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Authors: David A. Adler

Don't Talk to Me About the War (11 page)

BOOK: Don't Talk to Me About the War
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12
All I Think About Is Mom
T
he next morning, Dad is standing by the window with a cup of coffee. He’s still wearing pajamas. “The appointment is this afternoon, at two,” he says without turning to me. “I could go to work this morning and come back in time to take Mom, but I’m not. I’m staying home.”
I don’t know what to say.
“People outside are wearing jackets,” Dad tells me while I eat my breakfast. “I think it’s cool out.”
“Okay,” I say as I get up from the table. “Good luck at the doctor,” I call to Dad as I leave.
I walk real slowly down the steps and the few blocks to Goldman’s. So much has happened since yesterday morning. I just hope that when I tell Beth about Mom she doesn’t start talking about her mother. It’s too scary to think about the two of them together.
I stop outside Goldman’s and look at the newspapers on the bench. The headlines are all about the war: ALLIED SEA ESCAPE, BRITISH RETREAT REACHES COAST, and TROOPS BATTLE IN STREETS OF LILLE. Looking at them you’d think nothing is happening here in the United States.
Beth is at her regular spot. Mr. Simmons is there, too.
“It’s an amazing rescue,” Beth says as I come to the table. “It doesn’t win the war, but without it, all might have been lost.”
Now it feels good to talk about the war, especially when the other thing on my mind is so frightening.
“The rescue is like in baseball,” I say, “when the other team loads the bases and no runs score. That doesn’t win the game, but it can keep you from losing.”
Beth smiles and says, “Yes, I guess it is.”
While we talk, Mr. Simmons keeps his head down. I don’t think he wants me to say I saw him yesterday, so I don’t.
“Do you know how many soldiers got away?” Beth asks. “Not hundreds. Not thousands. But hundreds of thousands. They got away, but lots of them had to leave their weapons behind. We lost lots of guns and ammunition.”
Beth gathers her books and newspapers. She says good-bye to Mr. Simmons and Mr. Goldman, and then, as we’re walking out she asks me, “Are you ready? ”
“Ready? Ready for what?”
“The history test.”
“No! With everything that happened yesterday, I forgot all about it.”
I tell Beth about Mom, about her eye, that she was crying when I came home, and about the two doctors.
“Today she’s going to another doctor.”
At the corner, I tell Sarah, too.
The traffic light is green, but we just stand there. Today, Sarah doesn’t seem to mind that we may be late. I guess she knows how serious it is to have to go to three doctors in just two days. Beth and Sarah tell me it’s good Mom’s vision will come back and say that maybe the third doctor will know just what sort of pills Mom needs to get better. Maybe the third doctor is the one who will cure all her problems.
“Please,” Beth says, “tell me if there’s anything I can do to help.”
Sarah touches me gently on my arm and says, “I also wish to help.”
The light changes to red.
I can’t imagine what Beth or Sarah can do, but it’s nice they offered. Just talking to them helps.
Dr. Johnson greets us when we enter the school. He even smiles. “Good news in the papers today,” he says to Beth.
In math, I open my history book to chapter twelve and hide it under my math notebook.
Mrs. Dillon is nice. She knows I understand the math and generally leaves me alone. The next period Mr. Jacobs, my science teacher, is less understanding. He walks by my desk a few times and keeps me from studying. But I do get through the two chapters, and by the time I get to history, I feel well prepared for the test.
Beth meets me at the door to Mr. Baker’s room.
“Why don’t you just tell him what’s going on at your house. I’m sure he’ll excuse you.”
“I’m not a second-grader.”
“What? ”
“Don’t you remember what he told us the first day of class, that this is not the second grade. He doesn’t like excuses.”
I sit in my seat and as soon as the bell rings Mr. Baker gives his usual introduction to a test, that we should not worry, just do our best, and that our report card grade won’t be based on just this one test. “I know you,” he says. “I know who’s been studying, who’s been working.”
