Monday I Love You Page 8

  Buster pushed his bottle away. He’d had enough. He always lets you know right off. I put him on my shoulder and rubbed his back. He’s perfectly able to burp without me burping him, but to tell the truth, I like the closeness of him on my shoulder, the smell of him against me. So I burp him whether he needs it or not.

  After a while, he let out a burp so loud it startled him. He looked up into my face as if to say, “Did you do that?” He looked so comical I had to laugh.

  “You’re a character, Buster Brown,” I told him. Over the top of his head I watched the two girls sitting at the kitchen table in their underwear while the boyfriend cooked supper. Or maybe it was breakfast. Anyway, he wore a big white apron and a chef’s hat, and he looked like a nerd.

  Over the canned laughter, I heard a noise. Outside. Nothing much, nothing to get excited about. Sometimes raccoons got into the garbage. I turned off the sound and listened. It was only the wind and the rain battering the trailer. Maybe the wind would grab us up and whiz us to some magical place, like Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. I wouldn’t mind, but Doris might if she came back and found us and the trailer gone.

  I settled back to watch the rest of the show, leaving the sound off. Sometimes it’s fun to watch TV without sound. That way you can make up your own dialogue.

  But there was a noise. Not raccoons, something else, something human. I was halfway up in a crouch, holding Buster to me, when I saw the door move. I know I locked it. I watched it move again. I felt my blood evaporate, my bones go cold. There was only me and Buster. Not even a dog. I reached the TV and turned up the sound very loud. I don’t know why I did that—maybe to make it seem as if the room was full of people. A party was in progress.

  I saw a foot wedged in the door’s crack. A leg followed. If I screamed, who would hear? A person stood there. I didn’t know if it was a man or a woman. The person wore a long, dark raincoat, almost touching the floor, with wide, wet shoulders and no belt. Dripping all over Doris’s rug. The collar was turned up, so I couldn’t see any face.

  A sudden gust of wind pushed against the door, pushed the person farther into the room.

  Buster pointed at the raincoat and said, “Man.” Clear as anything.

  The person lifted a long, wet arm and flung back the upturned collar.

  I held Buster so tightly he cried out.

  “Well.” The raincoat’s arm shoved against the door, closing it with a bang that made me jump.

  “Hello, Miss Pretty,” a voice said.

  It was me he meant. He was talking to me.

  15

  My father wanted a boy. In the worst way, my mother said.

  “Then there you were, a little scrap of a baby with a big, pushed-in nose, and blue lips and bowlegged. Lord, you were the most bowlegged baby I ever laid eyes on. And he took one look at you and just turned his head away. You’ve no idea, Grace, what that did to me. A woman has a right to expect some appreciation, some praise, wouldn’t you say. After giving birth. Some sign she’s done a good job.”

  I’d heard it all before. The good times and the bad. My parents’ wedding picture showed them staring dead straight into the camera, arms entwined, eyes glossy with pride at being man and wife.

  “He had such a merry heart, Grace,” my mother always sighed, remembering. “Now it’s gone, all gone.”

  I felt responsible. If I’d been a boy, maybe it wouldn’t be all gone. Maybe my father’s heart would still be merry. Once he told me he always wanted to be a clown. Even when he was a little boy, he said he wanted to make people laugh. Wanted to dress up in baggy pants and enormous, turned-up shoes and paint his face in a wild and extravagant way, bright reds and yellows and greens, then jump out of little cars with his shoes flapping, waving his arms and putting his face up close to the faces of the children who’d come to watch him be funny.

  But like so many things, it hadn’t worked out. My father had come to my mother’s hometown and landed a job at Herrick’s Men’s Store. Formerly Herrick’s Haberdashery. My mother said he was a proper dandy in those days, with the girls after him in droves.

  “Oh my, yes, Mr. Herrick’s business picked up considerably after your father went to work there,” she told me. “Mr. Herrick thought Father’s Day was here to stay. There wasn’t a father or an uncle or a brother who didn’t need new shirts, ties, socks, and all the girls came to buy. Your father was the hit of the town.

