I wrote my first letter to Joyce Omdah when I was in sixth grade. Miss Sussbaum passed around information about starving children who needed pen pals, and I signed up. The children, Miss Sussbaum said, lived in mud huts in Africa. They didn’t have clean water, and ate flour paste for dinner. They slept on the ground with ants.
It was another dreary day on Cape Cod. Outside the windows of the classroom, I could see the frozen pond, and a few misguided seagulls. The trees were bare, and the gazebo — which in summer would be thronged by pink-skinned visitors eating ice cream cones — was abandoned and covered with snow. Someone had hung a mitten from a branch.
Miss Sussbaum explained the tremendous benefits of our heartfelt letters and a few pennies a day. We would save whole villages, buy cows, clothing, and schoolbooks. “Take responsibility for a life,” urged Miss Sussbaum, and because I desperately wanted her (or someone) to like me, I followed instructions.
After school, I went to Room 201 of the Clam Motel and watched television. We lived in the apartment behind the office, but 201 had a double bed to sprawl on. I had picked up an order of calamari from Stevie on my way home, and I ate carefully, conscious not to leave any traces in the room. Years ago, a guest had called Mr. Franklin in Florida after finding my Cabbage Patch Kid in his bathtub. My mother had almost been fired, and now I wasn’t allowed in the guest rooms. Luckily, I had taken the universal key to Aubuchon Hardware and had a copy made. I knew it would come in handy when I grew breasts and had friends.
My mother worked in the office until seven, so I had plenty of time to rehearse my plea and clean up the calamari. In our apartment, I hid the takeout container in the bottom on the trash can, piling coffee grounds and soup cans on top. The apartment was a mess, as usual.
It wasn’t even an apartment, if the truth be told. We lived in two adjoining rooms, which had once been the Family Suite. My room had a kitchenette with a mini-fridge, two twin beds, a bureau with a filmy mirror, and a writing desk. I kept an eye out on large garbage day, and had picked up two bookshelves, a bulletin board, and a poster from the musical “Hair.” I also had a flying squirrel named James who slept in my closet all day. On the board, where I should have tacked up pictures and birthday party invitations, I had affixed old postcards and photos of models with fancy hairstyles. I had tried to cut my own hair, and the bangs had turned out badly. Though I convinced my mom to buy me a bottle of Aqua Net, it made no difference. Generally, I woke early, tried to mash my hair into something attractive, gave up, and wore a Red Sox hat.
My mother’s room was disgusting. She was a complete mess, and she smoked. I tried to forgive her, but it was hard. Her clothes were all over the floor and the bed, and no matter how many times I collected them, there were always dirty glasses around. She did not have any pets.
When my mother walked into my room, weary as usual and carrying takeout chicken, I pounced. I told her about African children in dire need, announced that it was time I took responsibility for something. I promised to stop eating Cheese Doodles, sucking my thumb, and slouching. I described the ants and the paste for dinner. I told her I would be a whole new person, a more appealing daughter in general, if I could just adopt a starving African.
My mother had taken off her shoes, and lay across my bed. “How much?” she asked.
“So much,” I said. “Mom, I’m not kidding, this will change everything.”
“How much does it cost?” she said, balancing the chicken box on her soft stomach and opening the flaps.
“Pennies a day!” I crowed.
“How many pennies?” she said, reaching for the television remote. “Leg or thigh?”
“Thigh,” I said. My plate was balanced on my knees, ready. I had washed our utensils in the sink and laid them out on the foot of my bed. We generally ate dinner together, watching the news. After the news, she left again. I held out the Adopt An African brochure, where I had highlighted the details. “Eight dollars a month.” I said.
My mother scooped out mashed potatoes and frowned, calculating. “It’s that or a new winter coat,” she said, finally.
“How can I buy a new winter coat,” I said, “knowing that a child is starving?”
She shrugged, and bit into her drumstick. “Suit yourself, Suzy Q,” she said.
After the news, my mother stood up and rubbed her eyes. She took off her clothes and dropped them on my floor. She opened my closet door and James flew out.
“Fuck!” she said. James landed on my shoulder, blinked.
“Why don’t you stay home tonight, mom?” I said. I tried not to sound needy.
“Right,” she said, and then she put on a pair of my clean underwear and left.
Miss Sussbaum had told us to include a letter to our starving African along with our money. After feeding James and watching television for a while, I got to work. I had some hotel stationary, and the African wouldn’t know that the Clam was a rundown, cheap motel in the wrong neighborhood of Cape Cod. For all the African knew, I could be living in the Plaza, like Eloise. James flew around the room, and then rested on the top of my head.
“Dear X,” I wrote, as I didn’t yet know that my pen pal was Joyce Omdah. “I am writing you from my penthouse suite. I live at the Clam Motel, which is a high rise building near many exclusive shops like Bloomingdale’s and Gimbels. My father is in sales, and my mother makes the yummiest brownies. I don’t eat them, though, because I’m trying to watch my figure. I wish I could send you some of my mom’s brownies and her chocolate chip cookies, too, which are to die for.”
I felt guilty, all of a sudden, writing to a starving person about brownies. The letter seemed all wrong, so I took another tack: “It’s winter here and very cold. We have snow, which is actually rain drops frozen into white pieces. You are so lucky to have sunny weather all the time. You don’t even need a winter coat, or to worry about bronchitis and your skin drying out.”
My African had plenty to worry about, I knew, like yellow fever and cholera, but I was trying my best to stay positive. I concluded: “I have blonde hair and blue eyes. I like to wear the latest fashions, and my father always brings me presents (like fur coats) when he goes on business trips. I am very thin (like a model). I have lots of friends and we like to go ice skating and drink hot chocolate. I hope you can buy something great with the money I’m sending, like pencils for school or a book. Books are very important, so be sure to read lots. Thank you, Suzannah Magsen.”
I folded up my letter and put it inside a Clam Motel envelope, which had “Wish you were here!” written on it, and a big clamshell. I put the letter on the bedside table, and then I put on my headphones, so I wouldn’t hear my mother come crashing in. Then I watched some more television.
In the morning, my mother was in her bed by herself. She didn’t like to be waked up in the morning, but this was an emergency. “Mom,” I said, poking her shoulder.
She rolled over, and I tried to close my nose against the smell of smoke in her hair. She was still wearing her jeans and shiny blouse, but the blouse was buttoned wrong. “Wha?” she said.
