All Alone in the Universe (6 page)

“Oh, gracious!” said my mom. “Your poor mother!”

“My brother‧s the one who had to get the stitches,” Bobby pointed out. “He looks like Frankenstein. But he looks better than Jerome. Jerome looks like the Blob. Anyways, we all got to ride to the hospital in my sister‧s boyfriend‧s car because my mom and my dad was both at work, and my sister‧s boyfriend drives really fast, like a race car driver. And my mom had to meet us there, and she had to leave some lady‧s head in the sink and borrow someone else‧s car, so she was yelling at Marie for not watching Anthony. But Marie can‧t help it if Anthony don‧t look where he‧s going.

“So then Eileen and James started bawling right in the emergency room. Which turned out really good, because my mom said if we would all just shut up, we could get ice cream after. So everyone did, except for when Anthony got his stitches, and my mom said that don‧t count because anyone would yell who was getting their head sewed up. I even got the kind dipped in chocolate.

“It was a tremendous day,” he said. “Absolutely tremendous. Except,” he added, “that my mom and dad had a fight since we got home late and there wasn‧t time to cook any dinner. My mom put a bunch of those later Tots in the oven, but my dad said that wasn‧t dinner and he was going down Crystal Bar for a steak sandwich. My mom was steaming. She said, Why didn‧t he get a room there, too?

“But when my dad come home, him and me listened to the ball game on the radio. Did you hear that game? Did you hear that catch by Roberto Clemente?”

“Yes, I did,” said my mother. “The one where he practically climbed the wall and reached way up with one hand?”

 

“That‧s the one,” said Bobby. “Amazing.”

Glancing out of the car window, I saw that we were getting close to home. My thoughts rose from the depths of my mother‧s relationships with Bobby and unknown hitchhikers up to the shallows of what was inside all the shopping bags that surrounded me on the backseat I poked through a few of them, looking for my new hair holder. It was the kind Wilma Flintstone might use. I found it at the bottom of a bag, wrapped in tissue. I pulled my hair back to try it out and accidentally glanced out of the car window.

 

“Isn‧t that Maureen?” asked my mom. “Uh-huh,” I said.

“I thought she was on vacation,” said my mom.

“She must be back now,” I said.

“Do you want me to let you off here?” asked Mom.

“No, that‧s okay,” I said. “I‧m kind of tired. I‧ll just go home.”

“Was that Glenna Flaiber with her?” asked my mom. “Yeah,” I said.

“She‧s starting to look so much like her mother,” said my mom.

“Yeah, she is,” I said.

On the fifth or sixth afternoon in a row that I had walked next door to sit with Fran in her carport and suck on lime Popsicles, she asked out of the blue, what I was waiting for.

 

“Hmm?” I said.

“What are you waiting for?” she repeated.

I tried to think whether something was supposed to happen that day, but I didn‧t think so. “I‧m not waiting for anything,” I said. “Why?”

Fran nipped a little chunk from her Popsicle and held it in her mouth as it melted. She folded her arms and looked at me. “You‧ve been over here every day this week,” she said. “Now, you know I love you dearly, and I‧m always glad to see you, but this is not like you. You‧re young. It‧s summertime. You‧re supposed to be out running around with your friends. What‧s going on?”

Oh, I thought. That.

I didn‧t want to talk about it. I looked out at the street where a couple of Prbyczka kids were drifting by like tumbleweeds. Some drops of rain sent them skittering off toward home, then the clanging of the Goodie-Bar truck brought them closer again, digging in their pockets for nickels and dimes.

“It‧s starting to rain,” I said. Brown, wet circles the size of pennies were appearing on the concrete beyond the carport. A few, then dozens, then hundreds, and then the raindrops searched in vain for a dry place to moisten. They just had to fall anonymously into the wetness. It was a summer rain, as warm as bathwater. We sat there watching it come down, listening to the drumming on the roof and the dripping from the gutter.

“You know,” said Fran, “your life isn‧t going to start when this thing happens or when that person calls. Your life is happening right now. Don‧t wait for someone else to make it happen. You have to make it happen.”

“I know,” I said, even though I didn‧t know that. I didn‧t know it at all, and I didn‧t want to know it either.

So I just said, “I know.”

And then I said, “I will.”

“There are plenty of fish in the sea,” said Fran.

“I know,” I said again.

 

Maureen didn‧t call. Day after day she didn‧t call. I ran out of good excuses for her not to call, and other kinds of reasons started seeping into my head and filling it with sludge. I could have called her. I kept thinking I would, in a day or two. I mean, what difference did it make, really, who called who?

