Beat the Turtle Drum Read online

  “It all adds up to a terrible lot,” she said, sighing.

  “Maybe you better forget the whole thing,” I told her.

  Joss made a fist which she shook at me. “You make me so angry,” she said. “This is the dream of my life, to have my own horse. I would do it if I had to work like a slave for a whole year to get the money. It’s my life’s ambition.”

  “How do you know when a horse’s muscles are sore?” I asked her, to change the subject. Usually Joss is calm, cool, and collected. Only once in a while does she go berserk—when I tease her about the horse and when she plays cards and does something stupid that causes her to lose. Then she clutches her forehead and staggers around the room, shrieking vengeance. When she does this, my father says she reminds him of Eleonora Duse, who was a famous Italian actress at the turn of the century. Before his time. He’s heard plenty about her emoting, though, from his father.

  “He limps, same as you and me,” Joss said. She was explaining about the sore muscles. “You have to treat it with hot and cold compresses. Same as a human. They’re a lot like humans, you know.”

  “I heard they were the dumbest animals going,” I said. “They’re so dumb they don’t know enough to come in out of the rain.”

  Joss shrugged. “They like the rain,” she said. “They like nature. If more people liked nature, this would be a better world.”

  I went to the telephone to call up Sam and ask him for the math assignment. Once Joss got started on nature and how people didn’t appreciate it, she was a nonstop talker. I figure if conservation is still a big thing when Joss reaches maturity, she might major in it at college.

  “Sam’s not home now, Kate,” his mother said. “He went to the library to do some research. I’ll tell him you called.”

  “It’s not really important,” I said. Sam and I are a week apart in age. I’m older. When Sam gets feeling like a really big wheel, I remind him of the fact. It doesn’t do much good. Sam is actually the smartest boy I know. Which is good because he’s not much to look at. Sam is homely. He has about eight cowlicks that make his hair grow all funny, and he has to wear thick glasses. If you see Sam and his father and older brother together, it’s comical, they look so much alike. I’m afraid there’s not too much hope that Sam will get better-looking. On the other hand, with him I don’t think it’s going to make a whole lot of difference.

  “Tell him I might call back,” I said.

  “Not between seven and eight, please,” Sam’s mother said firmly. Sam’s father comes all over queer if his kids get phone calls during dinner, Sam says. Most times he’s very even-tempered, but this is one thing that irritates him.

  “O.K.,” I said and hung up.

  The next day was Saturday. After breakfast we rode our bikes over to Essig’s.

  Mrs. Essig was on the front porch, shaking a rug over the railing. It was fascinating to watch. When she shook the rug, all the rest of her shook. Arms, chest, cheeks, and chin. I supposed her rear end was shaking too, but her jeans were so tight they held her in like a tourniquet.

  “What’s up, kids?” she called.

  “We just want to look at the horses,” Joss said. She had about decided on Prince. Prince whinnied when Joss called him. He also came when she called. Maybe the fact that she always brought him a treat—a carrot or apple or lump of sugar—had something to do with Prince’s coming.

  Mr. Essig came out of the old shed that served as a barn. “You kids make up your mind yet? Don’t forget. One half when you decide, one half on delivery. I’m kinda short now. I could use the half if you made up your mind.”

  “I don’t have the money yet,” Joss said. She held out a gnarled carrot, and Prince came to the fence and ate it. “My birthday’s not until next month. I’m getting the money then.”

  “Prince is everybody’s favorite. Gentle as a lamb. Some horses kick, bite, like that. Not old Prince.” Mr. Essig smiled. That was quite a sight. He had about ten teeth in his head. They were broken and dark brown.

  “I’ll give you half as soon as I get it,” Joss said.

  Mr. Essig made a sweeping gesture with his right hand. “That’s O.K., babe, I’ll put a ‘Reserved’ sign on Prince so’s nobody else’ll get him. Don’t you worry none. Bert Essig’s as good as his word. Cross my heart and hope to die.”

  “Come on in and have a cuppa coffee,” Mrs. Essig called to us. “I got a fresh pot on the stove, you want some.”

