My One Square Inch of Alaska (9781101602850) (16 page)

And with that, he turned, went to the chalkboard, and
started sketching, his lines quickly turning into a bowl filled with fruit.
Persimmons….

I got out my sketchbook, opened to an empty page, and stared at its suffocating blankness.

I thought,
Life is perfect. I’ve been telling myself that ever since Jimmy walked into my grandma’s diner and took me out. So I should draw “happy.” But how do you draw happy? Sunshine and butterflies?

I put my pencil to the paper, let my mind go a little blank, just like I did when I sketched clothing ideas, let my hand start moving, expecting
happy
to show up, somehow, on my page.

But my lines came out as thick, dark, angry slashes, forming the outline of a dog.

I didn’t really see this, though, until Mr. Cahill was right by my desk, bending over my work, too close, too close. I could smell his scent, a mix of coffee and cigarettes and menthol aftershave, and feel his breath on my cheek, and hear him saying in a low murmur, “Donna, now you need to tap into wherever this anger is coming from and work with that.”

In the next second, he was gone, at another student’s desk. I looked after him, wanting to catch his eye, but instead, my eyes connected with Hank Coleman’s. A mean, taut smile curved his lips.

“Donna Lane?”

It was Principal Stodgill saying my name, and the look on his face said
trouble
.

Will.

I felt like I’d been punched in the gut.
Will.
Somehow, I knew something was wrong with Will.

In the hallway, Principal Stodgill gave me the pitying
look I’d grown to resent and tolerate from Groverton adults, the only kind of look I’d gotten until I started dating Jimmy. And there it was again, as he said, “I just got a call from the nurse at Groverton Elementary. It seems your brother is very ill. We called Groverton Ace but your father isn’t at work today, and there is no answer at your house….”

I ran past Principal Stodgill, down the hall toward the high school’s front doors. I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I just wanted to get to Will.

“Flu!” Dr. Emory proclaimed Will’s diagnosis with a triumphant tone and wide grin, like he had just made a major discovery.

I looked at Will, shivering under the thin blanket over his lap, his bare shoulders hunched like he wanted to curl up into a ball, bounce out the doctor’s office door, and roll home. “You don’t think it’s…It’s not…”

Dr. Emory gave me a patient, patronizing smile. “It’s not polio,” he said. “Will doesn’t have neck stiffness or arm and leg pain.”

Will gave me a
See? Told you so!
look.

I wanted to say,
But flu comes with fever, which Will doesn’t have.
I wanted to say,
Flu doesn’t make eleven-year-old boys pass out in the middle of a geography lesson, especially when that’s their only favorite subject.

Tears filled my eyes. I’d been so swept up with Jimmy…with my
perfect life
…I’d stopped looking around at my real life. If I had, maybe Will would have mentioned to me—as he’d just told Dr. Emory—that he’d been throwing up, off and on, for the past several weeks.

The throwing-up confession was what made Dr. Emory proclaim, “Flu!”
Who has flu for weeks? Without fever or chills?

“Just make sure Will gets plenty of rest and fluids. He’ll be fine,” Dr. Emory said. “Will, go ahead and get dressed. Donna, let’s give Will some privacy.”

I followed Dr. Emory out into the hallway, thinking about how the elementary school nurse had told me that he’d thrown up twice at school in the past week, that he’d seemed lethargic lately. None of this made sense to me. He’d seemed fine during his birthday party, just two days before. I hadn’t seen any signs of illness…except that morning, the first Friday of the school year, when I’d made those small choices that, even in that moment in Dr. Emory’s office, I still didn’t fully understand as life changing: skipping school with Babs and thus meeting Jimmy; taking a secret modeling job with Mr. Cahill…

Suddenly I realized that while I’d been in my dreamy relationship with Jimmy, and visualizing big life plans because of Mr. Cahill’s encouragement, Will had been keeping his own secret: how poorly he felt.

