Little Red Lies (5 page)

I watch Jamie speed away as if he’s trying to catch up to the past before it escapes his memory. Heading home, I recall how smooth the trunk of the climbing tree is, how vast and gray. Its branches start low, curving up like the trunk of an elephant. Life flits by too fast, I’m beginning to notice. It doesn’t seem long ago that Jamie and Coop were gangly boys hanging upside down in the tree. But they’ve moved far beyond that. If he doesn’t show up soon, though, Coop’s going to turn into someone who exists only in a myth. The thought makes me shiver.

I wish I’d gone down to the tree with Jamie. He’s probably standing near it, reaching out to stroke the smoothness of the bark. I can almost see the tufts of long grass and burdock that surround it, yellowish brown at this time of year, dry and brittle and lifeless. Beyond it, the swale is filled with the husks of bulrushes and the blackened skeletons of trees. Kids believe the swale is full of quicksand that will suck them down into the bowels of the earth if they fall in. Maybe it’s true.

I look back to see if I can catch sight of Jamie returning from that ghostly swale and linger for a moment. No sign of him. The brisk April breeze carries the dank scent of marshy ooze.

I agree with Jamie, that he needs to move ahead with his life. But, what if he marries Mary Foley? He’s too
young. Once, though, I heard Mother say to him,
You’re not going to marry a Catholic!
And Jamie said,
You sound a lot like Mary’s mother. Only she says to Mary, you’re not going to marry a Protestant!

Stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. What possible difference could it make? It’s the sort of thing that starts wars. If he does marry her, though, for sure he’ll teach his kids to climb the tree.

Granny’s placing her pies on the kitchen sideboard to cool by the time I get home. Mother’s writing a shopping list, checking the fridge, the can cupboard, the bread box, getting in Granny’s way, or else Granny’s in her way.

“How was your walk?” Mother asks brightly.

“Fine.”

“Did you go to the Coopers’?” Granny asks.

“Yup,” I say and head up to my room.

A little later, Jamie comes home. I open my door and can hear Mother ask, “How are the Coopers doing?”

Jamie’s on the stairs. “Not too good,” he calls back, “but not too bad, either.” He disappears into his room without saying anything to me.

Downstairs, Mother says, in a voice loud enough to carry, “What did I ever do to deserve such uncommunicative children?”

“You let them grow up past the age of five,” Granny says.

Then comes the old familiar request, “Rachel, come and set the table!” I pretend not to hear. “Rachel!”

“All right, all right, I’m coming.”

“Tell your brother to get washed and come down for lunch.”

I pound on Jamie’s bedroom door. “You have to get washed and come down for lunch.”

“I heard. Tell her I’m not hungry.”

I open his door. “You have to eat.”

“I’m taking Mary out for coffee later. I’ll have something then.”

“Are you going to marry her?”

“Rachel! Why don’t you just mind your own business?” He sits, brow furrowed, deep in thought. Finally he says, “If I get married, Coop has to be best man, so he’d better show up soon.”

“He’ll come back. Trust me.”
Aha!
He does have marriage on his mind.

He opens the bottom drawer of his desk but doesn’t take anything out. I think he’s waiting for me to leave.

Word is out that Mr. Mackiewitz is not coming back. Although his health is improving, he’s decided it’s time to retire. Our class has written letters, telling him how much he’ll be missed.

On Monday, Mr. Tompkins stops me as I’m leaving English class. “You have such a good memory for lines in the play, it surprises me that you don’t have a role.”

This makes me all prickly, and I scratch my arms like mad. “Um … maybe next year,” I say. “If we can find, I mean, if you can find a good play.”

“I’m sure there are plenty of good plays out there, just waiting to be interpreted by you.”

I catch my breath. What does he mean, and where’s Ruthie when I need her most? At home with a cold, that’s where, not on hand to decipher Tommy’s utterances. Does he mean that he thinks I’d be a good actress if I just had a
chance? No, of course not, he’s only teasing. Laughing at me in that conceited adult way he has. He probably senses that I’m the type to overact, and he’s waiting for a chance to prove it.

But, wait. His smile lights up the entire hallway, and I am charmed.
No-no-no!
“Charmed” barely covers it. I have a huge rush of adrenalin, as if I’ve taken a leap off the roof. I better get out of here before I come crashing down to earth.

“Yikes, I’m late,” I bray and gallop off to my next class, like a lame-brained donkey. I spend the next half hour scratching my arms almost to the point of bloodshed.

That night, my arms covered in tarry-smelling ointment and wrapped round and round in strips of torn-up old bed sheets, I lie in bed seeing Tommy’s dark hair falling a little bit over his forehead, his impish smile, his serious eyes. (He’s not conceited.) I can even hear his alluring voice.

When I finally sleep, I dream I’m trying to swim across something like the swale only wider, wide as an ocean, and I keep getting sucked down into the quicksand. I wake up exhausted.

I drag myself off to school, only to find that rehearsal is canceled for the week because so many key people are at home, sick with colds and flu. It’s hard to exist without drama after school and without Tommy’s increasingly important presence to count on. I wait patiently, or as
patiently as possible. If I could, I’d go to everyone’s bedside and pour ginger ale down their throats and smear them with Vicks VapoRub.

By the following Wednesday, most people are back in school, except Ruthie. I take some homework to her but don’t stick around to catch whatever it is she has.

Ruthie croaks her thanks from the top of the stairs. “Oh, and by the way,” she says, “I’ve been practicing my lines.”

“That’s good.”

“Good! It’s going to be amazing. I guarantee you will fall over in a dead faint. Everyone will.”

“I can hardly wait. Hurry up and get better.”

“I’m almost better now.” Her voice breaks into a rousing, barking cough. “It used to be worse,” she says when she catches her breath.

