Little Red Lies (27 page)

“Give him a chance. Every kid has some redeeming features. Look at you.”

“Look at
me
! What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re a doll, kiddo. Now, come and help me take these baby things upstairs.”

As we pile clean diapers and baby clothes on the shelves in the baby’s room, a decision makes itself. Taking a breath, I say, “I have to help with the sets for the play tomorrow. We’re starting early in the morning, so I’ll be home by noon.”
Or a little after, if we go out for lunch. Or never, if we take off for Mexico
. “Is that all right?” There are certain elements of truth there.

“Fine with me. Better just mention it to your mother.”

“She won’t care.”

“She’s your mother.”

As predicted, she doesn’t seem to care.

I’m up early Saturday morning, just as it becomes light. Wide-awake after a toss-and-turn night, I study the clothes in my closet. My first choice is a new dress I’m saving for summer, cut low front and back, with narrow shoulder straps and a little bolero jacket I can take off if I want. My mother hates it, but she let me get it anyway. It’s the
most sophisticated thing I own. I’m about to slip it from its hanger, but I stop. It looks like a costume. It looks as if I’m trying to be somebody I’m not.

No, that’s crazy. I hold it in front of me and look down, but the feeling of unreality stays with me. Yes, it’s a costume. I hang it back up.

It isn’t exactly summer yet, anyway, only the middle of May. I’m shivering in the breeze coming through my partly open window. Goose bumps. How romantic! I close the window, trying not to slam it, and unwind the bandages from my scaly arms. What a mess! Better to hide them under the long sleeves of my angora sweater. It’s so fuzzy and clean, I wear it only for special occasions. Skirt and sweater—like something I’d wear to school. I brush my hair and tuck one side behind my ear with a barrette. The other side I let drape half over my eye to give me an air of mystery.
Lipstick. Don’t forget
.

Scene after approaching scene unfolds in my hectic imagination. We’ll kiss. That’s a given. We were so close to it, in the darkened auditorium, before we were surprised by the janitor. We’ll have to pull off the road, of course. And naturally, we’ll discuss our age difference. Sure, I’m just fifteen, but I’ll turn sixteen in, what? Less than ten months. We can easily keep our affair secret until then, and after that, I can do what I like. We’ll decide age doesn’t matter, because it really doesn’t. We’ll make plans for the future. Time spreads endlessly before me filled with Tommy,
his smile, his wonderfully soulful eyes that promise me a heavenly new life.

I regret telling Granny that I’ll never marry. What I meant was, I’ll never marry a mere boy. I’m holding out for a god.

What if, halfway there, Tommy says,
Let’s just run away and never come back?
It’s the sort of daring thing he
would
say. I take a huge breath. I’d do it. I really would, in the snap of a finger. It’s the sort of thing you could write a play about. Or, a big fat book. I take a fistful of money from my savings, just in case. My hands shake with excitement as I carefully fold the money, mostly ones and twos, and put it in the pocket of my skirt.

No one else is up, thankfully. I hear little mewing noises and hope it’s the cat. It isn’t. Rose is licking her paws, on the end of my bed.

It’s baby brother, unfortunately, telling
me
, since I’m the only one up, that if he doesn’t get fed pretty soon, his mewing will turn into ear-splitting howls. And that’ll rouse the entire family. Maybe even the neighbors. The last thing I want is to have the romance I’m staging in my head interrupted by my father’s early morning yawns and throat-clearings. After that, I’d have to listen to Granny’s disapproving remarks about my mysterious hairstyle. Add to that questions about why I’m wearing my best sweater just to work on sets, and any whiff of romance gets tossed right into the garbage pail. I head into the baby’s room.

There he is, in his little flannel nightie and booties, wriggling, flailing, kicking, turning his face to the side and opening his mouth like a baby bird, looking for worms.

I should leave now, I think, before he gets into full voice. I’m to meet Tommy at the school, but it’s way too early. And chilly.

But, so what?

Although, what if someone sees me lurking in front of the school? They’ll know it’s a tryst, a love affair. Maybe even an elopement. They might try to stop me.

The baby has such tiny, perfect hands. I can’t help myself. I reach into his crib and put my finger into the curl of his palm, and he hangs on to it. He’s strong. He doesn’t want to let go. They should call him Samson, after the guy in the Bible story, and never cut his hair. I give in and pick him up.

