Girlchild (4 page)
G
randpa John Gunthum rarely came through the Calle and always only in hope of connecting to a family who would have none of him, but his reappearance the last winter he was here cut a path between Mama and Grandma the same as he’d done years before, when Mama was a girl herself. Mama never explained her anger when she left work that night to find that I wasn’t being babysat at Grandma’s, that I wasn’t there and neither was she. Grandma was at the Comstock in the throes of a gambling fit and I was waiting in a pickup on the Calle, the cab lit up so that Mama saw me immediately as she turned her worried headlights toward home, Grandpa saying, “Go on now, child, get,” as soon as he saw them.
randpa John Gunthum rarely came through the Calle and always only in hope of connecting to a family who would have none of him, but his reappearance the last winter he was here cut a path between Mama and Grandma the same as he’d done years before, when Mama was a girl herself. Mama never explained her anger when she left work that night to find that I wasn’t being babysat at Grandma’s, that I wasn’t there and neither was she. Grandma was at the Comstock in the throes of a gambling fit and I was waiting in a pickup on the Calle, the cab lit up so that Mama saw me immediately as she turned her worried headlights toward home, Grandpa saying, “Go on now, child, get,” as soon as he saw them.
I was jumping out of the truck even as Mama’s tires squealed to a stop behind us, and before Grandpa had barely turned the corner Mama was squeezing my chin. “Look at me,” she said, ripping the new doll he’d got me out of my hands, squeezing her too. “Did he do anything to you? Tell me!”
I couldn’t keep my eyes off the doll, her dress fluttering, and I said no no no no no no until one of my no’s traveled down her arms and into her hands, and she let both of us go. The doll went into the ditch and when I leaned down to get her Mama’s voice came out hard and dry, “Rory Dawn Hendrix, I’ve never been so close to slapping you as I am right now. Leave that doll.” And so I left her there in the dirt, left both of them, and ran on home.
T
he metal flash of a pair of wire strippers, the unexpected shine on a Phillips head, these things cause the same fear in me, the same gut-tightening, ass-puckering panic as the midnight gleam of a switchblade. Chain locks have the same effect. And lightbulbs. You can find all of these at your local hardware store.
he metal flash of a pair of wire strippers, the unexpected shine on a Phillips head, these things cause the same fear in me, the same gut-tightening, ass-puckering panic as the midnight gleam of a switchblade. Chain locks have the same effect. And lightbulbs. You can find all of these at your local hardware store.
Sometimes Carol goes with Tony to Guido’s Pizza and leaves me at Ace. Tony is her boyfriend and he says having a six-year-old around all the time cramps their style, but I don’t like him anyway, because when I’m with them he either hogs the Close Encounters game or he hogs Carol and I never get a chance at either one.
Ace smells like orange hand cleaner and WD-40, and I pretend not to hear the adult talk that passes across the counter between the men of the town about certain women of the town as they pay the Hardware Man for their wood screws and drill bits. I also pretend like I never have to go potty. Because I don’t need help, but the Hardware Man will want to help me anyway. And when he helps me, the lights go out.
T
wo girls are separated by a wooden fence from a double-wide trailer. The next lot has a single-wide and a boy climbs the steps of its porch, his leather jacket looks wet in the sun. The girl with long, white-blond hair lies flat on her back and her corduroys have hiked up her legs revealing that her socks don’t match. The girl in a gingham dress and loafers crouches in the weeds. The fence vibrates and is still.
wo girls are separated by a wooden fence from a double-wide trailer. The next lot has a single-wide and a boy climbs the steps of its porch, his leather jacket looks wet in the sun. The girl with long, white-blond hair lies flat on her back and her corduroys have hiked up her legs revealing that her socks don’t match. The girl in a gingham dress and loafers crouches in the weeds. The fence vibrates and is still.
“You knocked your wind out.”
When I open my eyes the bird’s-eye picture rushes away, but what takes its place still feels like a dream. A girl’s face is above mine, her smile almost hidden by the kind of curly hair that Mama tries for with the giant metal rollers that just end up giving her a giant headache.
“You fell backwards, right on your back.” She crouches over me in the stickers and weeds and waits for me to answer. When I don’t, she says, “Ain’t you ever done it before?”
I’d just climbed the fence, the
Girl Scout Handbook
tucked into the top of my pants so I could sit and look like I was reading there and not waiting for my neighbor Marc to see me, to maybe say hi to me when he got home, but I couldn’t keep my balance when I pulled the book out and now I’m on the wrong side of
the fence and my lungs feel like they’re the wrong size and Mama is probably wondering where I disappeared to. I don’t know if this girl is asking if I ever climbed the fence before or if this is the first time I fell off it or even if it’s the first time my lungs and mouth stopped agreeing about breathing, so I just shake my head no.
