The Divorce Express (5 page)

Friday afternoon. Fifteen minutes to pack my bags. I should have done it last night, but first there was homework, and then Rosie and I talked on the phone for about forty-five minutes. We’ve been doing that ever since we met. One of the pains about living in Woodstock is that it’s hard to visit friends without having your parents driving you there
and picking you up. My father’s obsessed with this painting he’s working on, so I haven’t wanted to ask him. Rosie’s mother has to work every night, since it’s still tourist season.

My father knocks at the door and says, “Phoebe, hurry up. You don’t want to miss the bus.”

I throw some stuff in my luggage. Books. Makeup. My favorite jeans. The football jersey that says
WOOD-STOCK. COLONY OF THE ARTS
. There’s not much to take, since I have things at the apartment.

I rush out to the car. Standing by it, my father says, “Look at the way the leaves are turning color. I’ve been so busy working that I haven’t really looked. Every year it starts and every year I’m stunned by the beauty.”

He’s right. Reds. Yellow. Oranges. Different shades of green. It makes me feel like I’m living in a kaleidoscope.

“It’s a shame you can’t stay this weekend. We could drive all over looking at the trees.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, sounding kind of lonely.

“Do you have plans this weekend?” I ask, not sure if I want to know.

He shrugs. “I think I’m just going to paint.”

Part of me would love to stay. The other part wants to go to New York City, to see Mom and Andy and Katie and the rest of the old gang.

Finally he says, “We better go.”

I throw my bags into the car and sit down. “When I come back Sunday night, let’s go out to dinner.”

“After a weekend of cooking for myself, that’ll be great.”

We drive into town, over winding roads. Living in the Catskill Mountains means not having a lot of flat roads.

Going over Tannery Brook Road, we enter the town. Since there is really only one main street in Woodstock, Tinker Street, that’s where most of the action is, especially in the summer and fall months.

There are scads of people on the street. A lot of tourists. Summer people. Greens people (the ones who sit on the Village Green playing music and hanging out). The Orange people (who belong to some religious group that says they should only wear orange—and now cranberry—they own some sort of religious center nearby). Zen Buddhists, who also have a center. Regular Woodstockers, who become outnumbered by the summer people and tourists.

We park the car behind Houst’s Hardware store. It’s so hard to find a parking space with all of these people. Now that I’m a full-time Woodstocker, I can see why some of them resent the tourists and summer people, although they bring in lots of money.

We walk out through the alley. The town’s so pretty—the little shops; a lot of them look like they must have when the village was first built.

Rosie’s already waiting. She rushes over. “The bus is going to be late again. We’ve got about a half an hour to kill.”

“Not again.” I move out of the way of a tourist family who are trying to walk next to each other on the narrow sidewalks. “Rosie, this is my father.”

“I’ve heard so much about you,” they say at the same time.

Rosie puts her arm around a woman who has walked over to us. “This is my mother.”

Rosie’s mother’s so beautiful. Long blond hair. Blue-violet eyes. Wearing a long patchwork skirt and leotard top, she looks like a model, except I know she’s not. Rosie told me she’s working as a waitress to earn money while she’s trying to write a children’s book.

Our parents shake hands and introduce them-selves.

“Jim.”

“Mindy.”

A guy with a camera around his neck comes up. He’s wearing plaid shorts and a striped top. “Could you please tell us where the Woodstock Rock Festival was held?”

Mindy explains that the festival never was really held in or near town, that the community didn’t want it, so it was held on some pig farm in Bethel.

The man thanks her and walks over to the Village Green to take pictures.

I say, “I’d better call Mom and tell her I’m going to be late, not to worry.”

My father says, “I’ll give her a call later.”

Rosie’s mother frowns. “You’d better call your father, Rosie. I think that either he or his wife will be home. And remind him that his check is overdue, that I haven’t received it yet.”

Rosie looks at me and crosses her eyes, careful that only I see.

I know that the three of them—her father, her mother, and her stepmother—don’t get along.

“Look,” says Rosie. “You don’t have to wait. I’ll call New York, and then Phoebe and I’ll go to the Laughing Bear Batik. I want to see if the shirt I love has gone on sale yet.”

