Full Cicada Moon (11 page)

Timothy and Pattress cross the fence

while I'm feeding the turkeys.

“I have some news,” he says,

taking the bucket of grain from me.

He pours it into the feeder.

“Is it good news?” I ask.

“I think so.”

“I have news, too.”

“You first,” Timothy says.

I tell him, “We're staying in Hillsborough.”

“Cool,” he says. “Because my news is

I'm staying here till next June.”

“That's great news,” I say, and smile.

But Timothy's eyes look sad.

“Right?”

“Sure,” he says, and shrugs,

and keeps looking at me like he needs more

than a smile.

We give the turkeys fresh water,

and Timothy helps me lock the pen.

Pattress has been sitting outside all this time

and wags her tail when we come out.

Finally I ask, “Why are you staying here?

Doesn't your mother want you home,

now that Wesley's in Vietnam?”

Then he tells me a little

about his life in New York

and why he's staying with his grumpy uncle.

“My dad and mom are divorced.

He left us when I was three.”

“Do you remember your dad?”

“Not really. My mom and Wesley

have told me stories,

but now I don't know if I remember him or the stories.

Mom thinks I need to be around someone

who can be like a father.

She doesn't like that I like to cook.”

“My dad likes to cook.”

“I would tell her that

if I didn't have to keep it a secret

that I come over here.”

“You have to keep lots of secrets. Isn't it hard

to keep them all straight?”

“I like coming over,” he says.

“It's one of the only reasons

I even want to stay with my uncle.”

Then I say what Papa says all the time:

“You are welcome to visit us anytime.”

Timothy smiles finally.

“I wish I lived here. I wish

I had your family.”

“I don't think you'd want to be in my family.

It's not always easy.”

“My family isn't easy, either.”

Now I know

that what Timothy needed more than a smile

was for me to hear his story.

I give him a hug

for the first time,

and he hugs me back

as if he has wanted to forever.

It feels good. And now I'm glad

my family voted to stay.

Dr. Haseda has come to visit us again

with Baby Cake, who

has grown up so much since April.

Now she walks without lurching

and has lots more teeth.

I take her outside and blow bubbles

so Mama and her friend can visit alone.

Kate chases the bubbles and pops them

with her fingers and her face,

and laughs and screams

and falls down.

Timothy crosses the fence

and gives Kate pony rides on his back.

She grabs the neck of his T-shirt

and his ears

as he neighs and whinnies through the grass.

She wants to ride on Pattress, too,

who would let her,

but we say no,

and blow more bubbles.

Then Timothy has to leave,

and Kate and I go inside, where our mothers

are drinking tea with lemon and eating ginger cookies

that Dr. Haseda brought.

She gives one to her daughter.

And when she sets Kate on her lap,

Mama presses her hand over her heart

and looks at me.

“I am thinking of offering a class in the tea ceremony,” Dr. Haseda says to Mama

in Japanese.

Mama sets her teacup in the saucer. “Did you know

I am certified to teach
osado
?”

“My, my,” Dr. Haseda says. “I don't suppose you'd be interested in teaching my class.”

Mama looks at her teacup to hide her smile. “I might be.

I'll need to talk to my husband first.”

This is Mama's way of hiding her glee.

“Of course,” says Dr. Haseda,

who puts her teacup down and gathers her daughter.

She knows Mama's answer will be yes.

I would not be able to explain to Timothy or Stacey

or anyone else in Hillsborough how

I understand the language

behind their words.

Papa nudges his dinner plate,

but Mama doesn't take it to the sink right away.

When I get up to leave,

she says, “Stay, Mimi-chan,”

and starts telling Papa about Dr. Haseda's visit,

what a nice person she is,

and how big Baby Cake has grown.

Papa nods patiently.

I'm holding my breath for the punch line,

because Mama's way is to feel out the mood,

till the soil before planting the seeds.

Finally Papa asks, “What else?”

kindly.

“She wants to introduce students to tea ceremony this fall.”

“And she asked you to teach,” Papa says.

“That's right.”

“Can you handle it?” Papa asks. “There are turkeys

and the house and the family.”

“Up to you,” Mama says.

“Do you want to teach?” Papa asks.

“What do you think?” she asks.

Mama's face has no expression—

not joy or sadness or anticipation.

She stares at Papa, waiting.

“It's fine with me,” he says,

and smiles, as if making a decision like that is a burden

he carries with reverence.

Mama's mouth twitches into a smile

she can't stop,

so she takes Papa's plate to the sink.

“Oh,” she says, turning around,

“something else. . . . She asked if Mimi can babysit for Kate

on Saturday night.”

“Me, babysit?” I ask.

I can't keep my smile from taking over my face

or my squeals from bouncing off the walls.

“You're certainly not your mother,” Papa says, laughing.

I look from him to Mama. “Can I?

I want to do it.

And I can handle it.”

“I'll ask her for the details,” Papa says,

“and tell her yes.”

And that's how Mama and I get our first jobs

in Hillsborough on the same day.

Dr. Haseda opens the fridge. “Here

are her bottles.” They're all lined up on the middle shelf.

“Always heat them in warm water,” she says

just like a teacher.

“But she just ate

and shouldn't be hungry. In fact, 

she'll probably sleep straight through for you.”

“So I won't get to play with her?” I ask.

