The Secrets of Tree Taylor (8 page)

After the Adams family took off, I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep. Midge curled at my feet and growled every time I flopped over. I couldn’t stop thinking about Mrs. Kinney. Was she lying awake right now too? Was she really feeling relieved that Mr. Kinney wasn’t lying beside her?

The only person I would have felt relieved to have out of
my
way—not counting Khrushchev or Castro, of course—was Wanda. She was the biggest obstacle to me fulfilling either of my summer goals. Mrs. Woolsey, who’d been our junior high art teacher, always chose Wanda’s stuff for art shows. They were related somehow—Wanda’s dad was Mrs. Woolsey’s cousin, or something like that.

And Ray liked Wanda too.

If it hadn’t been for Wanda standing between Ray and me, I could have imagined Ray and his sky-blue eyes waiting on the other end of a kiss worth writing about.

Last year Ray and I had English together, without Wanda.
The first day, Ray walked right in and sat next to me on purpose, even though there were lots of empty seats. Every day, I looked forward to English because I knew I’d be sitting beside Ray. We had fun too, trying not to laugh at Mrs. Erickson’s overly dramatic readings. We discovered we both loved O. Henry short stories and Ray Bradbury, especially
Fahrenheit 451
. I even helped Ray with some of the reports we had to write for class.

But whenever Wanda was in a class with us, she made sure Ray didn’t pay attention to anybody but her. I might as well have been going to school in Russia or Red China.

I would have been relieved to have Wanda out of the way—but because she moved, not because she got shot.

I hadn’t liked looking for clues at the Kinneys’—not with Chuck, anyway. And I sure didn’t look forward to prying information out of my dad. Maybe, I thought just before I finally drifted off to sleep, maybe I should rethink my big investigation. It sure would be a lot safer writing about steam engines.

Monday it rained so hard, I figured the pool wouldn’t open. I got up early anyway and sat in the big living room chair, where I could watch the rain through our picture window. Water flowed in crooked lines down the glass. Midge, huddled on the footstool, was snoring away. “You know you still have to go outside,” I told Midge.

She groaned.

“Okay, I’ll go too.” I got the leash and grabbed my raincoat and umbrella before heading outside for a rain-walk.

The gray skies and dripping rain made me feel like earth
was having a bad day. But Midge wagged her tail and trotted full speed ahead, leading me up the muddy road like she was on a mission. She stopped in front of the Kinney place and started barking. I tugged on her leash, but she kept it up.

“Here now,” came a scratchy voice that stopped Midge’s barking and made me look up to the porch. Mrs. Kinney stood in the doorway.

I stared at her. She wore the same dingy apron as before. Her faded cotton dress wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Old West or on
The Beverly Hillbillies
. Her dirt-brown hair was carelessly pinned up, gray streaks flanking both ears. In my mind, I’d been picturing her barefoot, her unpainted toe-nails yellow and long. But seeing her sensible shoes again made me realize I’d imagined the part about her bare feet.

“You’re Tree, ain’t ya?” she asked. “Doc’s youngest?”

I nodded.

Midge moved in closer, pulling me with her.

“The one what wants to be a writer?”

I was shocked that she knew that much about me. “Yeah?”

“Your daddy said as much. Your sister, Eileen, wants to be a nurse, I take it. Why don’t you?” She narrowed her eyes, sizing me up as I stood in the drizzling rain.

I wasn’t sure how I’d ended up on the wrong end of this interview. But she was waiting for my answer. “All I’ve ever wanted to do was write, Mrs. Kinney,” I told her honestly. “Well, I guess I did want to be a horse trainer once. And a dancer. But not anymore. I want to write and get to the truth of things. It’s like writing is something I
need
to do, whether I want to or not.”

I stopped talking because I realized she probably didn’t care why I wanted to be a writer. She just wondered why I didn’t want to be a nurse like Eileen and Mom.

“Best get out of the rain,” she said.

I didn’t know if she meant I should get out of the rain or she should. But she stepped back and closed the door, shutting herself out of the rain and leaving me in it.

I walked Midge home. My first interview with Mrs. Kinney, and I’d messed up so bad, it would probably be my last.

I should have stuck with steam engines.

