Longing for Normal Page 11

  Mrs. Johnson raised her eyebrow at me, but I just leaned back in my chair and watched Marj push around the shades of white.

  Leaves had been dropping rapidly from our trees, and the tree cover no longer protected this room from the afternoon sun. So when the sun sank a bit lower, a shaft of light stabbed directly into my eyes. I was getting so tired of hearing what Miss Clay thought would sell. I shoved away from the table and grabbed my backpack. “I’m going upstairs,” I said.

  Behind me, I heard Mrs. Johnson agree with Marj and Miss Clay. “White does sell better, if that’s your goal. These five whites are the most popular. Kinda boring, though,” she said.

  “But safe,” said Marj firmly.

  I clomped up the stairs and sat on the bed looking around, trying to imagine the already bright room getting even brighter when painted white.

  Shaking my head, I went downstairs again to check the crock-pot. We had gotten better about planning ahead and often did a crock-pot recipe once a week and ate leftovers for several days. Today, it was a roast, and the smell made me hungry. Marj and Mrs. Johnson came out of the breakfast room smiling.

  “Vanilla White, it is,” Mrs. Johnson said. “Now. We prefer oil paint. It lasts longer and looks better.”

  Marj nodded, “Fine.”

  “Good.” Mrs. Johnson said. “We’ll order paint tonight and get started tomorrow. Should be just a couple more days to get this job wrapped up.” She waved, then walked down the hallway to the garage, where Mr. Johnson was waiting.

  Marj perched on a kitchen stool and started punching numbers into a calculator.

  I was surprised at how sad I suddenly felt, thinking about the breakfast room white instead of its cheery yellow. “Will the oil paint cost more?”

  Marj looked up startled. “I got a big check from Griff’s life insurance last week. I can afford it now.”

  “Oh.” Questions crowded my mind. How much? Would Marj stop worrying about money now? And then my stomach churned. This was so wrong. Thinking about how much money we got because Griff was gone.

  “I’d rather have Griff back than any amount of money. But he made sure I wouldn’t have any money worries. He always put others first.”

  I nodded, knowing she was right. Yet, still wishing for the impossible. And I still felt guilty for wanting to know how much the insurance had paid.

  Marj half stood, like she might come over and hug me. But she sank back onto her stool. “Since Griff adopted you, you’re his son, half the money is yours.”

  Stunned, I just shook my head.

  She went on, “I’m putting it in a trust for you. You’ll get it when you’re 21.”

  I had never thought about getting part of the money for myself. No, I couldn’t take it. I would feel guilty using it, even for an allowance.

  Putting down her calculator, Marj said, “Don’t worry. My half of the money is more than enough; we can afford to get all this work done.”

  I hesitated. But I had to say it. “Tomorrow is Halloween.”

  “Yes,” Marj said. She started setting out plates, glasses, silverware. “Remember, we have to work at the Community Center’s Harvest Party. The Bread Project has that booth, and we’ll have bread samples and recipes to pass out.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I remembered all right.

  Last month, the PTA women had met at our house to talk about the project and how to let more people know about it.

  “School and community center, they’re the two places Griff took me all the time,” I told them.

  So Mrs. Patel called the community center and found out there were still some open booths at the Halloween party. In southern Nashville, the community center had a tradition of doing the Halloween Carnival, so none of the elementary schools did one. Instead, they encouraged families to attend the community center.

  “Maybe we’ll pick up some sponsors there,” Mrs. Lopez said.

  Now, as I made salads, breaking apart lettuce leaves into a bowl and adding cherry tomatoes, I worked up courage to ask, “Can I trick-or-treat afterwards with Toby and Alli and some of the other kids?”

  Marj’s freckled face grimaced. “I never liked this holiday much. When I was little, the masks scared me, and when I was older, they made me uncomfortable. Too sweaty, and you can’t see anything.” She shivered.

  “I love the masks. We just want to trick or treat for a few minutes? We’ll just go a few places in the neighborhood.”

  “Depends on how long the party lasts at the Community Center.” She poured milk into my glass and iced tea into hers.

