My One Square Inch of Alaska (9781101602850) (7 page)

I stared at Mrs. Leis. Mrs. Denton—Jimmy’s mom—was the reason that Mr. Cahill had come to town to teach art? I searched for a subtle way to inquire further. But Mrs. Leis was again gently pulling apart Mr. Leis’s hands, in which the Dutch boy and girl shakers had heightened their ardor. Mrs. Leis distractedly ordered the blue plate specials, plus butterscotch pie for her, coconut cream for Mr. Leis. And more coffee—whenever-you-get-a-chance-dear.

I turned from their booth, stopped by one of Shirley’s tables, just vacated, and gathered up the plates, glasses, and silverware. I felt generous for having taken my time with
the Leises—I noticed at church that more people were starting to avoid them as Mr. Leis became more bizarre—and for clearing Shirley’s table, but Grandma had a different view. As I went into the kitchen with my armload of dishes, she followed me through the swinging doors.

“What were you doing, loitering at the Leises’ table?” she nagged, keeping her voice low so no one in the dining area could hear her. “And look at you, carrying a lazy man’s load!”

Ralph and Big Terry stopped chatting. Shirley grabbed a cloth and trotted out to the dining area, more eager than usual to wipe down her table.

“You have too big a head on you, girl,” Grandma hissed. “Just like your mother.”

I looked at Grandma, this small, round, soft-featured, puffy-haired woman—everyone’s idea of a grandma, if it weren’t for the perpetually sharp, angry set to her mouth. Everyone made excuses for her—poor-Dot-if-only-her-lazy-husband-hadn’t-lost-her-family-fortune-in-bad-deals-in-the-Depression-but-those-cakes-and-pies-and-diner-of-hers-are-so-good….

Suddenly, I didn’t see her as that.

I saw her as just plain mean.

Big Terry’s sizzling griddle, Ralph’s dishwashing clinks, the chime over the front door as a new customer entered—suddenly all of these sounds seemed muted, coming from a great distance, separate from this moment between Grandma and me.

“I don’t remember much about Mama,” I said quietly, “but I don’t remember her having a big head. I just remember
her as sad. Maybe because you always made sure to tear her down.”

Grandma’s hand whipped toward my face, but this time, instead of taking her slap, I jerked back. I lost my balance and my hold on the armload of dishes.

The plates spun on their edges on the hard concrete, ringing out in the split second before the crash, like the hum that comes after the last chord of a hymn on the church organ. Grandma lunged toward me, again trying to slap me as the dishware disintegrated, but I grabbed both of her wrists, stopping her hands in front of my face.

I was amazed by how thin and frail her wrists felt in my hands.

Her skinny fingers wiggled, like bird claws trying to gouge my face, even as she hissed in fear, “The good Lord punished your mama for her uppity ways—”

Shirley’s voice fluted through the order window. “There’s a customer here, says he specifically wants Donna Lane to wait on him.”

I immediately thought,
Mr. Cahill
. My face flared. Grandma’s eyes narrowed. My moment of triumph was over.

“
He
wants to see Donna?” she said, with lewd emphasis on that one little syllable. “Tell him I’m not running a brothel. If he wants that, he’ll have to go to Tangy Town.”

I still held Grandma’s wrists, but my head snapped back as if she’d broken free and slapped me after all.
Tangy Town.

The old chant I’d taught Will played in my head:
Sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me.
But I knew the chant was a lie.

Big Terry was saying, “Dot, now you’ve gone too far,”
and Shirley was saying, “But it’s Jimmy Denton who’s asking for Donna!”

At that, Grandma’s fingers stopped writhing. Her hands went still, limp, like I’d strangled the life out of them. But she gave me a long look, reassessing me. Of course I didn’t have to explain who Jimmy Denton was. Everyone in Groverton knew he was the son of Roger Denton, CEO of Groverton Pulp & Paper.

Grandma said slowly, “Well, Donna, you just go see what the young man wants.”

I headed out through the swinging kitchen door, and there was Jimmy, perking up in his booth at the sight of me. But I almost stopped in my tracks as I caught myself wishing that he was Mr. Cahill.

I
took my time getting to Jimmy’s booth.

He looked both shy and eager as he asked, “What’s today’s special?”

“Shit on a shingle,” I blurted. My hand went immediately to my mouth, as if I wished I could stuff the words back in, and I dropped my order pad and pencil.

We burst out laughing, then went for the pad and pencil at the same time and knocked heads. That just made us laugh even more.

