It's Saturday.
CHAPTER
Seven
The next afternoon Harriet didn’t get home until five o’clock. She had purposely stayed away all day, first following her spy route, then playing Monopoly with Janie and Sport. The game had made her irritable because she hated to sit still for that long. Janie and Sport loved it. Janie had all sorts of systems worked out for winning, and Sport was so passionate about money that they were kept continually interested, but Harriet couldn’t keep her mind on it.
When she got to the top of the steps she stood still a minute, quietly. The house was completely silent. Her mother was out and her father wasn’t home from work yet. The kitchen was so far away she couldn’t hear the cook. She stood very still, listening.
It hadn’t been this way when Ole Golly lived there. That was one thing about Ole Golly, thought Harriet; even if she didn’t say anything, you were aware of her. She made herself felt in the house. Harriet looked toward Ole Golly’s room. It stood vacant, silent, its yellow door open. Harriet walked toward it. Standing on the threshold, she looked into the neat emptiness. It had been almost this neat when Ole Golly was in it, but there had been flowers. Ole Golly had always managed to have a sprig of something alive in the room. There had been the big flowered quilt too, that Harriet bounced in. Ole Golly took the quilt, Harriet thought to herself.
She turned and ran into her room. For a minute she thought she would cry. Then she went into her little bathroom and washed her face. She thought to herself that there was no good in crying. Ole Golly wasn’t coming back. Crying wouldn’t bring her back.
She sat down to read. How I love to read, she thought. The whole world gets bigger just the way Ole Golly said it was when Mr. Waldenstein proposed. She felt a twinge in her stomach. Phooey on Mr. Waldenstein, she thought; why did he take her away? Am I going to cry anyway?The front door slammed with a bang and Harriet knew her father was home. He always came home with a bang the same way Harriet did. She rushed out now, banging the door to her room behind her, and thumped down the steps, jumping on each one as hard as she could, then running until she ran smack into her father.
“Hey, there!” He stood there laughing and tall, his horn-rimmed glasses fallen over to one side from the force of the impact. He grabbed her and swung her up into the air. “Hey, you’re getting too much for your old man!” Harriet scrambled down, laughing, and he set her on her feet. “How much do you weigh now?”
“Seventy-five.”
“Fat lady, you tell ’em, fat lady.” He was putting down his briefcase and taking off his jacket. “Where’s your mother?”
“Bridge,” Harriet said in a disgusted way.
“Bridge. What a bore. How can she play that fink game so much? And those finks she plays with!” He muttered away to himself. Harriet loved to hear him jabber on like this. She knew he wasn’t talking to her, so it was fun to listen.
“Whatcha do today, Daddy?”
“Finked around with a lot of pictures.”
“Got any movie-star pictures for me?”
“Harriet M. Welsch, I have no movie-star pictures for you today. If I have one good thing to thank the Lord for today, it is that I did not have to gaze upon the jowls of an aging movie star. Anyway, those finks have given me such a low budget I doubt that I’ll ever see another movie star.”
Today was Monday, Harriet suddenly remembered. Ole Golly had once said to her, “Don’t mess with anybody on a Monday. It’s a bad, bad day.”
Mr. Welsch wandered into the library, newspaper in hand. “How about a little quiet now, Harriet?”
“Who’s saying anything?” She was, after all, just standing there.
“I have the distinct feeling that I can hear you thinking. Now run along until Mommy comes back.”
Uh-oh, thought Harriet, this is a very bad Monday indeed. He walked over to the bar and began to mix a martini. Harriet tiptoed away. She suddenly remembered that she had a little homework to do, so she went back up to her room. She thought that she had better do it before her favorite program came on at seven-thirty. Her favorite program was the early movie. She didn’t like any of the kids’ programs. She never seemed to understand the point of them. They seemed so dumb. Janie looked at all of them and laughed her head off, but they left Harriet cold. Janie also naturally watched all the science ones, taking notes the whole time. Sport watched the sports news and the cooking programs, taking down recipes that might make his father eat.
