Rumors of Peace (6 page)

G
OOD THINGS WERE NOT TO HAPPEN
, in any case. Soon after, we had our first blue alert in months. A rash of torpedoings broke out in coastal waters. Rumors began spreading that Jap balloon bombs were floating inland. Sheriff O'Toole reported in his column that those who had been lulled into a false sense of security should take heed.

Chastened, I took a long step back into the shadows.

When Karla moved to San Francisco, we drove her there and saw her settled into a rooming house. She was excited and happy, but when she kissed us good-bye, she didn't seem quite as excited and happy, and I wondered if she would feel as lost in a room of her own as I would now feel. I tried to console myself with the fact that she was far better off here in San Francisco. People often said San Francisco was a safer place to be in than Mendoza.

On the way home, sitting with me in the back seat, Peter began talking to Dad and Mama about his own plans after graduation next year. He was hoping he might squeeze a couple of months of college into the summer.

“What about afterwards?” I asked, with my calm, interested expression.

“Basic training, kiddo.”

I was silent for a moment. “If you practiced your drum, maybe they'd put you in the band and you could just go around in parades.”

“Not a chance. That would be too logical. They don't put musicians in the band, they put cooks in the band. Musicians they put in the kitchen. Swimming instructors they put in, let's see—desert training.” He laughed.

But I saw nothing funny about the Army.

Over the back of a chair hung a new plaid skirt and yellow sweater. A pair of saddle shoes, my first, stood underneath. I sat at Karla's dressing table, carefully slicing the calluses from my palms with a razor blade. Then, after sweeping the pieces of hard skin into the wastepaper basket, I climbed into bed, where my feet encountered a cool vastness on Karla's side.

The next morning, in my new clothes, my hair brushed to a green gloss, I set off for the unknown. It was a hazed, sultry morning, and I walked past the creek and gravely alongside the garrison storm fence, behind which stood a stark scene of army trucks, artillery, brown rows of barracks. A troop of soldiers was drilling with rifles. The barked commands echoed all the way to the entrance of the junior high.

I pulled the door open on a sea of unfamiliar faces, the girls with high pompadours like Miss Bonder's, the boys with pointed Adam's apples and deep voices, everyone yelling, waving, shoving, sweeping me along in a mad tide to the auditorium.

There, as soon as the hubbub died down, Mr. Grandison welcomed us with “On the Road to Mandalay,” and I felt more at home. Twisting around in my seat, I was picking out the scattered faces from my class when a large male teacher in a gray suit shot his arm out and pointed for me to turn around. Humiliated before the entire student body, I slid down on my spine, not even hearing the speeches and instructions that followed. Then we were surging back into the corridor, where the big teacher in gray stood planted, answering inquiries with “Down the hall! Up the stairs!” like one of the Gestapo men in the movies who would as soon beat you to a pulp as look at you.

But my homeroom teacher seemed nice, and I breathed more easily. Only for a moment—a dark fact was spreading through me; of my old
classmates here, each was a “poor worker” like myself, or worse, and the rest were from other sixth-grade classes, among them loud messy Eudene who had a screw loose, and Dumb Donny Woodall. I had been demoted. These were the fools rounded up from each class and shut away together like cats with the mange. I took my seat with a hot, shaky feeling, knowing I must not look at my new clothes and remember how pleased Mama had looked as I set off, or my throat would tighten and I would not be able to say, “Here.”

For having introduced herself as Mrs. Miller, the teacher was calling roll. I found no comfort now in her pleasant, friendly voice. It was an indulgent voice, reserved for peabrains. I sat with rapidly blinking eyes fastened on my desk, which, I noted with another wrench, was not a desk at all, but an ordinary chair with a traylike arm to write on—a useless piece of furniture to dive beneath in an air raid.

The name Suzy Hansen was repeated several times before I realized it referred to me. I said with my tight throat, “It's not Suzy, Mrs. Miller. Sooza.”

“Sooza!” Eudene yelled at her.

“Please, dear, we don't yell. Sooza, then. Peggy Hatton?”

A girl I had never seen before, apparently new, looked up from the doodle marks she had been making on her binder. Her hair was red and frizzy and stuck out in two chunky pigtails. The rest of her was also chunky, filling to tautness a plain white middy blouse and black skirt. She had a quiet, modest air and luminous green eyes that blinked earnestly as she spoke. “Excuse me, please, but that name's wrong. It's Rochelle Hatton.”

