The Secrets of Tree Taylor Page 17

  “Don’t answer that!” She kept picking stems from the berries, twisting her spoon a lot harder than she needed to.

  The phone kept ringing. Ten, eleven, twelve times.

  “I’m never answering that phone again,” Mom announced. “Never ever!”

  I spied Eileen down the hall, slipping into her bedroom. She motioned for me to come.

  I made my escape and tiptoed to Eileen’s room. Maybe she could clue me in on Mom’s weirdness.

  My sister’s room was exactly what you’d expect. Powder-blue wallpaper with silver-white flowers covered all four walls. Lace curtains, blue-and-white flowery bedspread, white shelves with figurines and trinkets she’d picked up on vacations. All clothing was folded in her dresser or hanging in her closet, even though Mom’s inspection wasn’t until Monday.

  “What’s up with Mom?” I asked, once safely inside. I started to sit on her bed, which was made, of course.

  Eileen gasped like I’d just come from a round of mud wrestling. Then she changed her mind. “That’s okay. Go ahead and sit down.” She plopped onto the bed next to me.

  Midge jumped up and joined us. I scratched her ears and let her lick my nose.

  I was in Eileen’s room, by invitation. She was letting me sit on her bed with Midge. Whatever was wrong, it had to be bad. “They’re getting a divorce.” I said it but didn’t really mean it. My parents were the last people who’d divorce. Still, Alicia’s parents got a divorce, and she was in my class. Her parents had played bridge with ours. So it wasn’t impossible.

  “No,” Eileen said. “But there was some serious yelling going on a while ago. Dad left the house. Said he needed to check on the garden.”

  “Ouch. What happened?”

  Eileen reached under her pillow and brought out a copy of the Kansas City Star. “Butch came by an hour ago and gave me this. He said he didn’t want his parents to see it. But he thought I should.”

  “What’s in it?” I could not imagine anything that would fit the description of something Eileen should see that Butch’s parents shouldn’t.

  Eileen handed the paper to me. “There.” She poked at the third column, the letters to the editor section. There were three letters, one circled.

  It was a poem: “The Casualties Were Light.” And below it was the byline: “By Frank R. Taylor, M.D.”

  “Outtasight!” Dad had a byline in the Kansas City Star!

  “Go on. Read it.” Eileen dropped back onto her pillow.

  I read aloud.

  The Casualties Were Light

  by Frank R. Taylor, M.D.

  “The casualties were light today,” it read.

  In jungles deep, a sniper added one.

  “And many of the enemy lay dead.”

  For him, the end of life had just begun.

  Advisors and counselors advised you should die.

  Their families and loved ones will never know why.

  The poem went on for five stanzas, with the two-line “chorus” repeated after each verse. I could hardly finish reading it. My throat went dry. I pictured the scenes in Vietnam and the scenes at home, where families got the news that their loved ones had been killed.

  Dad’s poem made mine sound like a car commercial. I didn’t think I’d ever been prouder of my dad, and not just because it was such a well-written poem.

  When I looked up, Eileen was lying on her back, her arm crooked over her face so I couldn’t see her eyes. I knew she wouldn’t feel the way I did about Dad’s poem. She cared what other people thought of Dad. She’d care what Butch thought, and he was the one who’d hidden the paper from his dad.

  “Was Butch upset about the Vietnam stuff?” I asked.

  She didn’t take her arm off her face. “Oh, I don’t know. He didn’t come right out and call Dad a Communist.”

  “He better not!”

  “He wouldn’t. He doesn’t care about politics. I was hoping he’d ask me to the movies tonight. I thought that was why he stopped by.”

  “I’m sorry.” I thought about Dr. No and Ray and wished again that he’d invited me along to see it. I wondered if he’d meant what he said about me coming to the drive-in with them next time.

  I lay down on my back next to Eileen, my head on her second pillow. Midge curled between us, and her wagging tail smacked my cheek so I had to scoot over. “Remember how we used to go to movies when we were kids? Dad dropped us off every Saturday, and we wouldn’t know what was playing until we got there.”

  “Usually a Ma and Pa Kettle film,” Eileen muttered.