“Not tonight, but maybe next time,

if you want to come back.”

Her husband, Rick, is a sculptor,

who works in their garage.

He has long hair and a bushy beard.

At first, he and Dr. Haseda didn't seem to fit.

But after five minutes I knew they were perfect for each other.

They're going to a movie at the college.

“We won't be late,” Dr. Haseda says,

and shows me a number next to the phone.

But I say, “I'll be fine . . . we'll be fine.

Kate and I are best friends. Don't worry. Have fun.”

After they leave, I go to Kate's room

to check on her. She's lying on her side

and her mouth is open just a little.

She smells like milk and baby shampoo,

and her lips are moving like she's chewing.

She has kicked off her blanket, so I pull it back over her,

and I go back to the living room and look at the magazines.

Then I get a Fudgsicle

and turn on
The Dating Game
.

The show is almost over

when Kate starts to cry—low and soft

and building up.

I run to her room. She's standing in her crib.

She sees me and stops crying

but looks dazed.

Then she wails and grabs the railing of her crib.

“Mama mama mama!”

“It's okay, Baby Cake. Remember me? I'm Mimi.

We blew bubbles together,” I say,

wishing I'd brought bubbles tonight.

“Can I pick you up?”

She shakes her head and cries more.

“I'll be right back,” I say,

and bring a bottle from the fridge.

But she throws it to the floor.

“Mama mama mama,” she cries louder.

“Kate, you'll wake up the neighbors,”

I say, even though it's only eight o'clock.

I help her lie down again, but she stiffens

and pops up, pulls on the crib railing.

So I take her out of the crib

and carry her to the living room.

She wants to get down

and cries more.

Now I don't feel like babysitting.

I'm no good at it,

and I want to cry, too.

I try holding her and feeding her

and rocking her and putting her back in her crib,

but she cries all through
My Three Sons
.

I can't take anymore,

so I call the number by the phone.

It rings and rings, but no one answers,

and I drop the phone back into the cradle

and look at the clock. Maybe they'll be home

in an hour, or two hours. Or three.

I'm thirteen now and should be able to handle

things like this on my own, but I can't handle this,

and I call home.

When Mama answers, I can only talk

between Kate's screams and my sobs.

I feel like I'm drowning, but when Mama says,

“I'll come soon, Mimi-chan,”

I know I've found a rowboat to roll into

and rest.

When Mama comes, she picks up Baby Cake

and coos to her. “What a good girl you are.

Why are you crying for Mimi?”

Mama takes her back to her room

and changes her diaper.

“Where's her bottle?” Mama asks,

smoothing Baby Cake's soft hair

as she drinks,

watching Mama. And blinks.

“She's tired. That's all,” Mama says,

and picks her up, sways in place.

Kate's eyes close and she looks heavy on Mama's shoulder.

I take the bottle from her limp hand.

Mama lays her gently in her crib.

Baby Cake sleeps on,

and Mama waits with me in the living room,

watching
Hogan's Heroes
until we're sure 

Kate will stay asleep.

“I'll go now,” Mama says. “You'll be fine.”

I know why Mama is leaving

instead of staying with me—

so Kate's mom and dad will see

that everything went fine

while I was in charge.

When Papa's older sister, Fiona,

was fourteen, she was burned in a fire.

But she survived,

and after that, they called her Phoenix—

the bird that rose from ashes.

Auntie Phoenix was the only person in Papa's family

who kept in touch with him

after he and Mama got married.

Today, Auntie's husband called.

Last night she had a heart attack

and died

in peace.

Papa's leaving for her funeral in Baltimore.

I'm not going

because I need to keep Mama company.

Mama's not going

because she has to stay with me.

And because when Papa married Mama,

his family disowned him.

Jitter legs is not a dance

or a disease

or the feeling you get when you walk too long in the snow.

Because Papa is still in Baltimore,

he can't drive me to school today—

my first day of eighth grade.

But he and Mama had already decided

I'm old enough now to take the school bus.

And I have decided I'm old enough

to walk by myself

to the bus stop at the end of the road.

Timothy had said that on our first day of school

he'd meet me down the street from Mr. Dell's.

But he isn't here,

so I keep walking

and tell myself, “Everything will be okay.

It's only school,

this year I'm one of the big kids,

and I'm not new.

Timothy is not at the bus stop,

and neither is the bus.

A few cars, a motorcycle, and

a truck carrying chickens whiz by me

on the road into town.

The little fear comes back, inching

from my chest to my arms

and legs, up to my head.

It's hard to breathe.

Who will my teachers be?

Will the kids act differently this year

around me, toward me?

Will I make more friends?

Will Timothy come on time?

I can't just stand here and wait,

so I walk in a circle, taking big steps

like the astronauts on the moon.

They must have been more afraid

than I am now, but they

walked around the moon anyway,

and did what they had to do.

Finally, Timothy comes down the hill.

“Sorry I'm late,” he says, and hands me a Pop-Tart

that's still warm.

I stop walking, relieved to see him, and take a bite.

Then the bus rolls down the road

and thuds to a stop right in front of us.

The door folds open.

Timothy waits behind me.

Jitter legs

is standing at the bus stop,

scared that eighth grade will be just like seventh,

but knowing you have to get on the bus

and do what you have to do.