I’ve
been studying! I studied all through math and science.
Mr. Baker places a test on each of our desks. It’s three pages of multiple-choice and short-essay questions. I take a quick look at the first few questions. Hey, I know some of these! I know
most
of these!
The multiple-choice questions are easy. Some are even funny, like this one: “Who was the oldest delegate at the Constitutional Convention? A. Franklin Delano Roosevelt; B. Babe Ruth; C. Benjamin Franklin; D. George Washington.”
I wonder if anyone will choose Babe Ruth.
And the essays aren’t too bad. Mr. Baker asked what we think of the Great Compromise. That’s a nice way of finding out if we know what it was, but anyway, he did ask our opinions. I write that I think counting five slaves as three people seems wrong. After all, someone is either a person or not.
I finish the test with a few minutes to spare. A picture of Dad holding on to Mom flashes into my head. I stop myself from thinking about that and instead, check my answers. Then the bell rings and Mr. Baker collects our tests.
“How was it?” Beth asks me once we’re in the hall.
“Okay. I think I did pretty well. And do you know what? Studying for the test during math and science kept me from worrying about Mom.”
“Did you listen to the game?” Charles asks as soon as we sit at our table. “Freddy did it again!”
I forgot all about last night’s game.
“Camilli made two great plays. The Dodgers won four to two.”
I remember what Beth once said: “Baseball is not important.” I don’t really agree with her on that, but yesterday she was right. Yesterday it
wasn’t
important to me.
Roger asks, “And did you listen to
The Aldrich Family
? ”
I know Roger will tell us every joke, and I’m not interested. I don’t really like that show, and anyway, I’m thinking about other things.
It’s a few minutes after noon. Mom and Dad are probably still at home, waiting to go to the doctor. Just waiting! About now, Mom is usually at the market buying vegetables or meat for dinner, or she’s cleaning the apartment. She’s very particular that there be no dust, that the table, kitchen counter, and floors be clean.
“Hey, Tommy,” Roger asks, “how about a game this afternoon? I already asked the others and they can all come.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not? There’s no school tomorrow. You don’t have to study.”
“I just can’t.”
The rest of the afternoon goes slowly. At three, I’m finally standing by the oak tree with Sarah. She says, “I hope the doctor gives your mother a good report.”
“Thanks.”
We don’t talk after that, but I feel connected with her. She’s worried about her aunt and uncle and other people she knows in Europe, and I’m worried about Mom.
There’s Beth.
“I’ll walk home with you,” she tells me when she joins us.
“No. There won’t be any news. I don’t think Mom and Dad will be back from the doctor. The appointment was at two.”
We walk quietly to the corner and after we cross the street Sarah says, “Please tell me if I can help you.”
I thank Sarah again and she goes toward home.
“Don’t worry and think the worst,” Beth tells me as we walk. “If you ever look at a medical book you’ll see how big it is. There are lots of things, problems, people get with their health, and most of them aren’t serious.”
We’re standing in front of Goldman’s. Beth takes my hand and says, “Tommy, your mother will be fine. I know she will.”
Beth kisses my cheek and quickly turns and goes into Goldman’s.
13
Aren’t They Going to Tell Me?
T
he two old women are sitting in the lobby when I walk in. I greet them and go upstairs. I turn on the radio. The dial is at 570 for
The Romance of Helen Trent
. I switch it to 860, the Yankees’ game against the Washington Senators. I listen for just a few minutes, until Charlie Keller hits a home run and the Yankees go ahead 1-0. Then I turn it off. Listening is boring since I really don’t care who wins.
It’s three thirty. By now Mom and Dad must have already seen the doctor and be on their way home. They’ll want something to eat.
I go to the kitchen and check if Mom prepared dinner. Even before I open the icebox, I’m sure she hasn’t. She usually does that in the afternoon, when I get home from school. I remember we didn’t have dinner at home yesterday. Maybe Mom shopped before her eye started to hurt. I check the icebox.
