Monday I Love You (13 page)

There was no sign of his having been there. He had skinned out without leaving a trace.

Buster greeted Doris with “Ma ma ma” when she got home. Then he went into “Man man man.”

“Will you listen to him!” Doris was beside herself. “Is he some smart kid!”

When Doris dropped me off, she gave me a hug and a dollar tip, and said, “What would we do without you, Gracie? You're the best.” I love Doris. She always makes me feel good about myself, leaves me with a kind of glow—which unfortunately never lasts long.

I felt as if I'd been away a week. My father seemed to have got older in my absence. He looked as if he'd shrunk, although maybe it was just the huge white apron he wore. He was peeling potatoes and watching a game show.

“There you are, Grace. Tried to call you last night to see how you were doing with the storm and all. Lines were down, they said. You make out all right?” He wielded his potato peeler like a pro.

Funny. Dirk said he'd called a taxi from the trailer, as well as a mechanic.

“It was okay.” I went to my room and lifted my hair and backed up to the mirror to see if there were burn marks on the back of my neck. Where his hand had been. I couldn't see anything, but the skin felt scorched.

“Grace, I've got soup going. Have a bowl, it'll warm you up.” My father said that even when the temperature was in the eighties. He had the knack of tossing old bones, old gravy and old veggies into a pot and turning them into delicious soup.

I wondered how tall Dirk would be without the slantyheel cowboy boots. Not much taller than me, I bet.

Doris had nuzzled Buster and asked, “Anything happen while I was gone?” I mumbled, “Same old stuff,” and changed the subject. Some things were better left unsaid.

“Two more announced they're running for the presidency,” my father said. “Why anyone wants that job is beyond me.” He shook his head. “And they're still looking for that fella shot the gas-station man,” my father said, blowing on his soup discreetly, cooling it. “A thousand bucks goes for information leading to his arrest. Nice piece of change, that. Not bad. Wouldn't mind a thousand big ones myself. A thousand bucks,” he repeated, relishing the sound and taste of it. “A nice piece of change, I call it.”

I choked a little, and my father made me hold my arms over my head and pounded me on the back to make me stop choking.
Was
Dirk the man they were looking for?

“There he is.” My father folded back the newspaper and showed me a picture of the escapee. “Looks like a nice fella now, not a cold-blooded killer. Can't judge a book by its cover, that's for sure.”

I studied the face. It had a beard and a mustache that almost wiped out his mouth. It could've been him; on the other hand, it could've been some other guy. The eyes were strange, like Dirk's eyes. But the rest of him, I don't know. And didn't
want
to know. It made me feel a little sick to think about. I opened my hand and looked at my scar. That scar had interested him. I felt his finger tracing it over and over.

A thousand dollars would go a long way toward my operation, though.

He was long gone, probably out of the state by now. They'd never catch him. Even if he was the right one, the one they were looking for, what good would it do telling them what I knew, which was zilch? Except that he'd been in the trailer. His fingerprints were on the phone.

My father snapped his fingers and said, “Almost forgot, Grace. Ms. Govoni called, said she'd be here at three sharp to pick you up.”

Oh Lord, I'd forgotten I said I'd baby-sit for her today. All I wanted was to be alone, to think about what had happened last night. To sort things out in my head.

Probably he was just some handsome, no-good weirdo passing through, on his way to Vegas, like he'd said. Only that and nothing more.

“Thanks, Dad. She's my gym teacher. She has two kids. I like her. She's been nice to me. They make fun of her at school, say nasty things about her. But she's a good, kind person.”

I almost never told my father anything about school, the people in it. The ones I liked or didn't like. I really almost never talked to him, when you came down to it. He looked startled, then pleased.

“If you like her, Grace, she must be all right,” he said. “You have to trust your own judgment. That's part of growing up. We won't always be here, your mother and me, I mean. To tell you what's what. Want some more?”

“No thanks,” I said. “I better take a shower and change my clothes. Thanks for the soup. Nobody makes soup like yours.”

What
is
what? I wondered. And when had they last told me?

