Little Red Lies (24 page)

At home again, life drones on. It’s mostly rainy and windy, but March is on its way out. There is a flurry of excitement when, a few days after our disastrous visit, Jamie phones to apologize. There are tears and handkerchiefs and what amounts to verbal shoulder pattings on the phone. There is a certain amount of gruff harrumphing from Dad and various sounds of forgiveness from Mother. Afterwards, Mother goes upstairs to lie down, and Dad goes back to work.

Granny has heard the entire story. “A sound spanking might have worked wonders on that lad,” she says.

But I need more than his apology. I want to sneak off and visit him again, to find out the true state of his mind. I long to know if he still believes he’s been cured by the faith healer. And, I confess, I’m dying to find out who his letter is from.

As it turns out, I don’t have to sneak off. School is closed for a teachers’ conference on Friday, and Dad has to go to a meeting of pharmacists in Toronto. I’m going with him. Mother has a bundle of freshly laundered clothes for us to take to Jamie.

After a brief visit, Dad leaves for his meeting, giving me two whole hours with Jamie. He looks much better. There’s pink in his cheeks and life in his eyes. His hair is a little shaggy.

“Want me to cut your hair for you?” I ask helpfully.

He shrinks back and swipes it out it out of his eyes. “Get away from my head!”

“So who was your letter from?”

He rolls his eyes and calls me nosy, but, finally, he gives in, almost proudly. “They didn’t give it to me until yesterday. When I saw the handwriting on the inside envelope, I yelled right out loud. They thought I was having a relapse and started fluttering around, trying to calm me down. They even threatened me with a needle. Look,” he says, “I’ll show you the envelope.”

I guess I didn’t pay much attention to the handwriting when it came, but looking at it now makes me shiver. “Huh?” I say. “Wait a minute. Is that from Coop?” I remember the way Coop tended to swoop the tail end of the last letter up to cross a
t
or dot an
i
. And there it is. I make a grab for it, to see it up close, but Jamie pulls it back.

“I was sure it was,” he says. “I could just see him in my mind, the way he used to write something and then scratch it out and bite the end of his pen while he tried to think of a better word. I had to really concentrate before it sank in that the letter was from Coop’s sister Ellie.”

“But she writes just like Coop.”

“She must have copied his style.”

“Doubt it. More likely he copied hers. What does she have to say?”

“Not much. She’s in training to be a nurse at the Hospital for Sick Children, here in Toronto. She wonders if we could have coffee on her day off, usually a Thursday. She’s a bit homesick. She gave me her address and phone number.”

“So, are you going to?”

“Probably. I’ve written back. It will be nice to have someone not related to me to think about.”

This sounds insulting, but I let it pass. “When are they going to let you out of this joint?”

“Soon. I can’t wait to close the door on this place of needles and blood. Can’t wait to get back to my apartment and crack the books again. I’m even looking forward to communing with old Rose and being covered with cat hairs. And I’m going to see about trying my exams, later. You know, I’m positive that, in spite of this latest relapse, the faith healer’s shake-up that night in the tent must have worked. I feel tip-top right now.” He lies back against his
pillows, beaming. And I beam along with him. And then there’s a brisk
rat-a-tat-tat
on his door.

I frown at the intrusion, as Velda’s head appears around the door, followed by the hefty rest of her. “So,” she says, swinging her purse back and forth at her side, as if she needs to be in perpetual motion, “I find you, at last, after I worry myself sick. Lucky thing I scribble down your papa’s phone number.”

“Is there something wrong with Rose?” Jamie asks.

“Oosh!”
she says, fluttering her hand as if brushing away a fly. “You have no idea.”

“What happened?”

She looks so hot and flustered that I motion her into the chair, while I lean against the window. “What happened, you ask? What happened with you, my friend? One little note to say you go away for some days, please look after cat. I look after that cat like she’s my baby, and the thanks I get? She throws up on my good carpet, straight from Turkey, very high-class. Carpet, not cat.”

“I’m sorry, Velda. Poor old Rose. I’ll make it up to you. Get the carpet cleaned, and I’ll pay for it.”

“That’s a small matter. The large matter is, no more house. Sold to a developer to build fancy new apartments. No more job for me.”

“I thought you owned the building.”

“No. Only hired to look after it.”