  Our mother has a thing about kids drinking coffee. She thinks it’s bad for us, all that caffeine. We’re not allowed to drink it at home. Actually, I don’t even like coffee very much. But I could feel Joss tugging at my sweater.

  “Let’s,” she whispered. “I want to. Please.”

  We went. Mrs. Essig swabbed down the kitchen table with a sponge. Their bathroom was right off the kitchen. I could hear the toilet flushing. A lady almost as fat as Mrs. Essig came out. She had on a lot of eye make-up and the most fantastically long eyelashes I’d ever seen. Her hair was black, as black as a raven’s wing. Had I read that somewhere? If it was original, I might use it in my next poem.

  “My girl friend Sheila. Sheila, this is Joss and Kate. Pull up a chair and make yourselves homely.” Mrs. Essig poured the coffee into mugs. “Milk?” she asked.

  We said yes, please, and she put the carton on the table and shoved the sugar bowl toward us.

  “That’ll put hair on your chest,” Mrs. Essig said. “When I make a pot of coffee, I don’t fool around.”

  Sheila couldn’t take her eyes off us. Especially Joss. We’d been taught that staring was rude. I discovered if the stared-at stares at the starer long and hard, the starer gives up. Not Sheila. She made me nervous.

  Mrs. Essig asked me questions about where we lived, if we were the only two kids in our family. “You date yet?” she asked me.

  “I go to parties,” I said.

  “I started dating when I was twelve,” she said proudly. “I could’ve passed for sixteen. I had a figure even then.” She started to refill my cup.

  “That was delicious,” I said truthfully. “Could I have just a half?”

  “I know who you remind me of,” Joss said suddenly, looking at Sheila. “I’ve been thinking and thinking, and I know who it is.”

  Sheila blinked. Those eyelashes were heavy. She could hardly get them back up off her cheeks.

  “Who?” she said.

  “Elizabeth Taylor,” Joss said. We’d seen Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? last week on TV. “I bet people ask you for your autograph all the time.”

  It was like feeding a guard dog a piece of rare meat. The hostility drained out of Sheila in a rush. She smiled. Mrs. Essig laughed and laughed. Sheila frowned.

  “You got yourself a friend for life, kid,” Mrs. Essig said. “Another cup?”

  “No, thanks, we’ve got to go,” I said. Sheila ran her hands over her hairdo and smiled again. “Nice to meet you,” she said to Joss. She didn’t say anything to me.

  We got on our bikes and rode away.

  “Were you serious?” I asked Joss. “Did you really think she looked like Elizabeth Taylor? I thought she was a mess.”

  We stopped for a red light.

  “I read somewhere that if you tell a person they’re beautiful—well, they get beautiful,” Joss said. “I wanted to see if it worked. She was better-looking when we left than when we got there.”

  The light changed. Pedaling up Comstock Hill took some work. When we reached the top, I thought about what Joss had said.

  The next time I saw Sam, I’d tell him he reminded me of Paul Newman. If I knew Sam, he wouldn’t buy it. If he even knew who Paul Newman was.

  When I told Mrs. Essig I went to parties, I was exaggerating. In the past year I’ve been to one party. With boys, that is. Despite the fact that young people are supposed to grow up much faster than in my parents’ day, know about sex and related subjects, and experiment with drugs and alcohol, I have led a very sheltered life. Along with almost all
my friends. We’re in the seventh grade, and only two kids I know have smoked pot. Nobody I know has an alcoholic mother or father. Five kids in my class have divorced parents, but once the initial shock was over, they handled it all right.

  As for sexual experience, I can only speak for myself. I have had none. No boy has ever put the moves on me. And if one did, I’d belt him from here to the moon.

  “Kate, you do know about how babies are born, don’t you?” my mother said to me when I was about eight. She’d been slipping me hints for years. Now she was checking to see if everything had fallen into place in my mind. Actually the whole thing wasn’t entirely clear. But I wasn’t going to put both of us through that ordeal, so I said, “Sure, Mom,” and she was so relieved she looked as if the dentist had just told her she didn’t have any cavities.