Harriet sat down at her desk and pulled out her school notebook. There was an assignment she had to do for math. She hated math. She hated math with every bone in her body. She spent so much time hating it that she never had time to do it. She didn’t understand it at all, not a word. She didn’t even understand anyone who did understand it. She always looked at them suspiciously. Did they have some part of the brain that she didn’t have? Was there a big hole missing in her head where all the math should be? She took out her own notebook and wrote:
EITHER WE EACH HAVE A BRAIN AND THEY ALL LOOK ALIKE OR WE EACH HAVE A SPECIAL BRAIN THAT LOOKS LIKE THE INSIDE OF EACH OF OUR HEADS. I WONDER IF THE INSIDE LOOKS LIKE THE OUTSIDE. I WONDER IF SOME BRAINS, FOR INSTANCE IN PEOPLE WHO HAVE LONGER NOSES, I WONDER IF THOSE PEOPLE HAVE A LONGER NOSE PART TO THE BRAIN. I HAVE A VERY SHORT NOSE. MAYBE THAT’S WHERE THE MATH SHOULD BE.
She slammed her notebook and tried to get back to the math. The numbers swam in front of her. She looked over at a large picture of Ole Golly, in which teeth figured prominently.
She looked up as her mother came to the door.
“How are you, darling? Are you working?”
“No, studying.”
“What are you studying?”
“Math.” Harriet made a terrible face.
Mrs. Welsch came into the room and leaned over Harriet’s chair. “What fun, darling. That was always my favorite subject in school.”
Well, there you are, thought Harriet. Ole Golly wouldn’t have said that. Ole Golly always said, “Math is for them that only want to count everything. It’s them that wants to know what they’re counting that matter.” And that was it all right. If only those little marks meant something besides just funny little marks on a piece of paper.
“Why, here, baby—this is simple. Let me show you.”
Harriet squirmed. They could show and show and show and show, but it would never make a bit of difference.
Mrs. Welsch pulled a chair over and sat down happily. She soon became absorbed in the problem before her and forgot Harriet altogether. Harriet watched her working. When she was sure her mother was absorbed, she took out her own notebook and began to write:
MY MOTHER HAS BROWN EYES AND BROWN HAIR. HER HANDS WIGGLE AROUND A LOT. SHE FROWNS WHEN SHE LOOKS AT THINGS CLOSE. MY DADDY HAS BROWN EYES TOO BUT HE HAS BLACK HAIR. I DIDN’T KNOW SHE LIKED MATH. IF I HAD EVER KNOWN SHE LIKED MATH I WOULD HAVE FELT VERY FUNNY. I JUST CAN’T STAND MATH.
Harriet’s mother looked up with a smile. “There,” she said triumphantly. “Do you understand that now?”
Harriet nodded. Better that way. Maybe she wouldn’t go into it.
“Well, wash your hands, then, and come down to supper.”
“Can I eat with you?”
“Yes, darling. We’re having an early supper tonight. Harry’s beat and I’ve just about had it.”
“Had what?”
“Had it. Had it—It’s an expression. It just means tired.” She went down the steps.
Harriet wrote in her notebook:
HAD IT. THINK ABOUT THAT.
That night when she went to bed she read half the night because no one thought to take the flashlight away as Ole Golly had always done. They’d let me read all night, she thought finally; and when she put out the flashlight, closed the book, and put them on the night table, she felt sad and lost.
Harriet awoke the next morning with the feeling that she had been dreaming about Ole Golly all night. She picked up her notebook without even getting out of bed.
I WONDER IF WHEN YOU DREAM ABOUT SOMEBODY THEY DREAM ABOUT YOU.
She lay there a moment thinking about that. Then she suddenly remembered that today was the day for parts to be chosen for the Christmas pageant. She wanted to be on time because otherwise she would get a rotten part. Last year she had been late and had ended up being one of the sheep.
Even though she hurried she still went through the same routine she went through every morning. She loved routine so much that Ole Golly had always had to watch her to see that she didn’t put on the same clothes as the day before. They always seemed to Harriet to fit better after she had worn them for a while.
As soon as she was dressed she bounced down the steps into the dining room, where her mother sent her back upstairs immediately to wash her face. How could she remember all these things, she wondered. Ole Golly always remembered everything. After breakfast she took a few cursory notes—comments on the weather, the cook, her father’s choice of tie, etc.—then got her books and walked to school. She took a few more notes as she watched people pouring into the school. Everyone always sidled up to her and asked, “What are you writing in that notebook?” Harriet would just smile slyly. It drove them crazy.
Harriet always did her work swiftly and in a very routine way, signing everything Harriet M. Welsch with a big flourish. She loved to write her name. She loved to write anything for that matter. Today she was about to write her name at the top of the page when she remembered again that today was the day for discussion on the Christmas pageant.
Miss Elson came into the room and they all stood up and said, “Good morning, Miss Elson.” Miss Elson bowed and said, “Good morning, children.” Then they all sat down and punched each other.
