In the Country of Queens Page 8

  “You’re cuckoo to love an old voman like me,” said Grandma out of the blue.

  Shirley wanted to be part of Grandma forever. She gently pressed the rubbery veins on Grandma’s hand until they sprang back up. Then she turned Grandpa’s wedding ring, which swam on Grandma’s finger, until the three colored stones were on top: red, blue, green. Shirley thought, If God were a woman, she’d be Grandma. There is nothing to fix. She is as perfect as a star.

  Shirley looked up. “I wish I had pink cheeks like yours, Grandma,” she said.

  “Only peasants have pink cheeks,” Grandma answered. “I vish I had pale cheeks like yours.”

  Shirley thought of Mouse in the freezer and was inexplicably happy. And, of course, she had Grandma.

  Then the very thought of no Grandma made Shirley immensely sad. She framed Grandma’s face with both of her hands, touched her red-orange earrings, round like tiny tomatoes, and the soft lobes of Grandma’s ears. Then through burning tears Shirley said, “Why don’t both of us go to Lake Winnipesaukee this summer and let Anna observe the Safe-at-Home Doctrine by herself?”

  Grandma didn’t answer. She must have thought Shirley was joking.

  Shirley turned off the TV. She helped Grandma put her hair into night braids and then make the couch into her bed by removing the giant cushions and spreading a sheet with ballerinas on the flat part. Shirley went to the closet and got Grandma’s pillow and the patched summer blanket made from squares of old sheets. Then while Grandma went into the bathroom without her teeth (she had put them in a glass with water on the coffee table), Shirley stood at the living room window in the dark, watching the white lights of airplanes as they made their turns to LaGuardia Airport. She thought of going to school tomorrow and of the first and perhaps most difficult of her “I will” promises. “I hope I can do it,” she whispered.

  Chapter 12

  THE EGG THAT BROKE THE CHICKEN’S BACK

  The noisy whirring of the electric Silex juicer was Shirley’s alarm clock. Every school morning before Anna left for work, she cut in half, then squeezed, four plump oranges over the white spinning top of the small machine for Shirley. The fresh juice went down the porcelain spout (the pits were caught in a strainer) and then into the wide-mouthed antique glass from Mr. Joseph’s that was exclusively Shirley’s for orange juice. An almond tart in a little aluminum cup waited next to the glass. Anna placed a small saucer over the glass so that no flies or dust would fall in. She started what would be two soft-boiled eggs as soon as she saw Shirley coming out of the bedroom all brushed and dressed for school.

  It was a fate worse than death for Shirley to eat those eggs, and a puzzle to her that Anna, after so many tries, had not learned how to make them edible. Eggshells and lumps of salt sat in the gelatinous lukewarm mess.

  Today was no different.

  “Open your mouth!” demanded Anna, sounding like a general in the army. “If I didn’t love you, I wouldn’t care what you ate.”

  “Mnnn!” said Shirley, attempting to say No! without using her lips for clarity because that would mean she’d have to open her mouth.

  “Open up,” said Anna, “or you’ll miss the bus.” In spite of the fact that Shirley had at least thirty minutes till the school bus came and it was Anna who would have to walk extra-fast to the subway to get to Mr. Joseph’s in Manhattan if she hovered any longer over Shirley and the inedible eggs.

  Enraged, Anna tugged twice on Shirley’s braid with her free hand like she was ringing a bell. Shirley’s mouth opened, not in submission, but in surprise. Whereupon Anna, sensing victory, threw a spoonful of the disgusting yellow jellyfish-like glop down Shirley’s throat.

  “You’ll thank me for your strong bones when you’re older, Shirley,” said Anna.

  Shirley gagged. “No I won’t,” she said, wiping her mouth and taking a bite of the almond cake to diffuse the putrid taste of the eggs. Then Shirley said, “Okay, that’s enough. No more.”

  But Anna insisted on finishing the job.

  “Mnnn-mnnn,” said Shirley through closed lips.

  So Anna pulled again. Only this time, Grandma was there to pull, too.

  “Are you crazy, Anna?” asked Grandma in Russian, grabbing her by the waist. Then in English she said, “Leave the child alone.”

