Paint Me a Monster (13 page)

A hug fest erupts. Minnie, the bus driver, yells at us to sit down.

No one from my cabin is on the bus, but I know most everyone. My eyes are dry. All my “good-byes” were said at camp. I get to see Verna and Croquette in four hours, and tonight we’ll go out for dinner like we always do the first night someone gets home from camp. Yay! Liz will be home in two days. She took a detour to her best camp-friend’s house. Mom says it’s her last fling before starting private school. I wonder what my last fling will be.

It’s 7:30 A.M. when I get to the departure gate and hardly anyone is there. By the time the plane is ready to board, the only other passengers are four men dressed in business suits and a military guy who has been reading a worn-out book about Marilyn Monroe. Sitting next to him on a bench is a handsome, lanky boy with dark hair and a baggy white shirt that camouflages his loose jeans. It looks like a rope is holding his pants up.

Where is my doofus brother? He’s supposed to be here, and he’s not. The plane is about to board. Where is he? Damn, I’m hot, and I want to take off my sweater. But my hands are filled with the three-pound bag of pistachio nuts Mom sent to camp, a handful of comic books, my purse, and see-you-next-summer letters to read on the plane. I walk by the handsome guy. He’s watching me. There is something familiar in his face. Is it his eyes, the color of brown M&M’s? I walk past him again and stop to tie my shoe, taking in his angled face and candy eyes.

“Hi,” I say, standing in front of him. “Going to Cincinnati?”

“Well, it’s about time,” rebounds the voice. “What took you so long?”

“Evan, EVAN? Is that you?”

“Duh. I wondered when you’d notice.”

“Oh m-my God,” I can’t get the words out.

“Look!” I say to the serviceman. “Look at my brother! He’s gorgeous! Don’t you think he’s gorgeous? He’s so skinny! Isn’t he cute?”

Evan jumps up, grabs the dusty duffle bag by his feet, and then my arm. His pants drag on the ground.

“Come on Rinnie, we gotta board.”

My feet trip on themselves as I move forward. “He’s lost tons of pounds!” I shout. “He’s my brother. Doesn’t he look great?”

“Shut up. You’re such a weirdo.”

I follow Evan to our seats. He reaches in my bag for the comic books, and I let him.

“You look great! How much weight did you lose? How did you do it?”

“I dunno. I took the thyroid pills Dr. Edison gave me, and the counselors made me do everything: swim every day, play baseball, volleyball, go mountain climbing, waterskiing, horseback riding. . . . They wouldn’t let me eat sugar, butter, and white bread sandwiches—or desserts.”

“Did you care about no desserts? No s’mores?”

“Nu-uh. I was too busy. The more weight I lost, the more fun stuff I wanted to do. Look.”

Evan uncrumples a piece of paper with a chart on it. It has his weight on it for every week of camp and a line that moves nearly straight down.

“I lost forty-three pounds.”

“That’s almost half of me!” Evan was a tubbo, but I don’t rub it in.

“You were cute in a round sort of way before camp. But now, you’re going to need a little black book and new sneakers.”

“What for?” Evan says, looking at his dirt-splattered shoes.

“The girls are going to chase you. Good thing you can run now.”

“Girls! I’m only eleven!” he boy snorts. “When I run, it’ll be playing baseball!”

Mom, Dad Barry, Evan, and I are at the top of the stairs looking at family photographs on the walls and waiting for Emmy’s call to dinner. Instead, the phone rings, and Emmy calls for Liz. A boy named Donny Glover wants to speak with her.

Red-haired Donny Glover, tall junior high school basket-ball star and not-so-secret crush is on the phone for Liz. When Liz hangs up the phone, she glows red. Donny Glover wants to take her to a movie. It is her first date.

“Wahooey!” Dad Barry shouts, and he slides down the stairs on his stomach.

Croquette scrams out of his way.

“Wahooey. Liz is going on her first date!”

I look up and the first thing I see is Evan’s face. He hangs his tongue out the side of his mouth, grips it between his teeth and winks one eye. The game is on. I have to catch him looking at me, wink, stick my tongue out at him, and then look away before he can do it back to me. But I’m too slow.

“Got you last!” Evan’s hand skims my fingertips.