“Mom, I need the money.”
She sat up and opened one eye. “What money?” she said. “Jesus, what time is it?”
“I need the twenty-four dollars for the African,” I said.
“Twenty four…”
“Mom,” I said, “We have to pay the first three months up front. I’m going to be late for school. Please.”
She opened the other eye. “I’m sorry, Suze,” she said. “I don’t get paid until Friday.”
It was Tuesday. “Mom,” I said, “please.”
“I don’t have it,” she said, and then she lay back down and pulled the covers over her head.
I walked to school, my letter folded carefully in my L.L. Bean backpack. The backpack was embroidered with the name “Dr. Yantzee”; it had been half-price. I hadn’t complained when my mother brought it home. My shoes were dorky boat shoes from the thrift store — left by some rich person on their way back to New York in August; my coat was too small and had a bunch of grapes appliquéd on the back. Look at me: the heavy girl with hair she cut herself. one you ignore because it’s too sad, really, to get inside her skin. The one who wears elastic-waist pants, who sinks like a turtle into the folds of her hooded sweatshirts. Look at me, trudging through the snow: I didn’t have a chance.
At the doorway to the sixth-grade classroom, Miss Sussbaum had set up a giant lunchbox made of cardboard. She had pasted cutout faces of African children and various foodstuffs on the sides (cherry pie, an orange, half a grilled cheese sandwich). While my mother had been shaking her ass for a free drink at Grumpy’s Pub, Miss Sussbaum had been carefully working with scissors, a full container of Elmer’s glue at her side. I imagined she cleaned the orange tip of the Elmer’s with her unpainted thumbnail, making sure nothing got clogged or messed up.
“Good morning,” said Miss Sussbaum, standing by the lunchbox with her hand on her hip. How I longed to look up at her, to smile and slide my Clam envelope into the box! Instead, I looked down. “Do you have anything for an underprivileged child?” said Miss Sussbaum.
“I forgot,” I said.
“Oh Suzy,” said Miss Sussbaum. She paused, and then said, “Well don’t forget tomorrow.”
The day passed in the usual miserable manner. My locker was taped shut with masking tape, and one of the rich girls yelled, “Eeew!” when I brushed against her in the lunch line. I ate my meatball sub and tater tots alone outside, my hands red and raw with the cold. After lunch I almost didn’t go back, but I didn’t want Miss Sussbaum to worry, and I didn’t have anywhere else to go.
I went straight to the office on the Clam Motel after school. My mother was sitting behind the desk, reading People.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hi, sweetie,” said my mother. She had pulled her red hair into a ponytail and tied a scarf around it. She wore too much eye shadow, and her lipstick was leaking. She looked much older than her thirty-six years.
“Your hair looks nice,” I said.
“Really?” she said, touching the scarf. “Ramon found this in Room Seven.”
“Gross, mom!”
“What?” she said. “They’re not coming back. They’re Japanese.” Her eyes took on the faraway look. “I wonder what they were doing here in January,” she said. “From Japan.”
“Seeing the sights,” I said. We looked out the front windows of the office, at the empty parking lot, the gray snow.
I had taken a book about Italian Cooking out of the school library, so I walked to the grocery store and got the ingredients to make manicotti for my mother. We didn’t have an oven, so I cooked the noodles on our hot plate, stuffed them with ricotta, and poured Ragu on top. My mother came into my room and said, “What’s that?” She held a slim paper bag in her hand.
“Manicotti,” I said. I had laid napkins on the bed, and clean glasses on the bedside table.
“Where’d you get the food?”
“Cronig’s,” I said.
She put her hands on her hips. The scarf — it was cream-colored, with oranges printed on it — had fallen halfway down her ponytail. “With what money?” she said.
“I charged it.” I picked up two manicotti and placed them on her plate. “There,” I said.
“I don’t think you understand, Suzanne,” said my mother.
“Just eat,” I said. “Come on, mom. You don’t look good.”
She slid a bottle of red wine from the bag, and unscrewed the cap. “Give me a glass,” she said. She filled the glass and sat down on my bed. She did not take the plate I held out to her. “Where’s that flying rat?” she said.
“Flying squirrel,” I said. “He’s asleep.”
“For the love of God,” she said. She took a long sip, put down the glass, and pressed her hands to her eyes. Then she took them away, and clapped. “Suzy,” she said, “I do not make enough money for willy-nilly grocery shopping.”
“Mom, some ricotta and noodles!”
“You need to listen,” she said. She patted the bed, and I put down the plate and went to sit next to her. “We are not making ends meet,” she said. “I owe Cronig’s already, and I owe a few other people, too. You can’t spend any money. There’s plenty to eat here…” she waved her arm. “Cereal,” she concluded.
I nodded. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“It’s OK,” she said. She reached for the television remote. “It’s not like you need a big fat dinner,” she added.
“I’m sorry,” I said again. She nodded and patted my knee. She drank the wine that must have cost as much as ten plates of manicotti. I didn’t ask about the African.
“Is this about money?” said Miss Sussbaum, when I passed the giant lunchbox again without a contribution.
“Oh no!” I said. “No, I just keep forgetting.”
“Hm,” said Miss Sussbaum.
School was abuzz with news of Cory Gladstone’s birthday party. Her father ran See a Seal Boat Tours, and the party was going to take place on the boat, which was docked for the winter. During math time, Cory passed me a note on yellow legal paper. The front read, “You’re invited,” and the inside read, “NOT!”
After school, I wanted calamari, but I knew that I couldn’t charge it. Instead, I stood around in front of Captain Kidd and tried to catch a whiff of something good. It was freaking freezing, but I didn’t want to go home. Finally, I went inside.
The front room was wood-paneled, and there was a roaring fire. Stevie was behind the bar. “Suze!” he said.
“I can’t order anything,” I said. “I’m on a diet.”
“Just came in from the cold?”
“Yeah.” I stood by the door, as if I was about to leave.
“Sit down,” said Stevie. “I’ll make you a diet hot chocolate.”
“I can’t,” I said.
“It’s free,” said Stevie. “Come on, I’m lonely.” I looked at Stevie, trying to see if he was joking, or making fun of me. But his old watery eyes were kind. He had been a commercial fisherman, but had lost his boat in Hurricane Bob. The insurance had let him buy out his father-in-law, and now Captain Kidd was his. My mother had tended bar here, before the Clam Motel gig, and Stevie was maybe my only friend.
