Underdog (2 page)

“Hello,” I said back to him. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do then so I just stayed where I was and nodded my head at him a couple of times and felt stupid.

Finally he moved over to me and put an arm around my shoulder and gave it a quick, nervous little squeeze. “You look a lot like your father,” he told me.

“Oh, do you really think so?” Sandy said. “Mark wasn’t as dark and she has a longer face.”

“Well.” He took his arm off my shoulder and moved back. “Of course the last time I saw Mark was seven years ago but it seems to me she looks very much like him.”

“She looks more like you, I think,” Sandy said in that phony, buttery voice. I knew she was trying to soften my uncle up, trying to get him to like me so he would take me away with him.

Sandy helped me pack my things and she kept laughing and yattering and saying how she would be out to San Francisco to see me and how I could come back to Washington, D.C., to visit her anytime. She gave me one of her most beautiful candles
—a jade-green castle candle with little turrets and she kept kissing me and kissing me.

When we were ready to go the tears rolled down her cheeks but I didn’t cry.

My uncle and I stayed in my father’s apartment until we left. I had to go through two more times with Sandy
— once after the memorial service for my father and then again at the airport. She came running into the waiting room just a few minutes before we boarded the plane with more tears and kisses and another candle, shaped like a tree with red heart blossoms.

Karen didn’t come to the airport. After the memorial service she had gone on and on to my uncle, complaining about the mess my father had left his affairs in.

“I told him over and over again to write out a will,” she said, “but he was always too busy. He never had a minute to himself. ‘Charity begins at home,’ I kept telling him but, no, any crazy radical nut group who needed a free lawyer or any battered wife or abused orphan who wanted advice
—he always had time for them but for his own wife and son ...”

“I’m sure it will all work out,” my uncle told her politely. “You’d be surprised how many lawyers neglect to write wills for themselves, but after we get it all sorted out there should be something left for you and the children.”

“Children?” she asked, surprised.

“Yes
—Jeremy and Isabelle.”

“Oh
—yes—Isabelle.” That was when she remembered me, and she gave me a quick kiss and wished me good luck in San Francisco before she started complaining again to my uncle.

He had been too busy the last days we spent in Washington, D.C., to do much talking to me. He told me to pack what I needed and said something about trying not to bring too much. But he was surprised when he saw that I’d managed to get everything into two suitcases.

“Is this all?” he asked.

I wanted to please him. All I wanted then was for him to be pleased. “Is that all right?” I asked him. “If you think it’s too much, I can dump a few more things.”

“No, no,” he said. “I don’t want you to leave anything that’s meaningful.”

I smiled as brightly as I could and said, “I took some clothes and books and a few odds and ends. I don’t need anything else. I didn’t want to take too much, just like you said.”

“But Isabelle
—Izzy—I only meant that you couldn’t bring too many large things but I certainly wouldn’t want you to leave important mementos or toys that you’re fond of.”

Toys? I kept smiling.

“... or presents your father gave you.”

“He usually gave me money. Once I bought myself this silver charm bracelet. The one I’m wearing.” I showed it to him. “And once I bought a camera. But I’m taking that.”

“Are you sure, Izzy,” he asked gravely, “that this is all you want to take?”

“I’m sure,” I told him.

On the airplane, he tried to begin a real conversation but it was tough going for both of us.

“You were just a little girl when you left San Francisco,” he said, “and we never really got to know you.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” I said.

“Your Aunt Alice and I were really shocked when your stepmother called us and told us about your father.”

“Uh
—which stepmother?” I asked him.

“The one with the baby,” he said. “The second one.”

“Oh, Karen.”

“Yes, that’s right, Karen.” He cleared his throat and started out again. “Izzy, I think you should know that your father and I weren’t on speaking terms.”

“Oh, that’s okay. Lots of people weren’t on speaking terms with my father.”

“It’s not what you probably think,” he said, and then he stopped. “What do you think?” he asked, sounding kind of confused.