  “Okay.” I felt stabbed in the chest. Next year, in junior high, that was too old for trick-or-treating. This was my last chance. Desperate, I asked, “What about a costume for the Community Center party?”

  “Oh.” Marj gave me a blank look. Ran a hand through her hair. It had grown out and was no longer a precision cut. Instead, she looked like she was a scarecrow for Halloween. As soon as I thought that, I tried to get rid of the idea because her hair was softer than straw. Of course. But it did stick out funny.

  “Well,” Marj said, “Can’t you find some dress-up thing here at the house? I don’t want to go out and buy something that you’ll only wear one night.”

  “But it’s Halloween.”

  Marj made a clicking sound with her tongue, like a staccato drum beat. “Check the attic. There are boxes of stuff up there.”

  “Yeah, I’ll do that.” I tried not to care, just sat and ate salad and roast and baked potatoes and barely tasted it. My heart was in my boots. No super-hero costume for me. Just mothballs and dust and germs.

  No, I couldn’t go up into the attic again.

  But Marj wasn’t going to spend anything on a costume, and I needed something for tomorrow night. For a treacherous moment, I wondered again about the insurance payment and how much it was. But that didn’t matter. Making it till Thanksgiving was the only thing that mattered. It mattered even more than a Halloween costume.

  After I helped clean the kitchen and Marj had disappeared into her office to make some calls, I reluctantly went to the garage and pulled down the attic steps. Miss Clay had forgotten to tell Marj about the broken step. At least one thing had escaped Miss Clay, I thought in satisfaction.

  Standing there at the bottom, I was full of dread. Yet, in an odd way, this was good, to test myself when no one else was around. Step by step, I climbed and pulled out onto the plywood floor.

  The attic smelled hot. Hot wasn’t supposed to be a smell, but that was the best description. Yes, it smelled like old wood and inches of dust and musty old things. But it also smelled hot. Like the inside of an oven might smell if you subtracted the bread smell. Surprisingly, though, I didn’t feel panicky. Not yet, anyway.

  I pulled the light chain and walked straight to the clothes bags, my best chance for a costume. Kept my eyes straight ahead. No looking around at things that might start a panic. I unzipped the bag, holding my breath against the mothball smell.

  There were two wool military uniforms. Marines from World War II. Or at least that’s what it looked like to me. And an Army uniform from World War I. Both were too big, too hot to wear. I zipped the bag up.

  And started feeling itchy.

  Best to go down now. Look for a costume downstairs. Or go without a costume.

  I stopped to pull a couple school yearbooks from the old cardboard box. I’d take them to my room and read them later.

  Downstairs, standing in the open garage door, I smiled at the last touches of sunset, the orange and purple swirling in the clouds. I was out of the hot smell. And this time, I hadn’t gotten panicky. I was getting better, able to control it. Maybe this, at least, was looking up.

  ALLI

  That fall, the weeks just flew by. I was still uncomfortable at the Porters. Only difference–now it was a familiar uncomfortable. Livable, I guess. Same thing at the Wilma Rudolph Elementary School. Grades were good, I never had to worry about that. And I knew more people. Still missed my old s
chool, though.

  For sticking it out here, I felt I deserved a guerdon. (Guerdon: Middle English derivation. Definition: A reward. G-u-e-r-d-o-n. Winning word in the 2008 spelling bee.)

  Each Sunday afternoon that fall, I used the Porter’s computer or Eliot’s computer and read the BabyPayne.com blog. Each week, I held my breath until I read that everything with Mandy and Baby was still okay. Mimi had gone home until Baby came, and Mandy was working part time again.

  Ted wrote a lot: I loved the weekly reports and the reports on the doctor’s visits. How much the doctor guessed the baby weighed now. The pink quilts that Mandy had bought that week–Ted even posted a picture. Things like that.

  Baby was due about a week before Thanksgiving. After reading the blog updates, I studied online about babies growing inside a mama and figured Mandy’s baby was doing just fine. I wanted to see the ultrasound pictures, and finally Ted posted one. You could even see Baby’s profile, her tiny nose.

  So, my determination grew: I would go to the hospital to see Baby. Lay my eyes on Baby for myself and know that I hadn’t caused any problems with that accident.