One day I told my mom I was going bike riding with someone from school. I told her that we were taking lunches and riding out to River‧s Knob. She seemed happy that I was doing something with someone. But I wasn‧t doing something with someone. I was going by myself; I started out just gliding along as if I didn‧t have a plan. But I think I knew all along that I was going to George‧s garden.

When I realized that I was going there, I thought it was because I felt so alone and I wanted to be in that beautiful, lonely place. The hot, gritty wind filled my eyes with tears, and some other tears from deep in my heart mixed in with them and streamed down my cheeks. The wind dried them all and left a stinging film. When I reached the comer with the birch trees and benches, the day in April came back to me and a thickness filled my throat.

I‧m all alone, I said to myself. Then I said it aloud. “I‧m all alone in the world.” I said it over and over. It didn‧t matter; no one was around.

“I have no friends,” I said. “None. Not any.” I got off my bike and walked it into the grove.

“I am
so alone
!” I cried out to the universe. I could feel my face crumpling up. The garden was too far away. I sat down on a bench as the warm tears gathered behind my clenched eyelids.

“Well, not completely alone,” said a voice. “But if you prefer, I can go away. This trimming will keep.”

I looked around. It was George. I tried to smooth out my face.

“Hi, sunshine,” he said.

“George,” I said. “Hi.” I searched for words. “How are you?”

“Happy as if I knew what I was doing,” he said. “If you came to see the roses, they‧re a little past their prime, but they‧re still blooming. Everything else is growing like weeds. Including the weeds.” He paused, then added, “That is, unless you‧re in a hurry.”

“No, no,” I said. “That‧s why I came. To see the garden, I mean.”

“Well, come on then,” said George.

I leaned my bike against a tree, and George handed me a pair of shears to carry. I wondered if he had noticed my reddened, watery eyes. I pulled out a Kleenex and said, “My allergies are driving me nuts.”

“That time of year,” said George. He pulled out a bandanna and blew his nose, too.

We walked through the cool, shady grove and into the rich person‧s garden. I had to catch my breath. I remembered the garden as elegant and calm, but summer had flipped a switch, and now it was a crazy explosion of color, a puzzle of light and shadow, full of spicy fragrances and the sun-warmed smells of dirt and stone and things growing. I stood still and looked around, trying to make sense of it all.

Some of the trees were heavy with fruit. The ponds were alive with goldfish. Flowers were everywhere. As my eyes sorted it out, I realized that a person was there, too, sitting at a table under an umbrella. Maybe the rich person herself, in madras plaid shorts and a sleeveless denim blouse. Her thick silvery hair was chopped short and tucked behind her ears. She looked up from her newspaper.

“Who‧s your friend, George?” she asked pleasantly. Her voice was warm and calm and clear.

“This is my assistant,” said George. “Linda.”

“Debbie,” I said.

“Excuse me,” said George. “Debbie. She‧s come to help me catch up on some trimming. Debbie, this is Mrs. Brown.”

Mrs. Brown rose halfway and held out her hand. I went over and shook it.

“Nice to meet you, Debbie,” she said. “Please, call me Martha.” She turned to George. “George, do you and your assistant have a few minutes to spare for blueberries? I was just about to have some, and I‧d love the company.”

“I imagine we can spare a few minutes from our labors,” said George. “Rest our weary bones.”

“Good,” said Mrs. Brown. And off she whisked, down a winding brick path toward the big house.

“I guess we‧d better have a seat” George said to me. “The boss wants us to eat some blueberries.” We sat down on striped cushions tied to curved chairs of iron mesh. The tabletop was ripply glass, like a thin slice of ocean. I moved my hand down and up underneath it, watching it get blurry and then clearer.

“So, where‧s your partner in crime?” said George. “What was her name?”

“Maureen,” I said.

“That‧s it” said George. “Maureen. She wasn‧t up for a marathon bike ride this time?”

“Nope,” I said. But just saying nope didn‧t seem like very polite conversation, so I added, “Maureen has this other friend now. She‧s probably doing something with her.”

“I see,” said George. “A previous engagement”

“I guess so,” I said.

“Too bad,” said George. “She‧s missing the roses. Maybe next time.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But probably not She does things with this other friend practically all the time now. So I-” I stopped.

“I—” I tried again. “I‧m—” The tears were right there, ready to pour out if I said another word.

“You‧re all alone in the universe?” George suggested helpfully.

His voice was gentle and kind, and when I looked at him, his face was solemn. So the only way I can explain what happened next, which is that we both burst out laughing, is that sometimes laughing and crying are almost the same thing. They‧re not all that far apart sometimes. I was laughing and crying both, and then I started to hiccup, too.

As I was trying to catch my breath, I said, “I came here to cry in the roses.”