Jamie’s only comment is, “Hmm.”

“What! You say nothing? ‘Hum’ is all you know? I feed you, care for your cat, treat you like the Lord God, and you say ‘hum’ only?”

“I’m sorry, Velda,” Jamie says. “It must be a blow. What will you do?”

“What can I do? My son in Edmonton might love to have me visit, maybe stay. His wife, maybe not. She acts too good to walk on the same street with me.”

“So, what about my apartment, my lease?”

“Now is the time for hum. Now we shrug shoulders. Talk to the owners. Look for a new place.”

“But I need time to study.”

“Hmm!” she says, now. She shrugs her shoulders.

After she’s gone, Jamie says, “I’ll get my stuff home on the train. I can study at home and go back for the exams.”

“Dad can come for you in the car. Don’t forget there’s Rose.”

“I’ll bring her with me on the train.”

“But, she’s a cat.”

“Oh. I hadn’t noticed.”

“But …”

“No buts. And no butting in. Let me handle this my own way.” He signals me to zipper my mouth, so I do.

My brother loves school. I do not. Physically, being at school is fine. It means I can escape the sounds of worry at home,
an unceasing drone in my head that makes concentrating difficult.

The drama club keeps me going, even though the principal has vetoed
The Doll’s House
. Too long and difficult, he says, and we’re too late getting started. It’s already the beginning of April, nearly Easter.

“Have a look at this,” Mr. Tompkins says. The play is a lighthearted comedy called
Rabbit Stew
. He passes out mimeographed copies. Nearly all the members of the drama club get a chuckle out of it as they read it. It’s a silly, slapstick piece, and I despise it. Not a dramatic heartbeat in its entire ninety minutes.

As everyone heads for home, I gather up the copies to hand back to Mr. Tompkins. “My offer to be your acting coach still stands,” he says, “if you want to play the lead.”

“No, thank you,” I mumble. It’s all I can do to keep from shuddering at the nightmare thought of ever going on stage again. Acting in a play I have no respect for would make it even worse.

I must be looking distressed because Mr. Tompkins beckons me to a rickety chair backstage. Sitting opposite me on a stool, he says, “You don’t seem to be yourself, Rachel.” He reaches over and touches my shoulder. “I know you’re worried about your brother. We could set up some counseling sessions for you, if you like. One on one. Just you and me. It would give you a chance to talk about your feelings.”

“My feelings?” I have a momentary, fuzzy memory of a puzzling expression I once saw on Hazel Carrington’s face, when Tommy reminded her of a lunchtime meeting they were to have. I wasn’t sure what it was about, but I think, now, it must have been the counseling sessions Ruthie told me about. Hazel’s look was respectful enough, but it seemed tinged with panic.

He smiles at me in such a gentle way, though, I can’t imagine why Hazel would be afraid. Kindness shows in his eyes. It’s the way they droop at the outer corners, helplessly, boyishly. He’s the closest thing to an ideal lover I can imagine. Better than anything I could even dream. I wish I could see inside his mind. I wonder what he thinks of me.…

He shoots his wrist out of his cuff to look at his watch. “We can discuss this later, if you like,” he says. “I have a meeting. Just tell me when you’d like to start.”

Bones of his wrist. Black hairs. I could press my lips against them
.

“Start?”
Start what?

“The counseling sessions. If you won’t let me teach you some acting skills, at least let me help you with your personal life. Are you okay with that?”

I want to say,
Oh, sure, anytime
. Instead, I say, “I think I’m okay for the time being.”
Now, why would I do that?
Maybe I don’t trust myself.

He gives me a sorrowful look, as if his heart is breaking,
but nods. He reaches out and pats my shoulder. He slides his hand down my arm, in a comforting way, and squeezes my hand. But, I don’t feel comforted. I feel like throwing myself into his arms. He hurries away, and I slowly pick up my books.

Walking home from school by myself, I count dandelions, which are beginning to dot the lawns. Thunder in the distance threatens an immediate April shower.

Ruthie is still in the drama club, but she’s started hanging around with an older crowd, now. “Come on, join in,” she says. “The stuff they talk about! I tell you! Quite the education!”

“What?” I ask. “The crooked seams in their nylon stockings? Their next Toni Home Permanent?”

“Much more. You’d be amazed how far they go with their boyfriends. It’s an education.”