Mom, also known as Nurse Helen, came home to fix lunch. Eileen and I ate bologna sandwiches while Mom stuck a plate of leftover lasagna into the oven for Dad. She said half the people in the waiting room were talking about the upcoming Steam and Gas Engine Show, and the other half were speculating on the fate of Mr. Kinney.

I tried getting back to my journal, but I couldn’t seem to produce anything except a chewed pen. Then I heard Mom and Eileen laughing hard. Their voices floated in from the family room as if traveling from another planet far, far away from mine.

I sneaked through the kitchen to eavesdrop.

“Try it over here,” Eileen said.

They grunted like they were trying to lift the house. Then I heard a chair or a couch scoot across the tiled floor. Staying out of sight, I peeked around the corner and watched as they finished shoving the recliner next to the biggest window.

I liked the recliner in its old spot.

“Perfect!” Mom exclaimed. “You’ve got a great eye for this.”

“Maybe I should be an interior decorator instead of a nurse,” Eileen said.

“You can be anything you want,” Mom assured her. “And that includes nursing.”

Mom got that right. Eileen was so smart, she really could become anything she wanted to. Unless Einstein moved to town, Eileen would be valedictorian next year.

But my sister had chosen nursing. When we were little, Eileen dressed up as a nurse every single Halloween. Before settling on what I wanted to be when I grew up, I’d changed my mind dozens of times. Not Eileen. Changing her mind would have been like giving up.

I probably shouldn’t have spied on my mother and sister, but I couldn’t help myself. Maybe I wanted to find out what they did that made them so close. You only had to see them for two seconds to know they loved spending time together. When they walked down the street, people stared, people smiled. In her own way, Eileen was as beautiful as our mother.

I stepped back so they wouldn’t see me, but I could still hear them.

“You wouldn’t believe what Elizabeth wore to Curt’s Café yesterday,” Eileen said, after more scooting and grunting.

“What?” Mom sounded truly interested.

“I liked her silky blouse. Pastel blue with a tie-neck. But her skirt? It had to be two, maybe three, inches above her knee.”

There was a
thud
, like something heavy dropping. “You’re kidding!” Mom exclaimed.

“I kid you not. It may not have been as short as that red suede skirt we saw, but—”

“The skirt in
Bazaar
? Now, that was short.” Mom’s voice changed. “This way a bit. Hmm … no, let’s try the table on the other side.”

“Good idea,” Eileen agreed.

No surprise there. My mom and my sister agreed on everything.

“You know who would look great in a short skirt like that?” said Eileen.

“Nobody,” Mom said.

“Tree. I wish I had her knees.”

I couldn’t believe she’d said that. I stared down at my legs, pushing up my cutoffs for a better view of my skinned-up knees.

“Both of my girls have great knees.” Something slammed against the wall. “And neither of my girls will be displaying them under short skirts.”

“I know. But Tree could carry it off,” Eileen insisted. “You know what else Tree would look great in? A red sweater dress with a wide belt. And kitten heels.”

“Tree wouldn’t wear kitten heels if you got her a litter of them.”

“I know. And the only thing she’ll wear to school are shifts and sack dresses,” Eileen said.

“Because they’re comfortable,” Mom explained.

“She’d wear jeans to high school if they’d let her,” Eileen
complained. “You should get her an A-line skirt. Ooh—I know! Remember those kick-pleat skirts we saw at the Jones Store in Kansas City? They look like straight skirts, but the pleat in front and back makes them comfortable. Remember? The woman said you could do the twist in that skirt.”

Mom laughed. “I remember! I thought about Tree when she said that. Do you think she’d wear one if we brought it home?”

I backed out of the kitchen. I wasn’t sure how I felt about what I’d heard. It always made me feel kind of lonely inside when I listened to Mom and Eileen talk. Sometimes I heard them laughing while Mom curled Eileen’s hair behind the closed bathroom door. I never asked what they were laughing about.

Normally, I hated it when my mother and big sister tried to make me dress like them or act “ladylike.” I had put up a fit when they told me their plans to have Eileen and me wear prairie dresses for the steam engine show.

But my ears were still ringing with what Eileen said about me. My sister thought I’d look good in a sweater dress. I knew she didn’t want one because she said they showed every extra pound and imperfection.

Plus, Eileen wished she had my knees?

Just when I thought I had my sister all figured out, she went and said a nice thing like that.

And just when I thought I had my dad figured out, he claimed he didn’t want to talk about things.