I sat on a barstool. There was a giant mural of pirates on the wall, and it looked faded in the winter light. “How’s school?” said Stevie, topping my hot chocolate with Reddi-Wip.
“Fine,” I said. I shrugged. “Not the greatest.”
“Kids can be cruel,” said Stevie, contemplatively. “Got a boyfriend yet?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Oh, really?” said Stevie. “Well, what’s his name?”
“James.”
“James.” Stevie smiled. “That’s a solid name. What’s the last name?”
Everyone knew everyone in Woods Hole, so I gave James the last name of my favorite person. “Drew,” I said.
“Drew?” said Stevie. “I don’t know them. Have any brothers or sisters?”
I almost said Nancy, but refrained. “No. They’re new. They just moved here.”
“Oh,” said Stevie, placated. “Scientists?”
“Yeah,” I said. The Marine Biological Laboratory was the only place where new people came to work in Woods Hole. Otherwise, everyone had been around for generations. My mother had grown up in town, run away at sixteen, and returned at twenty-three with me in her arms. She told me my father had been a sailor. He had sailed all around the Caribbean, but then his boat capsized at sea.
“Well, tell this James to treat you right,” said Stevie. I promised him I would.
That night, my mother didn’t even watch the news. She went straight to her room and slept. I ate cereal, and James had peanuts and an orange. He liked to go outside and fly around, but it was too cold.
I heard my mother in the shower around ten, and then she went out. In theory, she was supposed to be around in case any late night travelers arrived at the Clam Motel. None ever did, so she thought it was safe to go to Grumpy’s Pub. Or maybe she didn’t care. She told me once that the only fun she ever had in her whole life was at Grumpy’s Pub. That made me feel bad, but nothing I did around home ever turned out right, not the manicotti, and not the time I stuck glow-in-the-dark stars to her ceiling and she made me scrape them off with a butter knife.
Miss Sussbaum didn’t say anything when I passed the giant lunchbox on Thursday. During lunchtime, I paged through the books about Africa that Miss Sussbaum had gathered from the library. Africa was a huge place, and though the crop information didn’t interest me, I loved reading about the different cultures. In Kenya, for example, the Maasai wore beautiful beaded bracelets, and in Botswana, Bushmen wove giant baskets of colored straw. It occurred to me that perhaps I did have talents, but just hadn’t discovered them yet. Maybe I was awesome at making beaded bracelets, who knew?
I thought the Africans were beautiful, too, with their dark skin. My skin was light, but I had thick black hair and too-big eyebrows. I think my father (the sailor) must have been Italian or Portuguese. My mother said she couldn’t bear to talk about him, so I didn’t know. Some of the African women were stocky, too, like me. No matter how many Ding Dongs, I was always going to be a big girl, as my mother called me. I wasn’t fat, no matter what Kenneth Greenburger wrote on my locker.
That night, I thought about my African friend while I was trying to fall asleep, alone in the Clam Motel. Maybe I could visit Africa, and bring my friend food and books. Maybe she would want to hear about James, how I had found him abandoned in the Family Suite. My African friend could come visit me, too, but it would be better in the summertime. I could show her how to steal a rowboat from the beach and row way out beyond the waves, where everything fell silent except the wind and the cries of birds.
On Friday morning, my mother was not in her room. I checked the coffee can in her underwear drawer, but it was empty. I was very upset and not sure what to do. James could tell: he flew into the window and whacked his head. I almost started to cry, realizing that I would not be able to send the money to my African friend, and thus she would have nothing to eat and I would be alone. I tried to get ahold of myself, reminding myself that there were no ants in my room, and that cereal, even Special-K, was better than paste.
I took a long shower, and pulled my best jeans out of my drawer. The Japanese lady’s scarf was in a ball on my mother’s floor, so I threaded it through my belt loops. I put on some of my mother’s lipstick, and I still had time before the bus arrived. My mother was going to get fired, I knew it.
I gathered all the empty beer cans and the full ashtrays. My arms were full of my mother’s waste when she walked in the door. She looked serene. “Hi, Suze,” she said. She walked past me to her bed and lay down. She stretched out her arms as if she were making a snow angel. “Hmmmm,” she said. “I’m so glad to be home.”
I took the cans outside and threw them, one by one, into the dumpster. It was snowing lightly, and the flakes covered my coat with a pearly film. The school bus came moving slowly up the street, and turned on its blinker.
I thought about going back inside the Clam Motel. I wanted to yank my mother out of bed, and kick that expression off her face. The bus turned into the parking lot, and I knew that my mother would get away with it again. No one would try to check into the Clam, and find the desk empty, my mother peacefully sleeping in her bed. Miss Sussbaum would think I didn’t care about all her hard work cutting out African faces and slices of pie. And somewhere, my friend would run to the mailbox (or the mail hut, or wherever the letters came in from American kids) and there would be nothing for her. She would watch all the other children ripping open envelopes, reading aloud and laughing, planning visits and rides on the See a Seal Boat. She would feel the hot sun on her forehead and she would feel a hunger that would never be satisfied, no matter how much calamari she ate.
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Part Two
I was shocked to come home from school on Friday and find an envelope on my desk. Inside, my mother had put forty dollars and a lollipop. I ran into the office, where my mother was reading an old National Geographic. “Mom,” I said, holding up the envelope.
“You’re dripping on the carpet,” said my mother. I took off my boots. She looked up from her magazine, and I hugged her. She smelled of smoke and shampoo.
“I told you you could adopt your orphan,” she said. Her tone was sarcastic, but she was trying not to smile. “Look,” she said, pointing to the magazine. “All about alligators. Very interesting.”
“Where were you last night?” I asked.
“Did you know, for example, that some alligators have eighty teeth?”
“Mom…”
“Eighty teeth,” she said. “That’s a lot of teeth.”
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?”
“I counted,” said my mother, “and I only have twenty-eight.”
“Be careful, okay?” I said. “And it’s creepy here alone.”
“Then again, I had my wisdom teeth out forever ago.”
“Thanks for the money,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” said my mother.
The weekend passed slowly. We went for a walk on the beach, but the wind was so loud we couldn’t hear each other talk. It was frightening, wind that loud. We went to Captain Kidd’s for hot chocolates, and we ate cereal and watched TV. Nobody checked into the hotel. On Sunday night, my mother went out again.