  Which Anna did, slamming the Pyrex custard cup down on the table. The cup bounced and the spoon went flying. Then so did Anna. Out the door and over the bridge.

  While Grandma went to the bathroom to undo her night braids, Shirley visited the freezer. She was happy to see that Phillie’s prediction that Mouse would be perfectly preserved in every way was true. And now, just like her father, Mouse would be there whenever she needed him.

  “I’m not a child,” she told Mouse. “I’m almost twelve. What doesn’t Anna understand? You used to let me try things on my own. Like riding my bike without training wheels. When I fell, you knew it would make me better at it the next time. I see that now. It’s like sinking or swimming. How do I make everyone else see it?”

  Shirley thought she heard her father say, “Tell them the truth, Shirley girl, even if it hurts.”

  * * *

  Most mornings when it wasn’t raining, Shirley and Maury liked to play off-the-wall before the school bus came. At the back entrance to Sparrowood Gardens, against one of two brick walls of apartments that faced the driveway, Shirley threw her ball and cleanly jumped over it before it could hit the ground and bounce off the other wall. When it was Maury’s turn, he threw Shirley’s ball against the highest part of one wall, hoping the ball would ricochet off the other wall so that either he or Shirley could catch it. As luck would have it, though, the ball slipped out of Maury’s hand and landed on the roof.

  “Oh crap,” Maury said, pulling on his tie with both hands. “Sorry, Shirley,” he said. “I’ll get it down for you as soon as we get home. Don’t worry, my ball is at school in my desk for recess.”

  But Shirley did worry. She would not consider going an entire day without the blue ball in her pocket.

  As if her life depended on it, Shirley flung open the door to the apartment building and rushed up the rungs of the stationary iron ladder in the hallway. It was tricky business climbing the ladder in a dress. Not to mention dangerous. The bottom of her dress got caught under her feet with every step. Luke would definitely have told Shirley that he would be happy to climb up there and get her ball.

  When Shirley got to the top of the ladder, she lifted the metal cover on the ceiling with her head and ran out onto the flat roof to retrieve the precious ball, which was trapped in the rain gutter at the very edge.

  “Wow!” Maury said when Shirley pushed open the door from the inside a short time later.

  Shirley shoved the ball back into her pocket. “Faster than the speed of light,” she said, sweat trickling down from her head to her neck to her back.

  Maury smiled as he picked up Shirley’s books, bound together with a thick rubber strap, and walked the few feet to the bus stop.

  Shirley and Maury joined the line of Sparrowood Gardens kids waiting for the bus: Curtis Karl bearing a purple scar on his chin from falling on a pencil point last year, Beryl Abbie singing her favorite song, Dale Rosenberger bending her middle finger all the way back to show that she was double-jointed, Laurence-with-a-u Livingstone babbling about how there would be hardly any work to do during the last days before school ended.

  “Yeah,” agreed Maury and Shirley at the same time.

  As she waited, Shirley checked out the cars on the road, each one going someplace important to the driver. She liked cars like Phillie did. A VW bug happened to stop opposite the bus stop, taking its place in the long line of traffic headed down the hill to the light. No one took much notice of the pale green Volkswagen at first, except for Shirley. She thought the small car was nice, until she saw who was driving it. Mr. Merrill looked over at the kids assembled at the bus stop. He waved. Shirley waved back, automatically, like when someone asked how you were, an
d you said, “Fine.” She clutched the ball in her pocket. Her knees felt flimsy, like paper.

  “Hey! There’s Mr. Merrill!” said Maury. Looking across the street, the other kids waved as the VW started down the hill when the light changed.

  * * *

  That morning, Mr. Merrill returned the spelling tests from Friday. Shirley was quietly proud when she saw that her perfect record would remain intact.

  “Nice work,” whispered Barry-the-Brain.

  Then Mr. Merrill gave the class a surprise free-writing period. “You can write about anything on your minds,” he said. “What you will remember about sixth grade, what you will do this summer, what you want to be someday. Anything. I will read your essays and give them back to you. Let yourselves go. Spelling doesn’t count.”

  I know what I’m going to write, Shirley thought. How perfect.

