Don't Talk to Me About the War (8 page)

“Yes. At first, the doctor wasn’t sure what was wrong with her, but he thought it might be serious. He sent Mom to another doctor. It was the second one who told her it was cancer. We were all terribly upset, but Mom didn’t seem surprised. I think, all along, she knew she had some terrible disease.”

What is Mom thinking right now? Is she as scared as I am?

Beth says, “The doctor thought he caught it early. We believed she would get better. We hoped she would. She just didn’t.”

There’s nothing I can say.

“She took medicines. She was in and out of the hospital. Nothing seemed to help. She got weaker and weaker and then . . .”

Beth stops.

We stand there for a moment, quiet.

Beth wipes her eyes. “Let’s go,” she says. “Sarah is probably waiting.”

Maybe I shouldn’t ask Beth again about her mom. She gets upset when she talks about her—and really, so do I.

Sarah is standing by the corner with her overstuffed book bag.

“I thought maybe you were not coming,” Sarah says. “We must be very quick.”

The light is red. Sarah stares at it and taps her foot. She seems impatient, anxious to get to school.

“Don’t worry,” Beth tells her. “Nothing will happen if we’re a minute or two late.”

“No,” Sarah says. “We must not be in trouble with the authorities.”

Here we don’t call the principal and teachers in a school “the authorities,” but I guess that’s what they are. That just seems so official, so all-powerful.

The traffic light turns green and Sarah quickly crosses the street. We have to rush to keep up with her. The bell rings just as we’re walking up the front steps of the school.

Dr. Johnson looks at us disapprovingly as we walk into the building. Sarah has her head down as she walks quickly to the right. Beth and I go to the left.

We hurry, but this doesn’t seem important, getting to class on time so Mr. Weils can call out my name and check if I raise my hand.

“You’re late,” Mr. Weils says when we enter homeroom. “I’m just about to take attendance.”

As he calls our names, I think again about Mom. The bell ending homeroom startles me. I walk to math, but I’m mostly in a haze the rest of the morning. I keep looking at my watch. Then, in the middle of science, it’s ten o’clock and I know that just then Mom is seeing the doctor.

At ten forty-five the bell rings. Surely by now the doctor has spoken to Mom. He’s told her his diagnosis and strangely, even though I don’t know what he said, I feel relieved. All through history I tell myself, At least now we know what’s wrong.

Beth sits on the other side of the room, by the windows. She often looks over at me during class, to see if I’m paying attention to Mr. Baker. Usually, I’m not. After class, she walks with me to our lockers.

“During history, were you thinking about your Mom? ”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear Mr. Baker tell us about the test? It’s on Wednesday, on chapters twelve and thirteen.”

“Oh. Thanks.”

We get our lunch bags, go to the cafeteria, and sit with Sarah, Roger, and Charles. I unwrap my sandwich, take off the top slice of bread, and pick out pieces of onion from the egg salad.

Roger asks, “Did you listen to Jack Benny last night and to Charlie McCarthy?”

Sarah shakes her head.

“No,” Beth tells him. “We listened to the president.”

“Benny and Charlie were on earlier, before the president. But it’s okay if you didn’t hear them. I’ll tell you their best jokes.”

While Roger jokes, Beth reaches out and puts her hand on mine. “Don’t worry,” she whispers. “The doctor will know what’s wrong.”

Roger stops for a moment. He sees Beth’s hand on mine. I know he wishes it was his hand she was holding. He likes her, too. Charles and Sarah also look.

All through lunch, Roger watches Beth. He wants her to laugh at his jokes. So do I. She has a cute laugh.

The bell rings. We clean up and on the way out, Charles asks, “What was Beth talking about when she told you not to worry?”

“I’ll tell you later,” I say, but I’m not sure I will.

I
know
I won’t tell Roger.

T
he rest of the day is a blur. I just think about Mom. She’s already left the doctor’s office and knows what’s wrong. Dad knows, too. They’re both either very relieved or very upset. I just hope it’s good news.

After my last class I go outside by the oak tree and wait for Beth. Sarah is already there. Since she never goes to her locker to leave her books, she’s always the first one out.

Beth is taking longer than usual, or maybe it just seems longer because I’m anxious to get home.

“Tommy,” Sarah says softly. “You look sad. Is there something that is wrong?”

“I hope not.”

Roger and Charles walk past.

“Don’t forget, seven thirty,” Roger says, “the Lone Ranger.”

Charles waits behind and asks, “Is everything okay? ”

Roger has stopped. He’s waiting for Charles.

“Yes,” I answer. “Everything is fine.”

I hope that’s true, and anyway, I’m just not ready to get into a long conversation with Charles about Mom and have Roger come over and want to know what we’re talking about. Then I’d have to tell them everything that’s been happening at our house. I’m just not ready for that. I just want to get home.

“Okay,” Charles says, “because if there’s a problem or something—you know.”

“Okay, thanks.”

I must really look worried. First Sarah noticed and now Charles.

There’s Beth in a crowd coming down the front steps of the school. It’s easy to pick her out, with her long blonde hair and colorful dress. She sees us and smiles. “Sorry I’m late.”

We walk quietly. At the corner, after we cross the street, Sarah says, “I hope everything is good.”

“Thank you.”

Beth and I walk to Goldman’s and I stop, but Beth doesn’t. She turns and tells me, “I’m walking home with you so you can tell me what happened at the doctor’s office.”

“No, you like to read the afternoon papers. You want to know what happened with the soldiers.”

“I’ll read about them later. Right now I want to know what the doctor said.”