Mrs. Miller looked again at the sheet she held. “It says Peggy here.”

“No, excuse me, Mrs. Miller, but it's Rochelle.”

“I'm sorry, dear, I think we must go by what it says on the list. That way there's no confusion. Angelo Iaconi?”

The girl gave a solemn blink and resumed her doodling. I saw that she was drawing squares within squares, appropriate, whether she knew it or not, to the tedious years that lay before us.

After roll call came the choosing of locker mates. I stared frigidly ahead, wishing no mate, no locker, no junior high school, and was irrationally stung when I remained unchosen. The new girl also having been
passed over, Mrs. Miller paired us off, and the class proceeded into the hall to the lockers. I set my lunch pail inside with a mournful bang. The Hatton girl gave a cold click of the lock. We did not speak and exchanged only the brief, cool look of people who have been brought together on the basis of an inadequacy.

The morning passed with increasing confusion. Where was Miss Bonder, deficient, but at least not fragmented into seven different faces? Why, when Dumb Donny Woodall raised his hand to go to the bathroom, did the teacher say to attend to those things earlier? Why, at noontime, did the eighth and ninth graders carry brown paper bags instead of lunch pails? And why did they have each other's names inked all over their saddle shoes? Because they were all friends, like my old class, which was eating lunch together on the lawn. I decided to take my lunch down to the creek. Maneuvering around the Gestapo teacher, who was patrolling the grounds, I jumped behind a tree and climbed down to privacy. Opening my blue lunch pail, I listened gloomily to the sound of garrison trucks mixed with the strains of dance music from the gym.

But in homemaking class that afternoon there were two refreshing moments. The first came when Eudene dropped her shoulder bag and some cigarettes rolled out. She was ordered to the principal's office, and she left us with a loud laugh, swinging her hips. Eudene had broad hips to swing, a big bosom to point with, a strong smell of sweat, and a coarse, sallow face under tangled sauerkraut hair. She had been kept back for so many grades that she was now fifteen years old. But this did not bother her, and in fact nothing bothered her. She seldom knew what was going on, but she always enjoyed herself, yelling and smashing your ribs with her elbow. These junior high school teachers didn't know what to make of her, and despite my resentment at having been demoted to Eudene's level, I admired the way she had gone to her destiny, laughing and swinging her hips, leaving the teacher with lips parted.

Then, shortly after, the teacher spoke admonishingly to the quiet Hatton girl. I saw that she had slid down in her seat and sprawled her legs out.

“Sit up properly, please, and pay attention. What was I just saying?”

“You were saying sit up properly, please, and pay attention.”

The teacher frowned down the roll sheet and, finding the name with her finger, looked up. “We have no room for smart-alecs here, Peggy.”

“I didn't understand what you meant,” said the girl, her green eyes widening. “I really didn't.” She had sat up, aligned her feet, and neatly folded her hands in her lap. “And excuse me, please, but it's not Peggy. That name is wrong. It's Rochelle.”

“I'm afraid that's between you and the registrar's office,” said the teacher, and at that moment the air raid bell sounded and we were led into the corridor like a herd of cattle for the roof to crash down on. All today's anger and disappointment burned into the ceiling as I stared up at it, and I vowed to send off a scathing report as soon as I got home.

            
Dear Sheriff O'Toole,

                
This is to tell you that in junior high school they make you stand in the hall during the air raid alarm where the ceiling could crush you. You can not use the desks to get underneath and they do not take you down to the basement either. I am a student there. Thank you.

                
P.S. Miss Bonder at the grammar school does not pull the venetian blinds down so that the flying glass would not cut the children. I am not there but they are. Thank you.

With a dictionary at my side I got the spelling of each word right. It took a long time, but it was worth it. I mailed the letter on the way to school the next morning and felt better. But as I passed the garrison, my thoughts sank down under war everlasting. Nor had I done my homework. Nor did I know anyone. A lump of melancholy grew in my chest.

But at lunchtime everything changed.

Maybe on the grounds that we were, irreversibly, locker mates, Peggy Hatton invited me to eat lunch with her.

With eyes lowered to hide my relief, I accepted. “But you don't have any lunch,” I added, seeing her empty hands.