I wore the scarf through my belt loops again on Monday, hoping it would bring me luck. I didn’t want a boring African, or one that was too young to confide in. My letter was worn by now, but as I walked into school I touched my pocket and felt it there. The front hallway had been washed and waxed for the new week, but muddy footprints had already started to mar the shine.
For the most part, I was ignored, which was better than being noticed. There were other losers, of course, but connecting with them didn’t seem like it would make my life any better. Once in a while, someone who had been a loser would get new clothes or get skinny and be sort of popular, and there was Carrie Donahoe, who got huge boobs between fifth and sixth grade. But for the most part, there wasn’t any hope of someone like me being happy. I was realistic. All I could wish for was a nice pen pal — one who would write me back — and seeing Miss Sussbaum smile.
I hung my coat up in my locker and pushed my hair behind my ears. The uneven bangs I could do nothing about, but I knew Miss Sussbaum didn’t like baseball hats in the classroom. I had put my letter and the money in a manila envelope from the front office.
At the classroom door, Kenneth and Steve were having a fake fight, pulling at each other’s sweatshirts. “Excuse me,” I said, and Kenneth said, “Let Fattie by.” They stopped tussling and I walked in the door.
The giant lunchbox was gone.
Miss Sussbaum was at her desk. I carried my manila envelope to her. “I remembered,” I said breathlessly. “I have forty dollars, and I wrote a letter to my African.”
“Oh, Suzy,” said Miss Sussbaum. “I mailed the package over the weekend.” She looked at me, then, and though I didn’t say a word, she must have known.
“I’m so sorry, Suzy,” she said. She bit her lip. Her brown hair curled around her shoulders, falling on her beautiful lime green sweater. In her ears, she wore pearl earrings. “You had all last week to remember…” she said.
I blinked rapidly and nodded.
“I’m really sorry, Suzy,” she said.
“Okay,” I said. I went and sat at my desk, and Kenneth kicked me.
A few days later, I was watching TV and eating French fries when my mom pushed open the door. “There’s someone here to see you,” she said.
“What?” I said. It was only four, but it was dark, and I had changed into my Garfield pajamas.
“Your teacher,” said my mother suspiciously. “Miss Sussen-something?”
“Sussbaum,” I said. I jumped up and ran to the mirror, trying to brush my hair flat. “Tell her I’ll be there in a minute,” I said, stepping out of my pajamas.
My mother stood with her arms folded across her chest, looking at me.
“Tell her!” I pleaded. I pulled pants from my closet and found a pair of my mother’s clogs to wear. I exchanged my pajama top for a sweatshirt.
I rushed into the office and was struck by the sight of my mother talking to my teacher. They were around the same age, I guessed, but looked like they had come from different worlds. My mother was wearing a low-cut top and hoop earrings, her jeans (as usual) too tight. Miss Sussbaum wore a long corduroy skirt and a sweater set. She fiddled with a gold chain around her neck nervously as my mother talked. My mother sounded course, loud, and dumb.
“Oh hi, Miss Sussbaum,” I said, stepping into view.
“Suzy!” said my teacher, standing. She looked relieved.
“What did you do with the forty dollars?” said my mother.
“It’s in the coffee can,” I lied.
“I’ve felt just awful about that misunderstanding,” said Miss Sussbaum.
“It better be in the coffee can,” said my mother.
“It’s okay,” I said to Miss Sussbaum, ignoring my mother. “Really, it is.”
“It’s great!” said my mother. “Forty dollars for an orphan…sounded like a rip-off to me.”
“Suzy,” said Miss Sussbaum, her voice warm, “I hope you don’t mind, but I put the word out amongst my college friends.”
“What?” I said.
My mother was blissfully silent.
Miss Sussbaum took a breath. “My friend from college, Callie? She lives in Cairo. She teaches English,” she said. “Callie would be happy to get you a pen pal from one of her classes, if you want. An Egyptian girl.”
“Really?” I said.
“For nothing,” Miss Sussbaum added. “For free.”
My mother smiled.
“I don’t know what to say,” I said.
“Here’s Callie’s address,” said Miss Sussbaum, holding out an index card. I could see her beautiful cursive writing, and I knew that I would put the card in the shoebox I kept under my bed.
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you so much.”
“Just send your letter to Callie,” said Miss Sussbaum, “and she’ll give it to one of her students.”
“Sounds great!” said my mother, too heartily.
“I will,” I said. “I promise.”
Miss Sussbaum flashed a smile, pulled on her long wool coat, and was gone.
After the news, my mother took the forty dollars (I had hidden it in my shoebox, saving for a bus ticket somewhere better or at least some Devil Dogs) and went to Grumpy’s Pub. I let James out of the closet and fed him an apple. He jumped from my bed to the lamp to my shoulder as I wrote a note to Miss Sussbaum’s friend. I put the note and my original letter in the manila envelope, and I addressed it carefully. Egypt!
On Monday, I stole five dollars from the coffee can and I mailed the letter at the Woods Hole Post Office. Orla Thompson stamped the envelope all over and threw it into the bin behind the desk. I watched Orla work and thought about my letter sailing all the way across the ocean. Did Egyptians live in pyramids? I knew they rode camels.
“Something else I can do for you?” said Orla crossly.
“No,” I said.
I was filled with hope and excitement for about six months.
Part Three
My fourteenth birthday was good and bad. On the one hand, two years after sending my letter to Egypt, I got a thick envelope in return. On the other hand, I found out that my mother was sleeping with Harold Kelb.
I don’t know why it took two years for my note to reach Joyce Omdah, an aspiring poet who lived along the Nile River in a dusty outpost called Aswan. Joyce sent a long missive detailing her daily schedule, hopes, and beliefs.
She included a photograph of her family and her best poem to date (she said), a poem titled, “You Will Not Forget Me,” which outlined the many reasons a long-gone love would never forget Joyce: her raven hair, her almond eyes, and lastly, “because I fondled you much.”
I put the letter in the shoebox under my bed, and spent a great deal of my time trying to compose a response. Joyce’s life was so much more interesting than mine, what with collecting pens from tourists, helping her mother mend clothes, and planning her escape from arranged marriage with her cousin, Ahmed. It was hard to compete with my stories about the middle school prom and how Irene Jackson had let Kenneth Greenburger fingerfuck her at the Mashpee Mall.