In the hallway, Dr. Emory stopped and looked at me with a concerned frown. “Donna, as you were able to put together in the exam room,” he said, “Will’s condition probably isn’t flu. I didn’t want to say anything in front of Will, because I know you are trying your best, but I am concerned about not just Will, but you, too. How well your, ah, basic health needs are being met. If you have enough to eat, nutritious enough food—”

“What? No—we’re fine; we’re doing just fine—” The color drained from my face as I realized that what Dr. Emory was trying to say, in his roundabout way, was that
Will was sick because of neglect. “I—I make sure Will is taken care of! He eats breakfast every morning, and I pack a healthy lunch and make sure there’s dinner every night. Well, I’ve probably let him eat too many Marvel Puffs the past few months. I—I should have convinced him that tossing the cereal and sending in the box tops was a better idea.” Dr. Emory looked genuinely confused, but I went on. “Maybe now that he’s sent in his box tops, he won’t be ill. I’ll never let him have Marvel Puffs again, and—”

Dr. Emory put his hand on my shoulder in his fatherly fashion and I fought the urge to shrug him off. “It’s a big responsibility,” he said, “watching out for your little brother while trying to grow up at the same time.”

I arched my shoulders back, making his hand fall away from me, and said, “We’re doing just fine. I make sure he gets his homework done and I’m signing him up for Little League baseball this coming spring, and—” Tears started forming again, choking my voice, and I stopped talking, because I hated that. I hated showing any kind of weakness.

“I know you’re trying to do all of that,” Dr. Emory said, emphasizing the word
trying
, “but as I said, that takes a lot of work, especially with your high school responsibilities and your, ah, normal teenage interests.” He glanced toward the door to the waiting room.

I knew what that glance was saying. Jimmy had grabbed my books and sketchbook and followed me over to Groverton Elementary. He had insisted on driving Will and me to see Dr. Emory, and he’d insisted he’d wait for us.

“Have you thought about having your grandmother come stay with you and your dad and Will? I know she’d be
glad to.” Dr. Emory gave me a kindly smile, as if he could just imagine Grandma puttering about in the kitchen in a floral print apron dusted with flour, as she whipped up cakes and treats and casseroles that would ensure our wholesome well-being. This wasn’t the first time Dr. Emory had made such a suggestion, and he wasn’t the only Groverton adult who had done so. Grandma, I knew, had told anyone who would listen, “I tell Porter all the time that I’d be more than glad to give up my house, or have them come live with me, to help him take care of Donna and Will.”

“We are doing fine,” I said, my face going to stone, my tears to gritty salt. “Daddy is just busy, working extra shifts at Groverton Ace. He’s joined Alcoholics Anonymous.”

Dr. Emory looked stunned that I’d know about such a thing, what’s more share it with him.

The door creaked open and Will came out of the examination room. From the look on his face, I knew he’d been dressed for a while, listening to my conversation with Dr. Emory. The little stinker. But his eyes looked so dark, almost bruised, and I couldn’t stay mad at him.

“Come along, Will,” I said, in my most crisp, motherly voice. I thought the mothers of Suze and Tony and Harold and Herman would be impressed.

In the next second, though, I thought that MayJune and Miss Bettina wouldn’t be. They’d just cluck and shake their heads sadly:
Donna, Donna, remember to be kind….

So I put my arm gently around Will and said, “Come on, kiddo. I’ll make your favorite flavor of Jell-O, OK?”

Will scrunched his face. “Jell-O’s yucky in any flavor.”

I laughed. “How ’bout toast, then? And chicken noodle soup?”

He grinned. “And…maybe, since I’m sick, you can read
Call of the Wild
to me.”

Then he looked up at me with his wide blue eyes, and I said, “Well, all right. Just chapter one. Just to get you started.” But we both knew I’d read to him as long as he wanted.

B
y the end of that week, which ushered in October, Will was back to being his usual self. He asked me every day if he’d gotten anything in the mail—meaning, of course, his deed to one square inch of Alaska. When I reminded him that the box’s fine print stated, “Allow up to six weeks for delivery,” he looked sorry for me. “Sergeant Striker would tell you to have faith,” he said. “That’s what he always tells Trusty, right before they solve their crimes!”

I finally settled on a design for a homecoming dress—the dance was a couple weeks away, on October 17—and had started measuring and cutting pieces. I took my inspiration from 1920s flapper girl dresses and designed a simple, floor-length, strapless white sheath, which I would make from Mama’s satin wedding dress after removing the layers of lace on the top and the crinoline petticoat underneath. I planned to dye the lace the bird’s egg blue Mama had favored in so many of her clothes, overlay that on the white satin sheath, and add a matching satin ribbon at the drop-waist hip line.

