Call Me Amy (10 page)

Her finished letter, curling up as it dried, was tossed to one side. There was a tender look in her eyes as she studied her hands. On her left plump pinky was a silver band I had never seen before.

I cleared my throat. She glanced up, found me watching her, then struggled to get the band from her finger. Pink color rose in her cheeks from the exertion. “It must have shrunk.” Miss Cogshell chuckled as the ring popped off. She dropped it into a small gray box on the table.

“Is that a new ring?” I asked.

“Not unless you call fifty-five years old, new.” She pulled her heavy frame out of the chair.

“I've never seen you wear a ring before.”

“That's because I haven't worn it in over fifty years.”

I knew I should stop questioning her, but I wanted to understand that look I had seen on her face. She lumbered down the hall to her bedroom.

I inspected the little gray box. Although worn now, I could tell it once had a fuzzy velveteen texture. Its lid made a satisfying click. I snapped it open and shut several times. A small, yellowed paper fit snugly inside the cover. A faded heart was drawn on it with the words ‘To Sylvia' written inside the heart. I tried to picture Miss Cogshell as a young Sylvia. It was difficult.

I was completely engrossed in snooping when I sensed I wasn't alone. I looked up to find her in the doorway. She held a picture frame.

“Sorry,” I said. “I'm just too curious.”

“I was cleaning out a drawer this morning and happened to find the ring.”

“Was it a gift?”

“Stanley Whitmore gave the ring to me when we became engaged.”

“Engaged?” I blurted out.

“For one year we were engaged while Stanley fought in the war.”

“I didn't know you'd been married,” I said with a giggle.

“We planned . . . ” Miss Cogshell stopped, then said briskly, “We planned to get married, only he did not make it back.”

Heat swirled through my temples and knocked the proper response right out of my brain. For the life of me I couldn't speak.

“I know it is hard to imagine me with a sweetheart, Amy, but . . . ”

“No,” I protested with vigorous head shaking.

She flipped over the little frame she had brought in from the other room and placed it in front of me. “Stanley was a lobsterman who just couldn't get enough of my raspberry pies,” she said with fondness.

I studied the smiling couple. Could that really be Miss Cogshell and her
boyfriend
? The photo showed a husky girl with good posture and a long, pale braid draped over one shoulder. She carried what appeared to be a picnic basket. The lanky man beside her was a couple of inches shorter. He had a friendly, open face
and one of his arms curled around the girl's waist. An old Model T was parked behind them.

“I want you to know that Stanley tried to come home to me, but God had other plans for him. Now he is in the little graveyard behind my church.” Miss Cogshell reached for the ring box and turned it over several times in her hands. “The saddest part was that he was shot down just days before the war ended.”

“I'm so sorry,” I stammered, as my eyes filled with tears. I visualized the sturdy young girl receiving such dreadful news while everybody else cheered the end of World War I.

“It is okay now. Past is past.” She let out a long sigh. She picked up the box and picture, dropped them into her housecoat pocket, and then busied herself packing up writing supplies. “Let's make cookies.”

E
VERY AFTERNOON THAT
week I visited Miss Cogshell and Pup for a couple of hours. It made me wonder what on earth I used to do after school. Craig was there most days, the best days. We would walk over to the pier on our way home and more often than not have one of our deep conversations. Although he always joked around with everyone at school, I had a feeling Craig saved the serious stuff for me. He knew his secrets were safe, since I didn't say boo to anyone else.

Sometimes I'd see Pamela and Claire snooping around. I'd hide behind the woodshed until the coast was clear. I discovered that it took exactly five minutes for them to stroll from the end of the pier to the post office. When they got past Miss Cogshell's yard, I'd make a run for the back door.

Once, Craig got caught turning into the walkway on his bike. I watched them through the ivy that hung in the kitchen window. They laughed and talked about who knows what. I stopped spying after Pamela redid her ponytail for the third time. Later, Craig mentioned that Pamela had said, “Oh, what a coincidence!” I didn't bother to tell him I had counted them going past the house nine times that morning, because then he might have figured out that I'd been watching for him, too.

