What I Saw and How I Lied, Page 2

  Grandma Glad was always saying things to Mom like, “My, what a bright dress, Beverly” or “Maybe you need to go up a size on that sweater.” I could guess Mom’s reaction by how hard she stubbed her cigarettes out in the ashtrays. If you came into the room and saw them ground into little stumps, you knew that Mom and Grandma Glad had just had a chat.

  Mom smashed the boiled potatoes in the pot, twisting her wrist, her bracelet jingling. Joe had brought it back from the war, and it had real rubies in it. Everything was cheap over in Europe now, he said. You could pick up stuff for practically nothing. The poor folks over there were glad to sell it. You were doing them a favor.

  She paused every once in a while, and I poured in a little milk from the bottle. We’d been making mashed potatoes together since I was four. It had been just the two of us back then, sleeping in the same bed in the little apartment over the candy store. Then Joe had walked in, with his hat on the back of his head and his eyes on Mom, and changed everything.

  I stuck a spoon in the pot and took a bite. It was dark out now and steam had clouded the kitchen window. I heard Joe’s car, and I ran to the window and made a circle with my fist to clear it. I saw him get out of the car, and for a minute I saw a stranger, his hat pulled over his eyes, his shoulders slumped in a way I didn’t know.

  That happened sometimes. He was away for so long, and even now, if he turned a certain way, or if I saw him on the street, it was like he was just another man in a suit. I let out a breath, and the window fogged up again.

  I hurried out into the hallway, hoping Grandma Glad hadn’t heard the car door. If she had, she’d be the first one at the door to greet him. But I saw the armchair pulled up next to the radio, and her wide back hunching forward to listen.

  The door opened, and he walked in. I hadn’t turned on the light, so he didn’t see me at first. I saw his face, and he didn’t know I was looking.

  It was the war. You couldn’t ask him about it. You didn’t want to remind him. What every wife and daughter could give was a happy home. That was our job.

  That’s what the magazines said. I clipped articles for Mom and left them on her chair. Recipes and new fashions, all the things a wife could do to make herself more attractive to her husband. Mom had quit her job at Lord and Taylor the day after he came back. “Either that or get fired,” she’d said. She had to make way for the veterans who needed jobs. Now she learned recipes and made Sunday suppers, rubbed Jergen’s lotion on her elbows, and had time to be a wife.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said.

  I almost stepped back into the warm steam of the kitchen. This wasn’t the Joe I knew. He was a muscular man who made walking look like dancing. He had a special greeting for everyone on the block. He made up nicknames that stuck. He could flip a cigarette butt into the gutter, hail a friend, and toss a chocolate bar to a kid from the neighborhood without breaking his stride. I’d seen him do it.

  So I switched on the light to make the magazine picture. The daughter welcoming the dad home, both of them so happy in the picture you could practically smell the pot roast.

  I held out my hands. He punched his hat back into shape and then held it by the brim. He closed one eye, like he was aiming, and then spun the hat down the hallway toward me. I snatched it out of the air.

  “The Dodgers need you, kiddo,” he said. I hugged him and felt his whiskers, smelled cigarettes and the special sweet scent that came off his skin.

  As I hung up his hat, Mom came out of the kitchen.

  “Aw, Bev,” he said, apologetic even before she spoke. “How am I going to keep you in mink and diamonds if I don’t work late?”

  Mom turned around, her arms out. “You see a mink here?”

  Joe winked at me. “Well, maybe if you give your husband a kiss, Santa will be good to you this year.”

  “It’s still summer. You’ve got to do better than that.”

  He walked to her and slipped an arm around her waist to draw her against him. She bent back a bit to look at his face.

  “You started without me again,” she murmured.

  “Just a quick one.”

  They didn’t move. She was bent back in his arms, one hand on his chest. Suddenly I was just like the chair, or the hat rack—just a stick of furniture in the room. Back then they were everything I knew about glamour. Everything I knew about love.

  Grandma Glad poked her head out into the hallway. “Someone called for you, Joe.”