There’s something wrapped in white paper. Chunks of meat. She probably planned to make stew, but meat is expensive. I don’t want to ruin it. But with the carrots, potatoes, celery, tomatoes, and peppers Mom bought for the stew, I can make vegetable soup. I’ve helped Mom make that. It’s easy.
I clean and cut the vegetables.
If this doctor’s news is bad I might be doing this every day after school, preparing dinner and shopping, too. Maybe Beth and I can shop together.
I fill the pot a little more than halfway with water, add the vegetables, put the pot on the stove, and light the burner. The water begins to boil. I wait, then lower the flame and set the table.
It’s already after four. I go into the parlor and turn on the radio. The game is in the fifth inning and the Yankees are ahead 2-0.
What’s taking them so long at the doctor?
I listen to an inning and then get up and check on the soup. It smells good. I take a spoon and taste it. Mom does that. It’s still a little weak, so I add a bit of salt and ground pepper. Mom does that, too.
I hear a key inserted in the lock and the door open. It’s Mom and Dad. They go right to the parlor. I follow them. Mom sits in her chair. She looks tired.
“Can I get you something?” Dad asks. “Something to drink?”
Mom shakes her head.
Dad sits in the chair next to Mom.
Aren’t they going to tell me what happened?
They just sit there awhile, not talking. Mom looks up at me and smiles, but it’s a weak smile.
“What did the doctor say?”
Dad answers, “He said Mom’s problems, the shaking hands, her stiff legs, her eye problems, they’re all because of a disease, multiple sclerosis.”
“What? What’s that? What’s going to happen?”
Mom sighs. “We don’t know. It’s a problem with the nervous system. People can live a long time with it. I might be just like this for a while, with a little shaking and stiffness. That’s not so bad.”
“No, Mom. That’s not so bad.”
What else could I say?
No one talks for a minute or two.
“Now that I know what I have, I’ll be more careful. I won’t handle things that might drop and break.”
Mom turns to Dad and says, “You know, last week I dropped that vase we both liked.”
“You liked it more than I did,” Dad says. Then he turns to me. “Come on. Help me with dinner.”
“But, Dad . . .”
I follow him to the kitchen and show him the soup. He tastes it and tells me it’s delicious. I show him the meat chunks and he says he’s in no mood for stew, and anyway, he doesn’t know how to make it. He’ll make noodles.
Dad takes out the noodle box and begins to read the instructions.
“I’ll do it,” I tell him. “It’s real easy. First you boil the water. Then you pour in the noodles. Sometimes Mom adds a little salt.”
While the noodles are cooking we sit by the table, and Dad tells me, “Mom may not get worse for a while. She may stay just like she is for a long time. The doctor hopes so, but he doesn’t know. She may get real weak, and that could happen at any time. One day, she may have more trouble walking. She might need a wheelchair.”
“Isn’t there a pill she can take, something she can do to get better?”
Dad shakes his head. “He did say she should exercise, walk, even climb stairs.”
“She does climb stairs. We live on the third floor.”
“Yes, and as long as she can walk up and down, we’ll stay here. If she can’t, we’ll have to move.”
We sit there for a while, quiet.
Dad says, “I’ll call Aunt Martha. I’m sure she’ll want to know. I’m sure she’ll come and visit.”
She’s Mom’s sister. She’s married, has two small children, and lives in New Jersey. I know Mom wishes she lived closer. She doesn’t get to see her a lot.
Dad gets up. I turn and watch him light the flame beneath the soup pot. He takes the noodles off the stove, drains off the water, and pours them into a bowl. He opens a can of tomato sauce. Then he gets Mom and brings her to the table.
“It’s good,” Mom says after she’s had a few spoonfuls of my soup. “Thank you for making it.” She eats some more. “And don’t worry,” she says. “I won’t get worse, not for a long time. Starting tomorrow I’ll shop and cook dinner like always.”
BOOK: Don't Talk to Me About the War
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