Studying myself in the mirror, I decided I'd been born a couple hundred years too late. Back then, fat was in. Only they called it voluptuous. If you had big boobs and a big behind and rolls of fat around, some famous artist would most likely tell you to strip, then paint you in the nude, horsing around with a merry band of cherubs, all with rolls of fat, and you'd wind up hanging on the wall of some world-renowned museum where anyone who felt like it could look at you.

If I narrowed my eyes and stared at myself in a mirror all fogged up with steam from the shower, I might pass for presentable. And surely voluptuous.

Looks aren't everything, after all.

Oh yeah? Somebody had screwed up on mine something fierce.

Sometimes the dialogue I exchange with myself beats anything I can handle in the real world, talking to real people.

Ashley, I'm going to say. Ashley, you shithead. You're the biggest, most disgusting shithead in the world. You know what should happen to you? They should shave all your hair off and strip you naked and then parade you in the streets, the way they did to French women who collaborated with the Nazis in the war. Those women were outcasts, they were despised, so the French people humiliated them and treated them like shit.

Then, they should put you in the stocks, like in Colonial days. You'd have your wrists and ankles held in those holes in the stocks, and there you'd be, shaved and naked, and the people would come and stone you. Sometimes they stone people to death. That's okay, Ashley. I'm not against that in extreme cases. In your case, stoning you to death might be called poetic justice. If there was any poetry involved. You've got it coming.

I once read a short story by Shirley Jackson called “The Lottery.” It was about a person being stoned to death. The first time I read it, I thought it was a bizarre and terrible story, sort of unreal, like a fantasy or science fiction story. Then I read it several more times, and each time it became more real in my head. It's an amazing story and also perfectly plausible. Life, I've decided, is often more terrible than anything a writer can make up.

“Grace, it's Ms. Govoni here for you.”

I emptied my head of Ashley and arranged my face in what passed for happy, and went out to the kitchen.

“Then you take whatever's lying around,” my father was saying, “and throw in a good handful of salt, maybe a bouquet garni, some parsley, garlic, thyme, whatever suits you, and just let it simmer awhile.”

“Your father's giving me his soup recipe,” Ms. Govoni told me. She looked different somehow, and it took me a while to realize she was wearing a dress.

Still in his apron, my father was oozing charm from every pore. I didn't even know he knew words like “bouquet garni.”

“Grace told me all about you, Ms. Govoni,” he said. “It's a pleasure meeting you.” He waved us to the car and watched as we peeled off.

Discreetly, I checked Govoni's feet. She actually had on heels.

“Bet you thought I didn't own a pair of real shoes,” she said, catching me at it. I laughed, and the backseat broke into giggles.

“They're hiding,” she said. “They always do when there's a new sitter. They like to see what she's like. Or he. We had a wonderful boy sitter, but he's off and running on a college basketball scholarship now.”

“They” came up for air. “She means Greg!” they hollered. The boy said, “If Greg was in this car right now his head would touch the roof, he's so tall.” The little girl nodded. “Greg is very, very tall, and he lets us stay up very, very late, until nine o'clock sometimes.” They were as alike as two peas, brown hair, brown, almond-shaped eyes.

“Rosie is six and Mack is seven.” Ms. Govoni introduced us. “This is Grace Schmitt, children. Be polite and she'll love you.”

“Do you like children?” A small, damp hand grazed my ear.

“Sometimes,” I said. “Not always. I baby-sit a baby named Buster. He's very, very little, and sometimes we dance together and he takes bubble baths.”

“He's a boy and he takes bubble baths?” asked Mack, incredulous.

“Sure. They make him sneeze.”

They thought that was funny and laughed all the way home. It was a good beginning. Ms. Govoni lived in a two-family house, on the second floor. She slept on the pullout couch in the living room, and the kids had bunk beds in the bedroom. The refrigerator door was wall-to-wall crayoned drawings of people and houses and dogs.

“We're getting a dog when we get big,” Rosie said.

“A dog is a big responsibility,” Mack agreed.

“Supper is spaghetti, and there are plenty of greens if you want to make a salad, Grace,” Ms. Govoni said. “Fruit for dessert.”