I never did get up the nerve to invite him to the dance and eventually decided he probably wasn't into that sort of thing anyway. I mean, it would be hard to picture him standing at a dance in that droopy, old army jacket. I convinced myself that I wasn't into dances either. They were more of a Nancy kind of event.

Miss Cogshell was always baking cookies and telling us stories about the old times while we watched Pup's funny antics. I had never been allowed a pet in our polished showplace of a home, and Craig's mother had allergies.
Supposedly
, he said. So we enjoyed and loved our fast-growing Pup like he was our very own.
None of us mentioned that he was a temporary pet, though I knew we all were aware of the days swiftly passing.

C
RAIG WASN'T IN
school one Friday, and I had a dentist appointment right after. But first thing Saturday, I threw on an old sweatshirt and a pair of dungarees and went to Miss Cogshell's. She was in her backyard hanging laundry on the clothesline. Bleach-scented sheets puffed up slowly, bright against the green pines. Sunlight defined the many fine lines on her face. Removing a clothespin from her mouth, she said, “Go on in, I'll be another minute.”

I could hear Pup splashing and followed the noise into the bathroom. Craig was sitting on the floor next to the tub. At first I thought it was the shower curtain that made a shadow on his face, but then I realized he had a long, thin bruise on his cheek. I was about to ask what happened, when the back door slammed. Wordlessly, I knelt beside Craig.

Soon Miss Cogshell filled the hallway, and the three of us watched Pup in silence. I listened to Miss Cogshell's cuckoo clock ticking from the parlor. I shifted
my position and peeked at my friends. A feeling that something else wasn't right began to creep over me. When Craig spoke, I knew what it was.

“Me and Miss C. were talking and we think since the weather's supposed to be nice and all, we should let Pup go—tomorrow.”

“It will be quiet on a Sunday morning,” added Miss Cogshell.

“Besides,” said Craig, “it's getting harder to keep Pup secret. Some kids at school asked about him.”

“Gee, I wonder why?” I said in my best snotty voice. “Nosy, big-mouth Pamela, that's why,” I spit out. I glanced up quick at Miss Cogshell, and her raised eyebrows made me feel ashamed. I knew I wasn't really angry with Pamela; I was angry at losing Pup.

My mind raced. Tomorrow! No more Pup? It was hard to swallow. “Do you think he'll be okay in the ocean?” I asked. Craig and I exchanged looks, but there didn't seem to be any answers.

“Let me tell you a true story about the ocean.” Miss Cogshell motioned for us to follow her into the parlor.

That parlor—such a cozy place, with dark flowery wallpaper and the constant ticking of the cuckoo clock. Three of the walls had books right up to the ceiling. The other had the fireplace and that silly little doily-covered TV. A small pillow stuffed with pine needles let off a strong woodsy scent. There was something about Miss Cogshell's house that made it different
from any other. Each room was filled with things she loved. I glanced at Craig and realized we became part of her rooms, too. I wondered if he had ever noticed her bread dough smell. We stretched out on the braided rug while Miss Cogshell settled into her big chair. She leaned Clyde against the arm, pushed her glasses up, and began.

“I will never forget the time God fed the town. Must have been around 1930. The depression had hit and folks were pretty hungry. I was down at the little beach over in Thomaston. I used to go there often. The rush of waves and vastness of the sea always made my own small troubles seem insignificant.” She paused a minute while the cuckoo did its thing. “Anyway, that day the waves were stupendous. They'd dash up, slap the shore, then fall back, each time leaving more hake flipping and flopping all over the beach. People started going crazy catching those fish. I hiked up the bottom edges of my long dress and stuffed a bunch of fish in the tote it made. I felt like the Pied Piper delivering hake all over the Port.

“Every day us Mainers came for food until finally we could take no more. People came from as far as Rockland to load up big barrels with fish. A few weeks later the season ended as suddenly as it had begun. I have never again heard of anything like it, in all these years.”

“Wow,” I murmured, still caught up in the story.

“Is that for real?” asked Craig.

“The ocean is a powerful friend,” Miss Cogshell said. “It takes from us, but gives back so much more. Pup will be in good hands.”