Beth has never been to our apartment building. I’ve never been to hers. From the outside, most buildings in the Bronx look the same—brick, a few stories high with a metal fire escape crawling up each side and usually tablecloths and laundry hanging from a few windows.

“This is it,” I say when we come to my building. I open the door for Beth.

Our building doesn’t have much furniture in the lobby, just a small table and two large cloth-covered chairs that I think some family left when they moved out. The chairs are worn but comfortable. We walk in and see two old women sitting, talking, and waiting for the mailman who comes in the late afternoon. One of the women, the heavy one, seems to do most of the talking.

“Hello,” I say as we walk past.

I always greet them, but I don’t know their names and I don’t think they know mine. Apartments are funny like that. We live in the same building but once we close our doors, we’re each in our own private worlds.

The stairs are at the end of the lobby, on the left. They’re wide at the bottom with a curly metal handrail. Beth sits on the second step and says, “I’ll wait here.”

I’m about to walk up, when Beth says, “Good luck.”

“Thanks,” I say, and take her hand.

I’m a little scared. I wonder what’s waiting for me in
my
private world. I let go of Beth’s hand and start up the stairs. When I reach our apartment, I unlock the door and listen. No one calls to me. No one is waiting anxiously for me to come home. Either nothing is wrong with Mom and she’s out shopping or celebrating with Dad, or Mom is so sick the doctor is still examining her, or even worse, she was rushed to the hospital.

Mom’s raincoat is in the small front closet, so she must be home. I find her resting in the big easy chair. The radio is tuned to soft music, not to her soap operas.

Mom hears me and opens her eyes.

“Tommy, you’re home.”

“Yes.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll help me with dinner.”

“Sure, Mom.”

Mom holds on to both arms of the chair, pushes herself up, and walks stiffly toward the kitchen. I follow her and stop in the dining area, by the table. The kitchen is too small for both of us. Mom takes a pot from the drawer beneath the counter, puts it in the sink, and fills it with water.

“Aren’t you going to tell me? What did the doctor say?”

Mom puts the pot on the stove, on one of the burners, and lights it. Then she turns to me.

“He thinks I’m tired.”

“That’s it! You’re just tired?”

Mom nods. “And I might be depressed.”

“Depressed! Why? What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong! My leg is stiff. My hand shakes. Sometimes my vision is blurry. That’s enough to make anyone depressed.”

I think about that for a moment, but it doesn’t make sense to me. How could being depressed cause all Mom’s physical problems if it’s the problems that are making her depressed? That’s just one big nasty circle.

“But Mom, that doesn’t make any sense.”

“I know. None of this makes any sense to me. I’ve been tired before, but that never gave me the shakes.”

The water starts to boil. Mom opens a box of elbow noodles and pours them into the pot.

“I’m making pasta salad. Your father likes that.”

“I like it, too.”

“And I’m cooking chicken, but I’ll do that later. I want it ready about six, when Dad gets home.”

Just then I remember that Beth is waiting for me.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, and hurry out of the apartment.

Beth is still sitting on the second step. She’s reading our history book, studying for Wednesday’s test. She sees me coming down the stairs, closes the book, and gets up.

I reach the lobby floor, look at Beth a moment and then tell her, “The doctor said Mom’s just tired and maybe depressed.”

“That’s all?”

I nod.

“No disease?”

I shake my head.

“Then that’s good news,” Beth says, and hugs me. “I’m so happy for you.”

I hold on to her and we stand like that for a bit, and then Beth steps back. I see tears in her eyes as she gathers her books. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says.

I wipe my eyes. They’re teary, too.

Beth leaves the building and I notice the two old women. They’re still sitting in the lobby and they’re watching me. I smile at them and then go back upstairs.

Mom is standing by the stove, stirring the noodles. Later, while I help her clean the chicken and make the salad, she describes the doctor and his office. When she and Dad left it, they went to a coffee shop for some ice cream.

“Dad told the man we were celebrating and he brought us each a piece of chocolate cake. ‘No charge,’ he said.”

It must be Goldman’s. Mom doesn’t know I meet Beth there every morning.

“Dad thinks maybe I’m depressed,” Mom says as I squeeze a lemon over the salad, “because of my radio programs. He thinks maybe all Helen Trent’s troubles and Ma Perkins’s are upsetting me. Dad told me to listen to music instead, so that’s what I did this afternoon, but I miss Helen, Mary Noble, and Ma Perkins. It’s lonely all afternoon without them.”

Lonely without some made-up radio people! Maybe Dad is right. Maybe Mom
is
too wrapped up in those stories. Maybe she should sit in the park with her friends.

“The doctor was nice. He said in winter, with less sun and the cold weather, some people get depressed. He hopes with the coming of summer, I’ll be better. He said I shouldn’t worry, just get more rest.”

We don’t talk much after that. Mom drains the water from the pot of noodles and when she sets it on the counter to cool, I notice her right hand still shakes. She goes back to the big chair and I go to my room and do homework.

At dinner, Dad tells Mom everything she should and should not do. He’s determined that she not work so hard. He tells her to “think happy thoughts.”

While we wash the dishes, Dad tells me, “You can’t imagine what I was thinking this morning. I sat in the waiting room with Mom and worried about all the terrible diseases she might have.”

Of course, I can imagine that.

After dinner, Dad tunes the radio to Stan Lomax and the sports news.

“New York’s three baseball teams won twice today and lost once,” Lomax reports. “The Yankees and Dodgers won. The Giants lost.”

Yeah!

I look at Mom. She has a faraway look in her eyes, like she isn’t even listening. I don’t think she really cares if the Dodgers win or lose, which is too bad. They’re really doing great this year. This season, I don’t think any Dodgers fans are depressed.