Dinky Hocker Shoots Smack! (12 page)

Dinky said, “They must have driven off just as he was about to open the door.”

“I thought you weren’t interested in the bizarre, anymore,” Tucker said.

“It’s a true story.”

“It’s still bizarre.”

“So is Nader, lately. She’s gone wild. She’s changed overnight.”

“So have you,” Tucker said.

“I haven’t changed,” Dinky said as the waitress brought their order. “I’ve changed
back
. I’m my normal self again.”

She dug into the baklava. “Try the crepe,” she said.

Tucker didn’t eat anything. He took a sip of Coke and said, “I think I really hate your mother.”

“She’s crude, but she speaks the truth,” Dinky said.

“I wish you’d read P. John’s letter.”

“Read it yourself,” she said. “It won’t say anything you’d want to print on a balloon.”

“He wrote it to
you,
” Tucker said.

“He’s power mad. He’s a fascist.”

“You don’t even know what a fascist is,” Tucker said.

“A fascist doesn’t care about the individual. He only cares about a cause—like Weight Watchers.”

She pushed the letter in front of Tucker. “Read it and see,” she said. “Read it aloud.”

Tucker tore open the envelope and began reading:

Dear Susan,

I’ll be at the above address as of January 1.

Don’t give up the WW meetings just because I’m away.

“You see?” Dinky interrupted. “He’s a Jean Nidetch fascist.”

“Who’s Jean Nidetch?”

“The Weight Watchers’ dictator. She dresses all in white and carries one red rose. I’ve seen pictures of her. She once weighed 214 pounds.”

Tucker continued with the letter:

More people die in the United States of too much food than of too little.

“My mother’s right,” Dinky said, starting in on the crepe. “He’s not a sympathetic character. He doesn’t realize people are starving in the United States.”

“
You’re not
,” Tucker said.

“I was a minute ago.”

“Very funny,” Tucker said sarcastically.

If you want to correspond about things, you have my address and Tucker could pass along my answers.

It was an odd sort of Christmas, wasn’t it?

We could let each other know how many pounds we lose every week.

I’d really like to know how you’re doing.

Maybe it’s too much trouble writing back and forth, considering the big hassle with our parents.

I’m much better off where I am.

Sincerely,

P. John Knight

“Oh my my my my my,” Dinky exclaimed, sounding exactly like her mother. “Isn’t
that
romantic.”

T
HE THIRD WEEK IN
January, Tucker’s father began a new job in public relations, at half the salary he was accustomed to.

That same week, on Friday night, he invited Jingle to dinner. It was the first time Jingle had been to the town house since the fire.

“Your mother’s working late, so we’ll get everything ready,” Tucker’s father said when he got home from the office.

Stirring Romances
was doing a special June issue on unmarried mothers. A banner for the cover was to proclaim “
WE WERE NEVER BRIDES
,” and all the stories were supposed to be confessions of young women who’d found unhappiness in breaking the rules of society.

Tucker’s mother had been working overtime for days to “get the book to bed,” which was magazine jargon for finishing a complete issue and shipping it off to the printer.

Tucker’s father was trying to teach him how to make a meat loaf. They were moving around the kitchen clumsily, bumping into each other and making a mess.

“We haven’t had a chance to talk together in a long time,” Tucker’s father said, wiping up some ketchup he had spilled on the floor. “This will be good for us.”

Tucker put a Band-Aid on his finger where he’d cut himself slicing onions. He said, “How do you like the new job?”

“It’s too easy, and it’s not enough money,” his father said. “But I hope it’ll work into something more important.”

“What time is Jingle coming by?” Tucker said.

“In about an hour,” his father said. “I suppose we should have bought a portable fire extinguisher.”

“You’re really good-natured, Dad,” Tucker said. “There were two things I never thought you’d do: ask Jingle here again, and take a job you weren’t really excited about.”

His father opened a package of chopped steak and dumped it into a bowl. “Tucker,” he said, “to make anything work, from a meat loaf to a marriage, there are two things you
have
to do. Forgive and continue.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Tucker said.

“It’s worth remembering, son. And there’s something else I want you to do.”

“What’s that?”

“From now on, I want you to feel like an equal around here.”