Oh, a doubleheader! He made the face and touched me. Evan hides behind Mom, knocking her umbrella from her hand. The stairs to the National Archives are slippery from the drizzle and make a getaway difficult. Mom is the perfect shelter. Evan knows there’s no way I’ll bee-buzz around her and risk our game, or the day’s calm. This is our first vacation with Dad Barry. His arm is around Mom’s shoulders. I can’t get to Evan. He’s perfectly guarded. We’ve played this game for years.

Liz stops to read from a brochure. “The National Archives building in Washington, D.C., was built in 1934. Its records date back to 1774 and include the Declaration of Independence, the United States Constitution, and the Bill of Rights.”

“That’s about 194 years older than you,” Dad Barry says. “Keep walking. Let’s get out of the gloom.”

Two giant vases stand at the top of the stairs.

“Rinnie, these Oriental urns are as tall as you,” Dad Barry says, stopping to measure us both as I skim past.

“They’re stunning,” Mom says, stooping to take a closer look.

A man in a blue uniform and a brimmed hat with gold trim approaches us. “We’re proud of these,” he says. “They are very old. Ancient, actually. It’s remarkable we have a matched set.”

“Come on, I want to see the Declaration.” I rush to the entrance. When Evan passes me, I poke his leg with my foot. “Got you last,” I whisper, and walk inside.

The ceiling towers above me and I wonder what kind of ladder the painter used to reach it. Bronze and glass cases hold documents with fancy pointed letters. A sign says the cases are filled with helium and can be lowered into a fireproof and shockproof safe in case of danger.
That is so cool.

“Liz, look at the signatures!” I say, hunting for one I recognize—Benjamin Franklin! I can see his hand dipping a quill pen into a pot of ink. I hear the feather scratch on paper, and my eyes zigzag along the looped lines that follow Ben Franklin’s signature.

“John Adams, Samuel Adams, John Hancock—pretty impressive,” Liz says.

The five of us gawk at maps and hundreds of official papers. The paintings of famous people and of battles stoke our imaginations for most of the afternoon.

Once outside the building, Evan’s on my trail again. I face him and step backward; my arms extend like spokes. Closer and closer, Evan slinks toward me, ready to pounce. I shift my weight and my slip-on shoes give way under the wet marble. Something jams hard into my back. My body flails and my arms push against it, sending it crashing down the stairs. The echo explodes like thunder. It’s the urn—the very old, ancient actually, porcelain urn.

“Hurry, hurry! We have to get out of here,” I yell. I dart to Mom and pull her arm.

Her hands cover her mouth. She’s frozen. Dad Barry is still inside.

“Come on!” I yell.

Too late. The man in the blue uniform and gold-trimmed hat hovers over Mom. She flutters her arms in the air. Maybe she wants to fly away. The deep voice of the guard is low, but I hear him ask, “S-H-E-R, correct? Where are you staying?” For a minute, I’m glad my last name is Gardener. Then I look at the wreckage. Can I dig myself out? Dad Barry comes and takes my hand. The guard escorts Mom toward us with a brisk motion.

“We’ve been told to leave and not return,” Mom says. She hustles us to the taxi stand at the bottom of the stairs and lights a cigarette.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t see it,” I say.

“Enough is enough! You and that stupid game! You’re so immature!” she snaps, and looks at me hard. “You almost sent us to jail. It’s always something with you. What is your problem?”

“What about Evan?” I say.

“You’re older, you should know better,” Mom says. She’s almost purple. “I’m absolutely mortified.”

The only calmness about her is the long draws on her cigarette. I’m glad Dad Barry is here, even if he doesn’t talk.

“When we return home, you will write a letter of apology to every member of the board of directors. You’ll have plenty of time to do it because you’re grounded young lady,” Mom says through gritted teeth. “You’re supposed to be a mature example for your brother.”

I am, just not one you like.

Liz flashes an “I’m glad I’m not you” look and whispers, “How could you not see the urn? It was almost as big as you.”

I shrug and whisper back, “I didn’t see it, OK?”

Dad Barry helps us with homework and talks to us about what’s going on in our lives. He doesn’t try to be interested. He really is.

Grandma Sher is making good on her promise. She stands at our stove filling blintz skins and browning them in butter. A dish towel hangs at her waist, smeared with jam and cheese. There must be a zillion calories on her towel. My mouth weeps at the smell.

“Are they ready, Grandma? Did you make a lot? Will you show me how to roll a blintz?”

