Little Sacrifices (15 page)

‘May, I’d never do anything to hurt you,’ she declared, hurting me just the same. ‘If it bothers you, just say the word and I’ll tell him no this instant. Your friendship is the important thing, much more important than a silly dance!’ She looked radiant, lovely and hopeful. I truly hated the sight of her.

Saying she couldn’t go wasn’t going to make Clay ask me instead. It was just going to make me look petty. Oh, how I wanted to be petty. ‘Sure, Charlene. You go and have fun. I really don’t mind.’

She hugged me close. ‘Oh, you’re a peach and a real friend! Thank you!’ In a flash she disappeared, leaving me feeling very unloved. I didn’t know who to be mad at, so I shared out my feelings liberally to both my betrayers.

I couldn’t tell Jim about Clay. So I told Fie, and she told him.

He had his mouth full of bologna sandwich. ‘I told you.’

‘Jim, can’t you be sensitive?’ Fie admonished. ‘Show a little compassion, why don’t you.’

‘Well I did tell her. That’s all I’m saying.’

Emotion ambushed my words and made them watery as I fought to untangle my foot from the chair leg. ‘Yes, Jim, you’re right. You’re always right. Are you happy now?’

He stared at me with his mouth open.

Fie slapped him on the arm. ‘Now see what you’ve done, Jim? You should be ashamed of yourself. May, wait!’ She hurried behind me as I vented my spleen about Jim Rumer. He was the most unfeeling, inconsiderate person around. How he called himself my friend was beyond me. When Fie wholeheartedly agreed, I felt a little better. When she told me how unselfish I was being, I couldn’t help but agree. Martyrdom suited me just fine. I let her fuss around my high ideals until I stopped crying, even though I didn’t believe for a second that I was the better person for stepping aside to let Charlene have all the fun.

School dances were the social hives around which the whole school was free to buzz, unlike the stringent ranking that built the guest lists of private parties. There was always a band, usually of questionable ability, and balloons and streamers and a dance committee made up of exactly the students who wouldn’t let most of the attendees set foot in their own homes.

By Friday afternoon everyone was pitched into a frenzy. Even our teachers ended their lessons with lighthearted ‘Yallbehaves’. Jim and Fie were similarly unencumbered by dates, and Ma agreed to let Fie sleep over.

When Jim got wind of our plans, he fished for an invitation to stop by for a while too. He was uncharacteristically restrained, and I knew he felt bad about his unfriendly response to my heartbreak. When I finally asked him to join us, I did it with a big dose of self–sacrifice. It bothered me that he was right. Not that I’d ever admit that to him.

Ma suggested I ask Fie to come to dinner and I gladly extended the invitation. My parents knew I was pining for Clay, and labored under the illusion that talking about my feelings was somehow going to make me feel better about being jilted. I counted on Fie to keep them quiet. She turned up at the door with a mischievous smile. When Ma wasn’t looking she opened her bag to show me why. She’d smuggled her Ouija board into our house. Ma would murder us if we were caught with the supernatural board game. Not that Fie’s parents were any more broad–minded about the occult. She’d squirreled away her allowance for months to buy it, and kept it hidden at the back of her closet. I had a hard time concentrating on my plate thinking of all the questions that I needed the spirit world to consider. For once Jim’s assault on our doorbell was welcome, and we excused ourselves to rush upstairs.

‘Hey, Jim, guess what?’ I winked at Fie as I pulled the board from her bag. ‘We’re going to wake the dead.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘A Ouija board! Got any burning questions you want answered?’

‘You’re pulling my leg, right?’

‘Of course not. What’s the matter Jim, are you chicken?’

‘Don’t be stupid. It’s just a bore, that’s all. They’re not real, you know. Someone is always pushing the thing around. It’s just a trick. It’s made of wood and plastic, no mystery.’

Fie looked like she’d just been told Santa Clause wasn’t real. ‘It is
too
real. I know people who’ve done it and had predictions that came true, one hundred percent.’

‘Who?’

‘My cousin.’

‘What happened?’

‘She asked it who she was going to marry, and it pointed straight to “M”. And now her husband’s name is Mark.’

‘Why didn’t it spell out the whole name? It could have been Martin. Or Matthew.’

I had to admit he was right. ‘Maybe Mike, or Mitchell.’

‘Myron,’ he smiled.

‘Milton.’ As in Berle.

‘Marion.’

‘Marion!’