  The early fall passed. Thinking about Baby or visiting families for the Bread Project or doing homework. And then, it was Halloween.

  Mandy and Ted didn’t care much for Halloween. Oh, we went to carnivals at school, or did some trick-or-treating. But no enthusiasm.

  This year–it would be different. The Community Center started passing out brochures for its annual carnival, and it looked like fun. For one thing, several schools in the area attended, and there would be more people, lots of excitement.

  Really, what I love about Halloween is the masks. Something about hiding your face; it’s great. It makes me into somebody else.

  After school on the 31st, I asked Mr. Porter if I could walk home. I took some of the money I won from Toby, stopped by a store and bought a two masks, one for me and one for Eliot, who said Marj didn’t do anything about a costume for him. I didn’t want a costume, nothing fancy. Just a facemask was enough. The kind that make you look like a raccoon.

  Then I skipped back to Mr. Porter’s, whistling.

  Opening the front door, I heard Mr. Porter whistling, too. Funny, guess I had taken up his habit. Went through the living room to the kitchen, where the table was spread with three large bowls, and Mr. Porter was dumping bags of candy into each one. Then stirring up the mix with both hands.

  I set my shopping bag on a chair and knelt on another chair. “Can I help?”

  Mr. Porter shook his head no.

  He finished dumping out the candy, then smiled. Motioned for me to take something.

  No need to ask me twice. I took a tiny bag of candy corn. My favorite.

  “You’ll think this strange, but I love giving out candy, and the kids around here know it,” he said. “I’ll dress up in a costume and be here for hours.” Somehow, the holiday put him in a talkative mood. “My dad loved Halloween. You know, my sister and I always dressed up as a pair. Cowboy and cowgirl. Space astronauts. My parents loved to hold parties and decorate and—” He trailed off.

  His ugly face looked almost kind. He had his routines, his ways of doing things and obviously loved this holiday like none other. Strange, but I guess everyone has some soft spot.

  I thought I should reassure him, let him know that I was taken care of for tonight. “Eliot said he and Mrs. Winston would come by and pick me up. We’ll go to the Community Center and then trick-or-treat for a while.”

  I ripped open the candy corn package and bit off the white end of one piece and smiled up at Mr. Porter.

  But he was frowning. “I tried the Community Center party the first year or two they did it. But, it was boring for me. I like passing out candy here.”

  “Sounds like you had nice parents.” I struggled to figure out what to say. “Sounds like they started nice traditions for Halloween.”

  “Mom and Dad were great.” Idly, he stirred the candy around again. “I’m trying to be a good parent, just like they were. That’s why I need to talk to you,” he said, “about Eliot. And Toby.”

  “Yes?” I ate the tip from the next candy corn, then the middle and then the last section.

  “Miss Clay says she has seen you playing cards with those boys.”

  I shrugged. “Yes.”

  “She says you play for money.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You gamble? You’re playing cards and gambling? You admit this?”

  “It’s just for fun. It’s not a lot of money.” Besides, I thought, we only played once a week or so, anyway.

  Mr. Porter stood and paced, two steps to the fancy stove that rarely got used, then five steps back to the wall with the fridge and the microwave. The freezer was full of frozen dinners now–he’d gotten in the habit of Friday night grocery shopping–so I had become an expert at microwaving stuff.

  “Alli, I’m going to have to ask you to stop gambling with Toby and Eliot.”

  I was totally surprised. I turned in my chair to watch him, still pacing. “Why?”

  “Because, well, because I said so, and I’ve asked you not to do it.”

  I shook my head, trying to understand. What had Mr. Porter so riled up? Just a card game? “I don’t–”

  But Mr. Porter interrupted. “I don’t care if you think it’s silly. Or if you think the amount you gamble isn’t enough to worry about. Growing up, we were taught that gambling was a sin. Now, I don’t go that far, but in grade school, my best friend’s mother, old Mrs. Pardo–” he broke off and stood with his arms crossed. “I don’t have to explain it to you. You’re a guest in my house, and I won’t stand for a gambler living here.”