  “Of course, in those days he had rosy cheeks and a sweet little mustache, and he wore a tattersall vest with his grandfather’s gold watch chain across his chest. He was a proper dude then, all right. Had to shave twice a day, too, so his whiskers wouldn’t bruise a lady’s cheek.”

  This was my mother talking. I was afraid to breathe, afraid any disturbance, however small, might turn her off in mid-sentence. I wanted to hear the unbelievable circumstances of my father’s youth.

  “Did his whiskers ever bruise your cheek?” I had to ask, thinking this a most romantic notion. She laughed and said, “Use your imagination.”

  I didn’t need to be told to do that; my imagination had been working overtime for some years. My imagination, set into action, left almost no stone unturned. I didn’t even have to close my eyes to imagine myself a princess, living in an enchanted castle, wearing sparkly red shoes and a white satin gown.

  Or a movie star with a flawless complexion and a turned-up nose whose specialty was tap dancing and love scenes. I hate those love scenes where they open their mouths and slobber all over each other. That’s not my idea of kissing. I think a kiss should be a tender, gentle thing. I’m not talking sex here, I’m talking kissing. They’re not necessarily the same thing. Although I know one sometimes leads to another. But not always. Just because you kiss someone doesn’t mean you have to leap into bed with him.

  I read in the paper about a survey somebody took asking kids about their attitudes toward sex and stuff. The survey reported fifty percent of the boys surveyed wanted their wives to be virgins. And forty percent of the same group of boys said they’d already had sex. That’s cutting it kind of close, I figure. Where are all those virgins supposed to come from anyway?

  Nobody’s ever surveyed me about anything. The Nielsen report, which keeps tabs on who watches what TV programs, has never called me to find out what I’m watching. Plenty of times I’ve been ready for them to call, sitting there by the telephone with my answer ready. I don’t know who those Nielsen bozos call. But not me, that’s for sure.

  And nobody has ever surveyed me in regard to sexual practices. Half the time I think those answers are phonies, that the kids who answer the questions live in a dream world and make up the sex stuff because they’re afraid to tell the truth, which is far less interesting than the lies they make up. What do I know? Probably those surveyors take one look at me and figure I’m not the kind of person who has any sexual practices. Probably they survey Ashley and those pals of hers at the drop of a hat. Probably Ashley’s had sex since she was in sixth grade. I wouldn’t put it past her.

  It’s none of my business what Ashley does. I try to shove her out of my thoughts. What do I care what she does? Or thinks. But she’s always there. It kills me that I can’t get rid of her. I dreamed of her last night. In my dream, Ashley and I were walking down the street, talking, laughing, arm in arm. We were friends. Then all of a sudden, Ashley began tearing at my clothes, ripping them off me. I put my arms around myself, trying to shield myself, but when Ashley was through and I stood there, out in the open, shivering, naked, unable to move, to speak, Ashley’s friends gathered around, laughing, pointing at me. I can’t describe the feeling. Out of nowhere, then, Ms. Govoni showed up and she wrapped a big blanket around me.

  When I woke up, my face was wet. I don’t remember crying, but my face was definitely wet. It was very real, that dream. Most dreams I forget soon after they’ve happened. I wish I could forget this one. But it won’t go away. I wish I could hurt Ashley the way she’s hurt me.

  If someone ever does kiss
me, I hope it will be gentle and full of meaning.

  I figure as long as I look the way I do, I’m safe.

  16

  “That yours?” He pointed at Buster, who was drooling all over my shirt.

  “No,” I said, still in a state of shock at seeing him there, at what he’d said, what he’d called me. “I’m the baby-sitter.”

  He stayed put by the door. “Can I use the phone?” he said. “My car’s broken down out on the highway.” From where I was, across the room, his eyes looked black. “You got someplace I can hang this where it’ll drip dry? It’s soaked. Really blowing out there.”

  “I guess you can hang it in the bathroom so it won’t get the rug all wet,” I said. “Doris is very particular about her rug. It’s brand-new.” I got a hanger and handed it to him. Up close I could see it wasn’t actually a raincoat, it was more of a tarp, the kind you put over a car in bad weather if you don’t have a garage.

