When I asked her whether she felt sad, she said no, she just didn’t see the point of life.”
I tried to imagine feeling this way, but I couldn’t. I was feeling restless that summer. If anything, I wanted more life.
Tommy ran in and Mary Beth picked him up. “I’m seeing her tomorrow,” she said. “Just for a little while.” She nuzzled Tommy’s neck. “I gave her an assignment to listen to the radio for four hours this afternoon. Find out if anything sticks with her.”
I was very surprised; Mary Beth never saw customers on Sunday. I didn’t mind baby-sitting Tommy again, but I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of my sister changing her routine for this Holly Kramer person, whoever she was. We didn’t know her, really. Until a few days ago, we’d never even heard of her.
We certainly heard about her plenty after that. Some days it seemed like Mary Beth would wake up and talk about Holly and come home from work ready to talk about her again. Even though the radio assignment worked, Mary Beth had no idea why Holly picked the songs she did. And there were only two: the Rolling Stones’s “Angie” and Gordon Lightfoot’s “If You Could Read My Mind.” We had the Rolling Stones album and Mary Beth tracked down the other one on a used LP at the Trading Post. “They’re both sad, that’s for sure,” she said. “And there’s something in that Lightfoot thing I can’t put my finger on.”
When Holly mentioned the line she kept hearing, Mary Beth was even more puzzled. It was from the Gordon Lightfoot, about feeling like a ghost that no one can see, and Holly reported it for three weeks straight. The third week, Holly was sobbing a little on the machine and I wanted to put a C by the line, but Mary Beth thought Holly was more angry than sad. “Listen to the way she’s spitting out ‘ghost.’ That isn’t crying, that’s hatred.”
It was a mystery though, since Holly said she was happy with her husband and Mary Beth believed her. She’d met Holly’s husband Danny: a sweet, boring guy who worked hard for his family and coached Little League on the weekends. I suggested perhaps a previous boyfriend but Mary Beth said, “No one in love is that angry with a man from the past unless he’s around again—and Holly says no one new or old has come into her life lately.” I kept going, I said maybe it’s her kids, and Mary Beth frowned. “Leeann, when you have kids you’ll realize how ridiculous that is.”
Whatever the problem was, I was getting tired of it. I was used to Mary Beth fixing people and sending them on their way. Then too, I was completely sick of that Lightfoot song. I was fourteen now, and painfully aware that a lot of the songs Mary Beth’s customers reported were totally uncool. The Police were cool. The Cars were cool. Queen, Tom Petty, John Cougar: all fine. But Gordon Lightfoot was like Barry Manilow or Olivia Newton-John: if you were ever caught listening to that stuff, you’d be ruined.
It was the first week of August and we were in the middle of a heat wave that scorched grass and melted pavement from Boise to Oklahoma City. Everyone wanted it to rain, even the kids talked about it. Every day the temperature reached a hundred or more, and the humidity never went below ninety percent. How could it go on like this much longer? At night our place was so hot that Mary Beth worried about Tommy getting heat sick. She put the biggest fan we had right by his bed, but he still kept getting up, crying that his sheets felt “sticky.” After she settled him back, she’d sit by the breezeless back window, listening to “If You Could Read My Mind,” over and over. Sometimes I sat with her, but usually I was on the phone with one of the Ds. Darlene had landed herself a boyfriend, an older guy named Greg, and she was trying to set me up with his friend Jason so we could double-date. Denise was being reassured that if I went with them, it would be merely a fact-finding mission, to see
I tried to imagine feeling this way, but I couldn’t. I was feeling restless that summer. If anything, I wanted more life.
Tommy ran in and Mary Beth picked him up. “I’m seeing her tomorrow,” she said. “Just for a little while.” She nuzzled Tommy’s neck. “I gave her an assignment to listen to the radio for four hours this afternoon. Find out if anything sticks with her.”
I was very surprised; Mary Beth never saw customers on Sunday. I didn’t mind baby-sitting Tommy again, but I wasn’t sure I liked the idea of my sister changing her routine for this Holly Kramer person, whoever she was. We didn’t know her, really. Until a few days ago, we’d never even heard of her.
We certainly heard about her plenty after that. Some days it seemed like Mary Beth would wake up and talk about Holly and come home from work ready to talk about her again. Even though the radio assignment worked, Mary Beth had no idea why Holly picked the songs she did. And there were only two: the Rolling Stones’s “Angie” and Gordon Lightfoot’s “If You Could Read My Mind.” We had the Rolling Stones album and Mary Beth tracked down the other one on a used LP at the Trading Post. “They’re both sad, that’s for sure,” she said. “And there’s something in that Lightfoot thing I can’t put my finger on.”
When Holly mentioned the line she kept hearing, Mary Beth was even more puzzled. It was from the Gordon Lightfoot, about feeling like a ghost that no one can see, and Holly reported it for three weeks straight. The third week, Holly was sobbing a little on the machine and I wanted to put a C by the line, but Mary Beth thought Holly was more angry than sad. “Listen to the way she’s spitting out ‘ghost.’ That isn’t crying, that’s hatred.”
It was a mystery though, since Holly said she was happy with her husband and Mary Beth believed her. She’d met Holly’s husband Danny: a sweet, boring guy who worked hard for his family and coached Little League on the weekends. I suggested perhaps a previous boyfriend but Mary Beth said, “No one in love is that angry with a man from the past unless he’s around again—and Holly says no one new or old has come into her life lately.” I kept going, I said maybe it’s her kids, and Mary Beth frowned. “Leeann, when you have kids you’ll realize how ridiculous that is.”
Whatever the problem was, I was getting tired of it. I was used to Mary Beth fixing people and sending them on their way. Then too, I was completely sick of that Lightfoot song. I was fourteen now, and painfully aware that a lot of the songs Mary Beth’s customers reported were totally uncool. The Police were cool. The Cars were cool. Queen, Tom Petty, John Cougar: all fine. But Gordon Lightfoot was like Barry Manilow or Olivia Newton-John: if you were ever caught listening to that stuff, you’d be ruined.
It was the first week of August and we were in the middle of a heat wave that scorched grass and melted pavement from Boise to Oklahoma City. Everyone wanted it to rain, even the kids talked about it. Every day the temperature reached a hundred or more, and the humidity never went below ninety percent. How could it go on like this much longer? At night our place was so hot that Mary Beth worried about Tommy getting heat sick. She put the biggest fan we had right by his bed, but he still kept getting up, crying that his sheets felt “sticky.” After she settled him back, she’d sit by the breezeless back window, listening to “If You Could Read My Mind,” over and over. Sometimes I sat with her, but usually I was on the phone with one of the Ds. Darlene had landed herself a boyfriend, an older guy named Greg, and she was trying to set me up with his friend Jason so we could double-date. Denise was being reassured that if I went with them, it would be merely a fact-finding mission, to see
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