In Trouble (6 page)

“Has your friend talked to her parents?” I pictured Mrs. Reilly wringing her hands and Mr.

Reilly charging around their house, waving his newspaper, hollering at Elaine and Mrs. Reilly and the furniture.

“No way that would work.”

And no way could I tell her it’s Elaine. A promise is a promise.

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“This girl’s really scared, and I thought maybe you’d know somebody who could help. She says her father will kill her and her mother’s counting Kotex.” I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Mrs. Reilly locked in the bathroom with Elaine, waving a Kotex box, and Mr. Reilly outside, pounding on the door. Then I got angry at Mom because I couldn’t tell her. About anything.

“You wouldn’t understand,” I said. “Not everyone wants to talk to their mother.”

He lifted my sweater and unhooked my bra . . .

Run!

Grandma came out of her bedroom, took one look at me and glanced quickly at Mom. “What’s wrong?”

“Later,” Mom said.

Grandma poked at hairpins on both sides of her bun.

She’s lived with us my whole life, and I can read her pokes.

The number of times equals how serious she thinks something is. Right now, only three.

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12.

“Later” meant Mom, Grandma, Dad, and who knows, maybe Uncle Maury, and why not Aunt Sheila and Uncle George—for Pete’s sake. Pretty soon the whole world would be talking about “Jamie’s friend who got in trouble.”

I opened my trig book, but I couldn’t get into the world of sine and cosine. Elaine, the hypotenuse; me, one arm; Mom, the other. A heck of a messy triangle. Terrible pun. I closed the book.

I started to pace in the small space between the bureau, the bed, and desk. On and off the rug, in front of the desk, around the chair.

“Hey, didn’t you hear me?” Stevie stood in the doorway, his hands on his hips.

“What are you talking about?”

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“I’ve been yelling for the last five minutes. Would you keep it down! You’re scraping the floor real loud,” he said as if talking to a moron.

I looked down at my shoes.

“The taps, Jamie, the taps. Come on, give me a break.

I got a test tomorrow.”

“Sorry,” I said. But I guess he didn’t believe me, because he clapped his hands under my nose. It was like an alarm going off in your face. “Hey, cut it out!” I swatted at him, but he darted away.

I grabbed my turtle bank and spilled the coins on the bed. When I pushed the quarters, dimes, and nickels into the center of the quilt, I decided it was probably enough.

There was no way I’d ask Stevie to borrow money.

I tiptoed down the hall, past the bathroom, past the living room. Mom was in the kitchen with Grandma, who was heating water for tea. They were talking in low voices.

I had no idea what Grandma would say. What would they all say? Mom and Aunt Sheila at least knew someone who could help. But would they want to help if they didn’t know the girl?

The only one I could count on was Lois. I opened the front door. “See you later,” and I ran for the staircase next to the elevator before anyone could call me back.

I headed for the phone booth across from the public library.
Lois can help. Lois can help
. The words went round and round in my head. Three words, three steps, and with each step, the thought became stronger, the phone booth 60

closer. I turned the corner and saw the library. “Lois will help,” I said to no one in particular.

And she did.

Then I dialed Elaine. My life by the phone, the title of my autobiography.
Be There, Be There, Be There
—the rhythm of the words combined with each ring of the distant phone. I send out pleas to the universe in threes. It’s my lucky number. I was born on the third day of the third month in the third year of my parents’ marriage, and my arrival made us a family of three.

Elaine, Be there
. The last thing I wanted was for Mrs.

Reilly to pick up. Mr. Reilly, I knew, wasn’t home from work yet. I was safe on that score. “Be there, Elaine,” this time out loud. She had to be home to hear the news Lois had told me.

“Hullo.” Dull grey came plodding through the telephone wires.

“Elaine!” I sank into the seat, “it’s me!” Silence.

“It’s me, Jamie.”

Silence.

“Elaine, listen, don’t be depressed. I told you we’d take care of this. I just got off the phone with Lois, and any time this weekend a couple of her friends said they’d talk to us.” Silence.

“Hey, Elaine, remember me? Your friend forever?

Me, who traded you Ava Gardner for Gregory Peck?

Meeeeeeeeeeee!”