  My mother’s mouth turned down. It was funny, how the two of them competed, even for the telephone. It made Grandma Glad happy to be able to give Joe his messages, like she outranked Mom.

  “It’s the same man who called before,” Grandma Glad said. She folded her arms over one of the dark blue dresses she always wore. Some of them had flowers and some of them had dots, but they all looked the same. “The one who asked about you, were you the Joe Spooner from the Forty-second.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud! Next time he calls, tell him I’m not home,” Joe said. “Another ex-GI looking for a job. I’m home now—I want to eat dinner and relax.”

  This wasn’t like Joe. Usually he was happy to talk on the phone. He’d bellow into the receiver while he crossed his ankles and leaned against the wall. He’d say, “Hello, Al,” or “Bill, how do?” And then, “Terrible, how are you?”

  Joe had what Every Young Girl’s Guide to Popularity called “easy charm.” I didn’t have it. It didn’t seem to be something you could learn from a book, either. When girls at school called out, “Evie, how do?” I wished I could yell back, “Terrible, how are you?”

  Grandma Glad disappeared back into the living room.

  “I wouldn’t look so forward to dinner if I were you,” Mom said. “The potatoes are glue and the roast is overdone.”

  She said it like a challenge. Joe only grinned. “Whatever you cook, I’ll eat, Gorgeous.”

  In the kitchen, Mom shoved the roast onto a platter. Joe poured himself his drink, Canadian Club on the rocks, and mixed Mom a Manhattan. He sat at the kitchen table. We heard the phone ring, and he took a long sip. He bared his teeth, sucking in the liquor, and then began rolling up his shirtsleeves.

  Grandma Glad appeared in the doorway. The kitchen light flashed on the lenses of her rimless glasses, and I couldn’t see her eyes. Her hands were folded over her shelf of a bust, like she was already apologizing for interrupting, even though she never apologized for anything.

  Mom looked annoyed. She liked Grandma Glad to stay in the living room before dinner so she and Joe could have a drink and a cigarette together. If Grandma Glad came in early, she let her know it, down to the second.

  Mom said the house was too small now. I knew that she and Joe kept arguing about moving, and whether they had to take Grandma Glad. When they got tired of that, they argued about where to move. My mother wanted an apartment in the city, but Joe kept reminding her of the housing shortage. He wanted to move out to Long Island or New Jersey.

  “We’ve got the American Dream, Bev,” he said. “But there’s more of it out there.”

  “Not in New Jersey,” my mom replied.

  Now Mom banged the spoon on the pot, flicking off a dollop of potato. “Dinner’s not ready yet, Grandma Glad,” she said.

  “I can see that,” Grandma Glad said. “It’s the same man on the phone, Joe—he says he must speak to you. Or he’ll drop by later, if you’re busy now.”

  Joe’s fingers curled around his whiskey glass. He stood up. “Christ, can’t a man in his own house—”

  “Joe!” Grandma Glad’s hand flew to her mouth, as if she was the one who’d let the Lord’s name escape her in vain and was trying to stuff it back in.

  “Enough, Ma,” Joe said, and pushed past her.

  “Well, he’s in a mood,” Mom said.

  “Probably he’s hungry,” Grandma Glad said, with a long glance at the kitchen stove. Then she clomped out in her red slippers.

  “And it’s my fault the dinner is late,” Mom muttered,
banging a pot lid on the stove.

  She reached over to take a sip of the cocktail Joe had made her. “Did you set the table?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She nodded, still frowning, as if she was sorry I’d done it, because otherwise she could have yelled at me.

  She scooped the mashed potatoes into the bowl, metal spoon against china, snap, snap. I heard the burp of the gravy as it was poured in. Then the ladle, clattering against the gravy boat.

  It seemed like a good idea to disappear before she thought of a chore I hadn’t done. I edged out of the kitchen into the hall. Grandma Glad was standing right outside the doorway, so intent on eavesdropping that she didn’t see me. She always eavesdropped when you were on the phone, even if I was just talking to Margie about homework.

  “Yeah,” he was saying, “you wouldn’t think so, would you? Got to be a hundred Spooners in the New York phone book, though. Sure, sure. Good luck, fella.” He hung up.