Sport threw Harriet a note which said: I hear there’s a dance about pirates. Let’s try and get that one, that is if we have to do it.
Harriet wrote back a note which said: We have to do it, they throw you out otherwise.
Sport wrote back: I have no Christmas spirit.
Harriet wrote back: We’ll have to fake it.
Miss Elson stood in the middle of the room and called for order. No one paid the slightest bit of attention, so she hit the blackboard with the eraser which sent up a cloud of smoke, making her sneeze and everyone else laugh. Then she grew very stern and stared a long time at a spot somewhere down the middle aisle. That always worked.
“Now, children,” she began when there was silence, “today is the day to plan our Christmas pageant. First, let’s have some ideas from the floor about what we would like to do. I don’t think I need bother explaining what this day means to us. There is only one new child here who might wonder.” The Boy with the Purple Socks looked horribly embarrassed. “And I think I can simplify this by saying that at the Christmas pageant we get a chance to show the parents what we have been learning. Now each one hold up your hand when you have a suggestion.”
Sport’s arm shot up. “What about pirates?”
“Well, that’s a thought. I’ll write that down, Simon, but I think I heard something about the fourth grade being pirates. Next?”
Marion Hawthorne stood up. Harriet and Sport looked at each other with pained expressions. Marion said, “I think, Miss Elson, that we should do a spectacular of the Trojan War. That would show everyone exactly what we have been learning.” She sat down again.
Miss Elson smiled. “That’s a lovely idea, Marion. I shall certainly write that down.” Harriet, Sport, and Janie groaned loudly. Janie stood up. “Miss Elson. Don’t you think there will be certain difficulties about building a Trojan horse, much less getting us all in there?”
“Well, I don’t think we’ll go that far in realism, Janie. This is still open for discussion anyway, so let’s hear the other ideas before we discuss the details. I don’t know how big a spectacular we could have in the time allotted us. Anyway, I think I should remind you that we are not supposed to give a play. The sixth grade is supposed to dance. We are due in the gymnasium in thirty minutes to discuss this dance with Miss Berry, the dance teacher, then be measured for costumes by Miss Dodge. Now you know that once the subject is chosen you all improvise your dances. But this year you will be allowed to choose your subject, whereas always before Miss Berry has chosen it.”
“SOLDIERS,” screamed Sport.
“Now, not out of turn, Simon. I’ll go down the line and each one gets a chance.” Miss Elson then called the role. “Andrews?” she said, and Carrie got up and said that she thought it would be nice to have a dance about Dr. Kildare and Ben Casey. Miss Elson wrote it down. There was a great deal of whispering around the room as people started trying to get their gang to agree on something.
“Gibbs?”
“I think that a dance about the Curies discovering radium would be nice. We could all be particles except me and Sport, and we could be Monsieur and Madame Curie.”
“Hansen?”
Beth Ellen shot a terrified glance at Marion Hawthorne, who had been sending her a barrage of notes. Finally she said softly, “I think we should all be things you eat at Christmas dinner.”
“Hawthorne?”
Marion stood up. “I think that’s an excellent suggestion on Beth Ellen Hansen’s part. I think we should be Christmas dinner too.”
“Hennessey?”
Rachel stood up. “I agree with Marion and Beth Ellen. I think that’s a good idea.”
“Peters?”
Laura Peters was terribly shy, so shy that she smiled at everybody all the time, as though they were about to hit her. “I think that’s a good idea too,” she quavered, and sank gratefully back into her seat.
“Matthews?”
The Boy with the Purple Socks stood up and said in an offhand way, “Why not? I’d just as soon be a Christmas dinner as anything else.”
“Rocque?”
Simon looked at Harriet. She knew what that look meant. She was becoming aware of the same thing. They were surrounded. They should have gotten together and now it was too late. In a minute they would all be assigned to things like giblet gravy. Simon stood up. “I don’t know why we don’t do the Trojan War like Marion Hawthorne said first. I would a whole lot rather be a soldier than some carrots and peas.”
Very clever, thought Harriet. Maybe Marion would consent to her own idea. How bright Sport is, she thought.
“Welsch?”
“I think Sport’s absolutely right” and sat down, intercepting a glare from Marion Hawthorne as she did so. Uh-oh, thought Harriet, she’s on to us.
“Whitehead?”
Pinky’s was the only name left. Sport threw a pencil right in his face. At first Harriet couldn’t see why. Then she saw Pinky look at Sport, then stand up and say sadly, “I agree with Harriet and Simon.”