Joyce and I didn’t have a whole lot in common. She studied everything from math to the Koran, she said, convinced that education would lead her to great things. I was sick of school, and wanted to drop out and work at Falmouth Pets.
I admired Joyce. She had plans for her future, and a cause she believed in (she hoped Muslims would take over the world). Joyce’s hero was Ahmed Abdel-Aziz, a man who, she wrote, “raised the Muslim flag.” My hero was John Taylor of Duran Duran, whose striped hair was awesome.
I developed a crush on Joyce’s older brother, Mohammed, who was very hot in the blurry photo. He appeared to be holding hands with cousin Ahmed, but whatever. Joyce wore her hair in two braids and a dorky outfit, but maybe it was her school uniform. Joyce’s mother wore a perfectly nice dress, and Ahmed had on a big shirt that reached his ankles. Mohammed wore tight jeans and an untucked button-down shirt. He had bare feet, like the boys who run the launch service out to the yachts in Woods Hole Harbor. He had a cocky smile, and I loved him. (There were also a bunch of babies in the picture, in various states of undress. Joyce’s father was long gone, like mine.)
All spring — the spring of my fourteenth year — I had been busy moping and taking care of James, who had begun to feel cramped in my small room, necessitating long walks in the middle of the night around Eel Pond, where he could fly free. Now when James jumped from my shoulder to branches, to masts of expensive sailboats, I dreamed about Mohammed Omdah. He and I could walk James together, peeking in the rich people’s houses at night. We could talk about a world without racial boundaries. Sure, he’d be the only Muslim on Cape Cod, but Stevie would make us fancy cocktails at Captain Kidd and Mohammed would hold my hand under the bar top. Mohammed would run his dark, beautiful fingers over my back, press his lips to my eyelids. He would gaze at me, and think I was beautiful.
I was so caught up in my imaginary love affair with Mohammed that I did not notice my mother’s budding romance until it was in full bloom. I was coming home from school — it was one of the last days of eighth grade, and it was hot — when I saw Harold Kelb fishing off the stern of his ratty old boat. This was not unusual. His boat, The Great Slob, was moored in Eel Pond, and Harold spent most days on the deck in a worn pair of khaki shorts, his brown chest (covered with wiry white hairs) growing browner, a plastic tumbler at his feet. He’d gaze out at the people eating at Shucker’s Restaurant, squinting into the distance as if he were deep in thought. He kept a yellow legal pad perched in his crotch, and from time to time he’d take the pen from behind his ear and scribble something on the pad. What a jackass.
So there I was, wandering along Main Street, my thoughts on love and pets, and I passed The Great Slob. I kept my head down generally, but I glanced up at just the wrong moment to see a familiar figure emerging from the cabin below the boat. It was a woman who should not have been wearing a tiny bikini and yet was wearing a tiny bikini. The woman was flushed with whiskey and whatever horrors had taken place in the cabin of the Great Slob. It was my mother.
“Oh hi, Suze,” she said, as if it was completely normal for me to see my own mother après sex in a bikini. She put an arm on either side of the staircase and lifted her face to the sun. “What a gorgeous day,” she said, to no one in particular.
I stood on the dock, my backpack (and my heart) weighing me down. “No, mom,” I said.
“And you must be the famous Suze,” said Harold, stroking his moustache, making my name sound lewd and disgusting.
“You know who I am,” I said.
“Yes, yes,” said Harold dismissively. He leaned down and scribbled something on his legal pad.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?” I asked my mother.
“I suppose,” she said. She turned away from me, taking in Harold, his nasty shorts.
Harold picked up a bottle of Maker’s Mark which he had stashed in his fishing bucket. He filled his glass and one for my mother. He pursed his lips, and then spoke in an affected voice. “Still smiling, he lit another cigarette. He poured another drink,” he said. “That’s Bukowski.”
“And you,” I noted. I was overwhelmed with shock and sadness, as if a wave of sewage had washed over me. I knew my mother had been going downhill, but Harold Kelb?
“Do you want me to work the office for you?” I stammered.
“Sweetie,” said my mother, reaching for her drink, “that would be super. Thanks.”
“And the child sauntered off, into the long afternoon,” said Harold.
“I’ll bring home some fish and chips,” my mother called after me.
In the Clam Motel lot, a car idled. It had New York plates. I hurried to open the office, pulling down the “Be right back!” sign my mother had taped to the glass door. I dumped my backpack on the floor. I was hungry.
The front office was small and tidy, with two plastic plants on either side of the front door. Giant plastic Lobsters remained forever just out of reach of dusty nets along the sides of the walls. (Lobstermen caught the damn things in traps, not nets, but my mother had told me to shut my pie hole when I pointed out the discrepancy.) As soon as I sat on the tall stool behind the counter, a man came inside.
“Oh hello,” he said.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m really sorry about the office being closed. I was just on my way home from school, and I saw a kid drowning in Great Harbor.”
“What?” said the man. He was pale, and wore a gay turtleneck tucked into pressed khaki pants. He looked stunned, his mouth open.
“Great Harbor,” I said. “It’s right over there.” I pointed.
“Oh my God,” said the man.
“And there are sharks in there sometimes, so you know, what could I do?”
“Uh…” said the man.
“I had to go in. It was a little boy. A little black boy. He didn’t know how to swim. He had been out on a boat, and I guess he fell off.”
An annoyed woman pushed open the office door. “What’s going on?” she said.
“This girl just saved a little kid,” said the man.
“I don’t know if I saved him,” I said. “He’s in Intensive Care.”
“Oh my God,” said the woman. “What happened?”
“This boy fell off a boat, I guess,” I said. “I had to haul him right onto the dock by the Naked Lobster.” I shook my head. “It was scary.”
“I don’t know what to say,” said the woman.
“I’m really hungry,” I said.
“I feel so sorry for that little boy,” said the man. “He must have been scared to death.”
“Anyway,” I said. “Room for two?”
“Nonsmoking,” said the man.
As promised, my mother brought home fish and chips. She sat cross-legged on my bed and told me all about her romance. Harold and my mother had met (of course) at Grumpy’s. They had known each other for years before any spark flew between them. I shudder to think about the drunken smooch that must have taken place.
Thankfully, I was spared the details. “I’m happy,” my mother told me. There was nothing for me to say. She had not asked my opinion, and I didn’t offer it. After this conversation, there were nights that my mother didn’t come home at all, and I was alone at the Clam Motel.
