Girl Unwrapped (12 page)

5)
The twins.
I hate their beauty-queen guts.

6)
Trying to swim.
Hank says everyone can float, but I can’t. I
sink down to the muddy green bottom of the lake and the water
squeezes my head, the noise is awful and it lasts forever.

7)
Folkdancing.
They’ve got this frantically happy accordion
music blasting from the record player. We’re in a circle holding
hands and whirling faster, faster. Everyone stamps in unison, everyone
except me, because my stupid body jerks the other dancers
off balance. They snort with laughter and the twins roll up
their eyes. I pray for the music to end, but when it does all I hear
are the giggles and all I see are my big, long ugly feet.

The things I like:

1)
My bed.
It’s the upper bunk, in the corner, close to the rafters,
so almost like a hiding place. Above my head, a daddy-long-legs
dangles by an invisible thread. It’s a creepy old thing, that spider,
but nice somehow with hinged, hair-thin legs spreading out from
a body like a blob of spit. It sways in the breeze, defying gravity.
The thread comes from its abdomen. I read that somewhere.

2)
The food.
My parents think Canadian food is inferior but I
think it’s great. I love the pancakes with corn syrup, hotdogs,
peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on white bread, and Jello instant
pudding.

3)
Baseball.
It’s the one sport I’m good at. The first time I swung
the bat like crazy and missed and the boys on the other team
made fun of me by covering their heads as if they were about
to get beaned. But the next chance up I connected and did their
jaws ever drop.

4)
Faye.
She’s goofy and sweet and so easy-going. When the other
kids screw up their faces at Faye’s Cape Breton expressions
(“knickers” instead of underpants, “mitts” instead of hands), she
just grins and puts on her broadest accent: “Youz turkeys ain’t
heard nuttin’ yet.” She sleeps in the bunk below me and always
calls up, “Sleep tight, Toni,” every single night. She taught me
“O.S.I.” means “over six inches.” (Yuck!) Faye would like to be a
bridge between me and the twins. She wants everyone to be one
big happy family. Silly, kind-hearted Faye.

5)
Beauty.
In nature. I’ve read about beauty in books and thought
I knew what it meant, but I didn’t until now. It floors me how
beauty sneaks up, jumps out. One morning there were swirls of
mist on the lake, and the far shore was blotted out except for the
dark green pointed tips of the fir trees. A loon called. It felt like
there was this huge, looming thing in the silence of the forest.
Another time, I saw pale green sparks winking on and off in the
thick darkness beyond the cabin. Fireflies. How do they do that?
How do they transform their insect bodies into light?

Things I’m not sure about:
1) The singing program.
2) The singing instructor, Janet Bloom.

This Friday evening begins, like all others, with welcome-the-Sabbath ceremonies. Three junior girls wearing white dresses and crowns of daisies giggle on the dining hall threshold: the Sabbath Queen and her attendants. All other Tikvah-maniacs sit in their groups at trestle tables and crane their necks. “Aw,” the crowd murmurs in unison. The hall breaks into a hymn as the trembling procession advances up the aisle. “Come, my beloved, with a chorus of praise, Welcome Shabbat, the queen of our days.”

For Friday evenings, the long tables wear white paper cloths and plastic tumblers of wildflowers whose heads flop forward on wilting stems. Decorations adorn the walls; hand-drawn menorahs, dreidels, golden coins, and the ever-present, somewhat misshapen Star of David. The theme is Hanukkah in July. All the major Jewish festivals will find their way onto the agenda during the course of the summer. Toni had no idea there were so many.

Myron rises from his place at the head table in the front of the room to say a few words about the significance of Hanukkah, the ancient revolt against oppressors and a demonstration of Jewish
ruach
. “What does the Hebrew word
ruach
mean?” Myron asks them, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “Spirit and breath. Which brings us to the meaning of Sabbath, too. God’s
ruach
created heaven and earth. God’s
ruach
blew into Adam’s lungs. And do Tikvah-maniacs have any of that
ruach
? Do they?” Myron cups his hand to his ear.

“Yes!” the hall thunders. “Yes, yes, yes!” Feet stamp, fists pound the tables and make cutlery clatter. The hall erupts into chants of, “We want Janet, we want Janet.”

