Up From the Blue (26 page)

“Oh, he’s coming, too.” Dad turned the key in the driver’s side door. “Come on, Phil. We’re going to spend a few hours at my office.”

“I’ll be ready in just a minute,” Phil said. “I just have to clean off my shoe. I stepped in something pretty bad.”

I didn’t see anything on his shoe, though he scraped the bottom of one across the grass. Dad checked his watch and opened the door to his perfectly clean car.

“I’ll just give it a quick rinse with the hose,” Phil said, and when he turned on the water, he made noises like the smell was killing him.

“Why don’t you stay and clean it right?” Dad said, just as Phil knew he would.

“Are you sure?” Phil asked, pretending to hurry, but Dad was already in the car, reminding me to buckle.

Phil bent over by the hose until we backed out of the driveway. But before we’d even driven around the corner, he was rolling down the street, pumping his arms in the air.

I didn’t mind spending the day at the Pentagon because once Dad shut himself in his office I had Anne’s work area to myself. Her chair had wheels, and when I lay my stomach over the seat, I could race across the floor until Dad told me I was making too much noise.

I moved along to Anne’s desk, peeking through all her neatly organized supplies: colored paper, Wite-Out, index cards. I made a chain from the paper clips I found in her drawer and was about to turn it into a necklace when a voice startled me from behind.

“Comfortable?” I turned around to find Anne with her hard-to-read smile. “How about just use three paperclips? That way I can still do my work on Monday.”

I began to unhook the chain while she moved every single item on her desk, even the things I hadn’t touched—turning the paperweight and the letter holder as if correcting a wrong I had done.

“I see you’ve been enjoying the typewriter, too.”

She usually kept it covered, but I liked typing my name so fast on the noisy electric keys that it sounded like gunfire.

“My dad’s going to replace the ribbon,” I said, trying to explain why there were parts taken out. “He was trying to figure out how to do it but had to get the phone.”

“It’s a good thing building missiles is so much easier than fixing typewriters,” she said, finding a new ribbon and inserting it into the machine.

“I’ll put these back,” I said, hurrying to detach each link.

“That’s a good girl,” she said, now using her friendly voice. “I heard Phil had a little flare-up this week. Is that right?”

I paused, feeling trapped by the question. Slowly, I nodded as I slipped the paper clips back into her desk. Even after I shut the drawer, I kept my eyes to the floor.

“Well, I’m glad he pulled it together. I’m sure
your situation
at home hasn’t been easy on him.”

I felt tight all over, wondering just what Dad had told her, and knowing she would only have heard his side of the story. She put her hands on my shoulders. I started trembling, and was angry my body had given away that something was wrong.

“Hush now,” she said, though I hadn’t been crying or whimpering at all; she only seemed to fear that I might.

She pulled the other chair close to hers and said, “Here. Let’s have a little chat.” We sat with our knees touching like I’d seen the popular girls do at school. “I know your mother hasn’t been well. That it’s a delicate situation.”

I wondered
which
delicate situation she knew about. “She’s just tired,” I said, immediately wishing I’d kept my mouth shut.

“That’s a very generous way for you to phrase it,” she said. “We certainly hope she’ll get better, but that just may not be the case. Your father’s tried all he could.”

“He
hasn’t
!” I said, clenching my teeth together and standing so my toes pressed against hers. “He’s mean to her.”

She tipped her head upward just a little. “It’s not easy to help someone who’s uncooperative,” she said. “But I know your father will find the best solution.”

“My mother’s not going anywhere,” I said, my nose so close
to the top of her head, all I smelled was hairspray. “If she does, I’ll go with her.”

“Well, these are not things to be decided by a seven-year-old.”

“I’m eight.”

“Watch your talking back.”

“Eight isn’t a bad word.”

“Tillie,” she said, standing, so I was shorter than her again, “you don’t have to trouble yourself with any of these decisions. They’re for your father to make so you can be free to enjoy school and talk on the phone and ride your bike.”

I almost laughed, trying to imagine myself waving to kids in the hallway at school and then running home to chat on the phone. Sometimes I noticed my bike leaning against the porch, but I hadn’t ridden it in weeks.

When Anne grinned again, I recognized it as the same expression she had when she accepted Momma’s invitation to dinner almost a year ago.

Sometimes when I thought about Anne, she seemed the easiest to blame for all that had happened. If I’d fought harder to get out of her car, I could have run back to Momma. I could have fallen asleep under her arm and ridden in the U-Haul to our new house. I could have been there to stop the big fight.

She pointed for me to sit back down. “Here now,” she said, sitting in her own chair again and placing her hand on my knee. “You know you can talk to me about anything that’s bothering you.”

It was so hard to keep it all down. I didn’t like or trust Anne, but I longed to confess
something
, and finally blurted out, “My friend just moved. My best friend, Hope.” I could tell Anne this because she wouldn’t question whether Hope was still my friend.

“You’ll make another,” she said, pleased, as if she’d solved my problems just like that. “Tillie, look at me. You’re a soldier’s soldier. Whatever happens, you won’t dwell on the past when you can march forward.”

My face heated up before I even realized I was mad. In the other room, I heard Dad load his briefcase and then snap the locks.

“Well,” he said, coming through the door. “Here’s a surprise.”

“We were just discussing bike riding and making new friends,” she said, and he gave an approving nod.

Dad put on his blazer and said, “I just had a productive phone call with a congressman who thinks there’s some potential backing for our missile project.”

“Now that’s very good news,” she said and patted my head.

“I just have to send over a proposal, renaming it a
navigation
project and exploring some nonmilitary uses for the technology.”