After my mother had gone to bed (she had been tired out by her afternoon tryst) I found an old pen and began to write. “Dear Joyce,” I wrote. “Thanks for your letter. Things here in Massachusetts are a complete disaster.” I ate a Clark bar and continued. There was a part of me that was thrilled: no matter what was going on in Joyce’s life — new poems, river cruises on the Nile, arranged marriage — nothing could top your mother in a bikini, having sex on The Great Slob.
Part Four
In August, my mother married Harold Kelb, which everyone knew was a bad idea. She asked me to be her maid of honor. The wedding was to take place in the yard of Harold’s mother’s house, which would be ours as soon as Harold’s mother died. My mother had confided this in me the night before the wedding.
“Just think of it, Suzy,” she said, staring at her own face in my mirror. “We’ll live in a mansion, where we belong.”
“I like the Clam,” I said.
“You don’t know any better,” she said, “you poor little girl.”
I was no longer a little girl. My period had arrived on Wednesday during math, and I had spent a half hour in a stall in the girls’ room, trying to figure out where the tampon went. I gave up, and stuffed my underwear with Kleenex. Later that night, my mother was sober enough to take a hand mirror and show me what was what.
Harold Kelb was also a drinker. He lived with his mother on Woods Hole Road, in the house his grandfather had built. It was an enormous house that rambled along the water; it had two turrets and balconies both upstairs and down. Since Harold’s father had lost the family fortune and then hung himself and Harold had come back from Harvard with no skills and a vague dream of becoming a novelist thirty years ago, the house was in complete disrepair. Nonetheless, it was the best shot my mother had at joining the middle class.
Maybe she loved Harold. He was a loudmouth with a moustache that curled up on the ends. He rode a bicycle around town, and fished most mornings from his boat or Woods Hole Beach, filling his bike basket with oily bluefish. He wore his father’s old suits in the winter, as if going to work somewhere. It was rumored that he had read every book in the Woods Hole Library. I never understood what the fuck he was talking about.
“Are you marrying Harold or the house?” I asked my mother.
She held her hand to the light, watching the diamond (a Kelb heirloom) flash. “Both,” she admitted.
Until Harold’s mother died, Harold was going to move in with us. He didn’t have a job, and if my mother quit at the Clam Motel, we would lose our insurance. Harold was happy to eat bluefish all day, but my mother’s small check kept them in Maker’s Mark, and I was a growing girl who needed food and clothing and recently, bras.
“Can we poison her?” I asked my mother. “Hemlock? Arsenic?”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” said my mother. “She’s old. It won’t be long.”
Harriet Kelb was a pillar of the community. Ever since her husband’s death, she had lived year-round in Woods Hole. She did not have a car, and did all her errands on foot. She had three mink coats and, for summer, a closet full of large Lilly Pulitzer dresses. She wore sneakers with everything. It was said that part of Harold’s problem was her unwavering faith in his abilities.
Harriet had given my mother her own wedding dress to wear. It had been made in Belgium, of the finest lace. A bit yellowed now, it fit my mother perfectly. Did anyone find it creepy that my mother was marrying a basket case in a dress from a doomed marriage? It seemed not; the whole town was abuzz.
I had had a tough summer. I had covered for my mother most days at the Clam Motel, forsaking afternoons on the beach where I might have acquired a tan or a boyfriend. Instead, I sat inside the office, munching Crab Chips and watching “Donahue.”
The night before my mother’s wedding, she slept in my room, letting Harold snore in her own. When I let James out of the closet for a late-night walk, he flew into my mother’s hair. She sat up with a start.
“For the love of God!” she said. “It’s my fucking wedding day. I need some sleep!” She punched her pillow and lay back down, closing her eyes. I took James between my palms and felt him fluttering. I fed him a banana and some Cheese Doodles, and then I took him outside.
The sky was wide and starry. James flew from the giant Clam to the neon sign that advertised ROMANTIC JACUZZI GETAWAY, though the Jacuzzi was broken and had been for some time.
The gas station across the street was closed, though a dim light shone in the office. I tried to imagine what Joyce was up to on the other side of the world.
James flew back to my shoulder after a while. I took him inside and settled him in the closet. He slept in an old wool hat. I lay in bed then, realizing that a time in my life was ending. My mom and I were no longer a team, I knew, and I was pretty much on my own.
For the wedding, I was wearing a purple dress my mother had found at T. J. Maxx. It was short with a flippy skirt and a little jacket all its own. She even bought me silver shoes, and for once, my hair cooperated. Maybe some new boy in town would see me on the way to the wedding, I thought, and fall in love with me. It was a sunny day, and anything seemed possible.
By the time the limousine arrived at the Clam, Harold and my mother had already finished a pitcher of what they called Morning Martinis. My mother’s cheeks were flushed, and she did look nice in her wedding dress. I wanted the best for her, don’t get me wrong. But Harold was grumbling and mumbling in his usual way, and I had a hard time believing in him. One night he had taken me aside and told me I could call him “Dad.” I didn’t.
The limousine driver was named Jim Glenco. His son, Stewart, was in my class. I was embarrassed and sad that he would see my mother after her Morning Martinis. I was afraid he would tell Stewart. On the other hand, maybe he would tell Stewart about my shoes, or my purple dress, or that my bangs had grown in pretty sweet.
I got in the limo first, and Jim Glenco turned around and said, “Hi there, Suzy.”
“Hi, Mr. Glenco,” I said.
“Now it’s your big day, so you go ahead and take a drink from the minibar if you like.”
“OK, thanks,” I said.
“Non-alcoholic, I mean,” said Jim Glenco, “Like a Coke.”
“Great,” I said.
“Fanta,” he said, “Ginger ale.”
“Thanks,” I said. I touched my earrings; they were in place.
“Apple or Cran-apple juice,” said Jim Glenco. “You name it, we got it.”
I realized finally that he wouldn’t be quiet until I took a drink. I chose Fanta, pouring it into a glass tumbler. “This is the life, huh,” he said. “A nice cold Fanta in a limousine.”
I could see my mother outside the motel, arguing with Harold about something. “It’s great,” I said.
“We’ve available for any sort of occasion,” said Jim Glenco. It looked as if my mother was crying. She threw her bouquet on the ground.
“Do you have a stereo system?” I asked.