Girl Scout Handbook
tucked into the top of my pants so I could sit and look like I was reading there and not waiting for my neighbor Marc to see me, to maybe say hi to me when he got home, but I couldn’t keep my balance when I pulled the book out and now I’m on the wrong side of
the fence and my lungs feel like they’re the wrong size and Mama is probably wondering where I disappeared to. I don’t know if this girl is asking if I ever climbed the fence before or if this is the first time I fell off it or even if it’s the first time my lungs and mouth stopped agreeing about breathing, so I just shake my head no.
“Don’t worry. You’re not broke, just empty,” she says. She’s wearing a checkered dress with a lacy collar that is gray and stringy and I can see past her big, brown shoes and up her dress where her panties are big like shorts with no elastic at all. I start to blush but she must not know I can see her weird underpants because she stands up and says, “There. You’re getting your color back.” She puts out her hand.
“I’m Viv,” she says, and helps me up. “Viv Buck.”
“Rory Dawn.” My lungs are working right again. I take a deep breath and stickers poke at me through the back of my shirt. It feels funny and proper to say my last name but I add it because she seems to be waiting for me to, like she did. “Hendrix.”
I point over the fence, “That’s my house.”
“That’s a trailer,” Viv says, and she laughs. She must be new on the Calle.
I start pulling stickers out of my socks and she reaches down for the
Girl Scout Handbook
where it landed on the wrong side of the fence with us. “Are you a Girl Scout?” she asks me.
Girl Scout Handbook
where it landed on the wrong side of the fence with us. “Are you a Girl Scout?” she asks me.
I’m so glad we don’t have to talk about what’s a trailer and what’s a house that I tell a great big lie. “Yes.”
“Me too!” she says, and holds up her right hand, her palm toward me. Her thumb holds down her pinkie finger. Her three middle fingers point straight up. She stands just like that, waiting, like she did for me to say my last name.
“You must’ve really knocked yourself out, goose,” Viv says after a minute of looking at my face that’s turning red again because I
know I’m supposed to do something. “Don’t you salute around here?”
know I’m supposed to do something. “Don’t you salute around here?”
And then I remember page twelve and raise my right hand, palm forward, pinkie and thumb down, middle fingers extended. I give Viv the Girl Scout Salute and it’s the first time I’ve done it without a mirror.
T
here’s never been any other Girl Scouts on the Calle except me before, and I’m not official or anything. I guess I’ve never even seen a real live Girl Scout and I didn’t expect to, but I’ve got a copy of the
Girl Scout Handbook
. It wasn’t always my own. At first, I borrowed it from the Roscoe Elementary School library, borrowed it over and over again until my name filled up both sides of the card and Mrs. Reddick put it in the ten-cent bin and made sure to let me know that she did. Maybe Mrs. Reddick was a Girl Scout before Dewey hid her away in the stacks and his decimals took over her life. Maybe that’s why she put it out for me—she does have excellent posture and the
Handbook
covers posture in detail in Safety and Health under the heading “The Right Use of Your Body.”
here’s never been any other Girl Scouts on the Calle except me before, and I’m not official or anything. I guess I’ve never even seen a real live Girl Scout and I didn’t expect to, but I’ve got a copy of the
Girl Scout Handbook
. It wasn’t always my own. At first, I borrowed it from the Roscoe Elementary School library, borrowed it over and over again until my name filled up both sides of the card and Mrs. Reddick put it in the ten-cent bin and made sure to let me know that she did. Maybe Mrs. Reddick was a Girl Scout before Dewey hid her away in the stacks and his decimals took over her life. Maybe that’s why she put it out for me—she does have excellent posture and the
Handbook
covers posture in detail in Safety and Health under the heading “The Right Use of Your Body.”
It’s an old copy and it’s starting to fall apart, but I hold on to my
Handbook
because nothing else makes promises like that around here, promises with these words burning inside them:
honor
,
duty
, and
try
.
Try
and
duty
I hear all the time, as in “
try
to get some sleep” and “get me some
duty
-free cigs from the Indian store,” while
honor
’s reserved solely for the Honorable Joseph A. on
The People’s Court
, as in, “Your
Honor
, I was just
try
ing to get my wallet out to pay for the
duty
-free cigs when my gun went off,” but these words never ever show their faces together and much less inside a promise.
Handbook
because nothing else makes promises like that around here, promises with these words burning inside them:
honor
,
duty
, and
try
.
Try
and
duty
I hear all the time, as in “
try
to get some sleep” and “get me some
duty
-free cigs from the Indian store,” while
honor
’s reserved solely for the Honorable Joseph A. on
The People’s Court
, as in, “Your
Honor
, I was just
try
ing to get my wallet out to pay for the
duty
-free cigs when my gun went off,” but these words never ever show their faces together and much less inside a promise.
