The Year the Swallows Came Early (10 page)

I
decided to tell everyone to please call me Eleanor from then on.
Groovy
didn't fit anymore. I said, “Mama, could you please start calling me Eleanor? I'm too old to be called Groovy. I have decided I look more like an actual Eleanor and not a Groovy.” That kind of thing.

But the truth was, because it was the nickname Daddy had given me, I didn't want it. I didn't exactly tell her that part, though.

Late that afternoon, I put the safe-deposit key back into the brown box in the closet. I pushed
it way down deep, past all those science fiction stories and the Isaac Asimov book.

Mama mysteriously took to keeping secrets too. When she brought in the mail, I saw her stuff a certain letter into her pocket as she flipped through the pile.

“What's that?” I finally asked.

“What?” she said.

“That envelope you put in your pocket.”

“Nothing,” she said, smiling all fake, like I was back in kindergarten and couldn't tell the difference between her real smiles and her forced ones.

“Nothing, as in nothing? Or nothing, as in you don't wanna show me?” I said.

She turned her back to me and immediately started straightening up things around the sink. Yellow dish soap. Rubber gloves. Partially used Brillo pads.

The way she got so busy with things that didn't matter, I figured the letter must have something to do with Daddy.

I decided I wouldn't tell Mama I'd been to the bank after that. Even though I'm pretty sure this was the kind of thing she'd want to know. I didn't want to talk about how Daddy wasn't really who I thought he was. I could tell she didn't either.

For a week straight, I did nothing except go to school and come home from school.

I ate cold cereal out of a box for breakfast. No warm banana waffles with maple syrup for me. I was not in the mood to cook.

I packed tuna-salad sandwiches with celery for lunch. Normally I hated celery because of its crunchy texture and stringy parts. But it felt okay now because I could bite down hard.

I didn't do my normal good job on homework assignments.

I didn't erase mistakes when I made them on math papers in class. Instead I just crossed them out, making my paper look messy.

Miss Johnson said, “Groovy, your work has become careless lately. This isn't like you.”

I said, “Would you mind calling me Eleanor
from now on, please?”

She raised her left eyebrow like she'd suddenly discovered a new germ. Then she wrote something on a yellow sticky note. But I didn't care what it was.

I went around not bothering to talk to people. During lunch recess I sat by myself in Miss Johnson's class pretending to read a book I couldn't put down for one single minute.

“You cannot avoid the world forever,” she told me as she left for the teacher's lounge.

At home I didn't read or watch TV. Not even the cooking shows.

I didn't cut roses out of Mama's garden to put on the table and fill the house with good smells.

I didn't even make chocolate-covered strawberries.

Luis called. “Can you bring another batch?” he asked on the answering machine.

“No, I cannot,” I told the telephone. I didn't call back.

Marisol called. “I can't find you at school
lately. Are you home sick? Felix wants to know what you found at the bank,” she told the answering machine.

“Nothing,” I told the telephone. I didn't call her back either.

I just sat around. I told myself,
You probably wouldn't have been able to sell enough strawberries to even buy a professional apron or white chef's hat.

By the weekend, Mama took notice.

“You need something to motivate you,” she told me.

“Like what?” I asked, even though I didn't feel like being motivated.

“You need to start making lists. It's the only way to get through a day.” Mama walked to the kitchen and found a pencil and pad of paper. She handed them to me and stood next to the couch. She was dressed for work, ready to make her clients beautiful.

I sat up slightly.

She sighed her sigh that means she is trying to
be patient but is about to lose her patience.

So I sat up just a little more.

“First, and most important, consult the newspaper to see what the planets have in store for you. Then make your list.” She opened the paper that was lying on the coffee table to the section with the horoscopes and folded it back, smoothing the creases perfectly. “This is so you have time to get everything done. Be sure to put a check mark next to each thing as you finish it. That way, you can see your progress. Feel your accomplishments.”

I looked up at her.

“Think about what you want to do today, baby. Think about how you can make your dream come true. Write everything down. You'll feel better.” Mama stood over me for a minute with a supercheery smile, like a cheerleader ready to do a C jump. Then she kissed the top of my head and walked to the front door. “I'll be back for lunch early today. I'm not that busy for a Saturday. Why don't you make us some of those sloppy joes you like? The ones with the sweet onions.”

“Maybe.”

She waved over her head, sparkles and glitter shining from every finger. “Good then. Love you!”

As soon as she closed the door, the doorbell rang. I looked around to see if she'd forgotten her black bag of supplies, but it was nowhere.

When I opened the door, Frankie stood there holding the empty trays I'd used to carry my chocolate-covered strawberries to the Swallow.

“Hey, Groovy,” he said. “Luis asked me to give these to you. He thought you might need them to bring over a new batch.”

I took the trays from him. Then I said, “I'm going by
Eleanor
now.”

He looked at me real serious for a minute, and then said, “Okay.”

“Thanks for the trays,” I told him. “I gotta go. I'll see ya.”

“Okay,” he said again.

I closed the door and set the trays in the kitchen.