“Now why didn’t you ask?” he said, and then he pushed a button and a song came blaring out: “Won’t you stay on the Vineyard for the summer? Won’t you stay on the Vineyard for the year? We’ll find a little house out there in Oak Bluffs. And our children are all that we’ll hear…”
Even above the stereo, I could hear Harold’s voice rising. “You know what?” I said to Jim Glenco. “My mom said to take the limo on over. She’s going to meet me there.”
“Oh yeah?” said Jim Glenco.
“Yeah, totally,” I said. “She and Harold, well…they bought a little convertible to drive over.”
“Now that’s cute,” said Jim Glenco, putting the car in gear and gliding away. I sipped my Fanta.
“Where on Earth have they disappeared to?” said Harriet Kelb. She had her hands on her hips. We stood in her kitchen, which was filled with hired help and mini quiches.
“I don’t know,” I lied, checking out my hair in the reflection of the television above the kitchen counter. I had a sudden sad flash of Harriet, alone in the house at night, watching television for hours in the kitchen, as the other rooms — the enormous, high-ceilinged living room, the dining room with a table big enough for twenty, the countless drafty bedrooms — must feel sort of overwhelming. The dog-eared TV Guide on top of the television was a clue to Harriet’s lonely nights.
“Well,” she said, her irritated tone quickly dissipating the sympathy I had felt for her, “How the horse hockey did the limousine drive off without the bride?”
“I was just, um, you know making sure my dress was ironed and all…” I said, my voice trailing off when I saw that Harriet wasn’t listening. She was standing in the middle of her snazzy kitchen, her eyes screwed up tight as if she was about to cry. Her arms were folded across the chest of her floral-print dress. (Her shoes, I noticed, had been dyed aqua to match the flowers, or perhaps they came that way.) I didn’t want Harriet to cry, and on the other hand, it would have been interesting. Outside, the crash of waves mingled with the cries of birds. The ocean was bright blue, a solid thing. On sunny days, this awful place was really kind of beautiful. You could see why people — people who only came in the summertime — were obsessed with it, and wanted T-shirts and bumper stickers that said CAPE COD.
Harriet did not cry. She opened her eyes, and fixed me with a steady gaze, as if deciding whether to confide in me or not. A sudden yearning swept through me. Harriet leaned in, and I could smell her cloying perfume. She wore enormous diamonds in her ears.
“I have been waiting for this day,” she said. “You have no idea.”
She was right, I didn’t. But I shrugged nervously and tried to invite more secrets with my smile. But there were no more, not that day, anyway, for no sooner had Harriet whispered her cryptic words than the sliding glass door crashed open and in walked (stumbled) my mother and Harold.
“What the fuck, Susannah!” said my mother and Harriet visibly flinched. My mother’s smoky smell was with her, mixing with the mothball scent of the dress.
“Mom, the guy just drove away,” I said, weakly.
“We had to take the trolley!” said Harold. “It was kind of fun, actually.”
“People were excited,” admitted my mother. I was glad to see her happy, and felt an inkling of what Harriet had been talking about: with my mother married, maybe she would no longer be my concern.
“Yum,” said Harold, grabbing hors d’oerves and shoving them in his mouth. “Crab cakes. Food of the Gods.”
Harriet sighed. “Let’s get this show on the road,” she said. She stared at her son, and the salty woman he was about to wed. Perhaps she remembered a better Harold, Harold as a toddler, with bow legs and a bright future. My mother’s parents were both dead; I had never known them. He had been a doctor, and she a doctor’s wife. I was always embarrassed of my mother, but perhaps this fancy wedding would have impressed her parents, made right the mistake she had made in having me.
People began to arrive around two, by which time the bride and groom were smashed. Harriet asked me to keep an eye on the proceedings, and I did my best. The caterers served wonderful snacks as the guests fanned out over Harriet’s beautiful lawn: cheese straws and stuffed mushrooms and shrimp on skewers. Woods Hole wasn’t a fancy place: there wasn’t a whole lot of vertical stacking or colored marinades. It was likely that the caterers had served the same hors d’oerves at Harriet’s own wedding to Johnson Kelb. If I married Mohammed, I would do the same.
As the sun set, people were shepherded to the wooden chairs lined up by the water. A hush fell over the crowd as a guy with a Casio keyboard began to play the wedding march. (He was a pal from Grumpy’s.) Harold was weaving a bit at the end of the aisle, but when my mother took my hand, she looked radiant. Maybe this would fix her, I thought as we walked toward the sea. Maybe this was the answer, and I would have a real mom at last. The wind blew her hair back from her face, and from the front row, Harriet looked on skeptically.
My mother reached the flower stand that had been placed at the end of the aisle, and the Grumpy’s pal put down his Casio keyboard and began the ceremony. Harold had written his own vows, and they were basically unintelligible, a mishmash of words culled from the Beat poets he admired.
My mother said, “You know me, and you love me the way I am,” and I thought that was pretty true, and also beautiful. Because I didn’t love her the way she was. I loved her for who she might become, for who I wished she would be.
They kissed in a disgusting display, my mother hooking her leg around Harold’s, and then ran back down the aisle. Dinner, Lobster Newburg, was served under an enormous white tent. Harriet and I sat at the table with the bride and groom, as well as some drunkards from Grumpy’s and the harbormaster who kept an eye on the Great Slob. There was nobody my age at the wedding.
A band played Def Leppard covers, and my mom and Harold leaped around. Harriet and I stayed seated. “You’re a serious girl,” she said to me at one point. I didn’t answer. “I was that way, too,” she said. I wasn’t sure how this was supposed to make me feel. I just felt pretty sad, all around, even though the triple-decker fudge cake was awesome.
Part Five
During my mom and Harold Kelb’s honeymoon, I stayed with Harriet. We became friends, I guess. She took an interest in me, which was more than I could say for my mother and Harold. Harriet was going to help me get my grades up so I could go to Smith, as she had. I was an intellectual girl who demanded a rigorous education, said Harriet.
She let me sleep in a room with a turret, which James loved. He could fly up the windy staircase and then whirl himself into the glass windows. Harriet brought up a pile of cushions from Morocco or somewhere, and I lay around like a sultan’s wife and read books all day long.
