100 Days and 99 Nights (4 page)
Hanna my hippo (missing her right button eye) and Harry my horsey (rip on his left rear hoof) are the oldest animals in my bedzoo. They were given to me when I was first born, and Mom says that they have “seniority,” which is a long word that means that they should be respected since they have been around the longest. And they are! Parents sometimes make up long, serious words for such short, simple things.
T
he first days that Dad was gone flew fast, like I was on a galloping horse. Those were the easy days. When I missed him first thing in the morning I pretended that he had gone to an early meeting. When he didn’t come home at night I pretended he was away for just a few days on “maneuvers.” This was when he and his unit painted their faces green and went to a nearby forest and pretended there was a fight in that forest so that if there ever were a fight in a forest like that one they would pretty much be ready. It was something he did every few months and it sounded pretty fun.
I imagined him upstairs in the attic when I was downstairs in the basement. In the kitchen cooking dinner when I was in the bathroom taking my bath. When I was outside in the backyard playing freeze tag with my friends he was inside watching the football game with Grandpa. In my mind we just kept missing bumping into each other by a minute or two. “Bad luck,” I would mumble to myself, and go on my way.
Although the first days were easier for me, they were harder for Ike. Even though he can be both a skunk and a skink, I felt bad and tried as hard as I could to help.
“Pretend he went to the supermarket and he’ll be right back,” I explained one morning when Ike was particularly blue.
Ike did and smiled — for five minutes before the dark thundercloud of real memory crossed back over his face. Poor Ike, if only he could imagine like me.
But then, as the days began to fall like raindrops, I couldn’t keep running between them and pretending I was not getting wet. So, as each day got easier for Ike because he had gotten used to being soaked, it got worse for me. Soon I was drenched and shivering.
One night when Ike and I were having dinner and Mom was in the shower, the phone rang.
“Hello, may I speak with your daddy?” asked a man’s voice.
“One second,” I replied out of habit.
“Thank you. I’ll hold.”
I put the phone down on the counter, turned to yell “Dad!” and swallowed the word whole as I realized what I had done, and now I didn’t know what to do. Ike slow-turned to me from the table, his mouth filled with steak and potatoes. “ ’At’sa atter?”
I didn’t know what to do. The phone lay there. Mom was upstairs. And Ike just stared.
“It’s for Dad.”
“He’s not here.”
“I know, but I . . . forgot.”
Ike slurped up a final forkful of green beans and circled around me to the phone.
“Hello? He’s . . .”
The man on the other end of the line interrupted Ike thinking he was Dad and started to talk and talk. I watched Ike listen and listen and every few seconds try to say something to set him straight. But I could hear the man just keep on talking.
“Ike? Who is it?” Mom stood at the door toweling her hair. Ike shrugged. Mom made her squishy concerned face and opened her hand for the phone. Ike passed it to her. I could still hear the man on the other end talking.
“Hello? Yes, who is this? No, I’m sorry, we are not . . . no . . . I’m sure the Caribbean is beautiful but . . . I’m sorry, we are not interested.” And before the man could say another word, she hung up.
“Very funny, Ike.” She crossed to the sink to start washing the dishes. “A Caribbean cruise. Very funny indeed. Finish your dinner, you two.”
After answering that one call I couldn’t pretend anymore that it was just “bad luck” that I kept missing Dad and I started to just miss Dad. And after Mom hung up the phone I made my very first rule: Don’t answer the phone. So I didn’t.
With Dad gone, every day passed at a hippo’s clumping pace. After dinner I crisscrossed off each date from the calendar thumbtacked above my bed. Then I dove down between my covers and tried to sleep. There was no blankie to cuddle, so instead each night I adopted one of my stuffed animals. I started with A (aardvark) and was up to I (inchworm).
When I finished the alphabet with Zelda my zebra, I’d just start again.
Tight-gripping Ida my inchworm’s ear, I wished my father, Sergeant August Aloysius McCarther the Third, had tucked me in. Then I squeeze-closed my eyes and dreamed my wish.
When I lost my absolute first tooth, the tooth fairy gave me Ida my inchworm. She is much longer than an inch and has green and yellow fuzz and a big red-mouthed smile. I put my tooth under the pillow and the next morning the tooth was gone and Ida had inched into its place. Back then, I believed in the tooth fairy.