‘Yes Marion. It’s John Wayne’s real name. Marion Michael Morrison. Maybe your cousin was destined to marry the Duke.’

‘Stop it! She married Mark, just like the Ouija board said she would. If you don’t believe in it, you don’t have to play. May and I’ll do it.’

I turned to Jim. ‘He was really called Marion?’

‘May!’

‘Sorry, Fie. Jim, you can just sit there and be quiet.’

I did know it was just a board game, but I was a little scared of it anyway. I didn’t plan to ask it any questions about death, only romance, and maybe report cards. Fie and I sat on opposite sides of the board with the plastic viewer between us, our hands hovering on its edges.

‘You go first,’ I urged my friend. It was her board after all.

‘Okay. Um ... Ouija Board, is there someone who likes me?’

The viewer remained stubbornly still.

‘See, I told you it didn’t work.’

‘Shh!’

Fie looked at me. ‘Should we turn the lights off?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘If the lights are off you can’t see the board,’ Jim pointed out.

‘Nobody asked you.’

‘Why don’t you try asking the Ouija board if you should turn off the lights?’

‘Jim! If you’re going to keep bothering us, you can go home!’

He said he didn’t have anything else to do anyway. Fie and I kept watching the viewer. And then it moved. Fie’s startled eyes mirrored my own.

‘Are you moving it?’

‘No. Are you?’

‘No!’ The indicator slid unmistakably towards Yes.

‘Someone likes you!’

‘Holy smoke, do you really think so?’

Jim rolled his eyes. ‘Of course someone likes you. Your parents. May. Probably some of your teachers.’

‘That’s not what she meant and you know it.’

‘Well, how’s the Ouija board supposed to know what she meant?’

‘He’s right. We have to ask again. Ouija board, does a boy,
in my school
, like me, romantically?’

Now that the board was warmed up, the viewer moved quickly. Yes.

‘There. What do you have to say to that, Mister Doubtful?’

‘You moved it.’

‘I did not!’

‘Then ask it who likes Fie.’

‘Okay.’ I did. My hands were guided to the letter M, followed by ... nothing.

‘M. What do you think it means?’

‘Maybe it’s your cousin’s husband.’

‘Just stow it, Jim!’

‘Look, if it really knows, and you guys aren’t moving it, then it should be able to spell out a name. Either it’s got stage fright, or you two are moving it.’

‘You don’t believe in this at all.’

‘No.’

‘Okay then, Jim. Ask it a question. If you don’t believe in it, why not humor us? Go on, ask it your most burning question.’

The smirk left Jim’s face, leaving a look of painful gravity in its wake. ‘Fine. Ouija board, will I ever fit in?’

I looked in his face and felt awful for taunting him. It moved assuredly to No. I kept my eyes on the board, not knowing what to say. Fie was more articulate.

‘You’re right, Jim, it’s just a game. It doesn’t mean anything!’

‘Did either of you move it?’

‘No!’ we chorused.

‘You swear?’

‘I swear.’ The last thing I wanted my friend to believe was that I thought he was a wet sock.

‘I did.’ Fie admitted.

‘You did?’

‘Yes. Jim, I’m sorry. I was trying to be funny, that’s all. You’re right, it’s just a game. It’s not real and it’s going too slow anyway. Let’s play something else.’

‘It’s not funny, you know.’

‘I know, I’m sorry, Jim. Truly I am. I wasn’t thinking. Let’s play another game. Monopoly. May? The game’s downstairs, isn’t it? Come on. I brought the Andrews Sisters and the record player’s down there anyway.’

Later, I asked her whether she’d guided the indicator, and she swore she hadn’t.

The Ouija board was soon forgotten as we tapped our feet along to Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy of Company B, and tried to keep our shoes and hats and irons out of jail. My questions all remained though, including the one I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer to. ‘What do you think Clay and Charlene are doing right now?’

Jim shuffled his money without looking up. ‘Dancing.’

Fie glowered at him, but he remained oblivious. ‘May, don’t beat yourself up about that. Who cares anyway?’

‘I do. Do you think they’re having fun together?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’ She was faithful to the tips of her toes.

Jim wasn’t feeling as charitable. ‘They probably are. But, May, you don’t really care, do you? Not deep down, I mean. Besides, why do you want to be friends with them anyway?’ I searched his face for any judgment waiting to ambush my answer, but there wasn’t any. He was truly curious. Why indeed? Because they held the key to my high school popularity, the secret password that I’d only guessed at up until then. I envied them their easy confidence. They didn’t have a care in the world. They were fun, sophisticated, smart, worldly, and I wanted to be like them. I tumbled all these reasons on to the dining room table for Jim and Fie to pick over.