  He took some time spreading the tarp on the hanger, fixing it so it wouldn’t slip off. I could see a big damp spot on Doris’s orange shag carpet, and hoped and prayed it’d be dry before she got home.

  “Just stick it on the shower rod in the bathroom,” I told him. He couldn’t get lost looking for the bathroom. It was a small trailer and had only one bathroom.

  I stood waiting, fidgeting, wishing he’d hurry up. Buster kept looking over my shoulder, keeping the guy in his sights, watching out for me. Buster is a nosy little person, in more ways than one.

  When he finally came out of the bathroom, I saw his boots were covered with mud.

  “Thought maybe I’d call around to see if I can get hold of a cab to take me to the nearest gas station. Maybe they’ve got a mechanic on duty who can fix me up.” He smiled at me, rubbing his hands as if to warm them. “What do you think? Know of any good mechanics around these parts?” He put his hands in his pockets and jingled his change. It made quite a racket.

  “No,” I said, realizing with a mortified start that Buster had done a load in his pants. He sneaks them in, I swear he does. It seemed I only just changed him. He waits until he’s got clean diapers, then he lets fly. He smelled like a baby gorilla. I pretended not to notice.

  “It’s okay if I use the phone then?” he said.

  It hit me then, so hard I stepped backward. This had to be the guy who did the number on the gas station. I tried not to look directly at him, tried to avoid eye contact, the way the experts tell you to do if some weirdo tries to hassle you.

  “As long as it’s not a toll call,” I said, proud of the way I managed to keep my voice cool and calm. Inside, I was trembling, trying to think of what I’d do if he attacked me. Or Buster. “I guess Doris wouldn’t mind.” I held Buster a little bit out from me, he smelled so bad. He doesn’t like to be held that way, so all of a sudden, he stiffened and threw back his head and started howling, having a temper tantrum.

  “Oh, no more mister nice guy, eh?” I said.

  Whenever Buster does a load in his pants, he acts like it’s my fault. Ordinarily he has a very sweet disposition. It’s only that one thing that gets him going.

  “I doubt if anyone would come out here tonight, though,” I said. “It’s pretty late. Then too, the weather’s not great.”

  He made no attempt to get closer to me, to touch me. I tried to remember what the radio announcer had said. A white male with black hair. That much I recalled, and that he wore blue jeans and cowboy boots. Well, that could describe about half the male population of the entire state. He’d escaped from prison, where he was being held on suspicion of attempted assault and rape. Terrific.

  Buster stirred against me and I held him tight. He was a big help, so soft and warm and friendly in my arms. He was like an ally, a friend who was on my side.

  “Terrible,” the stranger agreed, letting his eyes wander, checking out the trailer and everything in it. “I think it might be my carburetor. I could fix it myself if I had a flashlight. But as it is …” He lifted both hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  “The phone book’s right there,” I said.

  “Thanks. Mind if I smoke?”

  “Oh, you can’t. Doris would have a fit. See the signs?” I poked a finger at the No Smoking signs. “On account of the baby. Doris says absolutely no smoking in her house. She’s not having Buster’s little lungs all contaminated with smoke. She’s a bug on no smoking. She says she can smell it a mile away. Says not only does it get in your hair and clothes, it makes your breath stink.” I knew I was running on, but I couldn’t seem to stop. He made me nervous, the way he stood there so quiet, looking at me. Nothing moved but his eyes. They were weird eyes, all moist and glittery. Beautiful, though.

  “When’s Doris due back?” he asked in a conversational tone.

  “Tomorrow.” The minute it was out, I was sorry. For one thing, he had no business here, a total stranger. For another, it was dumb of me letting him know it was just me and Buster here alone. Really dumb.

  “Well, then.” He grinned at me. “It’s you and me and baby makes three, right?” He stepped toward me. Whoa, I thought, panicking. I grabbed Buster so tight, he hollered to let me know I was hurting him. I shouldn’t have let this guy in, I thought. But I didn’t let him in, he just seeped in, like fog under the door. I had to get him out. Doris would have a fit if she found out about him being here.

  “I have to change the baby,” I said nervously.

