It's Not the End of the World (6 page)

"I don't know," I said. "I guess I am."

Mom sat down next to me and took my hand. "I wish it was easier for you to understand. Daddy and I just don't enjoy being together. We don't love each other any more. We love you and Amy and Jeff just the same, but not each other."

I took my hand away and fiddled with my chain belt.

"You're going to be a lot happier living in a house without constant fighting," Mom said.

I didn't say anything.

"You are, Karen. You'll see."

I nodded. If she was so sure, how come I didn't know it?

"Now let's go down to the kitchen and get dinner ready," Mom said.

We went downstairs together. Mew was on her favorite chair, bathing. She spends more time licking herself clean every day than I spend in the bathtub in a week.

On Sunday my father called for us at noon. Mom never comes to the door when she knows Daddy is outside. I don't know how I am going to get them back together when they never even see each other.

We went to visit Daddy's new apartment. He moved this week. The place is called Country Village and it has the kind of streets running through it where you can get lost pretty easy because everything looks the same. There are two swimming pools. One for Country Village East and one for Country Village West. My father's apartment is in West. Each section has four apartments. Daddy's is in building 12, upstairs on the right. It's all fixed up like a magazine picture. Everything is brown-and-white and very modern. The kind of stuff that Newman's Furniture Store sells.

"Well . . . what do you think?''Daddy asked.

"It's terrific!" Jeff said. "It's a real man's pad. I'd like to live here myself."

That reminded me of what Debbie said. That Jeff might not want to be the only male in our house.

"Well, son," Daddy said, "you can stay here any time you want. That sofa opens up and I've got two rollaway beds in the storage room." He looked at me and Amy.

"I'll bet you're glad you're in the furniture business, right, Daddy?" I asked. "I mean, suppose you had to go out and buy all this stuff!"

"I don't exactly get it free, Karen . . . but I do save a lot," Daddy said.

"Well, that's good," I told him.

After we saw the apartment there wasn't much to do. Amy sat down on the floor in front of the TV and Jeff looked through my father's magazines. I went into the kitchen for something to drink. Daddy followed me.

"How's your mother?" he asked.

"She's fine and you should see her, Daddy . . . she looks great. She got a new haircut and-"

Daddy didn't let me finish. He said, "What kind of soda do you want?"

"I don't care," I said. He opened a Coke.

"Daddy, are you still going to pay for us?" I asked.

"Pay for what?"

"Oh, you know . . . our clothes and food and stuff like that."

"Of course I am, Karen. The lawyers will arrange for your support, and alimony for your mother."

"What's alimony?"

"An amount of money I'll be paying your mother every month."

So Jeff really knew what he was talking about.

"Anyway," Daddy said, "who's been putting all these ideas about money into your head?"

"Nobody," I said. "I was just wondering."

"You're sure no one told you to ask me?"

"Of course I'm sure." Who did Daddy think would tell me that?

"Because there isn't anything for you to worry about. I want to make sure you understand that."

"Suppose I get sick on a Wednesday or a Sunday and I can't come out with you. Does that mean I won't see you that day?"

"If you're sick I'll come to see you."

"You'll come up to my room?"

"Of course."

"But what if Mom is home."

"Listen, Karen . . . your mother and I aren't going to go out of our way to see each other. But if there's an emergency we won't let our personal feelings interfere. Now promise me you aren't going to worry about anything."

"I'll try not to," I said. But I was already thinking about getting sick next Wednesday so Daddy will

have to come home. And once he's there he'll stay for dinner. Especially if I have a fever. How can I get myself a good fever? I wonder.

"There's a girl about your age in the apartment downstairs," Daddy told me. "I thought you might like to meet her."

"Oh . . . I don't know," I said.

"Her parents are divorced and she lives with her mother. They've been very nice to me since I moved in. I told her you'd be visiting today and she said you should come down. Her name is Val Lewis."

"Well ..." I said.

"It might be nice for you to have a friend here."

"Okay ... I guess ... if you think I should . . ."

"It's apartment 12-B, on the left. Do you want me to come with you?"

