It's All in Your Mind (2 page)

It wasn't fair. It was bad enough that I was built like Papa, tall and lean. With all the yard wo
rk I'd been forced to do lately I was developing muscles too! Girls weren't supposed to clip hedges and be muscular. They were supposed to be short and soft and curvy, and do stuff like field calls and handle the bookkeeping for their husband's yard-care business, the way Mama did.

I stamped around the kitchen, not caring that I was leaving damp footprints everywhere I went. How was I going to call Nolan if I had to work with Papa all day? It wasn't fair!

Okay, Papa always paid me each month after he totaled up my hours. It was a nice supplement to my occasional baby-sitting money. But still, it wasn't fair that I had to work today of all days!

I poured myself a big glass of milk and gulped it right in front of the refrigerator.

"Vija, for goodness sake, don't drink your milk standing up," Mama said. She gestured toward the table, which had a tiny vase of violets in the center and place settings for three.

"Oh-all-right."

"And don't gulp, Vija," Mama said in her gentle, nagging way.

"Okay." Mama and Papa raised me and Karl with a steady drip, drip, drip of instruction
s. Mrs. Moreau, Caprice's mother, believed in letting her daughter be creative, which seemed to translate to no rules at all. I thought I could enjoy that particular approach. Mama and Papa were simple folk compared to Mrs. Moreau, who was, as my parents put it, "quite flamboyant." It was unclear what had happened to Mr. Moreau, or even, it was whispered in tones of scandal, if there really ever was a Mr. Moreau.

Papa came in and carefully wiped his feet. He sniffed the air. "Mmm.
Saldskabmaize
." He loved the sweet-sour rye bread that Mama made from scratch with finely ground rye flour. Such bread was the result of much labor, which was considered holy in Latvian culture.  Papa walked over to Mama and kissed her cheek, then washed his hands, sat down and slathered a large slab of
saldskabmaize
with poppy butter, made from ground poppy seeds.

The one good thing about being tall and lean like Papa was that I could, as he said, "eat like a sparrow
—because a sparrow can eat ten times its weight every day."

As soon as I finished breakfast I dashed upstairs to put my hair in a braid to keep it off my face for work. My blonde hair was probably my best feature. I was one of the few girls at school who didn't have short hair. I thought it was easier to take care of, because it was long enough to wear loose most of the time, or I could braid it. I didn't need to sleep on rollers. When Karl was home, he'd tease me and say I looked like a beatnik. Then he'd howl with laughter at his own joke, because he really thought I was a total square. And much as I struggled not to be, I was. In fact, I was worse. I was a cube. Still collecting ceramic horses at my age, Karl said, was proof of that.

I put on one of Karl's old T-shirts, dungarees, and the heavy work shoes Papa insisted I wear when I helped him. "You don't want to lose a toe," he said. Papa was nothing, if not cautious. He also insisted I wear a hat, so I slapped on Karl's old baseball cap. Except for my size, I felt like one of the ragamuffins I'd seen in the old Our Gang movies on TV.

As soon as I was dressed
I hurried down to help Papa finish loading the truck. Papa checked his list of customers for Saturday. "I think we'd better do Mrs. Holland's place first, before it gets too hot."

I just moaned and climbed into the truck. By the end of the day I'd be drenched with sweat. As we chugged and bounced our way to Mrs. Holland's house, I tried to picture myself after a long, hot shower, sprawled on my bed to catch a breeze as I talked to Nolan.

Too soon we pulled up to the curb in front of Mrs. Holland's place. I helped Papa unload the big mower. As he started on the lawn, I hauled out the two ladders and set them up next to the hedge. I unhooked the wooden tailgate and placed it on the ladders high enough for me to reach the top of the hedge. I plugged the electric cord into the outlet on the side of the house, and looped the cord through my back pants belt so I wouldn't trip over it.

The electric clippers
were heavy, which was one reason my biceps were developing. Even though it was still early morning it wasn't long before I was enveloped in sweat. If I couldn't be spending the summer getting clothing discounts, I should have at least been able to work in air-conditioned splendor checking groceries at the new Shopsave, like Caprice. What if someone I knew saw me looking like a wet dog?