Then I sat down on the couch and looked at the pad of paper Mama had given me to make my list.

I counted the lines on it. Twenty-four.

I folded the top sheet into a paper airplane and flew it into the kitchen. I didn't pick it up.

After a real long time I made my list:

• 1. Eat breakfast.
  
• 2. Get dressed.
  

There was nothing else I needed to do.

And I absolutely was
not
going to cook sloppy joes for lunch. Not today or ever again.

M
ama started asking to see my lists.

“I want to discuss your progress,” she told me, like she was running a parent-teacher conference at school.

So sometimes I had to cheat. I'd write down the day as it happened, things like
brush teeth
and
clip fingernails
.
Go to school, come home from school.
I'd place a check mark next to them like I'd really thought about my day and planned them all along.

But Mama said she wanted me to write down more
important
things than routine tasks. Things
like learning how to paint desert landscapes with barrel cacti and purple-orange sunsets by number. Or something really valuable like memorizing the constellations. Not to mention filling the order from Luis because, yes, he was still asking for another tray of strawberries, in case you hadn't heard his messages.

We sat at the kitchen table for breakfast before school one day, going over my progress and the lists I'd written. Mama had made burned toast and juice, but neither of us was eating.

“How about having a dinner party this week?” she said. “Your list could be something like, ‘Plan menu, shop, cook.' You could invite Frankie and Luis.”

“I'm not in the mood,” I said.

“Hmmm,” said Mama. She took little sips of juice. Finally she stood up. “Well, at least listen to your messages from yesterday. I don't know why you can't answer the phone anymore.”

“Maybe I wasn't here when the phone rang,” I said.

Mama frowned. Then she pressed the
play messages
button on the machine.

The sound of Luis's voice filled the room: “Hi, Eleanor. It's Luis again. We've run out of your strawberries. Frankie said he brought back your trays. Why don't you bring us some more? People are asking for them.”

I glanced at Mama, feeling startled to hear someone actually call me Eleanor. I figured Frankie must have told him.

Then the next message: “Hey,” Frankie's voice started. “It's Frankie. Call me back.”

Marisol's message was after that: “Hello? This is Marisol.” A long pause, then, “I was just wondering if you could come over to the restaurant. Well, okay. See ya.”

I sighed and pulled myself out of the chair to stand up, trying my best to convince Mama I'd be acting like my normal self any second now. But the truth was, I still didn't care about talking to anyone or making chocolate-covered strawberries.

The phone rang. Mama picked it up with a look on her face that said,
See? I'm sure this is someone for you now.

I heard her say hello, but then she walked quickly into the laundry room.

For a long time, she didn't speak. Then she said, “Yes.”

Then, “Okay.”

Then, “I understand.”

Then, “Okay,” again.

When she hung up, she stayed in the laundry room.

I yelled to her, “Who was that?”

Mama walked slowly into the kitchen. “You know, with all this hot weather, I believe I need a deep-conditioning treatment for my hair. It feels so
dry
suddenly.” She walked past me. “Bye,” she said.

And she left for work without kissing me on the head good-bye or telling me to have a good day like she usually does.

That's how I knew that whoever had called
had probably given her some kind of news about Daddy.

I thought about writing him a letter after she left for work. So I could ask him why he did it.

I made a list. It read:

• 1. Write Daddy.
  

But I didn't.

S
pring break started off hotter than ever. It was as if March had gotten confused with August.

“You need to have some
fun
, baby,” Mama finally told me. “It's Swallows Week, after all. Everyone's getting ready for the swallows to return. There's even a band playing today. Why don't you go see Frankie at the shop?”

“Maybe,” I answered. I was feeling tired from all my list making and sitting around.

“I was afraid of this.” She looked me over, her
hands firm on her hips. “I think it's time for something big. How about a color change? Maybe a nice red. Not a bright red, just a soft one, to bring out your eyes more.” She ran her fingers through my hair, pulling at the tangles.

“No, Mama. I don't want red hair.”

“Don't say no right away. Think about it. I'll bring home some color samples.” She packed her bag with brushes and shampoos. “Might be just what you need, baby.”

“I'm
not
changing my hair,” I told her.

“We'll talk about it some more later,” she called to me as she walked out the door. “I'll be home for lunch.”

You could not stop my mother from doing a makeover on someone if you tried. What was she thinking, though? I barely felt like myself now. How would dyeing my hair help?

After a while, I decided that walking to the Swallow for a cinnamon churro would be okay because I wouldn't get anything extra. Not a root beer, or an Icee. Nothing that would
remind me of anything nice.

I got some money and walked along the docks to the shop. The high tide lapped at the pylons, covering all but a few sharp mussels. They twinkled brightly from the sunlight catching their wet black shells. The smell of fish and sand and sunscreen had settled permanently into the wood I walked on.

When I got to the shop, three new sketches of swallows lined the sidewalk: a bird getting ready to take off, a bird lifting into the air, a bird in full flight. I wondered what was the limit of Marisol's drawing talent. I knew, looking at the sketches, that she'd be famous someday. I'd say, “Oh, yes, Marisol Cruz, I knew her when she first started out.”