No one on the Calle gives advice about things that I can find easy in the
Handbook
’s index. Things I’d be too embarrassed to ask,
like what are all the points of a horse and how to make introductions without feeling awkward or embarrassed. I can hear all I want about sex, drugs, and rock’n’ roll on the playground, but only the Girl Scouts know the step-by-steps for limbering up a new book without injuring the binding and the how-tos of packing a suitcase to be a more efficient traveler. The only thing harder to come by around here than a suitcase is a brand-new book, but I keep the Girl Scout motto as close to my heart as the promise anyway: Be Prepared.
Handbook
’s index. Things I’d be too embarrassed to ask,
like what are all the points of a horse and how to make introductions without feeling awkward or embarrassed. I can hear all I want about sex, drugs, and rock’n’ roll on the playground, but only the Girl Scouts know the step-by-steps for limbering up a new book without injuring the binding and the how-tos of packing a suitcase to be a more efficient traveler. The only thing harder to come by around here than a suitcase is a brand-new book, but I keep the Girl Scout motto as close to my heart as the promise anyway: Be Prepared.
I
’m hanging by a thread, a hair. The fistful that is wrapped around Carol’s hand when she opens the door to the Hardware Man and pretends that we are playing a game. That’s how come Carol has that grip she has on me. She didn’t just twist me around her fingers once, she’s in my hair forever.
’m hanging by a thread, a hair. The fistful that is wrapped around Carol’s hand when she opens the door to the Hardware Man and pretends that we are playing a game. That’s how come Carol has that grip she has on me. She didn’t just twist me around her fingers once, she’s in my hair forever.
When I have to stay at Carol’s house I stick to the edge of the mattress, wipe my nose with the sheet. Carol says I fall off the top bunk in the middle of the night but I know I don’t. I know Carol makes me sleep in her bed to save herself and I don’t hate her for it. That would be like hating my ownself. And anyway, it doesn’t work. Bad things happen but on the other side of the bed, and I cry soft as nothing and wipe my nose without moving or pulling the sheet or pillow.
At my house it’s not all rosy either, but when she sits me at home, some nights Carol lets me stay up past bedtime if I promise not to tell, and I climb from chair to chair peeking through the curtains Grandma ran off on her old Singer, orange and yellow God’s Eyes embroidered along the seams. I’m watching for Mama’s shadow on the Calle. And when she does come sailing down our driveway,
sheets to the wind, I rush off to bed and pretend not to see her through slitted eyelids as she peeks in the door, pretend not to hear her whispered “Goodnight, girlchild. Goodnight.”
sheets to the wind, I rush off to bed and pretend not to see her through slitted eyelids as she peeks in the door, pretend not to hear her whispered “Goodnight, girlchild. Goodnight.”
But I never end up keeping these white secrets from Mama, because their light shines up all my other ones, shows how dirty the ones I keep, the ones I swear I’ll keep, really are. It starts with the gray one about not telling Mama that Carol leaves me alone with the Hardware Man so that she can be alone with Tony, and they just get darker from there. I can’t keep this little pretty lie for my own, I blurt it out the next morning, “I-stayed-up-past-bedtime,” and she’s not ever mad because when I say this then she can believe that’s it. I’ve told all there is to tell. Mama needs to believe in my truth-telling. That’s her little lie, that it’s possible to raise a child clean and safe without rows of secrets somewhere, shelved like the boxes of fuses and circuit breakers at the back of the Hardware Store, coiled like garden hoses forgotten until inventory time. And I need her to believe in this too so she won’t start doing an inventory of her own and ask about the places my bathing suit does or doesn’t go, the skin that burns pale underneath the Hardware Man’s hands.
Carol was brought up by hands used to stripping rolls of wire and wrapping bundles of rope, hands more used to the feel of rubber-handled Vise-Grips and claw-headed hammers than little girl things. She didn’t have any time to unlearn that lesson before she was in charge of little bodies too like her own, their skin paling soft between summers and suntan lines. Maybe Carol’s memory flips like a light switch too and the things she learned and the things she does fall together in one shadow behind her bathroom door.
Carol says, “If you don’t close your eyes, I’ll cut all of it off,” so I do, and the tears leak out because by “it” she means my hair and by “all of it” she means bald. I hear the scissors open and close, the metal scrape of them sliding wide, the grainy sound of them closing slow over strand after strand of my hair, the long blond hair that makes Mama so proud. Then there is a screech of tape being pulled from the roll and the smell of it, plastic and minty as Christmas, as Carol sticks a piece of it to the cut hair and sticks both to my forehead. She slaps my bottom and tells me to “Go look in the mirror. Now.” I walk slowly, slow as I can, to the bathroom, my hands still at my sides so I won’t touch my head, so I won’t feel where my hair isn’t anymore, but when I get to the mirror there’s only a few strands cut, not a hunk. The hairs hang limp from their piece of Scotch tape but shine gold and white against the red of my skin, and they flash Carol’s warning: keep our secrets or everybody gets hurt.