Finally, Jimmy quickly scooped up the pad and pencil and handed them to me. I caught my breath and said, “That’s what our cook—the one besides Grandma, I mean—calls today’s special. Chipped beef and cream gravy on toast.”

Jimmy wrinkled his nose. “I think your cook has the right name for it.”

Suddenly, something inside me tightened.
As if you’ve ever eaten chipped beef and cream gravy on toast. Or leftover stew on rice. Or wondered how you’d make one supper’s worth of soup stretch into two watery suppers….

I pressed my pencil to the pad and snapped, “The cook makes a great club sandwich.”

“That sounds fine. And coffee.”

He couldn’t just be here, missing the football game, for a sandwich and coffee. This had to be about that scratch on his car, after all. But I played along. “You want Sanka?”

“Regular coffee is fine. I’m going to be up all night anyway, thinking of you.”

I snorted at that cheesy line. Hurt flashed in Jimmy’s eyes. He forced a self-conscious laugh, as if his attempt at flirting was just a joke. But he flushed.

It hit me: Jimmy Denton, son of the most powerful man in town, who had driven his own car all the way across the country, who seemed so worldly and sophisticated, was, without Hank’s bravado to hide behind, really just shy and awkward. So different than smooth, cool Mr. Cahill…

I flushed, stammered, “Cream? Sugar?”

“No. Just plenty of refills.” He smiled, encouraged by my flush and stammering, thinking it was about him. “I’m just looking for an excuse to stay here until you get off work.”

“Oh. Dot’s doesn’t close until ten o’clock, and then I’ll need to stay to help clean up.”

“Fine with me. I’m hoping I can give you a ride home—” Suddenly, Jimmy stopped talking and his flush flamed into a bright red. I caught that faint whiff of Grandma—grease, scouring powder, and too many dabs of Youth Dew perfume applied in an unsuccessful effort to cover the kitchen smells that were now part of her skin. She had just sidled up next to me.

I steeled myself for her anger, sure I was guilty of some sin or another, but not quite sure which one—saying shit on a shingle? flirting too much? not flirting enough?—but
when I looked at her, I was startled to see that Grandma was smiling.

“I was just about to let Donna off work. She deserves time—with pay, of course—with her friends.” Grandma gave me a chummy little pat on my forearm, leaving her thin, knotted fingers lightly on the top of my arm, while her thumb-dig into the back conveyed,
Stand up straight! Carry the Lane name with pride!
And a host of other admonitions usually reserved for Sunday-go-to-church-best. “Go ahead, dear. Sit down with your friend. I’ll have Shirley bring Jimmy’s club sandwich, and pie for you.”

I didn’t want pie. I didn’t want to be shoved at Jimmy like this.
If it weren’t for Will, I could just walk out of here, out of town, away from Groverton, Ohio, forever.

With that thought, guilt swooped down on me like a heavy cape, and I sank into the booth across from Jimmy. I put my notepad and pencil next to a rooster (pepper) and a hen (salt).
Mr. Leis would have a lot of fun with those.
I smiled a little at the thought.

Jimmy mistook my smile for encouragement. He said, “I hope you won’t hold it against me that your grandmother approves of me.”

I
did
like him. But I wasn’t about to make this easy for him. “I can think about getting over that, if you think you can get over the fact I didn’t instantly know how to handle your car like a pro race car driver.”

“I was a jerk, I know. That’s why I came in here, to apologize. I was worried about how I was going to explain that scratch to Dad.”

I could understand that—being afraid of an angry dad.

“I decided to tell him the truth—sort of. I said the accident happened after school, that I tried to teach this pretty girl who has me completely entranced how to drive, that the scratch on the car was really my fault.”

Pretty girl…completely entranced…
That made me smile, this time genuinely, at Jimmy.

But then fear washed over me again, and I drew in a sharp breath. “What did he say?” I held my breath, waiting for the answer.
Please don’t say he’s going to call Daddy.

Jimmy shrugged. “That I’d have to pay for the repairs.”

Oh. Maybe this was really why Jimmy came in, after all. “I can pay,” I said, keeping my voice strong, even as tears pricked my eyes at the thought of how much that would set me back.

He frowned. “No, no. You didn’t hurt the car beyond some surface damage”—he waved his hand, as if paying for those repairs was no big deal to him; and to him, I realized, it wasn’t—“and even if you had…well, I shouldn’t have been such a jerk.
That’s
why I came in.”