I tried not to think about it, and concentrated on giving the hedge an even trim instead. It was hard work. Papa loved hard work. He'd dropped out of school in the eighth grade to help support his family. His idea of relaxing was to work on one home project after another.

About halfway through the job, Papa signaled me to take a break. He poured me a cup of cold lemonade from the thermos and we sat in the shade of a maple tree in Mrs. Holland's back yard. As I gulped my lemonade I noticed a curtain in an upstairs window part ever so slightly. Papa said Mrs. Holland always kept an eye on him to make sure he didn't charge her for any break time. I waved to the crack in the curtain, and it quickly closed.

In the back yard was a garage facing an alley. In this part of
Monroe garages were not to be seen from the street. Too tacky or something, I guess. This garage had once been a carriage house, and, with arched doorways, shutters at the windows, and a weathervane on the roof, was grand enough to be a home if it were in Chatfield. In fact, Papa once mentioned that there was an apartment in part of it. At one time the Hollands had a full-time groundskeeper who lived there. Apparently, for the Hollands, the days of live-in help were over. But I think I could've struggled along nicely as lady of the manor with the cleaning crews I'd seen going in and out of the house.

"Well, break time is over," Papa said, with a slight nod toward the once-again-parted curtains.

I was going to crack a joke about the curtain, when I saw Papa stop suddenly and grab his arm.

"Papa
! What's wrong?"

"Uh
... nothing. It's nothing." He massaged the upper part of his arm. "I must have pulled a muscle. Probably starting the mower, and it just caught up to me.  Don't worry. And don't mention it to your mother. You know what a worrywart she can be!"

"You're sure your okay?"

"I'm fine. Now let's get to work."

As soon we stood up, the curtains fell together.

The lemonade must've helped, because I attacked the hedge with renewed vigor. Soon enough I raked up the clippings and Papa finished the mowing. When we were done, we loaded the truck. I climbed in and Papa clapped his hand on my shoulder. "Good job, Vija."

"Thanks." I let out a sigh of exhaustion. Even though Papa had twenty-five years on me, he seemed to have more stamina.

"You know, the rest of the schedule isn't that heavy," Papa said as he started the truck. "I can swing by the house for lunch, and you can have the afternoon off."

"You sure?" I said, secure in knowing Papa would not make such a suggestion unless he
was
sure.

"I really needed your help at Mrs. Holland's place, but the rest I can do myself. So 'don't sweat it.'" Papa smiled at his play on words of one of Karl's favorite expressions.

"Thanks!" Suddenly, I had energy to spare.

As Papa rounded the corner, a motorcycle cut in front of him and roared into the alley in back of the
Holland's house. Papa scowled. He didn't like motorcycles to begin with, and what he called "stupidity in traffic" really ticked him off. Some of the kids at school teased me for driving like a turtle, but I knew I'd be grounded until I was thirty if I ever got a speeding ticket.

As soon as we finished lunch, Papa left, Mama went back to her bookkeeping, and I took a shower. As the layers of sweat, slime, and dirt slid off my body and down the drain, I started rehearsing my phone call to Nolan.

Nolan, Hi!

Hello? Nolan?

Hi, Nolan. This is Vija.

How pathetic. Even in my im
agination, I couldn't get past hello.  Then it hit me. Did Nolan even know my name? I ran the scene from last night over in my mind. I'd never even opened my mouth! And Caprice certainly hadn't introduced me.

Still
.... Nolan had given
me
his phone number. He'd told
me
to call him. Me. Not Caprice. Me! That had really bugged Caprice, I could tell. She'd sat in steamy silence all the way home from The Exit.

Coming out ahead of Caprice for once in my life gave me courage. I hopped out of the shower, wrapped myself in a towel, and pulled Nolan's telephone number out of my box of treasures in the drawer in my night stand where I stashed it last night. Getting a phone for my room, even though it was only an extension phone, had been the absolute thrill of my seventeenth birthday. That, and Karl talking Mama and Papa into letting me "keep his car warm" while he was away in the Navy. I sat on the edge of my bed, took a deep breath, and dialed.