“I go home to eat.”

I hesitated. I was not supposed to go to strange houses.

“Come on, kid,” she urged.

“All right.”

We walked down the street, leaving the school behind. The day spread out in a hot blue blaze, filled with salt tang and sudden promise.

I
HATE THIS SCHOOL
,” she said.

“So do I.”

“The teachers won't even call me Rochelle. It's my
name.
”

“How come it's Peggy on the roll call sheet?”

“How do I know?”

“You mean Peggy's some completely wrong name?”

“That's right.”

“That's funny. I wonder why.”

But I could see that my companion was not one to pursue a subject relentlessly. She seemed already to have dropped this one. Her round stomach was comfortably thrust before her, and she walked with a pleasant, solid roll.

“Are you new?” I asked.

She nodded.

“Where did you go before?”

“Clara Bebb's, in the valley. It's a boarding school.”

I gave her a closer look. I had seen boarding schools in movies, and the girls were snobbish and beautiful. They rode horses with English saddles and swam in pools surrounded by urns of wisteria. None of them looked like Rochelle. But for all I knew, they left these stumpy ones out of the movies.

“Did you have a swimming pool?”

She gave a nostalgic nod.

“Why do you want to go
here
for?”

“I don't.” She turned a slow, heavy-lidded look at me. “They kicked me out.”

“They did?”

“After the sixth grade they make a decision, on if you're too untamed. They like the bookworm type. I was too untamed.”

“You were?”

“I don't care. Only I liked it there, I had a lot of friends. This is our uniform.”

“I had a friend. His name was Ezio.”

“We didn't have any boys, just brothers if they came on visiting days.”

“I've got a brother. And a sister.”

Her round face took on a sudden hardness. “I've got a sister. But they never brought her along to visit.”

“Why not?”

“Because. She's insane.”

“Really? Ezio's brother was insane. He used to go to the bathroom in the street.”

“She doesn't do that.”

“What does she do?”

“I don't want to discuss her. I detest her.”

We turned onto a broad, curving street lined with weeping willows. “Do you like Mendoza?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? Run-down old refinery town?”

“What do you know about it! You just moved here!”

“No I didn't. We've always lived here.”

That was strange. I had never laid eyes on her, never heard of a Hatton family. There was a lady foot doctor on Estudillo Street named Hatton, a woman with cropped hair like a man's and a cigarette always dangling from her mouth, but as far as I knew she wasn't even married.

“How come I've never seen you around?” I asked.

“Because I'd be in school all year, and in the summer I'd go to camp at Tahoe. Only I can't anymore unless I improve.”

We had come to a broad, velvety lawn where a gardener in a sun helmet was moving a sprinkler.

“Is he a Jap?” I whispered.

“Filipino. How do you pronounce your name again? I want to get it right in case they're home.”

“Who?” I asked uneasily, looking at the house. It was large, imposing, made of gray stone, inset with long, cathedrallike windows. “Sooza,” I said in a hushed tone as she pulled open the door, a great rough-hewn affair with an iron knocker.

“Anybody here?” she yelled, and taking my hand, she led me down the hall to the kitchen.

There, amazingly, sat the lady foot doctor from Estudillo Street. She was smoking and reading a newspaper over the remains of lunch. Next to her sat a man, also smoking and reading a newspaper. Across from them sat a girl of about fourteen or fifteen, spooning up a bowl of soup. She had piercing green eyes that never left my face as we approached the table.

“This is my friend Sooza,” Rochelle announced, “and this is my mother and father.”

The lady doctor glanced up pleasantly from her paper.

“And this is Rudy!” cried Rochelle, stooping down as a brown dachshund barreled into her arms, barking wildly. After setting him down with smacking kisses between his eyes, she went to a cupboard and took out two plates. But I could see that the table was meant for only two people, not three or four, let alone five. Yet it was a big kitchen and could have held a banquet table. Rochelle was trying to cram the plates in.

Dr. Hatton looked up again. “Dear,” she asked me, “would you mind eating at the drainboard? Peggy, make your friend a nice sandwich.”

“Rochelle. And she brought her own lunch.”

“Fine,” murmured the doctor, pushing up a pair of rimless spectacles that had slipped down her nose and returning to her paper.

“Is that okay, Suse?” my new friend asked, flopping down very hard next to her sister.