Downstairs, I make him a bottle. The mere thought of food gives me butterflies. While the milk is warming, I bounce the baby, trying to keep him quiet.
Lipstick!
I try to put it on without a mirror.
Oops!
I must look like a freak.

To make sure the baby doesn’t wake everybody, I take him outside to the front veranda, where we sit in one of the wicker chairs, facing the street. He sucks eagerly at the bottle, and I hold him closely, the way Granny taught me. He puts one tiny hand on top of mine.

The refreshing scent of lilacs wafts on a warm breeze. It’s going to be a gorgeous day for our trip. I imagine getting
up beside Tommy in the borrowed truck. He’ll reach out to take my hand. Maybe kiss it. We’ll drive a few miles out of town, and then he’ll say,
Do you mind if I stop for a moment?
I feel a tiny, electric prick of fear, when I think of him pulling the truck off the road. I don’t know why, unless it means that, by then, I’ll be powerless to change my mind.

I decide to change the script. We’ll keep driving. If he wants to kiss me, and I hope he will, he can wait until we get to the Henley Falls high school. It will be every bit as sweet, every bit as exciting.

If this were a romance involving two fictitious people, however, I would definitely pull them off the road, where they could give full vent to their passion. Steamy kisses behind steamed-up windows, hands exploring—

Exploring what?

This is real life. The hero is a teacher. Teachers, in real life, do not make love to students.
Do they?
There must be a rule against it. Not even in the fiction pages of
Ladies’ Home Journal
would this happen.

But, wait.
Why not?
There’s always a first time. For a hazy moment, I’m back into my romance. Tommy’s jaw, the shadow of a beard, hair on the backs of his wrists, his eager hands.

A slight rumbling sound means the baby just filled his diaper. How romantic!

I pat his back to burp him, and he obliges, spitting up milk down the front of my sweater.

Suddenly, I’m shivering. The personal romance I’ve been concocting makes me feel a little sick. My watch tells me I should be at the school, by now. Mr. Tompkins will wonder where I am. Still, I sit on the veranda. I’ll go in a minute, as soon as my skin stops feeling hot and prickly, as if I’m drifting toward danger.

Just as the baby falls asleep, a red truck drives slowly past our house with Tommy at the wheel. He must have seen me on the veranda because, in a few moments, he comes back, going the other way. He stops. My insides quivering, I stand up and start down the veranda steps. His dark eyes are filled with love for me and me alone! I see this clearly. He looks puzzled, but he’s smiling. His hair, slanting across his forehead, makes me sigh. I want to touch it. I’m hooked, as I knew I would be the minute I saw him, again. I am drawn like a fish into a net. I picture myself drifting toward him, floating. He reaches for me. Our lips touch.

“I thought you were coming with me.” He has his head out the window.

“I am. I …” I’m aware, now, of the bundle in my arms. No longer asleep, my baby brother opens his mouth and howls. I jiggle him, trying to soothe him before my entire family wakes up and runs out of the house to find out what’s going on. Maybe they’ll think I’m just showing off my new brother to my teacher. I hold him up to the truck window, and the baby promptly vents his opinion
by throwing up what looks like a gallon of curdled milk, right through the open window. It lands on the shoulder of Tommy’s open-necked shirt. Some might have gone down inside.

I am mortified. “I’m so sorry! He does this all the time. I should have … here, use this.” I extricate a vomity baby blanket and try to shove it through the window to Mr. Tompkins, who backs away in horror. Looking as if he might be the next to throw up, he swipes at his shirt with his clean pocket handkerchief.

I use a corner of the blanket to wipe my brother’s chin, then sling it back over my shoulder. The angora’s a mess now, anyway. Holding the baby in the crook of my arm, I make soothing noises to him.

Mr. Tompkins looks as sour as he now smells. “Well, are you coming or not?”

The baby finds my finger and holds on with all his might.

I have to say
something
. “I—I can’t go.” It sounds like a wail. Next, I’ll be crying, bawling.

Looking straight ahead, Tommy continues to scowl. “May I ask why not?”

I want to scratch my arms, but my hands are full. I need to answer. “Um.”
Think
. “My, um, brother won’t let me.” I have to bite my lip to keep back a shriek of manic laughter.