Myron’s chief ally in the
ruach
department sits at the end of the head table with her chin in her hands, looking dreamy, as if none of this commotion has anything to do with her. She heaves herself up at last and shuffles slowly down the centre aisle. Her face is rosy, freckled, and unremarkable. Her figure is slight, with pink, sunburnt legs sticking out of khaki Bermuda shorts. The hall simmers down. An expectant hush descends.

Janet makes them wait a few moments longer, then opens her mouth and belts out a line of song. “David, David, King of Israel,” she sings in Hebrew. Her voice reaches from one end of the room to the other, hits the rafters, rich and clear, high and sweet. A voice so much bigger than the rest of her. She repeats the line, excruciatingly slowly this time, groaning out the words like a record on the wrong speed. The little kids hoot with laughter. Finally, she delivers the song for real, at its proper peppy tempo, her hands waving for them all to join in. Voices blend and swell into a tide. Faster, faster, Janet urges them as she hops up and down the aisle, her hands clapping, her frizzy red hair springing free from the bobby pins that held it in place. One song melts into another. “The hills skipped like rams,” they sing in Hebrew.

“Hava nagila … ”

“Tzena, tzena, tzena …”

“Michael, row your boat ashore, Hallelooooya.”

Hating her own froggy voice, Toni resists the pressure to sing, but she sways a little; she can’t help herself, the wash of voices sweeps her along. Now arms drape over shoulders, she’s included in the circle, with Marion on her left, Faye on her right, as the whole group rocks together and warbles for all they’re worth. A pleasant vibration rises in Toni’s chest. Her tiny drop of sound flows with the rest. How good when the whole hall unites, when the girls hold onto one another, glowing with goodwill, smiling like angels, all trace of snootiness gone. The room is one great heart, one gust of wind,
ruach, roooo-ach
. Myron waves his hands as if he’s orchestrating the songfest, but it’s not him of course, it’s Janet, that brilliant spark in the middle of the room.

Then it’s over. Back to the chatter, titters, whispers, gossip, head tossing, exchanges of superior looks.

After the prayers that conclude the evening meal, the entire assembly storms outside onto the lawn and the big wrap-around veranda to await the evening program, a play about the battle between the Greeks and the Maccabees. Toni slips away to the far end of the beach, where overturned canoes and rowboats lie. Secluded from view, she settles on a cool aluminium hull. The water is still as molten glass and dark, except for a path of gold spangles cast by the setting sun. Across the lake, the lower slopes of the forested hills drown in shadow, while the tops glow like candles. On the far shore, the white houses of the village of Sainte-Cecile cluster together. All this beauty is right in front of her, yet a million miles away, beyond her grasp. Loneliness bites deeper than ever.

“Pretty damn gorgeous, eh?” someone beside her drawls.

Toni whips around to see Janet Bloom standing above her. Janet’s bare feet must have whispered along the grass, but Toni heard nothing. The song instructor studies Toni for a long moment, then plops down onto the boat. Fumbling in the pocket of her shorts, she fishes out a matchbook and a somewhat flattened cigarette, which she moulds back into shape with her thumb and forefinger. Casually, she lights up. A cigarette on Shabbat! Instinctively, Toni cranks her head around. She’s become so used to spying eyes everywhere. Janet winks.

“Nice spot you got,” she sighs over a deep drag.

They sit in silence for a while, Toni holding herself very still, as if an exotic butterfly had come to rest beside her and she mustn’t scare it away. Janet lets coils of smoke unfurl from her half-open mouth. Out of the corner of her eye, Toni steals glances. Janet is better looking than she realized. Her loose hair sticks out on both sides of her head, a wild, coppery mass blazing in the evening light. Her ruddy face swims with freckles, pulsing like dark lights beneath the fine skin. There’s even one funny freckle in the bow of her lip, like a spot of chocolate.

Catching Toni’s gaze, Janet winks again. A surge of heat flares up Toni’s chest, neck, and ears, but if Janet notices, she doesn’t let on.

“I could just sink into that, couldn’t you?” Janet waves her hand at the panorama before them. “Makes me want to do something wild.” She takes another drag. “How ’bout you? A sunset do something special to you?”

“It makes me feel blue,” Toni stammers.