  “Joe—” Grandma said.

  “Ma.” He shook his head. She moved closer, because she never took a hint. They started talking in low voices. I beat it back to the kitchen.

  Mom had the serving pieces all lined up on the table to take out to the dining room. I picked up the mashed potatoes and was heading out when Joe reappeared in the doorway. His face was red, as though he’d been the one bending over the stove. He tapped his empty cocktail glass against his leg as if he was keeping time to a jazzy rhythm in his head.

  “So, does he want a job?” Mom asked.

  “Doesn’t matter, he got the wrong Spooner.” Joe leaned against the doorway as Mom turned. He watched her as she brushed her hair off her forehead with the back of her hand.

  “Look at your mother, Evie,” Joe said. “A beauty like that shouldn’t be stuck in Queens, right?”

  Mom snorted as she took butter out of the icebox.

  “A beauty like that should be lying around a pool, going out to restaurants, shopping all day. Not have her face in a hot oven. Right?”

  “Right,” I said.

  Mom was trying to ignore us. “Don’t be his stooge, Evie.”

  “So what would you say if we left tomorrow morning on a trip to Florida?”

  “For crying out loud, Joe.”

  “I’m serious. Not just Florida—Palm Beach, the ritziest town in Florida. I got the car all gassed up, ready to go. So what would you say?”

  “I’d say I have no clothes.”

  “Buy them there.”

  “I’d say you’re crazy.”

  “Like a fox. I was thinking about it today. I’ve been working too hard. It’s time for a vacation, since we didn’t take one this summer.”

  “That’s what I said back in July.” Mom jerked her head toward the living room. “Is she going?”

  Joe spread his hands. “Honey, I’ve got to at least ask her—”

  She turned her back and began to swipe at a clean plate with a dish towel. “Then I’m not going. Have a good time with Gladys.”

  What about me? I wanted to ask. But I clammed up. I knew when to talk, when to make a joke to get them talking to each other again, and when to watch and keep my mouth shut.

  Joe poured himself some whiskey and drained it. “Into the breach,” he said, heading out to Grandma Glad.

  Mom kept rubbing that plate. We could both hear the murmur from the living room, and I was dying to go listen, but I didn’t.

  When Joe came back in, he headed straight for his drink. He winked at me over the rim. “After dinner, we’ll pack,” he said. “Grandma Glad isn’t coming. She doesn’t want to miss Sunday Mass with Father Owen.”

  Mom leaned against the counter. I watched them look at each other. I expected Mom to be happy, give Joe a kiss. But she didn’t.

  “Palm Beach!” I said. “It sounds so fancy!”

  He sat on the chair and patted his knee. “Come on, Bev. Let’s blow this joint and have some fun, the way we used to. Everybody needs some fun once in a while.”

  “You seem to get your share,” she said.

  Mom doesn’t give in easy. She took her time folding the dish towel and placing it back on the counter. Then she walked over and sat on his knee.

  “I’ve never been to Florida,” I hinted.

  I sat on his other knee and slung an arm around his neck. “C’mon, Joe. I’ve never even been south of Jersey.” Don’t stick me here with Grandma Glad, I prayed.

  Joe laughed. “You don’t have to give the soft-soap, Evie.” He put his arms around us both. “I can’t do without my two beautiful girls.”

  “What about school?” Mom asked. “Evie starts next week.”

  “Evie doesn’t need school. She’s smarter than her teachers.”

  “Can I get a white bathing suit?” I asked.

  “Sure. You’ll be a regular Rita Hayworth. Now,” he said, giving us both a squeeze, “I’m starved. Get me a saw and I’ll carve the roast.”

  I laughed, leaning back against his shoulder. It felt reckless and crazy, like we could do anything, jump in the car and drive hundreds of miles, just to chase summer.

  It didn’t feel like anyone was chasing us. Not at all.

  Chapter 5

  The trip took four days and three flat tires. Long days of driving on two-lane roads, passing trucks loaded with squawking chickens in Delaware, and cars with salesmen driving with their hats on outside of Washington, and trucks loaded with apples in Virginia. At first we sang and read magazines out loud and Mom passed back cheese sandwiches.