  “Take your time,” he said. I was scared he might follow me into Buster’s room, but he didn’t. I changed Buster as fast as I could, wiped him off good. It’s a wonder to me how a sweet little baby can smell so bad.

  When I got back, he was looking out the window, pulling back the curtains, peering out into the blackness.

  “Still coming down,” he said, dropping the curtains when he saw me standing there.

  “Did you get a mechanic?” I asked. “Or a taxi?”

  “Yeah. I raised one guy, said he’d send a cab, but when he asked me where I was located, I couldn’t tell him. I don’t even know where I’m located. How about that?” He threw back his head and laughed uproariously. I didn’t think it was that funny.

  “You’re on Old Town Road about a half mile from Route 41,” I told him. “It’s the Browns’ trailer. They all know it. I’m surprised they said yes. Usually they don’t like to come out this far. Especially on a night like this.” As if to prove what kind of a night it was, a sudden gust of wind pushed open the door, sending rain onto the rug. He pushed the door shut, ignoring the slight yelp I’d let out. I told myself if one more sodden stranger came into this house, I was leaving. Me and Buster both.

  “I can’t understand it,” I said. “I know I locked that door. I can’t figure how you got in.”

  He shrugged, as if he couldn’t understand either, and went over to the telephone. I thought he was going to call the man back and tell him he was at the Browns’ trailer. Instead, he stood there, fingers drumming against the table, and he said, “How come you didn’t holler when you saw me? Most girls would’ve, seeing a stranger like that. I have to hand it to you.” His voice was warm and admiring. “You never lost your cool. How’d you know I was an all-right guy, not a burglar or something?”

  Pleased, in spite of myself, by the note of approval in his voice, I decided to go for nonchalance. It wasn’t easy.

  “What’s your name?” I asked. “You from around here?” There was something familiar about him, something that made me think I might’ve seen him somewhere. Maybe on television or something.

  “Name’s Dirk Delgado,” he said. “Actually, I’m from Florida, just passing through, on my way to Vegas. Ever been to Vegas?”

  “No,” I said, not exactly sure if he meant Las Vegas or if there was a place called plain Vegas. The answer was no, in either case.

  “What’s your name?” he asked me.

  I opened my mouth to say “Grace” and thought better of it.

  “Monday,” I said.

  “Monday, huh?
What kind of name’s that?” He reached out and chucked Buster under the chin. Buster was sort of standoffish when he didn’t know you. He sometimes went all to pieces with strangers. I could see him trying to make up his mind about this Dirk guy. After a short spell, Buster decided in favor. He made friendly noises. The guy had passed the Buster test with flying colors.

  “Hey. You’re some smart kid. You know I’m on your side, don’t you? Better watch it, kid. You want to be careful who you make friends with.” Buster wiggled with pleasure, and without asking if it was all right, Dirk Delgado plucked Buster from me and settled in on the orange couch as cozy as if he belonged there.

  “Monday’s your name, huh? I never knew a girl named Monday before.” He looked at me over Buster’s head, expectantly, wanting more.

  I took my time. “Well,” I said, “there’s Tuesday Weld.”

  “Yeah?” I could see he doubted that one.

  “Sure. She’s a movie actress, been around for years. Then there’s Saturday Smith. She’s this fabulous teen model. She’s only fourteen, and already she’s been on sixteen magazine covers. She’s sort of gorgeous.”

  “Oh sure. I know her. I think maybe I’ve seen her in a couple centerfolds.”

  “Saturday Smith would never appear in a centerfold!” I said, shocked. “She’s too classy for that.” Even before he laughed, I knew he was pulling my leg.

  “Hey, look here. Look at him, will you.” Buster braced himself against Dirk’s chest, showing off, showing how strong he was, how he could almost walk. Then he jounced up and down, crowing in triumph.

  “You’re some tiger, tiger,” he told Buster. Buster made a growling sound, which made both of us laugh.

  “He’s a nice little kid,” Dirk said. “Hope he don’t grow-up into some smart-ass kid, like there’s a lot of them in this world, don’t know their ass from their elbow, don’t know nothing.”