  Sometimes I feel fortunate that the vicissitudes of life have passed me by. On the other hand, I feel cheated too. If I’d been more exposed to the seamy side of things, I would undoubtedly write more realistic poems and plays. You take Eugene O’Neill or Tennessee Williams. I bet when they were my age they’d been around some, seen a few sights.

  Once Sam and Joss and I were walking in the woods back of our house, near the parkway bridge. We found a whole bunch of dirty pictures. I suspect they were stashed there by Jim Schneider for future reference. Jim was always making suggestive remarks about girls’ figures and stuff. His father subscribed to Playboy magazine, I understand. Anyway, I can still remember those pictures, even though Sam and I were about ten and Joss was eight. They were of people copulating. I’d never seen pictures like that, but somehow you just know, even at that tender age. We checked them all out carefully, to make sure we didn’t miss anything.

  Joss said, “Heck, I’ve seen plenty of animals doing that. If that’s all there is to it, what’s the big fuss about?”

  We put the pictures back where we’d found them. First, we tore them in half neatly, though. That gave me a lot of satisfaction. Let Jim Schneider paste them back together if he wanted.

  I think if the same thing happened to us today, or at least to Sam and me, we might react differently. We might be more embarrassed. I don’t know. It’s just a thought.

  I’m starting to keep a journal of my daily thoughts. I think it’s good training and also may be useful when I start to really write. Just the other day I read a book review. The reviewer called it “crisp, natural, and persuasive.” I only mention this because the author was seventeen.

  Imagine having a book published at seventeen! Only four years older than I am.

  I better get going.

  “Kate, will you run this package over to Miss Pemberthy?” my mother said. “United Parcel left it here yesterday. She wasn’t home, and he didn’t want to take a chance on someone stealing it.”

  “Oh, Mom,” I said. I didn’t like going over there, for any reason at all.

  “There’s a good girl. Bread cast upon the waters,” my mother said. Whenever she tried to con me into doing something I didn’t want to, she said that.

  The air smelled of apple blossoms and garden fertilizer. It wasn’t a night to be mad at anyone. I took Miss Pemberthy’s porch steps two at a time. Lucky I had on my sneakers. I planned to knock, drop the box, and run.

  “Come in, come in,” Miss Pemberthy said, flinging open the door. She must’ve been spying on me.

  “The United Parcel left this at our house,” I said. “My mother asked me to bring it over.”

  “Come in,” she said again. As if I were mesmerized, I followed her into the dark hall.

  “When one lives alone, one must be careful. It’s so easy to resort to alcohol,” Miss Pemberthy said. She had a pitcher half full and a cocktail glass on a table. “That’s why I’m very strict with myself. One martini and one alone before my evening meal.” She smiled at me. “What can I get you?”

  I didn’t want anything. All I wanted was to leave. Before I knew what had happened, she’d put a glass of ginger ale into my hand.

  “Thank you,” I said. “I really can’t stay.” If I didn’t sit down, it would be easier to escape. I never could figure out why leaving a place you don’t want to be in in the first place is so hard. “It’s almost dinnertime.”

  Miss Pemberthy sat in her rocker and took a long sip of her martini.

  “How old are you now, Kate?” Miss Pemberthy asked me. I hadn’t known she knew my name.

  “Thirteen,” I said. “That is, I’ll be thirteen in September.”

  “Thirteen,” Miss Pemberthy said slowly. She took another sip and refilled her glass. That was some big martini.

  “I was thirteen when my mother died. I remember it as if it were yesterday.” Her eyes looked through me, past me, at something I couldn’t see. “I made up my mind I would keep house for my father, make him forget, make him happy again.

  “I tried very hard to make him happy. He got married less than a year after my mother died. He married a woman he’d known a short while. They shut me out. They forgot I was there. He always called my mother ‘Dearest.’ Now he called this woman, his new wife, he called her ‘Darling.’”

  “My father usually calls my mother ‘Honey,’” I said. I sat down on the edge of a chair covered in a hairy brown fabric that scratched my legs. I didn’t want to sit down, I just did. But then, I didn’t want to feel sorry for Miss Pemberthy either, and I did. I wished she’d stop talking, stop telling me these things.

