True To Form (5 page)

Mr. Randolph leans in close to Mrs. Randolph's ear and says, “I asked Katie about the school she'll be going to next year.”

“Oh, I see.”

Mr. Randolph looks at me and smiles and I smile back.

“And what did she say?” asks Mrs. Randolph, and I say, “I didn't say anything yet. But I will be going to a new school, Miller High School.”

“Turn me back, will you, Henry? I can't hear her.”

Mr. Randolph turns his wife over on her wet back and I tell her louder that I will be starting Miller High School. She nods.
“High
school. Well, that's a big step.”

“I guess so,” I say.

She leans forward, “What was that?”

“Yes,”
I say.

“You mustn't be afraid, though.”

“No.”

“What subjects do you like?”

“English.”

“Ah, me, too. English was always my favorite.”

I smile, nod, then hold up the towel to remind her that we're not quite finished back here.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” she says. “I completely forgot. You'd think we were sitting on a bench and chatting in the park, wouldn't you?” She laughs like she's just heard a good joke.

“It's okay,”
I say.
“Whenever you're ready.”

Mr. Randolph turns her over again and I wipe her back dry, then put a little powder on her. It's so funny, it's like a baby, but way at the other end of life. Everything is a circle, if you think about it. Mrs. Randolph was doing fine until recently, and then she had a little stroke. She might get some better, but probably not a lot. Mr. Randolph's face when he told me this was full of pain, yet he was smiling.

When we're through bathing Mrs. Randolph, Mr. Randolph says, “I wonder if you could stay with her now while I run out to the grocery store. Would that be all right?”

“Yes, sir,” I say. And then, “Do you think she'd like to go outside?”

“Perhaps another time,” he says. “It's awfully hot out today, and she doesn't do well in the heat.”

“What?” Mrs. Randolph asks, and Mr. Randolph bends over her ear to repeat what he said.

“Oh, I can't tolerate the heat,” she says. “Never could. I just wilt. But maybe you could read to me a bit.”

“Okay.” I wonder if I'll have to yell the whole story. Mr. Randolph hands me a library book by someone called Taylor Caldwell. The title is
The Listener,
which is a very interesting title. Right away you want to know who is this listener, and what is he listening to? Mr. Randolph kisses Mrs. Randolph on the cheek, waves to me, and is gone.

I open to the place that's marked, and start reading. It is someone just talking about their troubles.

“A little louder, dear,” Mrs. Randolph says, and there you are, the answer to the yelling part is yes.

I haven't read but two or three pages when I look up and see that Mrs. Randolph is sleeping. And now that I've stopped yelling the story, I can also hear her snoring. It's a ladylike snore, not too loud, just a ruffled kind of breathing. I close the book and put it on my lap, then look at her lying there, her hands folded across her stomach. She wears a blue stone ring, and it is loose on her finger, turned to the side. I think how easy it would be for someone to pluck that ring from her. She is just so vulnerable, like a baby bird in the nest. She also wears a man's watch so that she can see the numbers, and the watch band is twisted and held with a rubber band to be smaller, so it won't fall off. And that is all, except of course for the nightgown. I wonder if she misses her clothes, if she thinks sometimes about how she used to leap out of bed and just get dressed, easy as pie, and now that has gone from her. I can see how some old people get mean and bitter about their lives getting so small, but Mrs. Randolph doesn't seem that way. I think maybe it's because of Mr. Randolph, who takes such good care of her, and even now is buying her the brown bread she wanted because she wants to eat it with some beans for lunch. There is some old people food, for sure. I wonder, Don't they ever just want sloppy joes?

I tiptoe out of the room and go to the hall to use the phone. I
have to call Cynthia about the movie tonight, about what time we should meet. When she answers, she sounds mad. “It's me,” I say. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” she says. And waits.

“I'm calling about the movie.”

“I'll be there.”

“When?” I ask, and she says, “Whenever you say.”

“The Parent Trap
starts at seven,” I say. “Want to see that one?”

Deep sigh. “Okay.”

“What's
wrong?
Did you have a fight with your mother?”