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“You don’t have to yell,” she said.

“Did you get what I said? We can get help from Lois’s friends.”

Silence.

“You know it’s not easy trying to help you.” Silence.

“Okay, here’s the deal. I’ll meet you at Penn Station Sunday morning. Same time, same place, okay?” I kept on talking because I wasn’t going to wait through another silence. “Speak to me, Elaine. I’m boring myself telling myself what I already know. You know what I mean?” Silence.

Long pause. “I’m done. Talk to me or I’m hanging up.” There was a sigh at the other end of the phone. “I can’t meet you,” Elaine said. “My dad found out I went into Manhattan, and he made me promise I wouldn’t do that again without asking permission. My mom looks at me without saying a word. She’s wringing her hands a lot, so I’m staying close to home.”

“That’s nuts,” I burst out. “The longer you wait, the more impossible the whole thing is. You won’t be able to hide it, and then what do you think will happen? If your dad’s angry now—”

“You don’t need to tell me that! You think I don’t know?”

She slammed down the phone.

Brother, did I ever mess that up. I pulled open the phone booth door and crossed the street. The library was 62

still open. Absolutely anything I could find on any shelf would be better than thinking about Elaine. This was truly dumb. What am I going to tell Lois? I went back out to the phone booth and emptied all the change I had left on the little shelf. There’s absolutely no way I can say Elaine doesn’t want to come.
I’d
feel too stupid.

The phone rang only once. “Hey, Lois, it’s me again.

Listen, Elaine and her parents are going away for a short trip, so how about if I come in and get the information for her?”

Lois had said she’d have two friends over, so I knew we wouldn’t be alone. Additional insurance: “But I’ve got to get right back, so I can’t stay long.” I gave a hoarse laugh.

“Think of me like Sgt. Joe Friday on
Dragnet
—just the facts, Ma’am. I’m only coming for the facts.” I could hear her smile as I hung up.

Run!

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13.

Focus, Jamie. I snapped my fingers as I walked home. Four days till Saturday. By then I’ll have figured out how to make Elaine’s story so heart-wrenching Lois won’t think to talk about anything else.

So, what would Elaine want to know, or at least what do I think she should know? That got me nowhere. Elaine didn’t want to know anything.

I’d have to make her understand. That’s what friends do.

Kids were climbing the bars of the jungle gym as I passed the playground. A century ago, when I was a kid, I loved swinging upside down on the middle bar. I was going to be a trapeze star with the circus. “Just wait,” I said under my breath to those kids. “You’re like Scruffy. You have no idea about the world outside. Ain’t no grownups to watch over you when you move out of the playground.” 64

“Ah, talking to herself. A chip . . .” I whirled around as Dad lifted his newspaper from his lap and tapped his head,

“. . . off the old block!”

“What are you doing here?” I said.

“I could ask the same.”

“I didn’t know you liked to hang out in the playground.”

“I confess a fondness that lasted until you and Stevie gave up swings. Thought I’d try it again.” He patted the bench. “Sit down, kiddo.”

There was definitely more grey in Dad’s hair. He caught me staring. “What?” he said.

I touched my own hair.

“Think of grey,” he said with a smile, “as a sign of wisdom.”

“Yeah, sure.” I grinned.

“Actually,” his voice became quiet, “I earned every one of these.”

I pictured the prison yard. “Was it . . . did the other—”

“No luck today with Sealy paints,” he said.

“I meant . . .”

“I know. But today was Sealy.” His shoulders sagged.

I’d forgotten he had a job interview that morning.

“What do they know?” I said in what I thought was a casual voice.

“Oh, Jamie.” He put his arm around me. “Quite a lot about paints, and I confess I know nothing. They weren’t wrong.”

“I bet you could sell anything. Last year I heard a radio program about this guy Dale Cornell who’d just 65

died. He wrote a bestselling book about making friends and getting people to do what you want.”

“Carnegie’s his name, and it’s
How to Win Friends and
Influence People
.” Dad’s tone said “you should have known that.”

Grey hair hadn’t changed a thing. He always had to correct. “The point,” I said, “is anybody can sell anything.” I fiddled with a sweater button. “Anyway, I’ve got to go.”