Well, thought Harriet, that’s three against the world. Too bad Janie had to be in such a hurry about the Curies.
There was a vote but they knew they had lost even before it happened.
Miss Elson said, “I think that’s a lovely idea. Now we can have a little discussion with Miss Berry about which parts of the dinner we will take, and then you can start making up your dances at home. Now let’s go to the gym.”
Everyone but Marion Hawthorne and Rachel Hennessey looked terribly disgruntled. They all got up and filed after Miss Elson out of the classroom, down the stairs, into the courtyard, through the courtyard with the little patch of green called the back lawn, and into the gymnasium, where a scene of utter pandemonium greeted them.
It was obvious that everyone in the school was in the gym. There were all sizes and shapes of girls from little ones to older ones just about to graduate.
Miss Berry was screeching frantically, and Miss Dodge was measuring so fast she looked as though she might fly right out the window. Hairpins were falling out and her glasses were askew as she whipped through waist after waist, hip after hip. Miss Berry’s leotards looked baggy.
Sport looked around wildly. “I’ve never been so terrified in my life. Look at all these girls.” He began to edge his way toward Pinky Whitehead and The Boy with the Purple Socks.
Harriet grabbed him by the collar. “You stay right here. Suppose something happens and we have to have partners.” She pushed her face close to his. He began to sweat nervously but stayed next to her after that.
“Now, children, sixth grade over here, please.” Miss Elson was gesturing frantically.
Marion Hawthorne looked around pompously at everyone who didn’t move instantly. She always seemed to be laboring under the impression that she was Miss Elson’s understudy. “Come along there, Harriet,” she said imperiously. Harriet had a sudden vision of Marion grown up, and decided she wouldn’t look a bit different, just taller and more pinched.
“Boy, does she tee me off,” said Sport, digging his hands in his pockets and his sneakers against the floor as though he would never move.
“Simon.” Miss Elson spoke quite sharply, and Sport jumped a mile. “Simon, Harriet, Jane, come along now.” They moved. “Now we’ll stand here and wait our turn with Miss Berry and I don’t want any talking. The din in this place is unbearable.”
“Isn’t it awful?” said Marion Hawthorne in a falsetto.
Harriet thought, Marion Hawthorne is going to grow up and play bridge a lot.
Pinky Whitehead looked as though he might faint. He ran to Miss Elson frantically and whispered something in her ear. She looked down at him. “Oh, Pinky, can’t you wait?”
“No,” said Pinky loudly.
“But it’s so far!”
Pinky shook his head again, was dismissed by Miss Elson, and ran out. Sport laughed. There weren’t any bathrooms for boys in the gym.
“Thought he’d never leave,” said Janie. She had gotten this from her mother.
Harriet looked at Beth Ellen staring into space. Harriet was under the impression that Beth Ellen had a mother in an insane asylum, because Mrs. Welsch had once said, “That poor child. Her mother is always at Biarritz.”
“All right, children, Miss Berry is ready now.” They marched over with flat feet, like prisoners. Harriet felt like Sergeant York.Miss Berry was in her usual state of hysteria. Her hair was pulled into a wispy ponytail, as though it were pulling her eyes back.
She looked at them wildly. “Sixth grade, yes, sixth grade, let’s see. What have you decided? Well? What have you decided?”
Marion Hawthorne spoke for them, naturally. “We’ve decided to be a whole Christmas dinner,” she said brightly.
“Lovely, lovely. Now let’s see, vegetables first, vegetables…” Sport started to sprint for the door. Miss Elson pulled him back by the ear. Pinky Whitehead arrived back. Miss Berry turned to him, enchanted. “You will make a wonderful stalk of celery.”
“What?” said Pinky stupidly.
“And you”—she pointed to Harriet—“are an ONION.”
This was too much. “I refuse. I absolutely REFUSE to be an onion.” She stood her ground. She could hear Sport whispering his support behind her. Her ears began to burn as they all turned and looked at her. It was the first time she had ever really refused to do anything.
“Oh, dear.” Miss Berry looked as though she might run out the door.
“Harriet, that’s ridiculous. An onion is a beautiful thing. Have you ever really looked at an onion?” Miss Elson was losing all touch with reality.
“I will NOT do it.”
“Harriet, that’s enough. We won’t have any more of this impudence. You ARE an onion.”
“I am not.”
“Harriet, that is QUITE enough.”
“I won’t do it. I quit.”
Sport was pulling at her sleeve. He whispered frantically, “You can’t quit. This is a SCHOOL.” But it was too late. A roar of laughter went up from the group. Even that mild thing, Beth Ellen, was laughing her head off. Harriet felt her face turning red.