I told him. “Sandy said
—you know—Sandy, my first stepmother. The one with the candles. She thought maybe it had to do with—well—both of you are lawyers and you make a lot of money and maybe you didn’t approve of all the causes that he was always involved in and that he never made much money on.”

“Oh no,” my uncle said. “It wasn’t that.”

“It’s okay,” I said quickly. “It doesn’t matter.” I didn’t want my uncle to think I took my father’s side. My father was dead and if my uncle didn’t let me stay with him, I knew that would be the end of the line for me. My mother had been an only child and both sets of grandparents were dead.

“Your father and I quarreled a great deal,” my uncle said in his slow, grave voice. “I can’t deny that we did, Izzy. We quarreled as boys and as men but the one thing we never quarreled over was our differences as lawyers. I was always
—am now—proud of what he stood for. Izzy, your father was a brave fighter for human rights,”

“I know,” I told him. “He was for the underdog.”

I don’t think he heard me. His face creased up in solemn wrinkles. “No, it wasn’t what you think at all. This last, worst quarrel had to do with
...
” He looked right at me and shook his head. “Izzy, it had to do with your mother’s death.”

“It’s okay,” I tried to reassure him. I didn’t know much about my mother’s death. Only that it had happened when I was four and that she had fallen and broken her neck in a freak accident. But she was dead too and I didn’t want my uncle to think I was on her side either.

“Your father
—I don’t know what he ever said to you about that.”

“Not much,” I told him. “He never talked about my mother. Sometimes he talked about Sandy and sometimes he talked about Karen but he never said anything about my mother.”

“Did he ... did he ever say anything about me?” My uncle leaned toward me and watched my face. He wanted me to say something and I wanted to say it. But I wasn’t sure what it was. I couldn’t remember my father ever saying anything about my uncle.

“Nothing bad,” I told him. “He never said anything bad about you.”

“Oh!” My uncle straightened up. “Well, Izzy, maybe one day if you’re interested we could talk about it.” He began mumbling how he supposed since I was only eleven we could wait a few years.

“No hurry,” I assured him.

Then he said how my Aunt Alice, that’s his wife, was anxious to see me again. How she really wanted to come to Washington for the memorial service but how somebody got sick in the art gallery where she works and they couldn’t find a replacement.

“That’s okay,” I told him.

Aunt Alice opened the door when we arrived at their condominium. I’m still not sure what a condominium is but they had a great big one with lots of rooms and views of the city from every window you looked out of. All the furniture and rugs were white or off-white and each room had big ugly paintings hanging on the walls and big ugly statues standing on the floor that made you want to say yuk. The best part was outside the windows where you could look at the tops of houses, the ships sailing on the bay, and the big bridge with the little cars going back and forth.

I didn’t say yuk. I smiled at Aunt Alice and when she bent down to kiss me I smelled an unfamiliar perfume in her hair and I had to hold on hard to my smile to keep from crying.

“We’re so happy to have you here, Isabelle,” said my aunt.

“Izzy,” my uncle corrected. “They all call her Izzy.”

“Izzy, dear,” said my aunt, “we’re so happy to have you here.”

“I’m happy to be here,” I told her.

My aunt matched the apartment. All her clothes seemed to be white or off-white and her face was pale and her hair was frosted.

We all stood there smiling at each other for a while and then she said she supposed I’d like to see the room I’d be sleeping in. She didn’t say it was my room but I said yes, I would like to see it. Then we all trooped off to a room that had a bed with a white bedspread on it and some even uglier paintings on the wall.

“This is our guest room,” Aunt Alice told me.

“Oh, it’s very nice,” I said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

“I thought you’d like it,” she said. “That painting facing the bed with the lovely azures and gentians always makes me want to cry.”

It made me want to cry too. I didn’t know what azures and gentians meant but the thought of waking up every morning and facing that wall full of big blue spots and splashes like pigeon droppings made me want to scream.

“And come over here to the window, Izzy,” said my uncle. “I think the view from this window is the best in the whole place. Look over there. That’s Market Street and there’s the Ferry Building. Later when it gets dark you’ll have thousands of lights twinkling up at you.”