“Greg always let us have Mars bars,” Mack said sternly.

“Greg didn't pay the dentist bills.” She kissed them good-bye. It was odd, seeing Govoni as a mother rather than a gym teacher.

“And no television until after supper, remember.” She turned to me. “They'll fill you in on everything, Grace. They're better than reading the newspaper. Be good, kids, and treat Grace with lots of TLC so she'll want to come again.”

When she had gone, they circled me, eyeing me, trying to get the lay of the land.

“We're adopted,” Mack said. “We
were
Korean, but now we're American.”

“We're
still
Korean,” Rosie said. “Only now we live in America and we eat American food and our mother is American. But we're
still
Korean.”

The doorbell rang, saving me from having to answer them.

“He has to be paid,” Rosie said. “The paperboy. He always gets paid on Saturday. I bet she forgot to leave money.”

The paperboy turned out to be Walter, aka Croc. When he saw me he took a step backward and scratched his head. “I must have the wrong place,” he said.

“She's the baby-sitter,” Rosie told him. “My mother forgot the money.”

“She owes me for two weeks,” Croc said. “That's two fifty she owes me. Don't forget. I can't carry a customer more 'n two weeks without paying. That's the rules.” Croc looked out at me from under shaggy eyebrows. “You're Grace,” he told me.

“No, I'm Monday.” I took the paper from him and closed the door. Then I read four books to Mack and Rosie, and they, in turn, read five to me.

“Why did you tell him your name was Monday, when it's Grace?” Mack wanted to know.

“When I get bored with Grace I switch around,” I said. “There's nothing that says you can't change your name if you feel like it.”

The newspaper lay folded on the table. I could see half of a man's bearded face looking at me.

“What time do you eat supper?” I asked.

“Five,” said Rosie.

“If we eat at four, then we can watch cartoons earlier.” Mack watched for my reaction.

“True,” I nodded. “But are you hungry that early?”

“Sure,” they said. We settled on four thirty. I made a nice salad and had some with them while they ate spaghetti.

“Are you on a diet?” Mack asked.

“Yes,” I said, although I hadn't been until now. We each had a pear for dessert.

STILL AT LARGE
the headline said. The man was much older than Dirk, I could see. His mouth was tucked in, as if he was sucking on a lemon. His dark eyes were blank and cruel. The police were still hunting him.

“He is well-spoken and devious,” the story said. “Charming and self-centered and very manipulative, especially with women. He is considered very dangerous and, in addition to the robbery and shoot-out at the Amoco station, is wanted for questioning in the attempted rape and assault of two high school girls last year. The escapee, whose real name is said to be in doubt, uses several aliases, among them William Williams, William Scott, Dirk Williams and Dirk Delgado. Residents are warned to be on the lookout. All information will be held in strict confidence. Call this number.”

We played slapjack and crazy eights. Mack asked if I'd like to play chess with him, and I told him I didn't know how. He said he'd teach me, that he was just learning himself, but I knew he'd beat me even so.

“How were they?” Ms. Govoni asked when she returned. “Did they give you the rundown on their genealogy? Tell you they're adopted and half Korean, half American?”

“They told me all about it,” I said.

“They tell everyone,” she said, laughing, taking a container of orange juice from the fridge. “Want some?” I shook my head. “Everywhere we go. The supermarket, church, the library, never mind school. They spare no detail. I'd wanted to adopt a child for some time, but it's not easy, especially when you're single. Then a friend put me in touch with an agency that places Korean orphans. They showed me a picture of Rosie and Mack. They were holding hands and looking at me, and I knew they were the ones, though I'd only planned on one. That was almost four years ago. I've never been sorry.”

“You must love them a lot,” I said. “They're wonderful kids.”

“They fill my life. I won't say I haven't had second thoughts. When one of them wakes at two A.M. with a temperature of a hundred and six degrees or falls out of a tree headfirst, I freak out. But I guess every mother freaks out now and then. And that's what I am, a mother.” She shook her head. “No one is more amazed than I am.”