choice.” Her hands were clasped in her lap. “You said last night you don’t know what she wants. Well, I hope she can talk with her mother.” She looked directly at me. “As I hope you would if you ever need help.”
“Not me!” I said loudly.
Aunt Sheila looked startled.
“I mean—” what do I mean?—“I . . . I won’t need help.” Aunt Sheila nodded. “And if your friend needs a name, there’s a woman—”
“Mrs. Hanson?”
Aunt Sheila blinked rapidly. “No. Someone in Brooklyn. Someone,” she paused, “your mother doesn’t know.”
Rooms with hidden corners.
Wide angle, dark room. A cone of light on a small circle. Mrs. Brooklyn and Aunt Sheila huddle around a cot. Mrs. Brooklyn wears a nurse’s hat. “Fear not!” She sings an undiscovered aria written by a famous Italian composer. A steaming kettle sits on a burner in front of a mirror.
Camera moves in close. Steam from the kettle fogs 78
the mirror. Mrs. Brooklyn reads from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. A moving finger writes “SHEILA” on the mirror, and, having writ, moves on.
“First your friend will need a pregnancy test, and I can give you the phone number of a doctor who’ll do the test,” Aunt Sheila said. “She will have to say she’s married, or at least engaged.”
“But you, you weren’t married.”
“No,” she said thoughtfully. “I wasn’t, but I had a friend in Chicago whose husband was a doctor. He gave me the name of someone here.” She spoke as if it was the most natural thing in the world to help a friend.
A curtain of silence enveloped us. Then she added,
“Jamie, please, this conversation is between you and me.” She looked right at me. “Between us,” she repeated slowly.
“Sure.” I tried to sound casual, like a friend might. But this is my aunt who’s my mom’s age, and she just told me something no one else in the family knows.
Three people, three secrets.
Aunt Sheila wrote down a name and number and handed it to me. “Thanks,” I said, and I really meant it. I gave her a hug, grabbed my books, and left.
79
16.
Aunt Sheila. I can’t get over what she told me. Paul tried to get my attention in trig class. Lunch period I’ll leave him a note about Dad. My brain feels fractured.
I stood in the caf entrance but didn’t see Paul. Fingers crossed he’s waiting on line and out of sight, and it’s safe to go to the Record room.
Outside the office door I could hear the radio. The Platters were singing about being a great pretender. Pretending? Lying I call it. My song.
This is ridiculous. I’ll leave a note at his locker . I turned away just as the door opened, and of course it was Paul.
“Hey, Jamie, I was going to look for you in the cafeteria.” I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing hysteri-cally. Get it over with. Deep breath.
80
“My dad says he’ll talk with you, but it has to be today after school.”
I really don’t want this to happen. It feels wrong that Dad won’t talk with me, but he will with Paul.
“Any chance we can do it tomorrow? I’ve a meeting after school.”
I stared at him. “My dad said today. Your choice.
Gotta go.”
He yelled after me, “Okay, okay. See you at the side entrance at 3:20.”
I nodded and waved with the back of my hand as I walked down the hall.
Dad was reading in the living room. He looked over the top of the newspaper and motioned us to the couch.
I headed for my room.
“Jamie,” Dad said, “please stay.”
“Didn’t think you wanted me to know about this.” How humiliating. I sound like a whining seven-year-old.
“It’s a test to see if you can help interview someone you’re close to,” Paul said. He has an irritating talent of raising one eyebrow while the other lowers. “So, can you?”
“I hate tests,” I said in a low voice, but I put my books down. “I’m staying only to listen.”
“Your choice,” Paul said in a mild tone.
I gave him what I hoped was a serious dirty
“Not me!” I said loudly.
Aunt Sheila looked startled.
“I mean—” what do I mean?—“I . . . I won’t need help.” Aunt Sheila nodded. “And if your friend needs a name, there’s a woman—”
“Mrs. Hanson?”
Aunt Sheila blinked rapidly. “No. Someone in Brooklyn. Someone,” she paused, “your mother doesn’t know.”
Rooms with hidden corners.
Wide angle, dark room. A cone of light on a small circle. Mrs. Brooklyn and Aunt Sheila huddle around a cot. Mrs. Brooklyn wears a nurse’s hat. “Fear not!” She sings an undiscovered aria written by a famous Italian composer. A steaming kettle sits on a burner in front of a mirror.
Camera moves in close. Steam from the kettle fogs 78
the mirror. Mrs. Brooklyn reads from The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. A moving finger writes “SHEILA” on the mirror, and, having writ, moves on.
“First your friend will need a pregnancy test, and I can give you the phone number of a doctor who’ll do the test,” Aunt Sheila said. “She will have to say she’s married, or at least engaged.”
“But you, you weren’t married.”
“No,” she said thoughtfully. “I wasn’t, but I had a friend in Chicago whose husband was a doctor. He gave me the name of someone here.” She spoke as if it was the most natural thing in the world to help a friend.
A curtain of silence enveloped us. Then she added,
“Jamie, please, this conversation is between you and me.” She looked right at me. “Between us,” she repeated slowly.
“Sure.” I tried to sound casual, like a friend might. But this is my aunt who’s my mom’s age, and she just told me something no one else in the family knows.
Three people, three secrets.
Aunt Sheila wrote down a name and number and handed it to me. “Thanks,” I said, and I really meant it. I gave her a hug, grabbed my books, and left.
79
16.
Aunt Sheila. I can’t get over what she told me. Paul tried to get my attention in trig class. Lunch period I’ll leave him a note about Dad. My brain feels fractured.
I stood in the caf entrance but didn’t see Paul. Fingers crossed he’s waiting on line and out of sight, and it’s safe to go to the Record room.
Outside the office door I could hear the radio. The Platters were singing about being a great pretender. Pretending? Lying I call it. My song.
This is ridiculous. I’ll leave a note at his locker . I turned away just as the door opened, and of course it was Paul.
“Hey, Jamie, I was going to look for you in the cafeteria.” I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing hysteri-cally. Get it over with. Deep breath.
80
“My dad says he’ll talk with you, but it has to be today after school.”
I really don’t want this to happen. It feels wrong that Dad won’t talk with me, but he will with Paul.
“Any chance we can do it tomorrow? I’ve a meeting after school.”
I stared at him. “My dad said today. Your choice.
Gotta go.”
He yelled after me, “Okay, okay. See you at the side entrance at 3:20.”
I nodded and waved with the back of my hand as I walked down the hall.
Dad was reading in the living room. He looked over the top of the newspaper and motioned us to the couch.
I headed for my room.
“Jamie,” Dad said, “please stay.”
“Didn’t think you wanted me to know about this.” How humiliating. I sound like a whining seven-year-old.
“It’s a test to see if you can help interview someone you’re close to,” Paul said. He has an irritating talent of raising one eyebrow while the other lowers. “So, can you?”
“I hate tests,” I said in a low voice, but I put my books down. “I’m staying only to listen.”
“Your choice,” Paul said in a mild tone.
I gave him what I hoped was a serious dirty
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