In Trouble (5 page)

The sharpness of the pain startled me. Back then I only wrote articles about the Thanksgiving pageant or the new 45

cafeteria menu. Safe stuff. Then, splat, Dad’s name was in the
New York Times
. The next day half the school knew who I was, and I was thrown out of the newspaper home-room. Me, who’d never missed a deadline. I’d fought it and got back on the paper. But Dad didn’t get reinstated. The Board of Ed fired him, the best math teacher in South Side High on the other side of the projects. One day in the classroom, the next day gone, then behind bars. And now, searching the want ads. An ex-political prisoner. I haven’t talked to Dad about Paul’s interview. I want to be there.

But I’ve too many movies-in-my-mind about prison, so I also don’t want to be. Dad hasn’t talked about it, except to say federal prison is different. Still, you’re locked behind bars, in a cell, for months. No exit.

Run!

Suddenly I was angry. For me, for Dad, for everyone in a cell. “Yeah, Gail, and you were one of those kids who wanted me off the paper. Guess you didn’t pick the win-ning side that time.”

I turned away and pressed my books hard against my chest until it hurt. I saw Georgina, Carol, and Kay ahead of me, but I didn’t hurry to catch up.

46

10.

I met Elaine at the LIRR information booth at 11:30. As we headed for the subway, I described Lois’s apartment in detail. Books on shelves, tables, in stacks. Woodcarvings and framed prints.

Lois was Uncle George’s daughter from his first marriage. At the time of the divorce she had run away from home, but I was little and I have no memory of Mrs. #1.

Uncle George and Aunt Sheila are all I’ve ever really known. For over ten years no one knew where Lois was.

Then, a couple of years ago, she appeared at Aunt Sheila and Uncle George’s door and slept on their couch for a week. She and I had walked and talked and shared many pots of tea. After that she stayed in touch.

I loved Lois, and I knew she was special. Twenty-seven years old and so sophisticated. Knowing all kinds of 47

things. Important stuff. The new exhibits opening at the Museum of Modern Art, the concerts at City Center. She went to readings and lectures at the 92nd Street Y. And she and her friends went to small jazz clubs where everybody smoked, tapped their fingers on the dark wooden tables, drank sophisticated drinks like Manhattans, and ate dripping brie.

Halfway up Lois’s stoop I told Elaine about Mrs.

Hanson. A backup plan.

“She knows . . .” I wasn’t sure how to say it “. . . how not to have it.”

It was as if the earth opened and the Grand Canyon was between us.

“You don’t get it,” she said. “I’m Catholic, remember?

We don’t do that.”

“Mrs. Hanson’s Catholic.”

“Who the hell is Mrs. Hanson?”

It was the first time I’d ever heard Elaine curse.

“She lives in my building. She knows people.” If Lois hadn’t opened the door just then, for sure Elaine would have bolted. I managed to get Elaine between me and Lois so I didn’t have to give Lois a hug.

The apartment extended from the front hall all the way to a bank of windows at the far end. Lois had an art table down the left side with cans of brushes and pencils and pens. On the right side was a couch that was a foldout bed.

Light streaked through the blinds. I got out of bed, dressed
quickly. Run!

48

If only there was a great eraser for the blackboard in your head.

Elaine stared at the prints that hung on the walls. The scent of cinnamon wafted from the corner kitchen, and a teapot sat in the middle of the table next to a plate of brownies.

Lois went over to the phonograph player and put on a record. A voice like a mellow violin sang “My man, he don’t love me.”

“Billie Holiday,” Lois said. “Nobody like her to nail troubles.” She nodded in time to the beat and brought over a basket of fruit.

Was Elaine listening to the lyrics?
Her
man, he don’t love her. At least it didn’t sound like it. Neil hadn’t returned her phone calls, and she’d left five or six messages. Now she sat at the table, hunched over, biting into a yellow apple.

Lois leaned back, tilting on the chair’s legs, and rested her head against the wall. I took a brownie, Lois sipped her tea, and Elaine kept her eyes on the rug. Nothing was being revealed.

I couldn’t stand the silence. Somebody had to say something. “It’s . . . it’s . . . this problem.” I reached for a tissue from a box Lois had on the table. Did she always keep it there, or did she figure we’d need it? Lois looked at me carefully. I turned to Elaine. “Come on, tell her. She can help.” But Elaine wouldn’t take her eyes off the rug.