  Dear Mr. Merrill,

  I am not a plagiarist and I will never be one. I have my own opinions and a few different styles of writing that change depending on what I want the words to say. That’s what writers do. You have always told us to trust our first instincts because they are usually correct. In this case, however, your first instinct was wrong. My essay deserved to be sent to WNYC Radio with the others. My father told me to tell the truth, which I am doing now.

  With all due respect,

  Shirley Alice Burns

  Glancing up, Shirley noticed that Mr. Merrill had begun patrolling the aisles to check on each student’s progress. Before he could get to her desk, she folded the letter in half, then in quarters, then in eighths, and put it in her pocket next to her ball, thinking how hard it was to let it go. To let it be read. But I’ll figure it out, her lips silently said.

  By the time Mr. Merrill reached her desk, Shirley had a new piece of paper in front of her and was writing about Mickey Mantle, the best hitter on the Yankees. Shirley smiled as she wrote. “Mickey Mantle wears the number 7. Maybe it’s his lucky number.”

  Mr. Merrill went on to the next desk.

  After lunch, Barry-the-Brain offered his unopened bag of Fritos to Shirley at their shared double desk.

  “Thanks,” she said.

  Then Barry said, “Would you go with me to the sixth-grade prom, Shirley? I really like you.”

  Shirley was so taken aback that she couldn’t think of anything to say. She finally managed, “I didn’t even know there was a sixth-grade prom.” It was the truth.

  Barry, sensing the awkward moment, said, “I mimeographed the announcements for Mr. Merrill before school. He’ll probably hand them out to us today before we go home.”

  Then Barry showed Shirley the photograph that was in his desk.

  “Look, it’s you!” he said. The photo was from a fifth-grade bulletin-board display that had pictured each student holding up a book that he or she was reading. Shirley had tossed her photo in the trash, but Barry had obviously fished it out and kept it.

  Shirley smiled.

  * * *

  That afternoon, Mr. Merrill gave the class the announcements, saying, “There’ll be great music at the prom, delicious refreshments, and all kinds of decorations—a party in the gym for the entire sixth grade right after lunch. The school bus will be waiting for those of you who usually take it to go home. Everyone will have a dandy time.”

  Shirley could see some kids wriggling in their seats—like Marcy Bronson, maybe because she was afraid no one would ask her to dance, and Robin Miller, because excitement of any sort usually made her throw up. Next to Shirley, Barry twirled a pencil. His fingers made the eraser, the yellow body, and the point go round and round like a rotisserie chicken on a spit.

  “What do we wear, Mr. Merrill?” Beth Ann Lanier asked. Shirley knew Beth Ann liked Mitchell Payne, a boy in another class.

  “Something nice, stupid,” said Lannie Kaufman.

  Shirley turned to Barry. “Thanks for asking me, Barry. I’ll let you know very soon.”

  * * *

  On the bus ride home, Maury said to Shirley, “Will you go with me to the prom?” Almost immediately Shirley’s stomach started making gurgling noises like a slow drain after a bubble bath—glub glub glub—at the thought of telling Barry why she couldn’t go with him. But how indescribably excited she was at the thought of going to the prom with Maury!

  * * *

  “Sometimes life is pretty hard, but sometimes it’s okay,” Shirley told Mouse that night. “Two boys in my class asked me to go to the prom. Saying no to Barry will not be my favorite thing. He is dandruffy and bad with a baseball bat, but very generous with Fritos and definitely the smartest kid in our class by far. I wrote Mr. Merrill a letter about how I feel about being called a plagiarist, but I didn’t give it to him yet. I’m still scared. Petrified, if you really want to know.” Then, “Good night, Mouse. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  In the bedroom, the window handle came off in Shirley’s hand when she turned it to let in some cool night air. She got her screwdriver from the bathroom and in a few minutes had secured the handle so it worked again. Crickets, doves, and Luke sang their separate-but-together night songs. Shirley remembered Pippi Longstocking’s declaration “Isn’t it glorious to be alive!” and she felt peaceful.