  I laughed. She was right. “Or Jerry Lewis. Or a Western. Why doesn’t Hamilton have its own picture show anymore?”

  She stuck her arm in the air and waved. “Because bye-bye, shoe factory, I suppose. Or maybe one too many Ma and Pa Kettle adventures.” She paused. “I really wanted to see West Side Story, but Butch hates musicals.”

  “I wanted to see Dr. No,” I complained. “But did anybody ask me? No, Doctor.”

  Eileen laughed. We used to talk like this a lot. I didn’t know when that stopped. I missed it.

  “I’ve been talking to Ray at the pool lately,” I ventured.

  Eileen propped her head up on one elbow so she was looking right at me. “Tree! Ray Miller?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nice going, Tree. He’s the cutest guy in your class, you know?”

  “I’ve kind of noticed.”

  “So what are you guys talking about?” she asked, like she was really interested—no teasing in her voice.

  “Music mostly. School some. Movies today.”

  “Ah. So he’s Dr. No?”

  “Yes.”

  She rolled back onto her back. “What is wrong with that entire sex?”

  I was a little surprised to hear Eileen say the “s-e-x” word, even in this context. “You’re asking me?”

  “Boys,” Eileen muttered. “Who needs them?”

  “Exactly.”

  In the background, I’d been hearing the phone ring a dozen times. Mom still wasn’t answering.

  “Exactly!” Eileen sat up straight and punched her pillow. “Come on, Tree! We don’t need men. We’re going to the movies!”

  “We are?” I couldn’t remember the last time we’d gone to the movies together.

  “Absolutely! You and I are going to see West Side Story tonight.” She hopped off the bed and picked up her hairbrush. “Why not?” She took a seat at her dressing table, an item of furniture she chose when I chose a desk for my room, which was why Eileen did most of her studying at the kitchen table.

  I was getting psyched, even though I didn’t know anything about West Side Story. “Cool. But aren’t you afraid somebody will see us out together, without dates on a Saturday night?”

  “Nah.” Then just when I was starting to get an all-new picture of my sister, she added, “A musical at the Cameron drive-in? Trust me. Nobody will see us.”

  Still, it was neat going to the movies with my big sis. Definitely better than sticking around for the upcoming home show with Frank and Helen Taylor.

  35

  Do Your Own Thing

  I loved drive-ins. Nobody yelled at you for talking, crunching popcorn too loud, or laughing in the wrong places.

  Eileen held up a strand of hair and ran a comb from tip to scalp, teasing her poof back. “I’ll ask Dad for the car.”

  I was getting psyched. “Buddy’s the perfect drive-in car.” We’d had our blue-and-white station wagon since the days when Dad drove us to the drive-in to see Disney cartoon movies.

  “It’ll start getting dark in an hour,” Eileen said. “We should get going so we can get a good spot.”

  “And we don’t want to miss previews.” I would have loved a whole night with nothing but previews. Previews were like promises. Glimpses of the future.

  “Then scoot!” Eileen commanded, but in a good way. “I have to change.”

  As I exited the queen’s room, I heard the front door open.

  I h
ustled up the hallway just as Dad eased the front door shut behind him. “Dad,” I whispered, in case he was still hiding out.

  He was standing barely inside the door, like this wasn’t his house and he wasn’t sure he’d be welcome.

  I crossed over to him. And without thinking about it, I hugged him.

  We rarely hugged in our house. We loved each other plenty, and all that. It just felt funny to hug or kiss. My parents hadn’t hugged their parents—maybe the lean-forward-and-pat-arms kind of hug if they hadn’t seen each other for a while. My friends didn’t hug their parents, either.

  But I hugged my dad as he stood in the doorway. And I whispered, “I think it’s a great poem, Dad. A really wonderful poem.”

  At first, I was the sole hugger, hanging on by myself. Then slowly, I felt Dad’s arms wrap around me. “Thanks, Tree. I guess that makes two of us. But if I were you, I’d keep my opinion to myself.”