Hazel Carrington has taken to walking partway home with me after school. One day, she says, “My sister and I are having a party this Saturday. Can you come?”

I hardly know what to say. I like Hazel well enough, except for her loud voice, but I usually find parties boring and can’t wait until they’re over.

“My sister phoned your brother and invited him, too.”

“My brother? You want me to go to a party with my brother?” He won’t be too thrilled about that. He probably won’t want to go.

We’re standing on the corner of her street. Hazel looks
down, sadly dragging a toe along a crack in the sidewalk. “I hope you’ll come. If I don’t have someone there my age, my sister will make me stay upstairs.” When she looks up, her eyes are so wide with hope, it would be a criminal offense to disappoint her.

“Okay, I’ll come. And I’ll make Jamie come. He will if I tell him to.”

“He will?”

“Of course. He always does what I want.”

“We’re inviting Mary Foley, too, so he’ll like that, won’t he?”

“Sure.” I want to say,
No, he’ll be happier just going with me
, but I don’t. I’m starting to get excited about going to a party with the older crowd. I’ll put my
Little Red Lies
lipstick to good use, but this time I’ll prove my new maturity by not going overboard with it.

Hazel says, “I invited Ruthie Pritchard, but she’s still sick.”

At home, I throw my spring jacket at a hook in the back hall, where it almost stays, and yell into the kitchen, “We’re invited to a party.”

Jamie’s at the table, poring over the newspaper.

Mother’s scrubbing potatoes for dinner. “Whose party?” she asks.

“Oh, that Vera Carrington person. She’s having a party,” Jamie says. “She phoned me yesterday.”

“It’s Vera and her sister, Hazel, who are throwing the party, and we’re both invited because I know Hazel.”

“I don’t feel like going,” Jamie says.

“Don’t be such a poor sport,” I say.

“I hardly know the Carringtons.”

“I think Vera’s hoping to lure you away from Mary.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s true! Hazel told me.”

“She actually told you her sister’s making a play for me?”

I have to stop and think for a minute. Is this an outright lie or wishful thinking? Mary’s nice in many ways, but she’s not as madly in love with Jamie as I think she should be. Sometimes, she looks at him with an almost pained expression, as if he’s, somehow, a disappointment.

I hesitate. “Hazel didn’t come right out and say it, but you could tell by her face. It was a very broad hint.”

“I hardly know Vera. I went overseas just after the Carringtons moved here.”

Mother says, “They’re such a quiet family, I’m surprised they’re even having a party, the way they keep to themselves so much. Maybe some of your former classmates will be there, Jamie, and some of the boys who made it home from overseas. You really should go. Besides, Rachel will need a chaperone.”

“Rachel’s too young to go,” he says.

“I am not. Don’t be insulting.”

Mother says, “If the younger sister invited her, it would be unkind of her not to go. She’ll be all right with you there to keep an eye on her and to bring her home in good time. Besides, the girls’ parents are lovely people, from what I hear—a bit standoffish but very refined. And they go to our church. I believe that Mrs. Carrington is a semi-invalid. I know it will be a quiet party.”

“I’m not in a party frame of mind.”

Mother sighs. “Oh, Jamie, it will be good for you to get out and socialize. Vera Carrington seems like such a nice girl. She spoke to me in the street the other day and asked if I thought you would like to go to choir practice with her sometime.”

“I can’t think of anything I would enjoy more, unless it would be having spikes driven up my nose.”

Mother ignores him. “There are other girls in the world besides Mary Foley.”

“Can’t think of any nicer ones.”

“People should marry within their faith.”

“I thought we were discussing a party.”

“You know what I’m talking about.”

This is too good to politely ignore. “Mixed marriages never work. Stick to your faith or be a jerk.”

“Rachel, this is not a joke. Go upstairs and wash your hands, and come down and set the table.”

I flounce out of the kitchen but perch halfway up the back staircase, still within earshot.

“If a girl is brought up to believe that the communion bread and wine actually turn into the body and blood of Christ,” Mother says, “then what’s left to talk about? You’d never change her views if you discussed them all night.”

“If I marry her, we might have other things to do at night than argue about the body and blood of Christ.”

On the back stairs, I’m trying to smother a giggle without sounding like somebody strangling.

“Don’t be vulgar, Jamie. I’m talking about marriage in general. Many a high school sweetheart has ended up a naive bride, thinking time and love is the balm to soothe all cares.”

What the heck is she talking about?
I can’t resist. “Do you mean marriage is a time bomb?” I call out. “I don’t get it.”

“Rachel, I was speaking to your brother. Come and set the table for supper, as I asked you to do ten minutes ago. Wash your hands first.”

I stomp up the stairs to the bathroom loudly singing, “Here comes the bride, fair, fat, and wide.” I’ll probably get my hair yanked later. Mary Foley is a little on the pleasingly plump side. “Here comes the groom, skinny as a broom.”

In a small town like Middleborough, neighborhoods are fairly close. People walked everywhere during the war and still do. Jamie and I drop by Mary’s and then head to the Carringtons’ stately brick home, shivering as we go. At least, I am. It’s impossible to dress for the weather at this time of year, especially when you want your clothes to scream sophistication and charm.

“It’s going to be pretty flat without Coop here,” Jamie says as Mary rings the doorbell.

“A couple of other guys didn’t make it home, either,” Mary says. “Coop isn’t the only one.”

“I know.” Jamie’s voice holds a tinge of exasperation.

“I don’t think you need to remind him,” I say.

“I just feel kind of guilty about being here,” Jamie says, “as sound as if I’ve never been over there.”

“You’ve got a gimpy leg, for heaven’s sake,” I say. “What more do you want?”

The door is opened by Hazel, who bleats a welcome and bellows to her sister, “More guests!”