He reached into his denim jacket and pulled out a small white box, just as Shirley got to our booth. Quickly, I moved the box to my lap.

Shirley put Jimmy’s club sandwich and my slice of apple pie on our table. Grandma, of course, hadn’t asked what kind of pie I’d like. I thought,
I’d rather have coconut cream
. Such a simple thought, but it startled me a little, this notion that I could have opinions, and they should matter, and people should pay attention to them—even people like Grandma. Did my notion come from being around Jimmy, from my boldness in talking Mr. Cahill into a secret job,
from Mr. Cahill saying I had
potential
? I wasn’t sure. But I did know that I liked this notion.

“Anything else I can get for you?” Shirley asked, overly polite, annoyed that she was covering my tables—and of course Grandma wouldn’t pay her double.

“Listen, I’ll take some of your shift tomorrow—” I started, as Jimmy said, “No, thanks,” and Shirley stalked off.

Then Jimmy said, “I hope what I got you makes up a little bit for how I acted earlier.”

I looked at him. His expression was hopeful. He liked me…he wanted me to like him…simple enough. And yet it wasn’t. We were at most ten minutes into getting to know each other, and already our relationship—if we could even call it that—was burdened by unspoken expectations by Grandma, by what I guessed his parents would think of me, by the secrets I couldn’t share. My head suddenly whirled with all of that, plus the simple fact that I hadn’t eaten anything since the nibble of persimmon.

The thought of that made me blush anew. Jimmy gave me a shy smile, encouraged again by misreading my expression. I opened the lid to the plain white box and pulled out a pink heart-shaped bottle with a blue lid. The heart-shaped label read Blue Waltz Sachet. The gift seemed strangely intimate from someone so shy.

“After I dropped you off, I asked Babs what I should get you to show I was sorry, and she said you like this sachet powder, to put in your drawer of…”

Poor Jimmy. As he faltered, turning red, I could just hear what Babs had said:
Now Jimmy, she loves to sew little sachets, fill them up with this lovely powder—you can get it right
at the Woolworth’s in town—and put the sachets in her intimates drawer….

Somehow, she’d have managed to say it so sincerely, so convincingly, that Jimmy wouldn’t be embarrassed until he was actually giving me the gift, and imagining my
intimates
…. Bras. Slips. Panties.

I put my hand on Jimmy’s, a calming gesture, like I would do with Will, but a tingle ran through me that was anything but sisterly. The feeling jolted me right out of my impending giggles.

I caught my breath but managed to say, “Jimmy, this is a really sweet gift. Thank you.”

He looked relieved. “I’m glad.”

I pulled my hand away, suddenly awkward. I picked up my fork, took a bite of pie. I nearly moaned at the flavor, forgetting I’d have picked coconut cream, the crust and apple filling melting on my tongue. Grandma’s sweet pies would make a person nearly forget what a sour person she was.

Jimmy took the little flag—an orange paper triangle on a toothpick—out of his club sandwich, and bit in.

Somehow, quietly sharing a meal dissolved the awkwardness between us. We ate happily, without talking, until there was nothing left of my pie but a few crumbs, and nothing of Jimmy’s sandwich but the little flag. I picked up the flag, twirled it between my thumb and forefinger, and giggled after all.

“Share with the whole class, Miss Lane,” Jimmy said, in perfect nasal-y imitation of our English teacher.

My giggle turned into a real laugh, and I realized that in spite of all our awkwardness, I’d laughed more with Jimmy
that day than with anyone else in a week. “It’s just—this sandwich flag made me think of my little brother—” I stopped.
Dumb!
What boy wants to know that he’s worked up the courage to give sachet powder to a girl for scenting her
intimates
, and she’s suddenly thinking about her little brother?

But Jimmy said, “The one who wants to go to the Alaska Territory?”

He remembered. That made me soften even more toward him. “Yes. Will’s crazy about Alaska. Last year, he even made a diorama of Alaska for class, when it was supposed to be a diorama of Ohio, and got an F! And you know the Marvel Puffs cereal promotion, for the switch to television of the radio show
Sergeant Striker and the Alaskan Wild
?”

Jimmy shook his head.

“Well, if you were a ten-year-old boy like Will, you’d know. For ten Marvel Puffs box tops, you can send in for your very own official deed to one square inch of Alaska! I guess that’s all right, but he also has this crazy notion that he’ll visit his claim someday. This sandwich flag”—I waved it under Jimmy’s nose—“is just the right size for one square inch of land; that’s how silly one square inch is.”