“I can't talk. I'll see you tonight.” She hangs up.

I'll bet anything that's what it is; Cynthia is always fighting with her mother, who ought to live in the head room at Bellevue insane asylum. Anyone who says you should always respect your parents would change their minds if they met Mrs. O'Connell.

I go back into the bedroom and sit in the chair and watch Mrs. Randolph sleep. I try to think about what she looked like when she was my age, but I can't imagine it. Even if I saw a picture, the way she is now would still be stubborn in my brain, like she has been that way forever. It seems like you always are the way you are right now, unless you are a movie star, when people always see you the way you were best. Sometimes I wonder, If there is a heaven and people are themselves up there in their bodies, what body is it? The one they died in? It doesn't seem fair if it is, because for one thing, there would be people from car wrecks walking around saying, Well, this isn't how I really looked. But what would be the time that you would say “This is my real look”? My mother always used to say on her birthday that she was twenty-nine, no matter how old she was. So I guess that might be the age.

When I think of my mother now, she is sort of gauzed over, not as clear as she used to be, but still so shining. Her real age when she died was forty-one. It's so funny that I didn't know her age until she died. I look like her around the eyes, and I am so grateful. It is a part
of her I will never lose. She had such a nice laugh, like bells. And also she knew how to tap dance a little. One thing I do still remember clearly is that every time she came home from the grocery store with Green Stamps, I was the one who got to put them in the book. We were working on getting the waffle iron. I don't know what ever happened to those books of stamps. I think they got thrown out when we moved, which is a shame; there was at least enough there for a toaster.

I watch Mrs. Randolph's chest rise and fall, listen to the tick of her bedside clock. I practice different ways of crossing my legs, while in my head I conjugate the French verb
être.
One thing I hope they don't do in high school is ask you to write about what you did on your summer vacation and then read it aloud. I would be Sominex to the entire class.

W
ELL,
I
MIGHT AS WELL GO
shopping for a crystal ball and a silk scarf to wrap around my head, because once again I have told the future. Cynthia and I are sitting around her bedroom late on this Friday night after having watched the kids in front of us kiss so much it would be a wonder if they saw anything that happened on the screen. Forget the movie; this was the real show: The boy and girl come in together, a little ways apart. The boy has on a clean shirt and is wearing a belt on his pants and you can see the comb marks in his hair. The girl has a necklace on with her dress and nylon stockings, and her hair got washed that afternoon—she has the aura of Prell. Lights dim, and three seconds later, kiss, kiss, kiss. Next, slouch way down in the seat, and then the boy does something that the girl starts giggling and says,
“Stop!”
You would think they would have the decency to sit in the back, but no, they must put themselves smack in the middle of the theater so all can see. Cynthia and I sat there with popcorn boxes on our lap, and I felt like we were in kindergarten making macaroni necklaces.

Now, just as we are making ourselves comfortable, we have the horror of her mother sticking her head in. “Everything fine up here?” she asks, and her eyeballs seem like they're sticking out three miles. I look around for broken bones and other catastrophes and then say, Yes, everything is fine.

“Cynthia?” Mrs. O'Connell asks, and Cynthia sighs. “
Yes
, Mother, everything is
fine.”

“A little girl talk, huh?” Mrs. O'Connell says.

Neither of us says anything, and finally she closes the door.

Cynthia turns the radio up loud, so no one can hear us. It's Fab Freddy, talking about a rocking Friday night on 99.9 FM. I wish I could be doing the show with him. “And now, a record that my good friend Katie picked,” he could say. “All you lovebirds cuddle up, here comes Bobby Vinton.”

“I hate my mother so much,” Cynthia says, and I say, “Me, too,” to give support, even though I don't hate her; I just think she's pathetic.

“You know when you called and I was in a bad mood?”

“Yeah,” I say. I kind of want to ask
which
time, but that would only put her in a worse mood. It used to be that Cynthia was only goofy, but now she is moody.

“Well, it's because of something my mother is doing.”

“What's she doing?” I love when you ask a question and you know that no matter what the answer is, it will be delicious.