C
RAIG AND
I hung around later than usual that day. He did some chores for Miss Cogshell while I tried to memorize everything about Pup, right down to the little heart-shaped spot above his eye. I let him know how much I cared, by patting and playing with him. When pink reflections came in through the newly replaced screen door and the clock gave an extra cuckoo, we knew we'd stayed long enough.

Miss Cogshell slid a blue mothball-scented cardigan sweater over her plump shoulders and stepped outside with us to admire the sky. “Should be a perfect day to let Pup go.”

“How come?” Craig peered out beneath his bangs to look up.

“Oh, I know,” I said, suddenly remembering the old local saying. “Red in the morning, sailors take warning. Red sky at night, sailors delight.”

Craig rolled his eyes. “How could I forget.”

“Still a little chilly at night.” Miss Cogshell started to head back inside. Then she stopped at the big bush beside the door and gently lifted the buds between her
fingers. “Wait 'til you see these lilacs. I look forward to them every year. Just a few more weeks and their color and scent will fill the yard with beauty.” She shivered and pulled her sweater tighter around her. “Brrrr—you two better be on your way.”

“See ya tomorrow,” said Craig taking off on his bike.

Miss Cogshell and I watched him go, then I looked around the yard and back at the house, moving closer to it. “You know,” I started to say, unsure what was to follow, “There's something about your house.”

Miss Cogshell nodded with a wistful smile on her face.

I searched for a word to describe the way I felt. “Something special, I guess.”

“Oh, Amy, I am so glad you feel it, too. I'm sure it is not everyone's cup of tea. Years ago I made up a will and left this house to Port Wells. What a comfort to know it will always be here by the pier, appreciated by people like you.”

“Don't say that,” I blurted out. “I mean . . . ” I looked down at my sneakers. “You're not going anywhere.”

Miss Cogshell patted my shoulder and then chuckled.

Confused, I glanced up at her jolly expression.

“I'm just remembering one of my father's sayings. Every time my mother worried about some health issue, he'd say, ‘None of us is getting out of here alive!'”

“But, death is so scary.”

“Not really. No more frightening than birth. Who knows, it could be as beautiful as life itself. Experience all your dreams and you'll have no regrets.”

As she pulled me close with her big arms I couldn't for the life of me imagine her not always being there.

O
N MY WAY
home, the air smelled strongly of wood smoke. Soft yellow lamplight glowed in a few of the houses. People under the lights prepared for the evening; unaware I was moving past in the darkness.

Later, climbing the stairs to my room, I could hear noises coming through Nancy's open door. I paused in the shadowed hallway to peek in. She and Mom sorted through a heap of clothes on the bed. You'd think it was her wedding day the way they were going on and on about the different outfits.

“Okay, then,” said Mom. “How about this cute little pantsuit?”

“I wore that to the last party,” wailed Nancy. “Besides, I don't want to look cute. There'll be juniors and even seniors there.” She held up a black mini skirt. “Maybe this.”

Mom sighed. “Only if you wear solid-colored tights and sensible shoes. You're such a pretty girl . . . ”

Feeling more alone than a ship lost at sea, I tiptoed down the hallway to my own room while Nancy learned about the dangers of dressing cheap.

I curled up on my window seat in my old sweatshirt and stared out into the dark woods, already missing Pup.

I
WOKE UP
way earlier than I needed to that Sunday and found I had no appetite for breakfast. I spent as long as Nancy would to select an outfit: fluorescent yellow sweatshirt with an orange collar sticking out and my plaid bellbottoms, and then I even took a few minutes to comb my freshly shampooed hair. I counted the steps to the little gray house by the pier, and kept my eyes off the deep, dark ocean: Pup's future home. Would I ever see him again? I hung around outside until I saw Craig coming fast down the road on his bike.

“How long ya been here?” he hollered.

“Couple minutes.” I watched him toss his bike aside. “I don't know if she's up yet.”

Craig held his hand up to shade his eyes, “Whoa.”

“What?” I said, glancing down.

“You sure do like bright colors.”