"No. Did you say her name is Val?"

"Yes. Val Lewis."

"What's she like?"

"Oh ... a little taller than you maybe and . . ."

"Not Val," I said. "Her mother!"

"Oh. She's a very attractive woman."

"Better looking than Mom?" I asked.

"In a different way. Why?" Daddy said.

"Just wondering," I told him.

I went downstairs and stood outside apartment 12-B. I wasn't sure if I wanted to meet this girl or not. Finally I rang the bell.

Val answered. "Oh, hi," she said. "I'll bet you're Karen."

"Yes . . . my father told me to come down."

"Come on in," Val said.

Daddy was right. She is taller than me. But not much. She has very long black hair and bangs that cover her eyebrows. Her eyes remind me of Mew's. They are the same color green.

"Excuse the mess," Val said when I walked into the living room. "I read the whole New York Times every Sunday. From cover to cover. I don't skip an inch!"

"That must take all day," I said.

"It does. And part of the night too. Let's go into my room."

I followed Val down the hall. "My father's only got one bedroom," I said.

"I know," Val told me. "All the apartments on the right have one bedroom and the ones on the left have two." When we got to Val's room she spread her arms. "It's small, but it's all mine," she said, pulling up her bedspread. "I never make the bed on Sunday," she explained.

"That's okay," I said. The bed was up against the wall. There was a pink bulletin board that said Val-erie on it hanging over the bed. She had a big desk with lots of drawers, plus a rug on the floor shaped like a foot, with toes and everything.

Val pulled her desk chair next to the bed and told

me to sit down. "My mother's asleep," she said. "I know she'd like to meet you but she was out very late last night."

"With my father?" I asked.

"Your father?" Val laughed. "What gave you that idea?"

"I don't know. I just thought that's what you meant."

"My mother only goes out with one man. Seymour Chandler. Do you know him?"

"No."

"He's very rich. My mother wants to marry him. Actually, my mother wants to marry anybody who's very rich."

"Oh," I said. I hope my mother won't be like that.

"She and my father have been divorced almost three years. My father lives in San Francisco."

"Have you been there to visit him?" I asked.

"No ... I haven't seen him since the divorce. He's a runaround and he drinks too much and his checks are late every month. Once my mother's lawyer had him picked up for nonsupport."

"My father isn't anything like that," I said.

"Sometimes the children are the last to know," Val told me.

"How did you find out about yours?" I asked.

"Oh . . . my mother spent the whole first year after the divorce telling me what a bum my father is."

"My mother keeps saying my father is a great person," I said.

Val laughed and said, "Uh-oh! Watch out for that."

"Why? What do you mean?"

"Because she's not being honest with you, that's what."

"How do you know?" I asked.

"It says so-right here." Val reached under her bed and came up with a book. She opened it and read, " 'If your mother never says bad things about your father it's because she thinks that it's better for you not to know about your father's faults. She may think that you can only love a person who is perfect.'" Val closed the book. "You see?" she said.

"What kind of book is that?" I asked.

"It's called The Boys and Girls Book About Divorce and it's just for kids like us. A doctor wrote it. I'm his greatest fan. I used to write to him once a week when I first got his book. He even answered me."

"Did your mother buy it for you?" I asked.

"No. I read about it in The New York Times and saved my allowance until I had enough. It's very expensive. It costs $7.95."

"For just one book?"

"Yes, but it's worth it. You ought to ask your father to get it for you. Wait a minute and I'll write down all the information." Val got up and went to

her desk. She wrote on a piece of notebook paper, then folded it and gave it to me. I put it in my pocket.

Val put the divorce book back under her bed and came up with another. "Do you know the facts of life?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"Oh. If you didn't I was going to say I'd be glad to tell you. I have a book about that too. See . . ." She showed me the book. It was a lot like the one I read at Debbie's.

"What grade are you in?" Val asked.

"Sixth," I said.

"I'm in seventh. I was twelve in September."

"I'm twelve too," I said. "We're just a few months apart."