  I closed my mouth and crossed my arms. “Then give me an allowance.”

  Mr. Porter stepped backward, his eyes wide and shocked, like I had slapped him. “Allowance? Why?”

  “So I can buy the things I need.”

  He took two quick steps to the table, snatched up my shopping bag and pulled out the masks. “Like this?” He threw them onto the table. “You need masks? Two of them?”

  “One for me, one for Eliot.”

  “And Eliot can’t buy his own?”

  By now, I knew about Eliot’s dad up-and-dying, and about Marj being unsure-about-adoption. I couldn’t answer that question without telling Mr. Porter more about Eliot’s life than Eliot would like. “I just wanted to give him one.”

  “You’re sweet on him?”

  Now, I blushed. “NO! It’s not that.”

  Mr. Porter stepped back again and waved his hands, cutting off anything else I might say. “Doesn’t matter. No more gambling. Do you hear? I’d like it even better if you’d find different friends. But for sure, no cards, no gambling.”

  Great. Where would I get money now? There were just things that kids needed. Like the almost-empty jar of peanut butter in my desk drawer upstairs. Mr. Porter wouldn’t even buy peanut butter for me. Sure, he was doing better at getting food, but only food he approved of. Okay. Fair enough. His money, his choice. But my money, my choice. I wanted peanut butter and I would need another jar of it soon.

  I stood, trying to stretch my backbone to be taller than Mr. Porter. Keeping my face calm, I picked up the masks. The bowls of candy were so tempting, I wanted to grab a handful to take to my room. Instead, I said, slow and distinct, so I wouldn’t be misunderstood, “Mr. Porter, I promise I will not play cards with Toby or Eliot again. Is that what you wanted me to say?”

  Mr. Porter leaned against the fridge and shook his head. Kept shaking his head.

  After a couple more shakes, I realized he was off thinking about something else. Or remembering something from his childhood. Probably playing the gambling discussion over in his head and trying to figure out how to say everything a different way. Or how he would tell it to his sister or to his golf buddies.

  I turned on the ball of my foot and marched upstairs.

  ELIOT

  Halloween night, and Marj was late
getting home. Road construction again, she said.

  She charged through the house, yelling up to me that we would leave in five minutes.

  I was ready. And waiting. I rushed downstairs.

  A few seconds later, Marj came out of her room. From her hand dangled three black facemasks. The kind that only covers your eyes and nose. “I didn’t know,” she said, “what kind of costume you wanted. At lunch, I went to a costume store, but it was so crowded. So, I just–”

  She stopped. She had pulled on a yellowish-brown T-shirt that had mussed her hair, and she looked even more like a lonely scarecrow.

  Marj had actually thought about me during the day. And she had tried. Surprised, I found a smile on my face.

  It was enough. She had tried.

  I took two masks from her hand, one for me and one for Alli. “You have to wear your mask while we’re at the Community Center. The whole time you’re in the Bread Project booth. Okay?”

  “I’ll do it.” She slipped on the mask and her eyes twinkled from inside the dark cutouts. “And after, I’ll drive you and your friends around to do some trick-or-treating. Okay?”

  I took a deep breath, suddenly full of hope. “Thanks.”

  “Well. Good.” Now, Marj was embarrassed and couldn’t look at me. “Okay. Let’s get going. Gotta pick up Alli.” She almost ran through the kitchen, stopping only to grab a small bag of pretzels, and hustled out to the car.

  

  At Mr. Porter’s house, Marj pulled in the driveway and stopped. “Hurry,” she said.

  I jumped out of the car and galumphed up to the door, too happy to merely jog or trot. This was going to be a good night.

  Two jack-o-lanterns sat on the front step, casting a flickering light. Creepy sounds–squeaks, screams, and moans–blared from small speakers. Pretty lame, but–hey, Mr. Porter was trying. And tonight, trying counted.

  A tall, cloaked figure opened the door. From deep within the hood, Mr. Porter’s voice croaked, “Welcome to our haunted castle.”

  I grinned and played along. “Trick-or-treat!”

  Mr. Porter shoved back the hood and looked me up and down. “Where’s the costume?”