“I feel like an equal,” Tucker said, thinking his father was about to apologize again for not spending much time with him in the past three months.

“Good,” his father said. “Then you won’t mind getting dinner now and then, or doing the dishes, or running the vacuum cleaner through the house. Your mother’s going to make an announcement tonight, and everything I’m saying now is pertinent to what she’s going to announce.”

“What’s she going to announce?”

“She wants to tell you herself. I’m all for it, and I think you will be, too. But we’ve all got to pull together from here on in, Tucker.”

“We’re really broke, aren’t we?” Tucker said.

“We’re not rich, if that’s what you mean.”

“Not even close,” Tucker said.

“No, not even close,” his father agreed. “Now watch what I’m going to do with the egg and breadcrumbs.”

It wasn’t a pretty sight. His father mixed everything up with his hands: the meat, the ketchup, the egg, the breadcrumbs, the onions, the green pepper, and the chopped peanuts.

“Are you sure about the peanuts?” Tucker asked.

“The peanuts are my special touch,” his father answered. “You can use celery, or mushrooms; or celery, mushrooms,
and
peanuts. The trick is to stretch your food dollar.”

“Maybe I should get a job,” Tucker said.

“I thought of that,” his father said, “but you’ll be of more use helping around here. We’re not going to have a cleaning woman anymore, and there’ll be nights both your mother and I will be getting home late. We’re going to depend on you a lot.”

“You’re actually going to eat what I cook?” Tucker said.

“You’re going to have to eat it, too,” his father said, “so bone up.”

Jingle arrived with a bottle of red wine just as they were putting the meat loaf into the oven.

“This is not my sole peace offering,” he announced as he set the bottle down on the table. “I have also brought along my guts, all neatly typed and bound in a play manuscript. After dinner, I’ll read it aloud.”

“The more things change, the more they remain the same,” Tucker’s father said.

But things around the Joralemon Street town house were not going to stay the same. When Tucker’s mother came home she made the big announcement: Beginning in February, she was going to attend night classes at Brooklyn Law School.

“Bless my dark and sinister soul!” Jingle exclaimed over the news. “Here come de judge!”

After dinner, Jingle read his play. It was about a man in hell. Hell was one room with a mirror in it, and nothing else. While the man sat before the mirror, his reflection reviewed his entire life in minute detail, pointing out everything he’d done wrong.

The play was called,
Now It’s My Turn to Talk.

It was a very long play, and Jingle began reading it almost immediately after Tucker’s mother had told everyone her news.

She hadn’t even had a chance to go into detail—to say what courses she was going to take, or what kind of a lawyer she wanted to be, or how long it was going to take.

Tucker felt like shouting out, “Bore-
ring
!” in the middle of Jingle’s reading, and he felt bad about the way his mother had simply been cut off by Jingle. But his mother sat listening to Jingle’s play with this earnest expression on her face, while Tucker’s father leaned back with his eyes closed, breathing very deeply.

Tucker remembered what his father had told him earlier: Forgive and continue.

It was a Friday afternoon. While Tucker was walking along Montague Street, he heard a familiar voice say, “How
are
you, Tucker?”

“Fine, Mrs. Hocker. Just fine.”

“You’re exactly the person I wanted to see today,” she said.

Tucker felt like walking away, but he had to admit his father’s philosophy was practical, even if it wasn’t likely to revolutionize the world. It
was
okay for meat loaf, marriage, and meeting Mrs. Hocker on Montague Street.

“What did you want to see me about?” Tucker said.

Since that day after church, Tucker had not laid eyes on Dinky or heard any news of Natalia.

“You know how to draw, don’t you?” Mrs. Hocker asked.

“Yes. I can draw.”

“I have a new little afternoon group of ghetto children I’m working with, Tucker. We meet on Tuesdays at the parish house of the church. What we need is an artist to help us.”

“I’m not an artist, Mrs. Hocker.”

“Could you drop by next Tuesday at four?” she continued, ignoring his disclaimer. “I want to start them finger-painting and watercoloring. You could help us get started. These are
very
poor children, Tucker. They’ve had none of your advantages. Some of them don’t even have heat in their homes on cold days like these, and—”

“I get it,” Tucker interrupted.