  Maybe Joe’s jokes became a little too jokey. Maybe we had the fizz, but only because Joe was shaking up the soda bottle so hard. Because pretty soon we weren’t talking much, and we just wanted to get there already. Joe stopped trying to entertain us and started speeding, watching out for local cops.

  The farther south we got, the warmer it grew. At first we loved the heat, cranking down the car windows and tossing our sweaters in the trunk. But then it was not just warm, it was hot.

  At home, when it was hot, relief was a fan, a glass of lemonade, and maybe a bus ride to Rockaway Beach. But there was no end to this. Just hot metal and hot road, until sweat stuck us to the seats and we just wanted to dive into any shade we could find. Except we couldn’t; we had to keep on driving.

  Joe’s left arm was sunburned from where it hung out the window. He wet a handkerchief with water and put it on the back of his neck.

  We started getting up at five A.M. to drive in the cool part of the day. We quit by three. Mom made Joe find a motel, or a guest house. Each place had stained chenille bedspreads, and rust stains around the drains, and toilets that Mom scrubbed first before she let me sit on them.

  I cheered when we crossed the Florida state line. Dust billowed and blew in the window, and even the glimpse of the ocean was just a cheat, because when we stopped and pulled over to wade in the water, we were itchy with sand and salt when we dried off.

  Mom unstuck her legs from the seat, one after the other, then lifted herself up and spread her skirt underneath.

  “You said it would be warm,” she said, fanning herself with her hat. “You didn’t say it would be hellfire and damnation.”

  “What do we care? We’ll be in the pool all week,” Joe said.

  “If we ever get there,” Mom said. “Are we driving to South America? You in trouble with the law, Joe?”

  “Shut up, Bev!” Joe snapped.

  My mother jerked her head to look out her window.

  They didn’t talk for another fifty miles.

  Just before dark we drove into West Palm Beach, straight down a busy street with drugstores and a movie theater and people walking with ice-cream cones. I hung out the window like a dog, lapping it up.

  “Now this is more like it,” Mom said.

  “Wait till you see the ritzy part,” Joe said. He turned onto a small bridge and we drove over the water. “You see? Palm Beach isn’t just a beach, it’s an island. You don’t have to mix with the suckers back there on th
e mainland. This place belongs to the rich.”

  Now it belonged to us. Tall palm trees marched down a row, taller than any palms I’d seen so far. Or maybe it just seemed that way because they were rich palm trees, the way I thought of Humphrey Bogart as handsome just because he was a movie star. I knew we were heading toward the ocean because I could smell it. And then there it was, still blue against the lavender sky.

  The houses that lined the road were as big as hotels. They were painted in the colors of summer dresses, pink and yellow and cream.

  “What gives? They’re all boarded up,” Mom said.

  I noticed the closed shutters on the windows, like the houses had their eyes shut tight. There was nobody walking on the street. No cars driving by.

  “Where is everyone?” Mom asked.

  “They’re all in their pools, counting their money,” Joe said.

  “There’s a hotel!” I sang out.

  Joe slowed down, but it was closed.

  “Is this Palm Beach or a ghost town?” Mom asked.

  I saw Joe’s mouth twist and I was afraid he’d tell her to shut up again. “Look at all these flowers!” I said. “I bet there’s lots more hotels. This is Palm Beach.”

  There were other hotels. Plenty of them. But they were all closed. Huge, grand hotels like palaces. Smaller hotels with courtyards with dry fountains.

  “Let’s go back to West Palm,” Mom said.

  “I said Palm Beach and it’s going to be Palm Beach,” Joe told us. “So the place closes down in the summer. Things will be opening up. It’s fall.”

  “I thought you said you made a reservation, Joe,” Mom said.

  They both fell silent after that. I was the only one talking, pointing out houses and trees and the blooming bushes, explosions of pink and purple. Mom had her window cranked down all the way and tapped her finger on the door. I could smell Joe’s perspiration from the backseat and see the stain on his shirt.