The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. He wasn't there. Four times. He was there, but he knew it was me and he wasn't answering. Five times—

"Hello?"

"Nolan-hi-it's-me-Vija," I said much too quickly. I fell back on my bed. Why was I such a drip!

"Vija?"

"From The Exit. Last night."

There was the slightest pause, but it sounded like forever to me. "Long blonde hair.
Pale blue eyes. I should've known you'd have a beautiful name like Vija."

He thought my name was beautiful! I almost swooned.

"You're so brave to call."

Me? Brave? Nolan thought I was
brave
! Too bad I couldn't think of another word to say! But I didn't have to worry. Nolan came to my rescue.

"Are you free? How about if we get together for coffee?"

"Jâ!" I slapped my forehead.  When I was nervous, I sounded as if I'd just landed in Chatfield. Plus, I wished I'd hadn't agreed so quickly. I had to remember to "play hard to get," as Caprice would say.

"Anywhere you want."

"Hmmm. Let's see ...,"I said. Where to go? I could see I was going to have to learn to like coffee.

"Van Horn's,
Nicki's, or Rosie's Diner."

I tried to think. Van Horn's was where most everyone from school hung out, and it was in the center of town. "Van Horn's."

"You sure?"

Didn't he want to go to Van Horn's?  "Well, any of those three you mentioned would be fine."

"Let's go to Nicki's."

Nicki's was over in
Monroe, and I thought it was sort of a dive. But what would happen if I said no? "That'd be great."

"Meet you there in an hour?"

I felt an odd twinge of disappointment. For some reason I thought he'd be picking me up. But of course he hadn't said that. I shouldn't jump to conclusions. Besides, he probably lived in some cheap pad in New Haven, a third-floor walk-up, I'll bet. It'd be out of his way to come all the way to Chatfield and then double back to Monroe. "An hour would be fine."

"Cool. Later." Nolan hung up.

I started counting backward. It was about a twenty minute drive to Nicki's. So I had forty minutes to decide what to wear. I wasn't even sure what meeting for coffee meant, exactly. Was it a date, in which case I should probably wear a dress? Or was it more casual? I decided it was casual. After putting on and shedding six different outfits, I settled on my tan tapered pants, my sleeveless peppermint striped blouse, and my brown sandals. I could only hope that was the right apparel for coffee in the afternoon at Nicki's.

I combed my hair and let it hang loose around my shoulders. I wasn't much into makeup, but I decided to slide on a touch of Baby Pink lipstick. I checked myself out in the mirror. I thought I looked nice. But what did I know? Did I really look like a dipstick? Oh, why couldn't I be one of those girls who just
knew
how to put herself together?

I told Mama I was going for a drive, probably over to
Hammonassett Beach. Mama didn't say anything, and I could sense her disapproval, but she nodded, so it was okay for me to go. It wasn't as if I'd lied. I
was
going for a drive. Who knows, maybe at some point I'd go to Hammonassett Beach. But in any case, I'd only said I'd "probably" go there.

It was hot and humid by the time I hopped into the car. A tattered beach towel on the driver's seat kept the back of my legs from getting scorched, but it looked so tacky. I thought about ditching it. But then, Nolan wasn't going to see it. He was meeting me at Nicki's.

As I drove toward Monroe, I kept the window rolled down and the radio blaring in an effort to distract myself from the heat. When "Sixteen Candles" came on, I sang along, even though my voice is not that great.

Three songs later I arrived at Nicki's. It was right on Route One, with not a single tree on the property. Just a bumpy dirt parking lot baking in the hot sun, and a colossal pile of oyster shells just outside a door near the back. The faded green wall of the front of Nicki's was punctuated by two doors and a window. Over one door, "Restaurant." Over the other, "Bar." In the window, a neon "Ale" sign cast a thin blue glow.