  I let go and ran over to the window to get my writer’s notebook. I had to flip through pages to find the right one. “I have a quote for you.” I showed it to him. “I forgot to write down who said it.” I let Dad read it for himself:

  If you can’t annoy somebody with what you write, I think there’s little point to writing.

  Dad laughed. “Well, we’ve certainly nailed that one, haven’t we, Tree?”

  Mom appeared from the kitchen in her apron. And her scowl. “Nice you made it back, Frank. You missed a few phone calls. I stopped answering after an old woman, who neglected to give her name, suggested we move the family to Russia with the other Communists.”

  Eileen came bounding up the hall. She looked good enough to go on a date with Butch. She’d pinned up part of her hair and left the rest in a flip, like Jackie Kennedy. She’d changed into pink pedal pushers and a sleeveless pink mohair top, with a pink scarf around her neck. Her pill-bag purse matched her white sandals. She’d put on pink lipstick and blue eye shadow. “Tree and I want to go to a movie. West Side Story is playing at the Cameron drive-in.” She casually tied a three-cornered scarf over her hair. “Can we borrow the car? We’ll come straight home.”

  I caught Mom looking to Dad for the answer.

  Dad grinned, and I was sure he was going to say yes.

  “No,” he answered.

  “No? Why not?” Eileen demanded.

  “You can’t borrow the car because I’m driving all of us to the drive-in.” He walked over and untied Mom’s apron. “Come on. We’ll get hot dogs there. We could all use a night out.” The phone rang again. “Especially tonight.”

  Mom took her apron from Dad’s fingers. She started folding it, and for a second, nobody said a word. I was afraid she was going to put the kibosh on the whole thing. Then she wadded up her apron and zinged it back into the kitchen. I heard it hit its target, the telephone. “Let’s blow this firetrap!” she shouted. “Last one to the car’s a rotten Commie!”

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, Dad pulled up to the drive-in ticket booth. He paid the carload fee and thanked the attendant, a wrinkled man whose fingers looked like rawhide sticks.

  “Drive up front, Frank,” Mom said.

  Dad weaved past sedans and VW bugs crammed with big families. One row looked like couples only. I couldn’t believe so many people had come to a musical.

  “There!” Mom pointed to the second row, off to the right, a good place to see the screen but a long way from the snack bar.

  Dad shut off the engine. He was almost too far from the speaker pole, where two clunky metal speakers hung—one for the front, one for the back. You needed the speakers if you wanted sound to go with the picture on the giant screen. Luckily, the cords stretched just far enough. Dad hung one speaker over his half-opened window and turned the volume knob.

  The Beach Boys were in the middle of “Surfin’ U.S.A.” Dad started bobbing to the beat.

  “I love this song!” I could hear the music streaming from dozens of speakers.

  “No dancing, Tree,” Eileen warned. She leaned out her window to haul in our backseat speaker. When she turned it on, it was scratchy. But it cleared up.

  “You girls can watch from the roof if you want to,” Mom offered. “I threw blankets into the back. You can probably see the screen better from up there.”

  Dad slipped his arm around Mom’s shoulder. “Yeah. The windshield up here’s liable to get pretty steamy.”

  “Frank!” Mom shoved him a little.

  “Gross!” Eileen moved the speaker to the luggage rack and tossed up blankets. “Tree and I can get food before the movie starts.”

  The speakers went silent. Lights faded across the parking lot.

  “Previews!” I cried. “We can’t go now.”

  “Tree,” Eileen pleaded. “They’re just previews.”

  “Shh!” No way I’d miss the best part of the night.

  Eileen gave up as the screen exploded with the words The Great Escape.

  “I’ve heard about this one,” Dad said. “Bob claims it’s going to be a great movie. Steve McQueen. World War Two.”

  I was relieved that my dad was still talking about Bob. I hoped that meant he was still talking to Bob, even after the Vietnam poem hit the paper.

  I made myself quit thinking about anything except what was on the screen.

  The previews were awesome. The only one that didn’t look worth seeing was Cleopatra, although I liked Elizabeth Taylor. I loved her as a kid in National Velvet. Sarah and I watched that movie every time it came on TV. At least, we had watched it. Now we’d be in different states, and Kansas probably didn’t even show National Velvet on TV.