I
shoveled clumpy mounds of brown-sugared oatmeal into my mouth and angrily stewed at Ike while he, on purpose to bother me, poked at his.
Every morning everything happened differently from the morning before it. With Dad away there was no “routine.”
Sometimes Ike would wake before me, sometimes he wouldn’t. Sometimes he’d pound on the bathroom door, sometimes he wouldn’t. Sometimes cereal was out, sometimes it wasn’t. I looked up at the clock when the big hand clicked upright to the twelve. That was the same. Thud! That was the same. Yes. The newspaper hit the front door. But now the switch had broken. Ike lazily played with his food. The stairs silent, the muffled scuffling sound of Mom getting dressed upstairs, no big rush, no jumble of words, no juggling of bags. No “routine.” No fundamental plan.
“Eat,” I instructed.
“You’re not my boss,” he snappped, and then stuck his oatmealed tongue out at me.
“Yes, I am,” I stated, thinking I should have the same “seniority” here that Hippo and Horsey had in my bedzoo.
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.”
“No, you’re not.”
If our father were here he’d administer Ike an A1 immediate attitude adjustment.
“Isaac Aloysius Swishback McCarther, you apologize to your sister this minute and eat your oatmeal, young man. Or you will find yourself . . .”
I listed the delicious menu of choice punishments: in the corner, in your room, no TV, to bed early . . . Ike would apologize fast. My skinky brother had stubbornly refused to do what I commanded and was still just pushing and pulling his now cold oats.
I looked over to Dad’s chair. Since it was empty I could see past it to the corner of our kitchen counter where a stack of unopened mail addressed to him was piled high.
“Eat.”
“Why?”
“It is your duty,” I exactly explained because I know he sometimes forgets.
“Doodeee!!” He howled. “Doodeee!” he repeated, and ran upstairs, laughing, basketball-bouncing the word over and over and over in his mouth as if it were funnier than yogurt, llama, and spatula all smushed together.
“Yogullamatula,” I weakly yelled after him.
“Doodee! Doodee!” he yelled down the stairwell in his annoying super-squeaky voice.
“Ike Sense,” I tried to reassure myself, but couldn’t. Not liking his behavior one bit, I stomped upstairs to report the event to my mother. I pushed open her door. At the foot of her bed she was doing the jumpy dance she does while pulling on her panty hose.
“Isaac Swishback McCarther did not finish his breakfast AND he stuck out his tongue at me with food on it! Uchhh.” As soon as I said it I wanted to slurp the words back but I couldn’t, so instead I kept going. “And then, and then, and then, he kept making fun of the word duty! It is not a funny word. Not even nearly as funny as llama. Not even close. He just doesn’t understand how important that word is!”
Then, like an unknotted birthday balloon that had just finished whizzing the room, I plopped onto the corner of my dad’s side of the bed.
Flowery print skirt crumpled around her hips like a life preserver, Mom finished yanking her stretchy panty hose into place, then rested her hands on my shoulders and rubbed them.
“You have to remember he is still too young to really understand the meaning of some very important words. Wouldn’t you say?”
I nodded, too tired to answer with words.
“BUT, missy,” she continued sternly, “don’t be a tattletale.”
Ouch, I thought to myself. A tattletale. That’s what I sounded like? A tattletale. One single step above a fustilug. Wasn’t I in charge when my parents weren’t around? Why was it tattling when it was clearly Ike who was way wrong? Not fair!
“Now, let’s get going. Shoes on, backpack packed. We’ll talk more about this later. We’re going to be late for school.”
I did an about-face and fast-turned into my room. Stray animals, dirty clothes, books, and dolls dotted the pink carpeting. At that moment the whole mess seemed like it was absolutely my elephant, Edgar’s, fault. I kicked him and he tumbled trunk over tail into the darkness under my bed. Anyway, he was not a real live animal, I thought as I got dressed.
Not being a tattletale was definitely a Dad rule, but if Dad were here he would definitely make Ike understand about duty.
My first nursery school teacher gave Julian my jet-black jaguar to me in Kenya. She said jaguars moved the most beautifully of all the animals.
U
nlike home, school was still mostly the same routine. My teacher, Ms. Pitcher, had us read and write, and when we got tired we would do arithmetic.