49

“She thinks she’s pregnant,” I said.

Elaine shifted in her chair.

Lois sat up. “That’s not good,” she said. She looked closely at Elaine. “How far on?”

“I’m late,” was all Elaine said. She put the half-eaten apple on the table, and she began talking as if she was alone in the room. “He said if I’d do it, it meant I loved him.” She was almost pleading. “I
do
love him!” Lois carried the teapot into the living room. “It’s more comfortable in here.”

I got up right away, but Elaine didn’t move. She stared at the apple. “I didn’t tell Father Reynolds in confession. I couldn’t say it.”

Lois said in a calm voice, “Why don’t you come in here?”

I tapped Elaine on the shoulder and pointed to the living room. “See, I told you she’d be able to help.” Lois poured more tea. “Here’s what I think. I’ve a couple of friends who I know will talk with you. I’ll check out a good time for them, and you let me know when you can come in again.”

Lois looked at me, I looked at Elaine, and Elaine looked at her watch. “I have to take the 2:47 train,” she said. “I have to go right now.” She got up quickly and went to the door.

I followed. Elaine was halfway down the stairs. “I’m sorry,” I said, turning to Lois. “She’s . . .”

“Not to worry.”

50

Elaine was at the bottom of the stoop when I caught up with her. “I’ll call and find out when we can meet Lois’s friends” I said.

She wouldn’t look at me.

“Come on, Elaine. She’s going to all that trouble to get you information—”

“I didn’t ask her. You did.”

“But they know things. Stuff we don’t—”

“Maybe I don’t want to know.”

51

11.

On Monday I left school right at the closing bell. I wasn’t up for anything. Not Paul asking about my article, not Kay or Georgina or Carol. Not even Grandma, who would ask me how the day went. I walked past our stoop and headed for the playground benches. Only mothers with little kids would be there. Nobody I had to talk to.

Elaine’s problem had given me a way to talk to Lois without being alone together. I sat down and opened a notebook to make a list. It’s safe inside a list. Number 1 –

Elaine. How could she not want to know a way out? Elaine with a baby! It was unthinkable. In a few years she’d become her mother, pinched face, and who knows, if she had a daughter, maybe she’d end up counting Kotex pads.

I started to draw the woman sitting on a bench across from me. A good half of my pad was filled with sketches 52

I’d done on the subway. People didn’t seem to mind a kid across the way drawing, and I’ve gotten fast. With a few quick strokes, I get the body angle.

The lady held a book in one hand and rocked a baby carriage with the other. A little kid in the sandbox between us was dumping sand into a pail and then pouring it over his head. He began to whimper, and within seconds he was sobbing. “Eye!” he shrieked. “Ma, it hurts,” he wailed. “MAAAAAA! EYE! MAAAAAAA! HURTS!”

“Henry,” she said calmly, or numbly, “put down the pail and come here.” She cleaned his face and hair with a towel and then poured water from a thermos and wiped his eyes.

He sat on her lap, hiccupping. When she whispered something in his ear, he ran back into the sandbox, chirping.

That’s what I want. Someone who makes me chirp.

I sketched Mrs. Eye-wiper quickly, and it wasn’t bad.

“When does your mother get home?”

My hand slipped at the unexpected question, and a dark pencil line zigzagged across the page. I looked up into Mrs. Hanson’s eyes.

I’ve known Mrs. Hanson for as long as I can remember. She lives three floors above us and is my parents’ elevator friend. When I was little, if Mom and Dad had to go out, Mrs. Hanson was my babysitter. I like her. She leaves you alone. You will never drown in a conversation with Mrs. Hanson. Elaine says she’s grim, and I can see that. I’d swear Mrs. Hanson was born with her grey hair pinned in a roll like a highway tunnel that travels from behind one 53

ear, up over her forehead, and down below the other ear.

It was chilly, and Mrs. Hanson had on a wool sweater. She drew it tight around her and waited for my answer.

“Mom’s usually home by five-thirty, quarter of six.

Can I give her a message?”

Her lips, naturally thin, vanished as she tightened them. “No,” she said and turned to leave. “I’ll catch her later.”

“Mrs. Hanson, can I ask you a question?” Holy moly! What do I say now?