After a little while, Jim said, ‘May, you know you don’t have to be popular to be smart. Or smart to be popular. And you sure don’t have to be either to be a good friend.’ Being Jim’s friend was becoming a tall order. He demanded absolute honesty from himself and everyone around him. His lack of appetite for self–delusion made him a real pain in the neck.

‘I know, but–’

‘Listen, if you’re going to keep talking about those kids, I’m leaving.’

‘Oh no, Jim, we won’t. Will we, May?’

‘Yes,’ I admitted. ‘We probably will.’

‘Then I’m leaving. It’s almost time for me to go home anyway. May, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.’

We said good night to Jim and got down to the business of rubbing our boy–crazy conversation raw. Maybe it was my delicate state of mind. Maybe I’d eaten too much at dinner and my digestion was making me emotional. In any case, I confided in Fie about Clay. I told her everything, just as I would have told Lottie. In her, like Jim, I was starting to see a real friend. She was infinitely reasonable where I was flighty, yet she had an optimistic streak a mile wide. The ideas that people were deep down mean, or that the world was often an unfair place for no reason, were alien to her. No matter who the person was, Fie managed to find something good about them. While I didn’t always like the benefit of the doubt she gave to all, I had to appreciate the unqualified support she gave me. It was a real comfort to have a true girlfriend within hugging distance again.

Chapter 23

It was nearing Thanksgiving and I felt downright ungrateful. Clay and Charlene were an item, their mutual esteem cemented over the Lindy Hop in our gym. I was sick about it. The more I saw Charlene, the more I resented her womanly wiles. She was sweet as always, but each giggle, every toss of her head reminded me that Clay was enamored with her. It hurt, and Minty and Ceecee were cold comfort. They’d closed ranks around their best friend, robbing me of any opportunity for righteous indignation in that quarter.

I worked myself into a homesick lather over the prospect of spending Thanksgiving in Savannah. Missus Welles invited us to her house. Back in Williamstown we always hosted the feast.

It was Wednesday, pot roast night. I watched Duncan put on his jacket, slap his pockets a couple times for the car keys, and close the door behind him. It had become part of his after–dinner routine. I didn’t know where he went, and Ma wouldn’t say a word when I asked her. He was up to something. Knowing Duncan it could have been just about anything. I listened to the car pull away.

‘If you don’t mind, Ma, I’d rather not go to the Welles’ on Thursday.’

She spoke over the top of her book. ‘Well, I do mind. You’re going.’

‘But why?’

‘Because you were invited, that’s why. Missus Welles was kind enough to ask us over, and it’d be rude for you not to turn up.’ For someone so concerned about individual rights, she sure cared little about mine. She cocked her head. ‘Why don’t you want to go?’

I forced my voice meek. ‘I just don’t think it’ll be any fun, that’s all. None of the kids are my age. Jim’s not going.’

‘Aw honey,’ she sighed, drawing her chin towards her lip. ‘You’re having a hard time here, aren’t you?’

‘It’s not going to be like home. I always loved Thanksgiving at our house.’

She snorted, erasing all hope of a sympathetic reception. ‘You did not! You hated it. You always complained because we invited people you didn’t know.’ She settled back into her book. ‘We’re all going and that’s the last I want to hear about that.’

She was right. Thanksgivings past looked pretty good through my very rosy rearview mirror. Really, I grew up never knowing who I’d have to share my pumpkin pie with. My parents labored under the notion that no one spent the holiday alone by choice. We welcomed anyone to our feast who failed to provide ample evidence of other plans.

Duncan’s students especially coveted our invitations. Around the table they hoped to be treated to the ideas that often escaped him after a big meal in the company of friends. His disregard for the sacred principles of our time titillated his protégés into their devotion. Nothing was off limits. Religion? Williams College required its students to worship until the early sixties. Though he had to tolerate The Faith on campus, he never missed the chance to prove its hypocrisy. He especially had it in for the Catholics. Only the uninitiated got him started on the Pope. Democracy? To Duncan it was just another religion for the American populace to feel good about because we thought it was our bright idea. Teaching history for my father was all about setting the record straight, and for that his students loved him.