In the distance, I could see Frankie standing at the end of the dock. So I headed down to meet him.

“How did you know I was coming?” I asked as I walked up.

“I didn't,” he answered. “I was watching that boat.” He pointed to a big green and white sail-
boat named
Sea Fever
. The crew was getting ready to throw off their lines and head out to sea.

“You never told me what you found at the bank,” he said.

I sighed. “Nothing.”

“The safe-deposit box was empty?”

“I mean my daddy wrote in the bank book that he'd taken all the money, so yes, there was nothing worth finding inside.”

Frankie nodded like he sort of thought that's what would've been in there. “Hmmm,” he said. Then he turned back to the
Sea Fever.
I could tell by the way he stuffed his hands into his pockets that he wouldn't ask me any more questions, and I felt relieved.

We watched the boat's sails luff in the wind. Four seagulls circled the top of the mast so closely I wondered if it had been smeared with peanut butter.

That's when I saw him standing on the bow, looking out toward the sun: Mr. Tom in his yellow jacket.

“So long, Skip!” yelled the man standing on the dock next to the sailboat. He saluted his right hand in the direction of Mr. Tom.

“His name is Skip?” Frankie asked the man, as we hurried to where he was.

“Well, no,” he replied. “That's just his nickname. His real name is Tom Harris. Best sailor in the Pacific. I served with him for ten years when we were in the navy.”

I realized then I'd been wrong about thinking Mr. Tom had found the yellow coat the afternoon we saw him sitting on the jetty.
Skip
was a nickname I just didn't know about.

The man winked at us and smiled. “You here to say good-bye too?”

“Where's he going?” Frankie asked.

“To the channel island of Santa Catalina. Thirty-three degrees longitude and one hundred eighteen degrees latitude,” the man told us. “Great place to fish. Great place to retire. He's going across with a friend of mine.” He nodded slowly. “Yep, Skip came into a trailer over there. Just worked out
for him finally,” he told us, like he was trying to believe Mr. Tom's good fortune himself.

“Well”—he smiled—“everyone deserves a little good luck at least once in their lives—right, mates?”

Mr. Tom came around from the bow of the sailboat, his yellow jacket flapping in the wind around his legs. He looked a lot different from before, like he'd gotten a bath, and he wore white tennis shoes instead of his blue flip-flops. I wondered if he remembered who we were.

“What do you two want?” he asked, looking right at me.

“I don't want anything,” I heard myself say. Because it was true. I didn't even want a churro anymore.

I glanced around then to see if anyone else was there, someone who might know Mama and tell her that I was talking to Mr. Tom.

“I guess we should say good-bye,” Frankie said to him. And I thought he sounded a little sad to see him go.

Mr. Tom waved to the captain and put his first finger up, like he was asking for just one more minute before they left. Then he stepped closer to the edge of the boat, holding tight to the halyard. He didn't say good-bye back to Frankie. He didn't even look at Frankie.

Instead, it was like he didn't hear him at all because he kept his eyes right on me. Like we were the only two people in the whole world.

Mr. Tom shook his head. “You don't want what Frankie has. All that anger will turn you to stone.”

I stepped back. Frankie raised his eyebrows at me, like he was wondering what was going on.

“I tried to tell you that before,” Mr. Tom said, looking at me long and hard. “I tried to tell you both.” He pushed his lips tight, seeing into my eyes like he knew me better than even my mama.

Now it is a funny thing about people who can see deep into you. Past your clothes and your face. Past what you say.

They know things about you that you haven't told them in words. Mama says it's because they
listen better than everyone else.

I never knew what she was talking about until that very minute. Because suddenly I was sure Mr. Tom could see the feelings in me, the same way he had seen them in Frankie that afternoon on the jetty after he'd gotten the letter from his mama.

And then, just as I thought he was about to walk away from us and into his new life on the island, he jumped down off the boat onto the dock.

He walked over to me until there was practically no space between us. The smell of Ivory soap drifted from him. I noticed his fingernails had been trimmed and cleaned. Even so, an uneasy feeling settled into my stomach.

But then, the more I looked at him, with his nickname there on his coat and his smooth shark's-tooth necklace around his neck, the more I just knew there was nothing to be afraid of.

He reached to touch my shoulder and stared into my eyes, then squinted. Not from the sun, which was shining hard off the ocean just then. But from the story he must have seen, and the girl
I knew I would become if I chose not to forgive. Because I could see that he knew all about people not showing forgiveness from his wrinkled-sheet face, the way his eyebrows slanted down on the edges, the sadness they whispered.

And without telling me any of this out loud, my heart knew what he was saying by the way he took his time, as if he was sending me a silent message saying,
No more.

I knew it just as sure as those humpback whales know the way to Mexico when they swim there each winter to find a family.

But even though I felt his message, I saw myself turn away while the rest of those whales kept straight on the path.

I stepped back. Away from Mr. Tom. Far enough so he wouldn't see that I didn't want to forgive my daddy. Even if it did bring me personal suffering like he said it would.