“Slowly does it,” she says, spreading a spoonful of sweet cheese across an empty shell. We don’t want to tear the wrappers.” Grandma shows me how to use two forks to fold each side in, sort of like making a bed. Carefully, Grandma puts the pale-filled pancake into the sizzling butter and lifts out a speckled golden one.

The kitchen counters are dredged with flour, sugar, dirty bowls, and melted butter. Verna isn’t here to clean the mess. Mom paces around Grandma, confining her to the stove. The olive-green kitchen carpet is powdered white with flour and footprints. We’re the only family I know with carpet in the kitchen, and I bet Mom is sorry about that now. When Grandma talks, Mom lights up a cigarette and pretends she doesn’t hear. Dad Barry whispers in Mom’s ear, and they move toward the door. His voice is soft, but his look is serious. Mom’s eyes get squinty. Her hands are on her hips, and her lips move fast.

“Brunch is ready,” Grandma says, waiting for everyone to sit down before she abandons her post. Dad Barry and Grandma talk, but we kids eat the blintzes while they are hot. Mom sips coffee, cup after cup.

It’s my fourteenth summer. Evan’s eleven, and for the past year there’s been talk of him leaving home and going to live with our father. No one asks me what I think, but I have been extra nice (most of the time) to Evan so he will want to stay. Although Dad lives only a mile from us, we don’t see him as much as I would like. Officially, we’re supposed to be with him every weekend—on Sundays. Unofficially, we visit only if we finish the chores Mom assigns that morning, before Dad arrives to pick us up. Although the maids come almost every day, we still have to clean the house: vacuum, empty ashtrays, dust, straighten the rooms, and be sure Mom’s had her two cups of coffee, with cream and sugar, in bed before we’re permitted to leave. Dad Barry misses chores. He works at Temple, in the office, on Sunday mornings.

“Should we wake Mom?” I venture, knowing that could be disastrous.

“Well if she sleeps in, we miss Dad,” Liz says. “I wish he’d come back later.”

“He can’t. He has his tennis game. I have an idea—a really good one!”

Fifteen minutes later, I place a carafe of steaming hot coffee and a small container of cream and one of sugar on Mom’s nightstand. “This way she can pour it herself,” I say, patting myself on the back, but not for long. The aroma of coffee stirs Mom to life. She leans forward on her elbows, glances at the nightstand and collapses onto her back.

“What’s that?” Mom says.

“Look, Mom, now you can have your coffee whenever you’re ready. You don’t have to wait for us to get it. There’s sugar and cream and a little napkin, too,” I say.

“OK, smarty-pants.”

Here we go.

This isn’t going to work. Mom’s voice follows the back-and-forth rock of her head.

“I’m not ready for my coffee. I’ve only been up ten seconds. And by the time I get ready, the coffee will be cold. I want one of you girls to bring the coffee when I ask and check back fifteen minutes later. If the cup is empty, then it’s time for the second cup. What’s so hard about bringing me hot coffee? Two cups please.”

It’s February. The cold outside seeps inside, too. Dad Barry has helped warm up the house by smothering frustration with laughter. Things loosen up after he marries Mom. It’s good and then it’s bad. It takes nineteen months, and then the pretty ribbon that wraps us together unravels. Mom prefers Carl, the house painter. Carl with the twinkly-blue eyes, tan skin, blond hair, easygoing hello, and smile with an open slot for a missing tooth. Carl has something Dad Barry doesn’t. Mom says Dad Barry isn’t man enough for her. I’m not sure what that means.

Evan wants to move to Dad’s house. He can’t stand the sadness and dishonesty. He hasn’t learned how to forge a wall of steel between himself and other people yet. He doesn’t know how much strength five hundred calories a day gives you. But I do. Every calorie I don’t eat is a deposit in the “Bank of Being Me.” It makes me stronger. I haven’t saved enough yet. Mom says she needs a getaway, and she wants me to be in the getaway car with her. I don’t get a vote about divorcing Dad Barry, and I don’t get a vote about keeping Mom company in Colorado.

Liz is at Gaga and Pop Pop’s while Mom and I are in Colorado.

It’s odd being alone with Mom. My grandparents are the ones who take me on trips. I use the time to explain to Mom why she can’t see Carl.

“The lawyer says it’s the surest and fastest way to lose Evan. You won’t have a chance to keep Evan if you have a relationship with Carl.” What judge would give custody to a mother who runs around with a boozer, while she’s still married to someone else? I don’t say this last sentence.