I nodded and went to the drainboard. I sat down on a high stool
and opened my lunch pail. I felt very nervous because I could feel the insane girl's eyes boring through me.

Suddenly, sharply, she spoke. “Why is your hair green?”

“It's—it's from swimming. The chlorine—”

She stood up. She was slim and wore a beautiful wine-colored dress of the sort you would expect to see on a grown-up person and black open-toed pumps. Across her shoulder was draped a silk shawl with a fringe. Quickly, intently, she crossed the room to my side.

“Is it a permanent condition?” she asked. She had a strong British accent.

“No. It—it'll fade—”

She stood studying my head. I squinted sideways at hers. The eyes were the same green as Rochelle's, but brilliant rather than luminous. The features were finely chiseled, framed by loose auburn curls. It was a deadly serious face.

“What are you staring at?” she asked.

“Well, you—you're staring at me—”

“That is an entirely different matter. Your hair is green. An attractive enough shade, but patently abnormal.”

“Why don't you shut your trap?” Rochelle yelled. “She can have any color hair she wants, it's a free country, we're all born equal!”

“Oh God!” cried the girl. “This is the stale commentary we have to live with! What a threadbare repertoire! What a—”

“Well, you—” Rochelle began.

“Don't speak to me!” she snapped, returning to her seat.

After a moment Rochelle turned to her with a smile. “You've got mayonnaise on your sleeve.”

The girl recoiled, clutching her arm. “Estelle, she's gotten mayonnaise on everything!”

“Well, wipe it off, dear,” her mother murmured.

“She is a complete and utter swine!”

Mr. Hatton lowered his newspaper. “I would like some peace and quiet,” he said in a low voice, and the kitchen fell silent. The sister wiped her sleeve with angry swipes of a napkin. Rochelle was busy eating. She was eating a great deal, including large spoonfuls of mayonnaise,
which she downed with a sharp eye on her parents, who were not looking in any case. They both wore tan windbreakers, his with trousers, hers with a straight skirt. Their hair was similar, hers coppery and his carroty, and the same length, since hers was shingled. After a while, putting out their cigarettes, they got up and left the room, discussing Stalingrad.

The older girl rose too, abruptly. “Rudolph will now give his celebrated imitation of a frankfurter.” She clapped her hands smartly, and the dog fell over. “Bravo, Rudolph!” she cried, and glanced at her watch. “I must dash or I'll miss my train.” And with her hurried, intent walk, she left us.

I hardly knew what to say. “Why does she talk like an English movie?”

“She thinks she sounds better that way. She's insane. Listen.”

I listened but heard nothing.

“Wait a minute.”

Presently, from another part of the house, there came a terrific yelling. Rochelle led me down the hall to peer around the arched entryway to the living room. There the girl stood with clenched fists, crying, “I will not! I will not!” while Rudolph, who had raced ahead of us, danced around, leaping and barking. Mr. Hatton observed the scene from a chesterfield, while his wife stood before the girl with a coat in her hand.

“It might turn cold later on,” Dr. Hatton said patiently.

“It will not turn cold!”

“Take it along, Helen Maria.”

“I will not! I want to wear my shawl!”

“Wear it over your shawl, dear.”

“It will look repulsive! I will not!”

Dr. Hatton gave a sigh. “Go on then. Catch pneumonia.”

Sweeping up an armful of books, the girl strode from the room, throwing a furious look at our two prying faces.

“That's not nice,” Dr. Hatton remarked to her younger daughter. “Helen Maria is not a sideshow.”

My companion nodded agreeably, and we started back to school. Up the street we could see Helen Maria walking along very fast. She turned and looked at us. Then, tossing her head, she hurried on.

“Why was she so mad about the coat?”

“She's always having fits over something.”

“Where's she going on the train?”

“Berkeley. UC. She's in her senior year.”

“Of
college?
How old is she?”

“I don't know. Fifteen.”

“She must be a genius.”

“
She
thinks so.”

“What does she study?”

“I don't know. Greek and junk like that.” There was a bitter, suffering tone to her voice, yet also a grudging boastfulness. “Estelle and Jack said she was reading at eighteen months. What a freak!”

“You call them Estelle and Jack? How come?”

“I don't know. That's who they are.”

“You've got a really odd family,” I complimented her.