FAMILY HISTORY
HENDRIX, Johanna #310,788
Mr. and Mrs. Hendrix were wed in 1959. Mrs. Hendrix was 15 years old at the time and dropped out of the 9th grade, San Lorenzo Valley High School, in order to marry Mr. Hendrix who was 13 years her senior.
Mr. Hendrix was a commercial fisherman owning his own boat. In 1967 this couple purchased an older but very fine home located in the De Laveaga area of Santa Cruz. The house payments are in arrears.
Although Mrs. Hendrix informed the worker that no one in her family has finished high school or attended college, she keenly feels her lack of education. She attended Santa Cruz High School at night but failed to complete the English, math, and science courses she was taking because she went to Nevada to obtain a divorce. She also took a night course in American Government at Cabrillo College. She stated to the worker that
she completed this course which is quite an accomplishment for a 9th-grade dropout.
she completed this course which is quite an accomplishment for a 9th-grade dropout.
During the 6 weeks Mrs. Hendrix lived in Reno, she worked as a change girl in the Nevada Club, a gambling establishment.
AREAS OF FUNCTIONING
A. Mrs. Hendrix seems to be in good physical condition. However, she stated that her ex-husband is suffering from a mental depression and is in need of medical attention. She states that he has been having financial reverses recently, sold his fishing boat, and has begun applying as a hand on other boats throughout the Bay. She thinks he is working with heavy equipment in the meantime but could offer me no details as to his work or whereabouts.
B. During this home visit, only the youngest child was present. The 3 older boys were attending the De Laveaga Elementary School. Mrs. Hendrix stated that all 3 schoolboys are having serious problems in school, especially during the 6 weeks she was in Reno, and they were in the care of their father. Eugene T., the 2nd oldest, is enrolled in the special educationally handicapped class. He is taking 20 milligrams of Dexedrine on a daily basis. This is for his hypertension. All 4 boys are supposedly in poor physical condition, according to Mrs. Hendrix. However, the youngest boy, who is in preschool,
was viewed by the worker and he appeared to be in excellent health and spirits. The ages of the 4 boys are:
was viewed by the worker and he appeared to be in excellent health and spirits. The ages of the 4 boys are:
C. See earlier paragraphs.
D. Client is uncertain of any support from her ex-husband. However, up until last week, when she returned from Reno with the divorce finalized, he had been supporting the family in an adequate manner. Mrs. Hendrix is very anxious to return to Cabrillo and further her studies. The worker suggested instead that she enter some type of a vocational training program so that she can eventually become self-supporting.
EVALUATION AND PLANS
A. While Mrs. Hendrix was able to purchase a set of dentures before the dissolution of her marriage, the boys have dental and optical problems. The boys also have serious school problems. Mrs. Hendrix is a fine-looking woman who lives in a well-kept, adequate home.
Although divorced from her husband, this woman seemed to be on good terms with him right up until last week. This was evidenced by the fact that he lived at the home and cared for his children up until the day she returned from Reno with the divorce decree.
I have to interrupt V. White before she goes on, and she does go on, to list Rights and Responsibilities, Eligibilities, Assets, and Recommendations. I have to interrupt her to say that not everything’s as black and white and crisp and certain as it reads on her carboned copy. Two people can have kind words without sharing other kindnesses, a man can want to care for his children, can want to be a father and not want to be a husband, a woman can love her children but recognize that not all the choices she made at fifteen are the ones she should have to live by. I have to interrupt V. White to say that “Mrs. Hendrix is a fine-looking woman” would seem like a compliment coming from anyone else, but coming from her it is a statement chock-full of suspicion, almost an accusation.
The Worker was so blinded by Mama’s good looks and Bobby’s “good health and spirits” that she couldn’t see the truth in Mama’s words. If being fine-looking was all it took, we Hendrixes would’ve been the ones to start the Calle and the first to abandon it. Like the rich folks who first owned this place, we’d take our money and run. But good looks only get you so far and I’m guessing V. White wasn’t good-looking enough to have to learn this lesson herself. Instead, V. White’s compliment shows what her real questions look like, the ones they don’t print on the forms down at the County offices but whisper instead in hallways and after meetings:
Q. If Mrs. Hendrix is so hard up, how can she look so good?
Q. Is Mrs. Hendrix really out of love with the delinquent fisherman, or is she just another lazy piece of trash living on the County?
Q. And is this Mr. Gene Hendrix fine-looking as well?
Q. And since they appear to be on “good terms,” what exactly does being on good terms encompass?
Q. Can fine-looking people really succeed in keeping their hands off of each other? And if they can’t, should we have to pay for it?
All I know so far is that being fine-looking usually leads to trouble.
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