I murmured something and kept smiling but all I wanted was for them to leave me alone so I could cry. I hadn’t had a chance, I’d been so busy worrying in the past few weeks. I needed to cry now and I needed to be alone.

“So, Izzy,” said my aunt, “why don’t you wash up? You have your own bathroom right there across the room. I fixed an early dinner because I assumed your stomach would still be on Eastern time.”

“Oh, I’m not hungry,” I told her. “We had a big lunch on the plane and I never eat much anyway.”

“Well, whatever you like,” said my aunt, and she and my uncle walked out of the room. They didn’t close the door after them. I wanted to close the door but I also didn’t want them to think I was sneaky or secretive so I left it open and made a dash for the bathroom where I could close the door. Naturally it was tiled all in white and I fell down on the white floor and cried. I threw a few towels around too. They were pale pink which should have made me feel better but it didn’t. Then I threw up the lunch I had eaten on the plane. After that, I picked up the towels, washed my face, splashed a lot of water on my eyes, combed my hair, stretched my mouth into a smile, and joined my aunt and uncle in the dining room.

They were talking in whispers as I came into the room but as soon as they saw me they raised their voices and began smiling.

“You know, Izzy, I think you look just like your father,” said my aunt.

“That’s exactly what I think too,” said my uncle, “but
— uh—somebody I said that to ...”

“Sandy,” I told him.

“Yes, that’s right. Sandy said she thought Izzy looked more like me.”

“Oh no,” said my aunt. “Her face is longer, like Mark’s, and she’s darker than you are.”

I agreed, and soon we were sitting down to dinner around the fanciest table I’d ever seen in my life. In the center stood one perfect flower surrounded by two long, skinny, translucent candles
—nothing like Sandy’s—in two spiky silver candlesticks. All the plates naturally were white but the food was arranged so beautifully on each one I could hardly believe you were supposed to eat it.

“Go ahead, Izzy,” said my aunt. “I’m sure you’re hungry.”

And suddenly I was. Not only because I wanted to please her but because I really was hungry and the food tasted so wonderful, I ate and smiled and ate and smiled until suddenly my aunt started talking about schools.

“... boarding schools,” she was saying.

I stopped eating.

“. , . not now, of course,” she said. “It’s too late this year but in the fall. We’ll have lots of time over the summer, Izzy, to look over the catalogs and maybe visit a few. We don’t want you to be too far away, after all. We want to come and see you and you’ll want to spend some of your holidays with us
...
”

So it wasn’t going to be my room after all. Aunt Alice had made a chocolate mousse for dessert but I couldn’t eat any.

Chapter 3

Well, I told myself the next morning when I woke up and saw the painting of blue pigeon droppings on the opposite wall, at least I won’t have to see that every morning if I’m not living here.

In a way, I felt relieved but not happy. It was the end of the line. I couldn’t go any further so that was a relief. But it wasn’t good knowing that nobody wanted me and that I had to go to boarding school.

Cheer up, I told myself after I had washed up and stood looking around the (not my) room. Keep busy. Don’t mope or they might get rid of you even sooner. This is only the middle of April so you do have at least four months before they ship you off. It’s even possible if you make a good impression that they might change their minds.

I opened the door of my room and listened. No sounds out there. It was Sunday morning. I was used to my father’s early hours and the clock in my room said 8:15. Some people, I supposed, slept late on Sunday morning. Gently, I closed the door and decided to remain in my room until I heard wake-up noises from outside.

My two suitcases stood in the middle of the room. I guessed it would be okay to unpack. Last night, Aunt Alice had said I should and that, for the time being, I could hang my clothes in the big closet in the room and use the double chests for anything that folded. I didn’t need all that space. My underwear, sweaters, and socks fitted into one of the chests with lots of room to spare and when I finished hanging up the rest of my clothes, a whole long row of empty hangers still remained. The closet was one of those interesting ones with shelves and hooks and bars if I could only figure out what they were meant for. I laid my pair of tennis shoes and my boots on a slanting wire stand on the closet floor and hoped it was intended for shoes. I decided to put my books on the shelves. One of them had a big box sitting on it.