She lies back on the floor, her autograph hound serving as her pillow. So far I am the only one to sign it. “Write big!” Cynthia said, and I did, but now I regret it, because every time I come in her room, there it is “Best wishes, Luff, Katie Nash!!!!” and that is all that's on the dog, and the writing is not even good.

Cynthia sighs. “I don't know if I can say it. It's so embarrassing.”

Now I am on full alert like the dogs at the dinner table. “Tell me,” I say, and turn the radio up even louder.

“She is going to become a Girl Scout leader,” Cynthia says, “and I have to be in her troop.” She looks up at me quickly, then away.

“Oh, no.”

“Yes.”

And I thought I was doomed for having to baby-sit for a summer job. “When?”

“The first meeting is next week. Here.”

Cynthia opens her closet and digs around in the back, then pulls out a green dress and holds it out, which at first I don't get, and then I realize it's a Girl Scout uniform. “She's going to sew patches on it,” Cynthia says, “and then I have to wear it. And that's not all.” She goes to the closet again, and pulls out a beret.

“Oh, Cynthia,” I say. “We have to talk to her.”

“I did.”

“Why is she doing this?”

“So we can be
closer.”
Cynthia puts the dress and the beret back in the closet, shuts the door, and lies back down on the floor. Little tears are sprouting out of her eyes, and she brushes them away like she would like to murder them.

“But you're too old,” I say.

“She doesn't think so.”

“I'll help you. We'll think of something.”

Cynthia sits up. Already she feels better. All it takes sometimes is to know you are not alone.

“Maybe we could . . . ,” I say, but then I fizzle out.

“I don't know if this would work, but we could—”

“Hold on!” I say, my hand held up in the air. “Listen!”

“Okay, you jet-setters,” Fab Freddy is saying. “Listen up now, because what you just heard is true. We've selected a winner for our travel contest!”

I want to hear who wins the contest that I also entered, and whether they spaz out on the phone like winners usually do, start screaming and say I don't
believe
it, I don't
believe
it. But right now a miracle has happened here in Cynthia's bedroom, because I hear these words: “The winner is . . .
Katie Nash.
All right!
Congratulations, Katie! You've got ninety-nine minutes to call in and claim your prize, baaaaaby!”

“Oh, my God,” I say, my hand over my mouth. I am freezing and boiling.

Cynthia's eyes are wide. “Does he mean
you?”
she asks. “Is it
you?”

I nod, and then get the terrible feeling that there is another Katie Nash, who is probably seventeen and saying, “Cool! I won!”

“It might be me,” I say, but now doubt is crowding in so bad, my mind is saying, “Now, wait a minute.
Did
you enter that contest?”

And it's stereo, because Cynthia is saying, “Did you enter that contest?”

I nod, afraid to speak.

“Well, then, call!” Cynthia says, and hands me her princess phone.

“But what if two Katie Nashes entered?” I ask. “What if it's another one?”

“It's not!”

“But it could be!”

“But you have to find
out!”

I start to dial, then say, “But wait . . . do you have to wait until ninety-nine minutes?”

“No!
You have ninety-nine minutes to call before it's
too late!”
Cynthia picks up the receiver.
“I'm
calling.”

“Okay,” I say. “But if it's me, I'll talk.”

“Oh, what's the number, what's the number, I forgot!” Cynthia says, and for a minute I almost don't know either, even though I hear that number every night. But then I remember and I tell her, and she dials. Then she starts laughing, wheezy excited, looking at me with her eyes all wide, and she has to turn her back on me so she can get serious again.

I sit with one hand squeezing the other to death and hear her say. “Yes, I'm calling about the travel contest? You just announced the
winner?” Then there is a pause of about three hundred years. She turns to look at me, all lit up, and then says, “No, I'm not Katie Nash, but she's right here.” She is nodding her head up and down real fast. “Yes,” she says, and then “All right, I will.” She turns down the radio, then hands the phone to me, and all of a sudden it seems like everything in the universe has stopped dead in its tracks. “Hello?” I say.