“Okay, just don’t miss the bus,” the parents say, almost in stereo.

Rosie and I kiss our parents good-bye.

“Nice meeting you,” we say to each other’s parents, and leave.

We go into the News Shop to use the pay phone. Since it’s also the bus station, there are lots of different types of people sitting around. Most of the ones having coffee and something to eat at the counter are regulars. The people at the tables are sitting there with luggage, waiting for the bus, and reading, talking, eating.

In the back a few people are checking out the rack of newspapers and magazines. I recognize two boys from school who are sneaking looks at
Playboy
.

Rosie calls her father.

I try to reach my mother but she’s not home.

We walk through the crowd and head to the Laughing Bear.

We go inside. On the left side of the store is
Jarita’s Florist; the clothes are on the right. There’s no wall separating the two little shops. That makes it nice, a little crowded but nice.

We sort of walk in sideways. It’s small and crowded with people. The clothes are all different colors, dyed and batiked. One year I bought Katie’s birthday present here—a pair of pajamas with feet, decorated with stars, moons, and rainbows.

Rosie finds the shirt she wants. It still hasn’t gone on sale. It’s wonderful. Lavender with a unicorn batiked on it.

“Darn it.” Rosie sighs.

So do I. I’d love to buy it, too, but it’s more money than I can afford, especially since I’m still paying off the Krazy Glue incident.

The saleswoman walks up to Rosie and puts her arm around her shoulder. “I try to keep the shirt on the bottom so people don’t see it right away. The sale on summer stuff should start in a few weeks. Maybe it’ll still be here then.”

I come up with a solution. “Let’s pool our money, buy it together, and share the shirt. We can alternate weeks, or you can wear the back and I’ll wear the front.”

“No way. I may want to be liberated, but there’s no way I’m going to walk around with a frontless shirt.” Rosie smiles.

“Somehow I knew that.” I pick up the shirt. “So what do you think? We’ll buy it. You saw it first, so you wear it first. Take it this week.”

The saleswoman says, “Why not flip a coin? That’s what a lot of kids who share purchases do. I’ll flip. You call.”

Heads. I win.

We pay for the shirt. The saleswoman takes a penny off the price of the shirt so it comes out even.

As we leave the store I say, “I’ll wear it when I see Andy this weekend. Then I’ll wash it and give it to you so you can be the first person to wear it to school.”

The bus arrives.

We rush, getting in line.

The line’s not too long. Most people don’t want to leave Woodstock when the leaves are turning. There’ll be more people coming in this weekend and more leaving on Sunday.

Mostly kids are in line, about ten of them. There’s a little girl of about four holding on to her brother’s hand. He’s about seven. Two junior high girls are
trying to finish their ice-cream cones before they enter the bus, and the driver tells them to throw them away. I recognize one or two kids from our school. Rosie was right though. We’re among the oldest on the Divorce Express. Some of the older kids drive in themselves.

Rosie and I sit together.

With all of the kids on the bus it’s like a school trip.

The bus driver announces, “Cigarette smoking is allowed in the last four rows. There will be no smoking on this bus of any other substances, legal or illegal.”

The driver pulls out, careful not to hit any of the crowds crossing the street.

I wonder how my grandmother would have reacted to the driver’s announcement. I hope, if she ever comes up to visit, she takes the train, even though it would be a half hour drive to pick her up.

All the way to New York, Rosie and I talk about our weekend plans. I’m so excited about seeing Andy, Katie, and the other kids. It seems like forever. And none of us has called the other since we last saw each other two weeks ago. I was so busy with all the new
kids this week. Last time I saw the New York kids, they kept talking about all the work they had at the private school I used to go to. They kept making jokes about teachers I never had.

Rosie’s excited because her father’s playing tenor sax at a club and she’s going to hear him.

Two and a half hours later we go through the Lincoln Tunnel. It’s crazy, but we have to go through New Jersey to get to New York City. Even though I know it will never happen, I’m always afraid that the tunnel’s going to spring a leak.

The bus goes over some of the dirtier New York streets and pulls into the Port Authority building.