Mr. Tompkins gives me a disgusted glance. “Fine. You might at least have let me know in advance. Your friend Ruth would have been happy to help out.”

“Ruthie?”

Mr. Tompkins rolls up the window and drives off, leaving nothing but exhaust fumes and emptiness. The sensation lasts only a moment, because almost immediately, I know I’m light as air.

I fly inside with the baby and take him up to his crib. He’s probably going to cry, but I hope I can get back to my room before anyone else hears him and gets up. I just make it. Quickly, I take off my smelly clothes, pitch them into the back of the closet to deal with later, and change into my Saturday grubbies—shapeless slacks and an old plaid shirt of Jamie’s.

Opening my door a crack, I peek out. The coast is clear. I hurry down the stairs and grab an apple from a bowl on the kitchen table because I’m starving. Quickly, I scrawl a note to say I fed the baby and escape outside. My plan is to walk up to the school, hang around for a little while, then come home and say something like,
It didn’t take as long as we thought it would. Lots of people there to help
. Or something. A smear of lipstick comes off onto the apple as I bite into it.

I don’t really need my made-up alibi because no one comments on my early return from the school. Dad’s gone back to work, and Granny’s sipping her coffee with the newspaper open in front of her. Everyone else is upstairs. “It’s quiet around here for a change,” I say.

“Blessedly quiet. I might even get to finish reading the paper.”

“Don’t do anything rash.”

I’m in the middle of buttering some toast, when I hear the dull thud and then silence. Granny and I put down what we’re doing and frown at each other. Then we hear Mother’s shriek.

The baby?
White with panic, Granny races out of the kitchen, with me so close behind I’m nearly on top of her. I don’t know what to expect—the baby, like a broken doll, lifeless on the floor?

In the hall, I look up to see Mother staring down in horror over the banister, moaning into her hands, “Oh, no, oh, no!” The back of my neck tingles as hair stands up like hackles. I scream. On the stairs, near the bottom, Jamie lies crumpled.

I practically fly to him, crying, screaming, trying to pick him up. Granny keeps yelling at me to leave him, not to try to lift him. I look up the stairs just as Mother, running down, trips on the hem of her nightgown. I throw myself across Jamie to protect him, afraid she’ll land on top of us. She catches hold of the banister and seems to glide the rest of the way down.

Mother is transformed. It’s as if the screaming and panic slashed the curtain she’d drawn across her mind. Suddenly she takes charge. “Give him some air,” she says, tugging me away. Together we manage to get him into a more comfortable position. His eyes are closed, as if he’s sound asleep.

I sit on the hall floor whimpering, chewing my knuckles. “He’s going to be all right, isn’t he? Isn’t he!” It’s not a question. I squeeze past Mother and put my ear next to Jamie’s chest, but all I hear is my own heart thumping madly.

Granny phones the ambulance, then Dad at the store. They both reach the house at the same time.

While men come in with a stretcher, my parents cling together, as if they’ve just found each other after a long search. As the men skillfully move Jamie onto the stretcher, I notice how drawn my father’s face is, how deeply lined, his eyes hallow, dark with pain. He looks breakable. He’s always been the backbone of the family, but now, I see that, like the rest of us, he isn’t indestructible. He rubs the back of his hand across his eyes and says, “I’ll follow the ambulance in the car.”

I’m not sure how long the baby’s been wailing. Granny has her arms around me, comforting me. “He’s going to be fine, just fine. You’ve got to stop crying.” I’m not even aware that I’m crying.

Over Granny’s shoulder, I catch a glimpse of Mother, alone on the stairs, left out. Upstairs, the little alien howls his heart out. It’s as though Mother realizes that there are
only two people left to comfort each other. She hurries up the stairs.

Sometime later, looking distractedly out the living room window, I’m aware of Mother behind me, dressed, cradling the baby in her arms. “Rachel,” she says softly, “can you look after him for a while?”

“Sure.”

“Iris,” she says to Granny, “would you be kind enough to drive me to the hospital?”

“Certainly.”

I feel ridiculous now, remembering my fear that the baby might have been dropped over the banister. A bit like my image of Hazel Carrington’s mother, wandering around with an ice pick up her sleeve, looking for someone to murder. That’s what comes of having an overly active imagination.