The only material I had to buy was the ribbon—fifty-two cents’ worth to get enough to form a bow on the left
hip—and a package of Rit dye for the lace. I thought about replacing the satin-covered buttons up the back with a zipper, but as challenging as they’d be to close or open, I decided I liked them. And I liked the idea of Jimmy’s fingertips lingering along my back to slowly undo them.

Frugality had swept the family, with Will extending his afternoon newspaper route to save for his visit to the one square inch of Alaska that he would soon own.

I told myself that the pay for modeling and housecleaning drew me back to Mr. Cahill’s the Friday after Will had been diagnosed with “flu.”

“I was wondering if the persimmons were ripe,” I said, standing in Mr. Cahill’s kitchen doorway.

He stared at me, dazed—I realized I’d pulled him from some artistic fever—and said, “Come in, Donna. Before some neighbor sees you.”

I stepped into the kitchen, which was even messier than on my first visit. I put my book bag on the floor and moved toward the sink, but Mr. Cahill put his cigarette in an overflowing ashtray on the counter and gently grabbed my arm.

“Donna,” he said. “You didn’t come to ask about persimmons. Or clean up after a slob. Why are you here?”

I wanted to look away, but his steady, deep gaze held mine. I wanted to pull away, but, God help me, I liked the feel of his hand, however gently, on my wrist.

Brazen, I gave the most insulting and untrue answer possible, shrugging while I said it: “I still have plans to work as a seamstress in New York. And I can still use the three dollars a session—if that’s what you’re paying your models.”

Mr. Cahill dropped my wrist. “I haven’t had any other models,” he said. “No one else dared answer my ad.”

“So your work is going well without a model?” I said.

He shrugged. “Well enough.” But then a flicker of frustration crossed his face and he stared past me, as if in his own dream, as he said, “I’m nearly done with the sketches…but with one more modeling session…”

Then he shook his head as if to clear it and gave me a stern look. “What about your work?” At my look of confusion—was he really asking me about waitressing?—he smiled. “I mean your design work, of course.”

“I’m still designing,” I said. “In fact, I’m working on a beautiful design for a homecoming dress to wear to the dance. With Jimmy Denton.”

He looked disappointed. “You can do better, you know.” Did he mean than dating Jimmy? Or than designing homecoming dresses? “But, very well. My work would benefit from having a model. Would this be agreeable to you? One more modeling session today, and after that, if you insist you want to be my housekeeper, that’s fine. But on two conditions. One is that you share with me more of your clothing sketches so I can tutor you. From what I’ve seen in class—at least at the beginning of the year—you have a gift, Donna, and a passion for design. I’m hoping to go to New York over Christmas break, and I plan to see a friend of mine who teaches at the Parsons School of Design.”

Mr. Cahill paused, watching for my reaction. He smiled with satisfaction when I gasped at his reference to Parsons.

“If we work hard enough, you could have a portfolio that I could show him while I’m there,” he said softly. “What do
you think about the possibility of studying to be a designer? I know you say you want to be a costume seamstress, but I think you could go farther than that with your talent. Much farther.”

I swallowed hard, but my voice belied the emotion I was trying to tamp down, quivering as I said, “I—I think that would be wonderful. I could do that. Work on a portfolio. With you.”

“Good. But my second condition is that I talk with your father and let him know that I am hiring you as a housekeeper in exchange for providing tutoring,” Mr. Cahill said. “I will still pay you three dollars per housekeeping session. At least this way you can come to my front door and stop hiding.” His mouth briefly curved into a grin, but then he turned serious. “It’s how I should have handled this to begin with.”

My mind was whirling.
Portfolio…Parsons…designer…
Then my heart fell. There wasn’t any way that Daddy would agree. After all, he ranted every time one of Mr. Cahill’s editorials against Senator McCarthy’s views ran in the
Groverton Daily News
. (“Sells papers!” Babs reported as her editor father’s decision to print Mr. Cahill’s pieces.)

But then I thought…
Miss Bettina
.

Her increasing influence over Daddy would ensure that I could go, freely, to Mr. Cahill’s house, and learn from him about how to improve my designs, how to become a designer. Not a seamstress.
A designer.

“All right,” I said. “But let me talk to Daddy first.” Mr. Cahill didn’t need to know that I really meant I’d talk to Miss Bettina. “He’s not a fan of your editorial pieces.”