She stood in front of me, waiting. I moved my books, which were piled next to me on the bench, and put them down by my feet. Buying time? You bet. But Mrs. Hanson’s feet were planted firmly in front of me. I motioned to the now-empty bench space, and with a little cloud puff of a sigh, she sat down.

“Nice day, huh?”

She looked annoyed, and I didn’t blame her.

I started talking to the sandbox. “A girl I know got in trouble . . .” I heard Mrs. Hanson fold the sides of her skirt up over her lap, like closing a coat. She waited, but I’d run out of courage.

“Does your mother know?” Her voice was flat. I shook my head and turned to look at her. I’d never noticed how piercing Mrs. Hanson’s eyes could be.

She thinks it’s me! Do I look like that kind of girl?
Mrs.

Hanson of all people must know what “that kind of girl” looks like.

54

“My mom doesn’t know her,” I said, barely croaking out the words. “Actually, I don’t know her well. She’s a friend of a friend.” A lie. “She has a college boyfriend.” The truth.

Mrs. Hanson’s hands tightened on her knees. “College boyfriends,” she said with distaste. She looked at me like she was calculating something, deciding what to believe. She gave a quick nod, opened her purse, and took out a handkerchief.

“My mom doesn’t know,” I repeated.

Mrs. Hanson blew her nose and put the handkerchief back in her bag. I didn’t look at her face, but I was paying close attention.

“Talk to your mother.” Her purse snapped shut with the finality of a period at the end of a sentence. Mrs.

Hanson had hands that had washed a lot of dishes. Dry and rough, the nails clipped short and unpainted. She stood up and headed out of the playground.

I don’t want to talk to Mom right now. She’s busy, and you never know if she’s really listening. So you keep on talking, and pretty soon you’ve told her what you never meant to. I couldn’t tell her about Elaine. I’d promised.

Elaine was my best friend when all the stuff with Dad happened, and I wasn’t going to spill her secret. Not if I absolutely didn’t have to. And for sure I wasn’t going to tell Mom about . . . anything else. It was a long walk home.

Mom looked like she’d been sitting on the couch waiting to pounce the minute I walked in the door. “So 55

I saw Mrs. Hanson in the lobby and she asked me every which way from Sunday how you’re doing?” I can’t believe how nothing in this family is private.

“She said she saw you at the playground and you seemed distracted.”

“Mrs. Hanson said ‘distracted’?” I picked at a thread from my sleeve cuff. Sounds like a Mom word, not Mrs.

Hanson’s.

“Jamie.” The tone around my name was dark.

“I have to put my books away,” I said, turning toward my room.

“Sit down.”

I put my books on the table and sat on the couch.

Scruffy jumped onto my lap.

“Well?”

“Okay,” I said, staring at the pattern in the rug. I could picture Mom leaning back, folding her arms across her chest, waiting. When I looked up, she was leaning and waiting, arms folded.

“There’s this girl in school who’s got the gym locker next to me. A couple of days in a row we were in the girls’ room at the same time, and—” I paused “she was throwing up.” I caught Mom’s eye. She leaned forward.

“The girl was washing her face and crying, so I said I knew someone who might be able to help if she was in trouble.”

“Jamie,” Mom’s voice suddenly went soft. “Are you . . .

are you involved . . . you know what I mean . . . with a boy?” 56

I stared at her.

“I mean it, Mom. It’s a girl I know.” She sighed and went into the kitchen.

I could hear the coffeepot rattling as she scooped tablespoons of grounds into the basket. She came back and sat in a chair by the table. She began to wipe the tablecloth, as if crumbs, invisible to the naked eye, were lurking.

“I heard you and Aunt Sheila talking about Mrs.

Hanson helping somebody, so I thought—”

“Jamie, you’re a young woman now,” she said. “I want you to talk to me when you . . .”

I didn’t know where to look.

“. . . become intimate with a boy.”

I must have turned scarlet, because Mom said, “I’m not rushing you, but when the time comes, I’ll make an appointment with the doctor.”

“I don’t need a doctor. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

“Sweetheart, this is serious. You don’t want . . .” she gestured with her hand, “what happened to your friend.”
I think I’ll become a nun
. Scruffy left, and I picked up my books, but Mom wasn’t finished.