Maybe I
should
join in. I could use a little advanced education.

Next day, Mr. Tompkins stops me in the hall. “Would you consider helping me direct the play?” He catches me off guard. I just assumed I would do makeup again and prompt.

“Help direct?” I’m not sure whether to take him seriously.

“Be assistant director, in other words.”

I’m flattered all over again. The play is not that bad. I didn’t actually gag when I read it a second time. It’s
lighthearted fun, I tell myself. Not everything needs to be a matter of life, death, and passionate love.

“Yes,” I say, “I would love to.”

We choose the cast quickly and start rehearsing. We want to stage the play at the beginning of June. Ruthie has the lead, partly because of my casting advice, but also because she’s becoming a convincing actress. The busier she becomes with the play, the more she drifts away from the older girls. Once again, we walk home together after rehearsal.

“You know, you were right,” Ruthie says to me one day. “You have to get inside your character’s skin and feel what she’s feeling.”

“Did I say that?” We’re dawdling along, although I know I should be hurrying home. Granny has moved in with us to help out, and I’m supposed to be helping her.

“You said something like it. Or maybe I was the one who said it. Anyway, it works. I’m getting pretty good at acting, don’t you think?”

I assume Ruthie is gloating and decide not to comment. A split second later, I see our positions reversed. If I had an acting role, I would definitely want a pat on the back. As if by magic, I’m inside Ruthie’s skin. Heartily, I say, “Yup, you really are!”

“I thought so. I keep dreaming about Hollywood, real honest-to-god, sound-asleep dreams. I think that means something, don’t you? I mean, I think I should seriously consider acting as a career, when I finish school.”

The inside of Ruthie’s skin is beginning to feel a bit tight and itchy. But, as a good friend should, I let her warble on. My mind wanders to the way Tommy’s eyes crinkle when he smiles and his rich, deep voice when he speaks my name. We part at our usual corner, and very quickly, I’m back inside my own skin.

Tommy often asks me to stay after rehearsal, in the empty auditorium, to discuss certain scenes and what props we need. Once he put his arm across my shoulders. “You’re an excellent assistant, you know.” The heat of his arm seared through my sweater, and the sensation stayed with me for the rest of the day and on into the night.

Will Cooper sometimes comes after rehearsal to talk about sets. He and one of his friends volunteered to build a fence as well as something to look like the back porch of a house. I have to admit I resent the intrusion. I don’t feel as special, as sought out, as I do when I’m alone with Tommy. When Will stays, all three of us leave together, and Will insists on walking me partway home. “How’s Jamie?” he often asks. “When’s he coming home?”

“Soon. He has to move out of his apartment, so he’s going to come home to study and then go back to write his exams. I guess he’ll stay with one of his classmates when he goes back.”

It’s early May, three weeks before the play goes on. My mother is about the size of an elephant, but the baby still
isn’t ready to be born. It’s waiting in the wings, waiting for its cue to step out onto the stage.

Late one afternoon, long after everyone else has left the auditorium, Tommy and I are hashing out how to allow Ruthie’s character to slam the back porch door without the entire wall quaking and threatening to fall. Will is supposed to be with us, but he’s at home, sick with a cold. What we need to do is get stronger bracing behind the wall, but the space is so narrow that it poses a problem.

“This will be difficult,” Tommy says.

“Don’t worry. When Will gets back, he’ll figure it out. He’s good at solving problems.”

Tommy looks at me with narrowed eyes. “Yes, I guess he is. What kind of problems do you talk about when he walks you home?”

“My brother, mostly.” Tommy smiles, in his understanding way, and starts turning out the stage lights. It’s very late. I know I should head home to help Granny get dinner ready.

We turn out the rest of the lights and make our way to the main door of the auditorium. In the near darkness, I stumble against a chair. Mr. Tompkins says whoops and grabs my arm to keep me from falling. He holds it gently, tucking me close to him, until we reach the door.

“You know, I really appreciate your help with this play. It’s a tricky one, but it’s going pretty well, don’t you think?” He is groping for the door handle, but not finding it.

I feel so faint, being this close to him, I can’t even answer. It’s as if I’m in a dream, or maybe a play, a love story. He bends his head over me, and almost automatically, my face goes up to meet his. Shatteringly, the lights go on.