“Must appease the zealots,” she said, “or they’ll get busy with their signs and petitions again.”

“I’m going to start on the proposal as soon as I get home,” he said, buttoning the jacket at his waist. “I think,” he continued quietly, as if talking only to himself, “if we add NUDET sensors to the payload, that would satisfy the DoD’s need for a joint program.”

“It’s all very exciting, don’t you think, Tillie?” She put her hands on her knees to speak closer to my face. “One day, I’ll bet you’ll be a famous scientist, like your father.”

“I’m going to be a poet.”

She paused for a minute as if trying to figure out if I’d just told a joke, then said to my father, “I’ll be ready to type up your proposal the moment you need me.”

“Can we go now?” I asked him.

“Yes, yes, Pest, we can go now.”

I was almost out the door when Dad called me back. “Remember your manners.”

And eyes on my sneakers, I muttered, “Thank you for a very nice time.”

“You’ll have to come closer,” Anne said. “I didn’t hear you.”

Standing in front of her chair, I repeated, “Thank you for a very nice time.”

“It was my pleasure, Tillie.” She brushed my hair behind my ears. “You’re a soldier’s soldier,” she whispered. “No more feeling sorry for yourself. It’s time for you to march forward.”

All through the cement hallways of the Pentagon, I walked with my fists clenched, remembering Dad’s words on nights he cooked lasagna.
Swallow, Tillie. Just swallow!
It was a food I could hardly force myself to put in my mouth—it was just too many flavors at one time—and I’d try holding my breath and swallowing without chewing it first. Most times I could get it down, but I wasn’t at all sure that it would
stay
down.

27
Apple

M
Y PILLOW WAS HOT
and damp. I turned it over to the cool side, and flipped my body to face the wall. I still couldn’t sleep, so I put on my robe and walked down the stairs, first one flight and then another. I shut my eyes and held the rail so it felt like before, walking into the black, electric with fear and longing, my pulse thumping in my neck.

I knew what I was doing, that I was only pretending everything was how it used to be. That she’d be there in the blue glow—mine alone—and we’d share sodas and books warmed by her hands.

I love you the best. I’m always listening for you.

Eyes still closed, my feet could feel that I was on the landing, where the staircase turned to the right, the door just at the bottom. I patted the wall for the cold metal knob. The door was open, but I could make myself forget that. I closed it behind me, and felt my way through the dark to my side of the couch. It was my first time back to the secret room since our failed escape.

“I’m here, Momma.”

Have a look through this box. See if there’s anything you want.

If I let myself stay sleepy and focused only on the memory, she was there, on her side of the couch, a plastic bag filled with makeup sitting between us.

I uncapped a lipstick and circled it round and round over my lips as Momma looked on, amused. She reached over with a Kleenex and wiped where I’d missed my mouth. Then she pointed to where I’d misbuttoned my robe and fixed it for me.

All better.

I rubbed my fist over my mouth, thinking of the cool, smooth lipstick. I buttoned and rebuttoned my robe, trying not to let myself believe I was alone. Over and over I let her fix my face, my buttons. And when I was ready to sleep again, I told her, “I’ll stay here tonight.”

I took my robe off and folded it into something that felt like her lap. I lay my head down and combed my fingers through my hair.

“I’m going to stay here. Is that okay? I’m going to fall asleep right here.”

SOMETIMES I BORROWED THE
hall pass at school just to take a walk. When the halls were empty, I’d zigzag from one wall to the other or try to hop on only the white tiles. If there was no one in the bathroom, I’d take handfuls of paper towels, wet them under the sink, and fling them to the ceiling to see if they’d stick.

Today I just walked from one end to the other, remembering my confusion when I woke up this morning in the basement, hearing Dad call for me. I rose before I was ready, angry at the
cold. My neck hurt from sleeping with my head propped up too high, and I wasn’t sure where I was at first. The secret room had changed so much—no sense of Momma there at all.

I started to jog because I wasn’t sure how long I’d been gone from class. If you take too long with the hall pass, you lose your privilege. I hurried down one hallway and turned down the other when I found myself walking right behind Phil. I slowed down to avoid his seeing me, and the angry glare that would follow. It was hard to get more than a glimpse of him anymore. You heard him, of course, before school, kicking through the cans, and sometimes you saw the back of him ducking through an old chain-link fence—the new route he took to school. It was twice the distance, and a real trek through tall weeds and poison ivy, but he’d do anything to be left alone.

It used to be that my brother would walk down the hallway at school with one arm brushing the wall, but now he walked down the center, his shoulders broad from pumping weights. I doubted anyone noticed he had the silver cap removed because he still kept his mouth closed in that same grim expression, but you could tell something about him had grown strong. When a group of kids approached, he didn’t move out of the way.
They
had to.

Mr. Woodson waited outside the classroom for me. “Did you get lost?” he asked, taking the hall pass and guiding me back and through the rows of desks.

Ever since I’d found the note he’d written on the back of my poems I would read it over and over. I even pinned it on the wall near my pillow because it made the days not hurt so much.

“Mr. Woodson,” I asked, “when are you going to eat that apple?” For a week and a half it had been sitting on his desk in the heat—now bruised and leaning to one side.

“I’ll have it after school, Tillie, but right now you need to get back to your seat.”

I followed him to the blackboard, where he began to write our spelling words in a list that sloped to the right.

“Please sit,” he said.

But I didn’t want to sit. I wanted to stand near him while he read my poems and ate my apple and asked how I’d found one that was so red. I wanted him to tell me again how Ed and Edna escaped from the dungeon. I wanted him to know my favorite shows, my favorite color, and what I wanted to be when I was old enough to marry him.