For our class play we put on my favorite scary story, Little Red Riding Hood. I wanted to be her, but so did every other girl in the class. We all liked the bright red cape with the fancy hood. Being a good pretender, I knew I could do a fine job skipping through the forest on the way to Grandmother’s house.
My second choice was the wolf, but that was every boy in the class’s first choice. They all wanted to wear the hairy coat and sneak through the forest trying to trick Red Riding Hood. Being a good pretender, I knew I could do a fine job at that too.
Unfortunately, Ms. Pitcher picked Martina to be Little Red and mistakenly chose Pedro to be the big bad one.
I was sometimes happy for Martina getting to be Red because she was my bestest friend being the bestest character. And Martina was as good at pretending as me . . . almost. But sometimes during practice, watching Martina say, “My, what big eyes you have, Grandma,” I got mad inside because . . . well . . . it was exactly what I wanted to be saying. Being mad at Martina made me sad because you shouldn’t be mad over your best friend’s good luck. So then I was mad-sad.
Watching Pedro stamp and yell around the stage really steamed me because I would have been a much better wolfie.
I would lick my lips as I tried to sweet-convince Martina to leave the brown paper path. “Just behind those trees is a meadow filled with beautiful flowers that your old granny would love. Red Riding Hood, you must go pick her a bunch.”
Pedro forgot that first line and mumbled the second. Oh boy, did that really get me steamed.
Dad missed the class play, but that was okay, my part wasn’t so big. I was the little yellow bush, sitting between two larger brown bushes, and when the pearly-toothed wolfie passed, hunting Red Riding Hood, my papery leaves quivered and shook. The audience laughed and that made me feel that I was a most excellent frightened yellow bush.
I produced long lists of things that Dad missed. He missed soccer on Sunday. I dribbled the ball between two girls, gave a big kick, and scored. At Ike’s karate class on Monday, he learned how to high kick. Afterward, he tried to practice on his blocks and hurt his foot. I made the mistake of laughing, which seemed to make it hurt a ton more. At my ballet class on Tuesday, I am getting good at standing on my toes, and the teacher told me so. Dad missed movie night in the den on Friday, in our pj’s, cuddled up on the couch under a Grandma Swishback quilt, with bowls of buttered popcorn. We watched mostly silly movies, because Mom said she “needed a good laugh.”
Dad missed it all but mostly I just missed him.
“You will make a fine reporter someday,” Mom commented after reading one of my longish letters to Dad listing all our activities. I puffed out my chest — this was a big deal since she already was one.
Being the keeper of my blankie, Katie my kangaroo used to have a lot of responsibility, but with her pouch now empty she was very sad. I felt bad for her, so one night I did the old kangaroo-switcheroo. I snuck a washcloth from the hallway closet, folded it up, and stuffed it in her pouch. She thought it was my scrap of Swishback blankie and became much happier. Kangaroos are not the smartest animals in the world.
M
y favorite day was no longer Saturday. Trying to be in charge, I told everyone what to do and when to do it, but being the boss isn’t as much fun as it sounds. Especially when you are taking the place of someone who was much better at being the boss than you.
There were few pancake rules followed. Aprons weren’t properly tied, measurements were a mishmash, and there were no discussions about the spelling of flour or the funny sound of words like llama, yogurt, and spatula. Also there was much “borrowing and lending” of jobs. Ike grabbed the spoon and attempted to drop the batter down. Instead of simple circles perfectly placed he ended up with a mountain of mush that gushed over the sides of the griddle. Need I say that this was yet another amazing example of Ike Sense? And I told him so. He needed to know that unlike the eggs, Dad’s rules should not be broken.
Ike stuck his pancake-battered tongue out at me. I wanted to crack him one with my wooden spoon but that wouldn’t have gone over well with Mom. It was a Dad rule: The first one who lifted their hand in anger was wrong and would certainly be punished. I could just hear his warning, Use your words, not your fists. I swallowed hard, thinking it was a big responsibility being in charge. I had promised him I would be “can-do”; that was my duty.
Mom helped us make pancakes as best she could, but no matter how hard she tried to beat, melt, or flip, the cakes were never too tasty. I guess Swishbacks really don’t make perfect pancakes.