“Will you do us this favor, dear?”

“How’s Natalia?” Tucker said.

“Oh, she’ll be there, dear. Dinky and Natalia are helping, too.”

Tucker just stared at her, as though she were an amnesia victim and one of the things she’d forgotten was Christmas Day.

Mrs. Hocker got the message.

She said, “I’m going to give you another chance, Tucker. I’m going to trust you to see Natalia without upsetting her.”

Tucker felt like telling her she could take her trust and shove it.

Mrs. Hocker said, “I had a long talk with a psychologist who knows Natalia very well. He thinks it’s important for her to have friends. Not just the girls she meets at St. Marie’s, but other friends, too.”

“Boyfriends,” Tucker said.

“Boys, who are also friends. Yes,” Mrs. Hocker said. “Will you be there, Tucker? Can we count on you?”

“All right,” Tucker said. “But I’ve never finger-painted in my life.”

“The ghetto children won’t know that,” Mrs. Hocker promised. “Most of them don’t even own a box of crayons.”

At that point Dinky materialized, carrying two chocolate-dip cones from the King George Ice Cream Parlor. She was licking one and holding the other. Tucker thought at first that she was bringing the other to Mrs. Hocker, but she wasn’t. Tucker looked around to see if Natalia was with her.

Dinky read his mind. “They’re both for me,” she said. “I’m supposed to gorge myself before I start this new diet tomorrow. I’m going to be injected with a hormone they make from pregnant women’s urine.”

Mrs. Hocker winced. “
Dinky
!” she said. “Ladies don’t discuss intimate details like that!”

“It’s true, though,” Dinky said. “It’s called Follutin. Every injection costs five dollars. I’ll be getting a fix every day.”

“What is it about you, Tucker,” Mrs. Hocker said, “that makes Dinky want to say unnecessary things?”

Tucker stood there trying to dream up an unnecessary answer, when Dinky suddenly changed the subject. “Did you tell him about Nader, Mother? Tucker, she’s giving Nader to the A.S.P.C.A.”

“Only if we can’t find a new home for her,” Mrs. Hocker said.

“You know what they do with cats at the A.S.P.C.A.? They gas them,” Dinky said. “So much for the prevention of cruelty to animals.”

T
UESDAY AFTERNOON TUCKER WORKED
with the children in the basement of the church house from three thirty to four thirty. The only one who really painted on the paper Mrs. Hocker supplied was Marcus. He was helping Tucker. The kids themselves had painted their fingers, their faces, their clothes, and the floor.

Marcus had painted a rainbow with a jug at the end labeled
POT
.

“That’s a pot of gold,” he told Tucker. “The other kind of pot messes up your brain, man.”

“Speaking of pots,” Tucker said, “I have to go home and make dinner.”

“That’s heavy. What’re you going to cook?”

“I don’t know,” Tucker said. He began helping the kids clean up, while Marcus described how everyone at DRI took turns cooking. Marcus said his specialty was Mushroom Dream.

“You take a can of mushroom soup, a can of tuna fish, and a can of peas,” Marcus said. “Mix them all together in a casserole, sprinkle some grated cheese on top, and put it in the oven for half an hour.”

Then Tucker saw Natalia.

“Just double the recipe if you’re cooking for four,” Marcus said, “and triple it if you’re cooking for six.”

Natalia was helping one of the older kids find her coat.

Tucker walked over to the coat rack and said, “Hello.”

“Hello, Tucker,” Natalia said. Tucker had never seen her in jeans. She wore an old red-flannel shirt; her hair was pulled back and held with a red ribbon. She no longer had an old-fashioned look. She looked just like one of the St. Marie girls now, only prettier than most of them.

She said, “This is Wendy, Tucker. We just made a collage.”

Wendy was around eight. She handed Tucker the collage. It was made on an old newspaper. A piece of red felt was pasted to the newspaper in the shape of a candle. A piece of yellow felt was attached like a flame. Letters of various shapes and colors formed the words:
PSALMS xviii.28
.

Tucker said, “What does that mean?”

“Mrs. Hocker wanted our collages to have a biblical theme,” Natalia said. “Psalms xviii.28 says, ‘For thou wilt light my candle.’”