Dad looked up. “I’m sorry Jamie. Stay a bit. An old habit.”

“Yeah, I know. Bet the inmates didn’t like it.” He winced, and I felt rotten.

“Let’s start again. What brings you through the playground today?” he said.

I took a breath. He would find out later, so why not now? “I’ve got a girlfriend who’s . . . who’s in trouble.” I glanced at him to see if he understood.

“What kind of trouble?” I must have looked uncomfortable, because after a moment he said, “I see. That kind.”

I nodded.

“And you’re trying to help her?”

I nodded again. “She’s a friend.”

A raised eyebrow.

This had to be a sore point with Dad. He’d lost I don’t know how many friends after his name was in the paper. And it was a so-called friend who’d told Senator 66

McCarthy’s committee that Dad was a Communist. Did he even trust the idea of friendship anymore?

With a renewed firmness he said, “That’s what people, what friends do for each other.”

We sat without talking. Elaine couldn’t have this kind of talk with her parents. She’s too terrified to tell them what’s happened.

Who am I kidding?
This kind of talk?
One that skips and skirts and avoids?

“Okay, you won’t talk to me, but how about my friend Paul? You know, the editor of the
Record
, our school paper.” I was enjoying the sharpness in my voice that even I could hear. “He’d like to interview you about being a political prisoner. Will you talk to him?” Dad stared at me, blinked, and looked away.

“Well, think about it.”

I rubbed my left eye hard. It was twitching again.

What a mess. Anger seeped out of me like a deflating balloon. I’m going after Dad, but look at me. I haven’t talked to anyone, not anyone.

“Listen, Dad, gotta go. I’ll see you back at the house.” Baumgarten’s Bakery. That’s what I need, a jelly donut.

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14.

You know how a song gets stuck in your head? This time it was “Hail! Hail! the gang’s all here, what the heck do we care, what the heck do we care!” The problem is, in this family everybody cares. They jump in even when you don’t want them to. You’d think if they really cared, they’d leave you alone.

There they were, assembled in the living room. In the time it takes to eat a jelly donut, Dad had beaten me home. Uncle Maury and Uncle George had divided the paper between them, Mom was reading
The New Yorker
, Grandma was shelling peas, and Dad was dozing in the big chair. Aunt Sheila sat on the couch, knitting a scarf that filled up a large shopping bag at her feet.

“Hey Aunt Sheila, it looks long enough to wrap a mummy.”

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And that’s how I said hello to one and all.

“Always the joking,” Grandma scolded, but she looked more anxious than angry. She was poking hairpins.

“Tuna casserole,” Mom said, and I was sorry about that donut. It’s not the tuna, but the crunched potato chips on the top that I love. Stevie was setting the table and making a mess of folding the napkins. I followed him, refolding.

“Back off! Can’t you ever leave anything alone?” he demanded.

“Big sisters, a pain in the you-know-what!” Uncle Maury said. He nodded toward the kitchen. “Your mother.

When we were kids, always on my case.” I glanced at Dad. Guess I’m a chip off both blocks.

“But, Stevie,” Uncle Maury added, “this is important: soon you’ll be taller.”

“Alright, what’s this about a friend in trouble?” That’s Uncle George. He likes to sound efficient.

“Let’s sit down first.” Mom came in with the casserole dish and set it in the center of the table on a hot plate.

This is how my family would have run the Spanish Inquisition—torture by interrogation over food. No one in this family seems troubled that a piercing question or pained answer can be interrupted by “who’s got the salt?”

“Well,” Mom said, “dig in.”

Stevie lunged forward and filled his plate. “Can I take this to my room? This is all kinda weird, and I’ve got a test tomorrow.”

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Mom looked at Dad, but although he was sitting in his usual seat, he was off on a distant journey. “Pete,” she said, trying to bring him back.

He blinked a couple of times. “Fine,” he said quietly.

Stevie bolted.

This wasn’t going to be pretty. It started like this: Mom: How far along is your friend?

Me: I’m not sure. She’s late. Maybe months.

Mom,
eyebrow raised
: It’s important how long.

Grandma: And her mother, she knows?

Why does everyone always ask about the mother?