Saturday after Saturday they failed to “meet muster,” as Dad would say. Once they were burned on the outside, once mushy on the inside, twice they were too salty, and another morning too floury (NOT flowery!), then too much baking soda — yech! I felt bad for Mom. This was absolutely not her job, but she kept trying. Then a Saturday came when we waited in the kitchen not so excited about another pancake disaster. Mom entered looking like she was still asleep.
“Grandpa McCarther is coming over to take us out to breakfast at Pancake Palace,” she said in a sort of asking way.
“Yesssss,” essed Ike, who liked the Pancake Palace ’cause he could order pancakes full of chocolate chips.
“Let’s get dressed.”
Ike raced to his room. I was not as happy. This would never happen if Dad were here. The Pancake Palace was the enemy.
“Go to the Pancake Palace? Sure, if you like hamburger instead of steak, frozen fish sticks instead of fresh fish, tinfoil instead of pure gold!” Dad would instruct the traitor who made that particular suggestion. I had to figure a way to get him back home — fast.
Pancake Palace — I slowly got dressed. The thought of paying double for pancakes that were not even half as good as ours made me want to puke. This was my fault. Dad left me in charge of the routine and the rules and I had . . .
The knock on my door interrupted my thought. Mom slanted her head into my room.
“Hurry, Grandpa will be here any minute.”
Grandpa was fun. It would be a little like having a daddy around — but older.
“Esme — I know making the pancakes is your responsibility, and you have been doing a great job. But I need a little break. You know, get out of the house. No dishes to wash kind of thing. You would really be helping me out. Understand?”
I did.
“Maybe we’ll convince Grandpa to take us all to a movie after.”
Her head disappeared exactly as the chime of the front doorbell appeared. I quickly finished dressing and marched down the stairs to Grandpa’s hugs and kisses.
“What are we up to on the old bedzoo?”
“Second time through to Katie my kangaroo,” I smiled.
“Still no X?” Grandpa teased, taking my hand and leading us all out to his car.
“No X.”
“Hmmm. Too bad. We’ll think of something.”
I didn’t comment on the poor quality of pancakes at the Palace or say a word about our duty to Dad to make pancakes while he was away. I didn’t even comment on the flood of syrup Ike poured onto his plate. I was very proud of myself.
“How are your pancakes, dear?”
“Top-dog, Mom,” I said, then gulped another cardboardy piece.
I had a duty to make things just a little easier for my mom.
Every day, all the time, she was doing work and chores: writing or making calls for a new Drum & Bugle article, cleaning, shopping, cooking, laundrying, walking Napoleon, paying the bills, and double-dealing with Ike, who had more problems and was getting into more trouble “than you could shake a stick at.”
One Sunday she even tried to mow the lawn. Ike and I sat on the front stoop watching her pull the rope to the engine over and over. The machine would make sad little whirls and whirrs but then sit silent.
“Dad does it in one pull,” Ike challenged.
“Sometimes two,” I helpfully called out across the lawn, then suggested, “Maybe it’s broken.”
Ike and I burst out laughing, knowing it was not.
“It’s not funny!” she yelled, and stormed into the house. Later a corporal from the base came and started it with one pull. Ike and I happily sat outside while he back-and-forth-marched the lawn in his fatigues.
Mom was right. It wasn’t funny. I could help more. I would help more. I promised to help more. I’d empty the dishwasher, bring my own dirty clothes downstairs, put out my school clothes at night, and not get into any silly arguments with Ike.
Every once in a great while Dad did call us from the great faraway. He couldn’t tell us exactly where he was or exactly what he was doing because it was a secret. I imagined him standing in the center of a giant desert. Not another person near, only sand as far as anyone could possibly see, camel looking over his shoulder, phone pressed to his ear. He asked me what I was doing and I said I couldn’t exactly tell him because it was a secret too. I wondered if he closed his eyes and imagined me standing in our kitchen, Ike and Mom looking over my shoulder, phone pressed to my ear.
Each call ended with, “Esme, Ike, I love you and soon I’ll be home to tell you exactly so.”
The nights were difficult because he was not here to tuck me in and I didn’t have my blankie to cuddle against my cheek. The days were difficult because that was when you were told bad news. When Principal Pershing poked her partly gray, all-the-way curly head into class we all held our breaths — one girl sent home — one boy sent home. We were all so very brave. It was our duty.