  Next she said her prayers: “God bless Anna, Mouse, Grandma, Aunt Rosalie, Uncle Rod, Laurel, Ruthie, Steve, Phillie, and Scott. And Aunt Claire, Uncle Bill, Esther, and Arlene. And Natalie and Mustard. And please do not let me get sent to the principal’s office when I give my letter to Mr. Merrill. I also hope his feelings won’t be hurt. Because he is a good teacher ‘after all is said and done.’” Shirley actually laughed. I’m loony, she thought. But she’d heard those words on the radio so many times in a commercial for Palisades Amusement Park that she had them memorized. A lot of kids in her class had gone with their families to New Jersey, where the amusement park was. New Jersey is another place I haven’t been, thought Shirley.

  Shirley heard Anna and Grandma in the living room having one of their heated discussions. She reached down under her bed and found the book called The Stork Didn’t Bring You, which Aunt Rosalie had ceremoniously bestowed upon her recently because Anna was uncomfortable talking about the facts of life—or else she had no clue about them—like genetics, for example.

  “Your father wasn’t around long enough for you to get his genes, Shirley,” Anna once said in a huff of nonsense.

  Shirley read by the light of her bedside lamp, no need for a flashlight under the covers, as Anna, apparently very involved with Grandma, had forgotten that the hour had passed to come in and say good night.

  Growing up isn’t easy, the facts-of-life book said.

  “You said it!” Shirley agreed. She absorbed everything about girls’ and boys’ differences until her eyes stung. Even about how her father played a big role in her existence despite what Anna had told her.

  And social security: it had a different meaning in the book than the meaning Shirley knew. She read:

  Social security (not the kind deducted from dad’s income)—or Anna’s paycheck, Shirley thought—is an essential requisite to every human life. That inside-yourself feeling that you “belong” where you are; that you’re wanted because you’re YOU; that the things you do for others are appreciated because YOU did them—that’s social security.

  Then Shirley heard the living room go quiet. Anna and Grandma had concluded their argument and Anna was now belting out the song “Oh, My Papa” in the shower like Eddie Fisher. The words, loud and clear, made Shirley want to rush in there to tell her to stop.

  How come Anna gets to miss her father and I don’t? Shirley thought.

  Anna, who claimed she was Grandpa’s favorite daughter, had told Shirley stories about how he used to dance on the table when he was happy, make wine in their bathtub, and give out candy to the kids, extra to Anna, every Friday when he came home from work.

  But I know almost nothing about my father. I don’t even remember what color eyes he had.

  Shirley threw The Stor
k across the room and turned off the light just as Anna came in to get her own book and to say, “Good night. Iloveyou.”

  Chapter 13

  OPENING UP

  On Tuesday morning when she heard the whirring of the juice machine, Shirley decided she did not want to go to school.

  “My throat hurts,” she told Anna, putting her hands in front of her neck. “And I’m tired, and I have a dry cough and a drippy nose. Sore throats are going around, but there is nothing to worry about. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.” (Shirley would never miss a Wednesday at school because that was the day Mrs. Greif brought French to Class 6-1.)

  Anna felt Shirley’s forehead with her lips. “No fever,” she told her, adding an “Iloveyou” for good measure. Then Anna was out the door, looking like a model in Vogue.

  No school meant there would be no soft-boiled eggs. Shirley snickered.

  “Why didn’t I think of that before?” she asked Mouse in the freezer.

  Shirley saw Grandma, scissors pointed down, heading outside to the stoop for a haircut. Shirley closed the freezer door.

  “Don’t you need a mirror?” Shirley asked.

  “No. I just hold vone handful like this, and another handful like this, and the middle part like this and cut straight across and I’m done!” said Grandma, demonstrating. “That vay, no little pieces of hair fall on Anna’s clean floor. And there is less vork for Grandma!”

  Shirley went back to the freezer. She told Mouse, “You make me feel lucky and rich and strong. Thank you for listening.”

  When Shirley heard Grandma’s shoes padding back toward the kitchen, she whispered, “Talk to you later, Mouse.”

  “Are you hungry, Shirley?” Grandma asked over the hum of the refrigerator, her hair short, even, and stick-straight like uncooked spaghetti.

  “I was,” said Shirley, not knowing if Grandma was aware of the open freezer or not. “I thought I’d have a little ice cream.” Shirley found a spoon, opened the freezer again, and stuck the spoon into some cherry vanilla.