  I forced myself to put Sarah’s move to Kansas out of my mind too.

  Eileen and I agreed we had to see the next James Bond movie. Only, seeing Bond on the screen made me think of Dr. No. Eileen elbowed me, like she knew what I was thinking. I elbowed her back and made myself stop thinking about Ray.

  Suddenly, the screen filled with birds. Speakers all over the lot squawked with the cries of flying creatures that chased school kids, pecking at their hair and arms. Big letters spread across the screen: Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds.

  “That was the best preview I’ve ever seen!” I announced as soon as it ended.

  Dad agreed. “We’ll have to see that one for sure.”

  “Not on your life!” Mom protested.

  “Me neither,” Eileen said.

  I stared at the screen, hoping for another preview. Instead, rinky-dink music started up, and cups danced across the screen.

  Dad shoved money at Eileen. “Hot dogs, popcorn, Milk Duds, Coke. And whatever you girls want.”

  Eileen scooted out my door so she didn’t wreck the speaker. “We should have gone earlier. Everybody will go now. We could miss the start of the movie.”

  Now that I’d seen the previews, who cared about the show?

  I was trotting between cars, looking out for speaker cords, when obnoxious cackles caught my attention. It might have been because they were the loudest or maybe because I recognized something in that laughter. Or someone.

  Two cars over, I spotted Wayne Wilson’s green pickup. Around it, the ground was littered with hot dog wrappers, squished cups, and squashed cigarette packs. Smoke rose from the truck bed, where a dozen kids sat, some from Wayne’s class, some from mine. In the center of it all was Wanda. And next to her, Ray.

  I nearly stumbled trying to get away.

  “Tree!” Eileen shouted when I caught up to her. “I’ve been standing here shouting forever. Can’t you even drag yourself away from the dancing cups?” She turned and walked into the snack bar.

  While we waited, she frowned over at me. “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I just saw Ray.”

  “Ray Miller?” She glanced around, like he might be in the room with us.

  “And Wanda. And a bunch of kids from my class. They’re out there in Wayne’s pickup. I only saw them because they were laughing so loud.”

  “Tree, I’m
sorry. Did they see you?” She paid the snack bar person and put Dad’s change into her purse.

  “I don’t know.” I took one of the food trays.

  “Come again!” called the snack guy. I was pretty sure he was making a play for Eileen.

  She ignored him and followed me outside. June bugs buzzed around the lights at the door. Crickets hopped on the cement. Eileen sighed. “I don’t know what to say, Tree.”

  “I don’t get it. He could have asked me to come along. I don’t smoke. But I do laugh.”

  “Dad says smoking can kill you, and laughter cures,” Eileen added. “So … their loss, right?”

  “Right.” But I knew neither of us believed it. Would Ray have been embarrassed having me hang around with his buddies? Was I his secret?

  I led the way back to the car, weaving a little farther out so I didn’t have to go by Wayne’s pickup. “Sorry about taking the long way, Eileen.” I turned around, but she wasn’t there. “Eileen?”

  The lights began fading again. The movie was about to start. Great. What else could go wrong?

  I retraced my steps until I found her standing next to a VW, staring off at something. “Eileen, you’re making us miss the movie.”

  She didn’t budge. I couldn’t see her face—it had gotten dark without the parking lot lights on. I shut my eyes to get them used to the dark. Then I opened them.

  Eileen was crying.

  “Eileen? What’s wrong?”

  Her hand went to her mouth, like she wanted to keep herself from screaming.

  I stared where she was staring. Then I saw it—Butch’s daddy’s white Caddy. I could tell by the big wings in back. I could also tell that he had Laura with him—in the backseat. They were not watching the movie. They were making out, so slumped in the seat it was hard to tell where one began and the other left off.

  I shuffled my box of food so I could take Eileen’s arm. “Come on. That guy’s—” I wanted to tell her the truth, that he wasn’t worth it. That she was worth a thousand Lauras, ten thousand Butches. But I knew that wasn’t what she wanted to hear. I just didn’t know what she would want to hear.

  Words. Sometimes words just weren’t enough.