Everyone starts pulling luggage and bags off the overhead racks.

Outside some start to line up by the side of the bus, waiting for the driver to open the compartments that store the larger luggage.

Finally Rosie and I get out.

Lots of parents are waiting to pick up the little kids.

We walk through Port Authority. Crowds of people coming and going from buses. Waiting in lines. Sitting on chairs. Some of the people aren’t even going
anyplace. They just hang out. Bag ladies, carting all of their possessions in shopping bags or carts. There’s one guy who’s going through garbage cans, looking for something to eat. Cops patrolling. People selling flowers. Some little kid crying because his mother won’t buy him a pretzel. I wish they’d finish rebuilding this place. There are sections that are really nice, but I have to use one of the cruddy old sections.

Rosie rushes off to catch a subway train to Greenwich Village.

I get outside.

Fresh air. Well, at least semifresh air. Well, at least it’s air.

I take two buses to get to Mom’s Upper East Side apartment. The bus on the East Side is very different from the one on the West Side. Actually the buses aren’t different, just the people. It’s hard to explain. You see a lot more people wearing initial clothes on the East Side—the alphabet-soup gang.

I have to stand, the bus is so crowded. My bag keeps hitting the person standing next to me.

Finally I get off at my stop.

Wilbur, the doorman, is on duty. He’s my favorite. I’ve known him since I was a little kid. He’s always
been real nice to me, sort of like a grandfather. Both of mine died before I was born, so he’s the closest thing. Once I told that to Grandmother Brooks, and she said, “Ridiculous. How inappropriate to think of a common doorman as a grandfather of yours.”

I’m glad that I hardly ever see her much. Since she’s moved to Florida, all we usually get are letters and phone calls.

Wilbur opens the door. “Hi, Phoebe. How’s it going? Glued any desks down lately?”

I put down my suitcase and stop. “No more. It caused too sticky a situation. I’ve reformed.”

He groans, and I say, “How’s it going with you?”

“I can’t complain. The missus and I just got back from a vacation. We visited our daughter and her kids in Spirit Lake, Iowa.”

It’s kind of weird to think of Wilbur having a life outside the apartment lobby.

Looking around to make sure that no one can hear him, he whispers, “People in this building are really fighting, now that there’s talk about going co-op.”

Going co-op. That means that apartments that were rented may now have to be bought, like houses,
with maintenance fees instead of rent payments. The owners will also have to pay mortgages. My mother likes the idea, thinks it would be a good investment as long as her business continues to do well. I worry though that some people may be evicted, especially some of the poorer people and some of the older people on fixed incomes.

He shakes his head. “Neighbors yelling at neighbors. I’ve never seen the building like this. People not speaking to each other, pretending that they don’t see each other. I like New York better whenever there’s an emergency, like a power failure. At least then, the people band together and aid each other.”

I think about Woodstock and how whenever there’s a problem, people hold benefits, auctions, and concerts and help each other out.

He says, “You better go up now. Your mother’s called down here twice to see if you’ve arrived. I’ll call her on the intercom and tell her that you’re on your way.”

I pick up my bag and wave good-bye as I hear Wilbur say, “Mrs. Brooks, your pride and joy is on the way up.”

Oscar, the mean elevator man, is on duty so I don’t
say a word to him. The only time he’s nice is around Christmas, when it’s time for tips.

My mother’s waiting for me, with the door open.

We hug.

She hugs me so tight, I feel like my ribs are going to break. It’s nice being loved, but I hate to be bruised.

When she lets go, I kiss her on the cheek, walk in, drop my bag in the foyer, and head for the kitchen. “I’m starved. What’s to eat?”

“I stocked up with all your favorite snacks. But first please put your bag away. Does your father let you leave a mess?”

Parents.

I put the bag in my room and then we sit down and talk.

As my mother tells me about her latest client, some guy who wants his Fifth Avenue apartment redecorated after his divorce, I notice that her hair’s getting grayer. It’s weird to think about parents getting older.

I tell her about Rosie and how I’m starting to make new friends. I don’t mention how wonderful Woodstock looks with the leaves starting to turn colors. That was the only time she liked it up there, except for when she went antiquing.