Miss Berry seemed to come back to life. “Now, children. I think it would be nice to take each thing from its inception to the time it arrives on the table. We must have some more vegetables. You, there”—she pointed to Janie—“you’re squash. And you”—she pointed to Beth Ellen—“are a pea.” Beth Ellen looked as though tears were close. “You two”—she pointed to Marion Hawthorne and Rachel Hennessey—“can be the gravy.…” At this Harriet, Sport, and Janie broke into hysterical peals of laughter and had to be quieted by Miss Elson before Miss Berry could continue. “I don’t see what’s funny. We have to have gravy. You”—she pointed to Sport—“and you”—she pointed to Pinky Whitehead—“are the turkey.” “Well, of all the…” began Sport and was shushed by Miss Elson.
After she had made The Boy with the Purple Socks into a bowl of cranberries, she turned to the class. “Now all the vegetables, listen to me,” said Miss Berry, planting her feet firmly in the fifth position. Harriet made a mental note to make a note of the fact that Miss Berry always wore, even on the street, those flat, mouse-gray practice shoes. They were always terribly old ones with the cross bar curling away from the arch.
“… I want you to feel—to the very best of your endeavor—I want you to feel that one morning you woke up as one of these vegetables, one of these dear vegetables, nestling in the earth, warm in the heat and power and magic of growth, or striving tall above the ground, pushing through, bit by bit in the miracle of birth, waiting for that glorious moment when you will be…”
“Eaten,” Harriet whispered to Sport.
“… once and for all, your essential and beautiful self, full-grown, radiant.” Miss Berry’s eyes were beginning to glaze. One arm was outstretched toward the skylight; half of her hair had fallen over one ear. She held the pose in silence.
Miss Elson coughed. It was a things-are-getting-altogether-out-of-hand cough.
Miss Berry jumped. She looked as though she had just come up out of a subway and didn’t know east from west. She gave an embarrassed titter, then started afresh. “We’ll start with the tenderest moment of these little vegetables, for you know, children, this dance has a story, a story, a lovely story.” She trilled a bit of laughter to let them know she was still there. “It starts, as do all stories, with the moment of conception.” She looked around in a delighted way. Miss Elson turned pale.
“It starts, naturally, with the farmer—”
“Hey, I want to be the farmer,” Sport yelled.
“Do not say ‘hey’ to a teacher.” Miss Elson was losing patience.
“Oh, but, dear boy, one of the older girls will be the farmer. A farmer must be taller, after all, than vegetables. Vegetables are very short.” She looked annoyed that he didn’t know this. Sport turned away in disgust.“Well, the farmer comes in on this lovely morning when the ground is freshly broken, open and yielding, waiting to receive. When he enters, you will all be piled in a corner like seed waiting to be planted. You will just lie there in lumps like this—” and she fell abruptly to the ground. She lay there like a heap of old clothes.
“Come on, let’s split; she’s gone.” Sport turned to go.
“Miss Berry, I think they’ve got the position,” said Miss Elson loudly. Miss Berry turned one inquiring eye over her shoulder to face a royal snub from Miss Elson. She scrambled to her feet.
“All right, children”—she was suddenly crisp—“I want you to start improvising your dances, and I will see what you’ve done next dance class.” The change in her was so remarkable that the children all stared in silence. “Please file over there and be fitted.” She turned her back. It was all so swift that Miss Elson stood gaping a minute before she started to herd them toward the costume corner. They all looked back curiously at Miss Berry, who stood, feet planted flatly, her misunderstood nose high in the air.
The costume corner looked like Macy’s on sale day. Quantities of tulle flew through the air.
Sport wilted. “Boy, this is a scene I really can’t make.”
It was dreary. Harriet remembered it from last year as a long wait with your feet hurting while a terribly flustered Miss Dodge measured you in a sweaty way and, likely as not, stuck you full of pins.
“One day,” said Janie, “I am going to come in here with a vial and blow this place sky-high.”
The three of them stood glumly, staring at the tulle.
“How do you practice being an onion?” Harriet looked over at Miss Berry, who was falling into another pile of rags on the floor. Evidently all the dances were the same.
Sport got an evil look. “I think I’ll scream as loud as I can when she measures me.”
Janie’s turn came. “Here goes nothing,” she said loudly. Miss Dodge blinked her giant eyes behind her glasses, fluttered her tape measure, and dropped several pins from her mouth.