Janet nods her head slowly, as if Toni had just said something very deep. There are freckles on Janet’s knees and between the knuckles of the hand holding the cigarette. Her bare feet have high arches—deep, audacious curves—and bright red toes, as if the blood pulses close to the surface. The word “sassy” comes to Toni’s mind. Those feet are sassy. It’s not a word she can remember ever thinking of before. Her heart flutters strangely.

“You put your finger on it,” Janet says and Toni stares in surprise. “Heartbreakingly beautiful. A view like that makes you want to weep.” Janet sweeps her cigarette hand in a wide arc. They watch while the sun shrinks into a twinkling green eye atop the hills, then vanishes, leaving behind layers of crimson clouds and dark silhouetted humps.

“Shit. I’m supposed to be introducing the play,” Janet says, flinging the smoking butt end into the lake. “Toodle-oo.”

She rests her hand on Toni’s shoulder for a moment, perhaps just to get her balance as she stands, but the hand seems to be saying something more, that it belongs there. Then she’s gone, walking swiftly up the grassy slope. Toni watches Janet join the streams of campers heading back into the dining hall. What just happened? What? Something amazing. She blinks hard. Green and gold sunspots still dance before her eyes. Janet never addressed her by name. Does Janet even know her name? Doesn’t matter. A connection has sprung up, a connection beyond ordinary words. She is lost yet knows exactly where she is. She pulls in the moment like a newborn with its first gush of warm milk. She feels she has swallowed the sun. Then, for no reason she can fathom, Toni leaps from her perch on the up-ended rowboat and marches directly into the lake with all her clothes on, her Bermuda shorts, T-shirt, bra and underpants, sneakers and socks, ploughing forward against the resisting pressure until she stands up to her neck. Only her head sticks up above the glassy surface. Her clothes feel both heavy and light, clinging here, billowing there, while the water swirls, flows, nudges, tugs, and is transformed from the first shock of cold contact into a pleasant bath-like temperature. If a counsellor came by now … there must be a rule against walking into the lake with your clothes on. She’ll have to sneak back to the bunk to change. It pleases her immensely to break this unknown rule. Janet would understand.

chapter 9

Dear Mama and Papa,
Camp is better now. My swimming is coming along swimmingly
(ha, ha) since I graduated from the dog paddle. I’ve learned to
canoe. Also, I’m production assistant for the musical,
Fiddler on the Roof
, which is being directed by Janet Bloom, the Singing
Instructor. I’ve told you about Janet. She’s very talented and
creative and will be famous some day, like Joan Baez, except her
style is more bluesy and beautiful, I think, more real.

Toni lifts her pen from the writing block that rests on her knees and gazes at the rough-hewn beam above her head. Afternoon heat has gathered beneath the rafters. The whole cabin roasts, especially the upper bunk, so that sweat trickles down Toni’s neck and moistens her palms. Down below, her bunkmates scribble away, filling pastel sheets of paper. Letters home. Letters to cousins and friends and boyfriends. Angela’s toenails glisten with a fresh coat of candy-pink polish, each tanned toe separated with a wad of cotton wool and wafting a sweetish chemical smell directly into Toni’s offended nostrils. Janet’s toes are ruby red. Janet’s eyes are smoky green, the entrancing green of fir-clad hills. Toni furiously scratches out the sentence that wrote itself upon the page. The blatant words seem dangerous, and besides, what would her parents know, stuck as they are in the grooves of old 78 records, Strauss waltzes, and Marlene Dietrich songs? But once again, the pen in her hand moves of its own accord, forming the letters “J-a-n … ”

Marion’s transistor radio buzzes, crackles, then picks up the faint chorus of “Mrs Brown, You’ve Got a Lovely Daughter” by Herman’s Hermits. A cheer goes up in the cabin and the girls join in. “Luvely daaawter” they sing in fake British accents. A month ago, Toni liked this group too, but now the sequins-and-lollipop sound grates on her nerves. Janet has introduced her to
real
music: Folkways records of
authentic
artists who sing Negro spirituals or old English ballads, accompanied by acoustic guitars and the autoharp. Some evenings, a few devotees gather in Janet’s room in the staff house amid candle glow and cigarette smoke to listen to her record collection and talk the kind of serious talk that must grace the air of Greenwich Village coffee houses.