  “When he teases her, he calls her ‘the little woman.’ She really hates to be called that. She gets mad.” I laughed as if I’d said something terribly funny. “She jumps up and down and says, ‘Stop that!’” Which wasn’t true, but I said it anyway. I put my glass very carefully down on a table.

  “He called her ‘Darling’ every time he turned around.” Miss Pemberthy went on as if she hadn’t heard me. “They kissed right in front of me. I felt I was in the way. It’s a terrible thing, to feel in the way in your own house. My stepmother was kind to me. She wasn’t wicked. He gave me money for books and clothes, but he didn’t really know I was around.” Miss Pemberthy emptied the pitcher into her glass. I got up and inched toward the door.

  “I hear my mother calling,” I said. “Goodbye,” I said and ran.

  The night was there, waiting for me. How glad I was to be out in it! I threw open my arms and ran, ran as fast as I could toward my own house. The lights were on, and in the dusk I could see my father coming up from the garage, his newspaper tucked under his arm.

  I hurled myself at him.

  “What’s up?” he asked in surprise.

  “Nothing, Dad,” I said. I hugged him until he grunted.

  “To what do I owe this display of affection?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I just felt like it.”

  “Joss,” I said, “remember Jean-Pierre?” Last night she’d had another of her bad dreams. I wanted to see if she’d remember the next morning. Sometimes she didn’t. When she woke, her brain was washed clean of any memory.

  “Sort of,” Joss said. “I loved him a lot.”

  When Joss was small, around four or five, she’d had an imaginary friend named Jean-Pierre. Nobody knew where she got the name. We don’t have any French ancestors. Jean-Pierre came everywhere with us—to the tree fort we built in the old apple tree in our back yard, to the bathroom where Joss had a terrible time making him brush his teeth, and even out to restaurants.

  My father took us out for spaghetti Sunday nights to the Arrow Restaurant in Westport. You could eat at the Arrow until you burst and it hardly cost anything. The Arrow was my father’s favorite restaurant. Not only was it cheap but you didn’t have to dress up.

  The first time we went, Joss told the waiter that Jean-Pierre needed a high chair. “He’s not as big as me,” she said.

  The waiters at the Arrow are family men with experience. Nothing fazes them. This one brought a high chair and stood with his hands on his hips while Joss fitted Jean-Pierre inside. Then he handed
Joss a big paper napkin.

  “Better tuck this in good,” he told her. “At that age they’re awfully messy.”

  Joss said, “You are a very, very nice man.”

  People were looking at us and smiling.

  “Don’t slurp, Jean-Pierre,” Joss said sternly.

  One night we talked our mother into letting us spend the night out in our tent in the back yard. We carried all our stuff down, our sleeping bags, a can of insect repellent, some eggs and bacon for breakfast, and a lantern.

  “I’ll leave the back door open, just in case,” Mom said. We knew she’d probably sit up all night to see nothing happened to us.

  “In case what?” Joss wanted to know.

  “In case it rains or thunders or you decide to come in.”

  “Oh, we won’t get scared,” Joss said. “Jean-Pierre will take care of us. There’s nothing he’s afraid of, is there, Jean-Pierre?”

  Joss nodded and smiled at him. “He says, ‘Never fear’—he’s spent the night out plenty of times. Sometimes it’s scary if an owl starts hooting. Or if a raccoon sticks his head inside the tent. Or if a skunk comes around. But Jean-Pierre will take care of us. What’s that?”

  Joss bent down to listen to what Jean-Pierre had to say. He was able to change his size at will. Sometimes he was bigger than Joss, bigger than me, sometimes he was a tiny baby. It was a very handy trick.

  “Jean-Pierre says it might be a good idea to leave the back door open, Mom,” Joss said. “He said he might have to come inside to go to the bathroom. You know how he is.”

  I don’t remember exactly when Jean-Pierre disappeared. I think it was when Joss was about eight. One day he was there, the next he was gone. It was as simple as that. When I asked her where he was, she said he’d gone to visit his family and he might never come back.

  “You have to understand Jean-Pierre the way I do,” she said. “He’s a real friend. He’s there when you need him, he’ll do anything in the world for me, but he doesn’t want to hang around. He has other things to do. It’s very simple, Kate.”