closest thing to
having a sister, but it’s not the same as being in the same house.

We both talk about a lot of stuff—growing up, what we like.

I like hearing that he’s got a family that gets along so well. I hope that this one doesn’t move to Minnesota too.

I really wish I weren’t an only child. If there were another kid, we could share the responsibility of our parents.

By the time Dave and I eat our way to the fortune cookies, I’m talking to him about the thing that’s bothering me the most. “Dave, you know I have to be in New York a lot of weekends . . . and over some vacations . . . and part of the summer.”

He nods and frowns. “I know. I almost didn’t ask you out because of that. I went through it with Cindy. But I like you a lot, so I guess we’ll have to live with it.”

“I like you a lot too. Darn parents. Why do they have to screw things up and then the kids have to do so much of the work?”

“But if they hadn’t split up, then you would just have been one of the summer people I never would have met,” he says, picking up his fortune cookie and breaking it open.

“What’s your fortune?” I ask, wanting to change the subject.

He reads, “Boy who dates girl riding the Divorce Express will find happiness weekdays.”

I grab the cookie.

It really says, “You will meet a tall dark stranger.”

I open my cookie and read, “Girl who rides Divorce Express will look forward to Mondays.”

He glances at my real fortune. “You will have many children.”

I blush when he reads that but say, “I promise if I do to warn them about the eagles.”

After he pays the check, we go back to the car and ride to Woodstock.

Trying to window-shop, we realize that it’s too cold.

I hear music coming from the Joyous Lake, but we’re too young to go there. It’s a drag not to have places to go.

I wonder if my father’s gone there but don’t want to think about it.

When we get back to the house, my father’s car is gone.

Dave comes in for a while.

We put on some music, pull up some cushions to sit on, and look out at the reservoir.

The full moon makes the whole area light up. It’s beautiful.

Dave’s a good kisser, a really good one.

I put my head on his shoulder.

He kisses my hair.

I turn and we kiss again.

I can hear a car pull up in the driveway. “My dad’s home.”

Dave stands up, grabs my hand, and pulls me up.

My father makes a lot of noise opening the door, more than usual.

“Hi, Dad.” I realize that Dave and I are still holding hands.

“Hello, Mr. Brooks.” Dave brushes his hair back into place.

My father runs his hand over his bald spot.

Men must have a real thing about hair, sort of like the story about Samson and Delilah.

My father looks at us and smiles. “How about some tea or hot chocolate?”

Dave and I follow him down into the kitchen.

It’s a little uncomfortable at first, but soon the three of us are having a good time.

Dad and I tell Dave the saga of Rocky and her babies.

He tells us about the time mice got into the kitchen, and his mother refused to cook another meal until traps were set. Then none of them could stand the sound of the traps snapping, so they put out poison. Gross.

Finally Dave looks at his watch. “I’ve got to go. My parents said the car had to be back by one o’clock or I can’t borrow it again.”

We all walk up the steps to the living room. I’m afraid my father’s not going to give me a chance to be alone with Dave, but as we get to the door he says, “Good-bye, Boy Scout. See you soon.”

I walk out to the car with Dave.

“I’ve got a feeling that your father came back to check on us.” He gives me a kiss.

“He did.” I kiss him back. “And if I’m not back in the house in a few minutes, he’ll start blinking the porch light off and on.”

One last kiss and I go back inside.

My father’s sitting in a chair, pretending to read.

I go over to him. “Did you have fun tonight?”

He puts down the paper. “Yes—but I did worry about you. Some days it’s not easy being a parent. Not some nights either.”

“You don’t have to worry,” I say.

He looks at me. “You really are growing up.”

“I’m still your one and favorite daughter.” I hug him.

Hugging my father is definitely not the same as hugging Dave. I guess I am growing up.

When I go to my room, I hear my father dial the phone.

I listen.

He’s saying, “She’s home safely.”

I continue to listen but he’s talking softly. It’s impossible to hear what he’s saying.

I wonder who my father’s talking to. I know it’s not my mother. Who is he reporting my life to? I don’t think I like that. I hope it’s not that creep Martha who was at the Expresso. I guess that he just does it because he cares.

As I lie in bed I think about Dave and how I can’t see him next weekend because it’s Thanksgiving and I’ve got to be with my mother.

T
hanksgiving vacation.

One thing I’m thankful for is that Rosie and I got seats on the Divorce Express.

That’s more than a lot of people can say.

It’s the day before Thanksgiving, and lots of people are going down to the City, more than there are seats. There were even some people left behind, waiting to catch the next bus.

Passengers are standing in the aisle with their
suitcases and packages. They’ll have to stand all the way to New York. It’s a real bummer.

The first real snow of the year is starting to come down.

I’m exhausted. So’s Rosie. We went to the school cafeteria meeting last night, and it didn’t end till real late. It’s hard work, planning nutritional meals on a small school budget. I’m beginning to see why the school had trouble.

Rosie’s sound asleep next to me and I keep nodding off. Why did we have to go to school today, even for half a day? It’s such a waste. No one really does anything. Half the kids have already left on vacations. The other half just sit around and play Hangman and stuff.

All of a sudden the bus makes a funny sound.

I sit up straight.

So does Rosie.

The bus driver pulls over to the side of the road, just past the end of the New York Thruway. He gets out and checks the bus.

People start yelling, “Oh, no—not this too.” “What’s going on? I’ve got to catch another bus after this one.” And: “This is the last straw.”

The bus driver returns, talks into his radio, and
then turns around to make an announcement. “Okay, folks. Sorry for the inconvenience. We’ve got a flat, and with the weather getting worse, I can’t take a chance on driving with it. Another bus is on the way. Just sit tight.”

Someone yells, “How the hell do you expect us to sit tight when we’re standing?”

“Then stand tight,” some wise guy calls out.

The bus driver tries to calm everyone down.

I feel kind of sorry for him. It’s his Thanksgiving eve too.

Some people from the front of the bus are trying to work their way to the back to go to the bathroom. They have to get through the aisles, trying not to step on or push anyone.

The snow’s coming down worse.

Rosie says, “Maybe we’ll get in so late that my father won’t make me go to my grandmother’s house tomorrow.”

“I didn’t know you didn’t like her. I don’t like mine either. My father’s mother. My mother’s mother I love.”

Rosie says, “I kind of like her, but it’s a real mess. She’s always making cracks about my mother.”

“How can she? Mindy’s wonderful.” I can’t believe
it. I think of all the times I’ve been able to talk to her about all sorts of things.

Rosie shakes her head. “My grandmother doesn’t think so. She hates Mindy because she’s white and Jewish. And Mindy’s family hates my father because he’s black and Christian. Me—I’m not only black and white, I’m also Jewish. The whole combination is enough to drive each side a little nuts.”

I nod. “My grandmothers get upset because even though both of my parents are Jewish, neither of them practice and they never sent me to any organized religious thing.” I look out the window and see that the snow is coming down faster.

Rosie continues. “My life’s like a soap opera, only without breaks for commercials. I’m used to it. I’ve lived with it all my life. And it’s always going to be a little like that. Well, at least it’s not boring.”

The second bus pulls up.

People cheer.

The bus driver tells us not to all pile out at once. It’s too cold out and everyone could get sick standing around. Anyway he says that they want to try out some new seating arrangement.

Rosie and I end up sitting next to Stevie, the little
kid who throws up a lot. I hope he manages to make it to Port Authority without losing his lunch. It’s a little tight, three people in a two-seat place. I think they put us together because we’re all pretty skinny. Then they hand us Gina Raymond, five years old and another Divorce Express regular. She sits on my lap.