"In age maybe," Val said. "But being in seventh grade makes a big difference. For instance, I wouldn't dream of liking a boy in my class."

"How come?" I asked, thinking about Gary Owens.

"Seventh-grade boys are babies. I like eighth or ninth-grade boys."

"My brother's in ninth grade," I told her.

"Oh ... I didn't know you have a brother."

"Yes, and a little sister too."

"Then you're the middle child?"

"Yes."

"Uh-oh! That's bad," Val said. "Middle children have all kinds of problems."

"Says who? "I asked.

"Everybody knows that. You're not the oldest and you're not the youngest. So you wind up with problems. The divorce will be harder on you than on them. But cheer up! I'm an only child. I have lots of problems too."

"Val . . . how do you know so much?" I asked.

"I told you," she said, "I read the entire New York Times every Sunday!"

Compared to Val, Debbie doesn't know anything. I don't think she's ever read The New York Times. And what does she know about divorce or alimony or support? Not much, that's for sure. It's funny how things can change all of a sudden. Now I have more in common with Val than with Debbie. Oh, we're still best friends but we don't see that much of each other outside school. Especially since Mrs. Bar-tell has decided Debbie needs dramatic lessons. She's going to get them every Saturday afternoon.

Now that Gary Owens has moved to Houston, Mrs. Singer's let me move my desk away from the wall and next to Debbie's. She said if there is any talking or giggling between us she will separate us again. It's too bad that Gary moved away without ever knowing that I've spent four whole months thinking about him. If I ever feel that way about a boy again I won't waste time. I'll let him know right off. At least I think I will.

We are studying about the Vikings this month. They were pretty interesting guys, but very mean. When they went into battle they acted absolutely crazy. They killed everybody, including the women and children. But they were smart too. For instance, they built great ships. We are going to make Viking dioramas. That sounds like fun, for a change.

This afternoon I tried to find out if Petey Mansfield talks. I waited until he and Jeff locked themselves up inside the hideaway. Then I crept up the stairs very quietly and stood outside Jeff's room, holding a glass to the wall. I pressed my ear against the bottom of the glass. Eileen told me this is the best way to try to hear something you're not supposed to.

It works too! First I heard them laughing. But then they switched on the record player and that was the end of it. All I got was an earful of music. If you ask me, Petey Mansfield can talk when he feels like it.

Debbie says if only I liked Petey we could have a double wedding. Meaning her and Jeff and me and Petey. I told her, "Ha-ha! I wouldn't marry Petey Mansfield if he was the last boy on earth." And anyway, I'm not getting married.

My mother is eating again. She goes around the house singing now. I still wonder if she's in love. I would like to get a look at this Mr. Hague because my mother has gone to his office a few more times, and once when I answered the phone it was him.

Last week Val told me that women getting divorces always fall for their lawyers.

Tonight at dinner Mom gave us some big news. "I'm going back to school," she said.

Amy practically spit out her lima beans. "To school?"

"Yes," Mom said. "That way I'll be able to get a better job."

"A job?" Jeff and I said together.

"Yes."

"You're really getting a job?" Jeff asked.

"I hope so," Mom told him.

"Doing what?" I asked. "Refinishing furniture?"

"No," Mom said. "That's what I'd like to do but I have to be more practical right now."

What kind of job will she get? What can she do? Maybe she'll be a cashier in the supermarket. Or maybe she'll be a cocktail waitress. That's what divorced women on TV always turn out to be- cocktail waitresses. Imagine my mother dressed in a skimpy costume! Suppose Debbie comes over while she's getting into her waitress clothes. Debbie will say, "Why is your mother dressed up like a Bunny?" And I won't tell her the truth. I'll say, "She's going to a costume party." Then Debbie will say, "Oh. She looks cute." But I'll know that she looks terrible.

"I don't know what kind of job I'm going to get," Mom said. "That's why I'm going back to school.

To take a course in typing and shorthand. I've signed up for an evening class at Seton Hall too. In English literature. The semester's half over, but I can still learn a lot."

"English literature!" Jeff said. "Why?"