Maybe the whole world had flipped upside down.

Before I could get caught eavesdropping, I slipped outside. If it hadn’t been raining so hard, I might have gone for a long walk to clear my head. Instead, I grabbed my Hula-Hoop and my transistor radio and headed for the carport. Rain was pounding the metal roof, and the whole outdoors smelled like evergreens.

I took my hula stance and started the hoop. Our California cousin, Barb, sent Eileen and me Hula-Hoops months before anybody in town had even heard of them. It took me forever to get the hang of keeping the yellow plastic hoop twirling around my middle. But now I could keep it spinning all day.

By the time Dad came home for lunch, it had stopped raining. Still twirling my Hula-Hoop, I moved out of the way so he could get his car in. We hadn’t talked much since Saturday, when I’d tried to ask him about the Kinneys.

I turned up “Duke, Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl.” Great hula music. Plus, Dad really liked it. Most of my friends’ parents
hated our music, but not Dad. He kept his radio tuned to WHB, same as me.

Hatless, Dad climbed out of the car. He left his suit jacket hanging on the hook over the backseat window and slammed the driver’s door closed. Then he stretched like his back ached. His white shirt looked wrinkled. He hadn’t turned around to see me, and for a second I didn’t think he was going to.

“Hey, Dad!” I tried to sound normal, hoping he’d forgotten about my Kinney gossip.

He glanced over his shoulder. “Hey, Tree.” Then he walked into the garage. He didn’t even ask how I was doing.

But half a minute later, he strolled out with Eileen’s pink Hula-Hoop. “This might be just what I need for my aching back. I’m always after my patients to exercise more.” He dropped the hoop over his head and wiggled. The hoop landed with a smack on the cement drive.

“Step into it, Dad.” I stopped my hoop so I could demonstrate. “Hold it with both hands like this, to one side. Then start it spinning, moving your hips back and forth. Let your hips flow in a circle until you catch the rhythm.”

“Got it.” He stepped into the hoop, grabbed it, wiggled. The hoop did half a spin on his waist, then dropped. “Good exercise bending down to get the thing, I suppose.”

“Try starting it counterclockwise.” I wanted Dad to be able to make it work. But more than that, I loved that he tried. Especially now, with me. “Put your feet farther apart.”

The song ended, and the top-of-the-hour news blared. I didn’t pay any attention to it, but I did hear the word “Vietnam.”

Dad’s hoop almost made it all the way around his waist. He shook his head, breaking the rhythm, and the hoop plunked to the ground.

“Don’t give up, Dad. You’ll get the hang of it.”

“Maybe.” He sounded so down.

“You really did almost get it to spin that time. Don’t worry.”

“Hmm? What?” He picked up the hoop and tried again. “No. It’s not my lack of Hula-Hooping skills I’m worried about.”

I waited. Something was bothering him. I just hoped it wasn’t me.

The radio started playing music again. I kept my hoop spinning and held my peace until the Beach Boys got halfway through “Surfin’ Safari.”

Then Dad broke. “ ‘Advisor,’ my eye! Twelve hundred ‘advisors’ sent to Vietnam? How can they call those young boys advisors? They’re soldiers. Sent with guns over to a country where nobody wants them. And to people who wouldn’t take their
advice
if they offered it, which they won’t because they’re trained to shoot and kill. I tell you what, Tree. Sometimes I think the whole world’s going crazy.” He shoved Eileen’s Hula-Hoop around his waist so hard that it spun three times before crashing at his feet. “Most of those poor boys don’t even have a clue where Vietnam is before they get there.”

Dad sounded so depressed that I didn’t want to tell him that
I
had no idea where Vietnam was, either. Except that it had to be far away from America. “They’ll be okay, though, won’t they? America’s never lost a war, right?”

He picked up the Hula-Hoop and tried again. “This isn’t like the big war your mom and I fought in. Or World War One, the war your grandfather fought in. Vietnam is nothing but hills and jungles and rice paddies … and dead bodies. We rushed in, and we haven’t the vaguest notion of what that culture is like, what those people are thinking.”

“Dad! You’re doing it!” The Hula-Hoop circled Dad’s waist, clicking against his belt buckle and wobbling over his wide striped tie.

“I’ve got it! I can Hula-Hoop!” He suddenly sounded more thrilled than I had been the first time I caught on.