Every night for a week, Harriet and I had dinner together at the huge dining room table. It was usually a frozen Lean Cuisine, and we watched “Golden Girls” and “Jeopardy” as we ate. But Harriet lit candles and even lay out a lace tablecloth sometimes. Though the tablecloth had not been ironed in some time (and had a large stain on the right corner, a stain that looked like mud, or coffee) it made me feel as if each meal were important. And I got a crystal glass for my Fanta.
Harriet was big boned herself, and did not make me feel bad about eating French fries and calamari. She told me I could take anything from her closets, but old Talbot’s dresses were not really in vogue. I liked her hair combs, and when I studied in the turret, she brought me peanut butter cookies and milk. I could see why Harold had never really left home.
Meanwhile, school sucked.
My mom and Harold had taken The Great Slob on a sailing trip to Virginia and back, and Harriet and I were eating Triscuits on the front porch when they returned. I saw them in the distance.
Harriet asked the happy couple to stay for lemonade and they accepted. Then Harriet remembered she didn’t have any lemonade and my mother said water would do. Harold decided that he needed to do some work on the boat, and he wandered off, leaving the three of us on the screen porch, overlooking the water. The screen had a big hole in it that James was very happy about. Maybe he had made the hole, I wasn’t sure. I sat on the creaky porch swing and watched my mother and her mother-in-law interact awkwardly.
“I’ve encouraged her to apply to Smith, Wellesley and Bryn Mawr,” said Harriet. “I think a women’s college is just the place.”
“Mmm hmm,” said my mother.
“You didn’t go to college, did you dear?” said Harriet.
“Quincy Junior College,” said my mother, which was a lie.
“Oh, Quincy Junior College,” said Harriet. “I went to Smith.”
My mother didn’t answer. She looked around the screen porch sadly. The greedy, acquisitive look was gone: she had accepted that Harriet was going to be around for a while.
“How was your honeymoon?” asked Harriet brightly.
“Fine,” said my mother.
“And is Harold’s epic coming along?”
My mother chortled. “Is that what you call it?” she asked.
“I’m sure it will be a masterpiece,” said Harriet. “Did you know Samuel Beckett was never recognized in his lifetime?”
“No,” said my mother. “I didn’t know that.”
“His wife was his only supporter,” said Harriet. “She took his typed pages around to publishers until someone recognized his genius.”
“Suppose she typed them, too,” said my mother.
“The world has Mrs. Samuel Beckett to thank for ‘Endgame.’”
“Cheers to her,” said my mother, holding up her water. Her skin was yellowish, and in spite of myself, I was sorry for her. Nothing had turned out the way she wanted. But she didn’t care about my love for her. She never had. She wanted other things: men, money. The love of a nerdy daughter brought her no joy, and it was all I had.
“Okay then, Suzy,” said my mother, after a while. Go on and get your things. We’ll take the boat to Eel Pond and walk home from there.”
“Okay,” I said. I had already packed my clothes back into my duffel, another misprint from L.L. Bean. The duffel said “Cutco Knife Convention, Northeastern Zone.”
Harriet watched me stand and move toward the house.
“She belongs with me,” said my mother crossly. Harriet didn’t answer. I walked across Harriet’s lovely lawn, feeling my heart crack a bit with each step. From my bed at the Clam Motel, I could hear my mother and Harold arguing. I could hear them having sex. At Harriet’s, all I heard were the whispers of the sea. She even left three pencils on my desk each day, lined up and ready, as if I had important work to do. If I wore a pencil down a bit, or broke the lead, by the time I got home from school, it was sharp again.
My mother poured a drink as soon as we were on The Great Slob. Harold had the boat ready to go. “Jesus Louisus,” said my mother, “when is that bat going to die?”
“Mom,” I said, “she was really nice to me.”
Harold laughed. “The mother was a wonderful woman in jeans who drove coal trucks in winter mountains to support her kids, four in all, her husband having left her years before,” he said.
“What?” I said.
“That’s Kerouac,” said Harold.
Suddenly, I was very tired. Harold pulled up the anchor and started the motor. We started to pick up speed.
“Where,” said my mother, “is the bourbon?”
“Fresh out,” said Harold.
“Goddamn it,” said my mother. She stared morosely at the water.
“Just joking, my bride,” said Harold, handing her a bottle.
“I’m leaving,” I said.
“Be quiet,” mumbled my mother, pouring a drink. Harold slapped her on the ass and she laughed.
“No really,” I said. I grabbed her shoulder. “Mom, look at me.”
“You can cut the drama,” said my mother. She didn’t turn, concentrating on her drink.
I stood up, pulled my sundress over my head, and jumped overboard in my underwear. The water was cold, but it was soft against my skin, a soft pulsing. The sunset was purple and orange, now.
“Suzy! Get back in right now, young lady!” yelled Harold. He was bent forward over the edge of the boat. He cut the motor and threw the anchor. “Get in!” he yelled. His face was flushed with excitement and Maker’s Mark.
“Goodbye,” I called back. I rolled over to my stomach, and began to swim away from the boat, a lazy breaststroke. It would be dark soon, but I could make it back to Harriet’s dock. I felt strangely calm and even happy. Maybe I should take up swimming, I thought. The thought appealed.
“For fuck’s sake, Suzy!” said my mother. “Get in the goddamn boat!”
I lay on my back, my breasts bobbing to the surface. I kicked a bit, then performed a synchronized swimming move I had seen the skinny girls practice at the Menemsha Beach Club. It involved one pointed toe held high in the air, then the whole body sinking under until the toe was gracefully submerged. It was actually really hard.
“There are sharks!” screamed my mother.
I realized then that my mother thought I was trying to kill myself. I would really have to work on her synchronized swimming moves to try to distinguish them from a suicide attempt. I did a few somersaults, and the water sliced through my hair, cold knives. Underwater, I couldn’t hear her voice.
It got darker and darker as I swam. I could just see Harriet’s outline on the shore. She was probably wearing an old fur coat, keeping warm. I thought about what I would write to Joyce about this event. In my mind, I began to tell her how I just acted without thinking for once, how I wanted to leave and so I did. I would begin the letter, “Dear Joyce, I am writing to inform you about my change of address.” I could tell Harriet that though I loved the pencils, I could use some snazzy pens as well, for my cross-cultural correspondence.
The sun had set, but a bright moon lit the waves. I wondered what I looked like to my mother, and to Harriet, who was still quite a long way from me. My arms and legs were tired but I kept on kicking, moving myself forward. Maybe I looked elegant and strong. Maybe I looked like a girl who would make it.
