A Life of Bright Ideas Page 5

  I loosened his arms. “Oh yeah? Well take this, Spideyman!” I said, flipping him onto his back and tickling him until his makeshift cape fell off and he turned into a rolling ball of giggles.

  CHAPTER

  5

  BRIGHT IDEA #99: If your best friend goes away and you miss her, you don’t need to cry and carry on forever, because she’ll be back. And who knows? When she comes back, she might even bring you something so special that your heart almost bursts.

  Linda and Hazel and Marge were off to lunch (they went at eleven, so local brides-to-be could pop in on their lunch hours), the sign on the door saying they’d be back at noon. I used my key and found my work boxed and waiting on the desk. A note was taped to the lid with instructions and a clumsily drawn illustration showing me where the beadwork should go. I’d worked at this shop after school and during summer vacation since I was twelve years old, and every few months Ma used to give me another responsibility. I felt so grown-up each time I walked in the door back then, but for some reason, in the handful of days since graduation especially, coming here made me want to curl up in the fetal position and cry like a baby. I grabbed the oblong white dress box, the bolt of apricot chiffon, and the bag of sewing essentials packed for me like a school lunch, and left.

  Across the road, Aunt Verdella was hanging laundry, and Boohoo ran in circles around her, his arms outstretched. I tossed her a wave, then started unloading my work. I was on my second trip, pulling the plastic-covered bolt of fabric out of the backseat, when Tommy Smithy’s pickup pulled in behind my Rambler.

  When Tommy was Uncle Rudy’s farmhand, I’d hated him because he teased me. Now he was just a pest.

  “Hey there, Button,” Tommy said with a grin. His eyeteeth still came to vampire points, and his brown hair was still Toni perm-curly—especially on days like this, with the night’s gentle rain moisting the air—but at twenty-three, Tommy wasn’t nearly as ugly as he’d once been. In fact, he had a build that made me hate myself for wanting to stare.

  “Evy,” I corrected.

  “Need a hand?” he asked.

  “Nope.”

  “Look what I just got,” he said, pulling a piece of paper out of his wallet and holding it out for me to see. “I did it,” he grinned. “I’m officially a pilot now.”

  I slammed the car door and positioned the long bolt of fabric under my arm.

  “As soon as my Piper’s inspected, I can take to the skies. If you’re lucky, I’ll be taking you up soon.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said. “I’d have to be in a coma before you’d get me in a plane with you. You can’t even keep your truck on course—as the Ford graveyard on your back forty proves.” That was the one good thing about having Tommy around—if there was something good about that: I wasn’t shy around him like I was with other guys. I didn’t care what he thought of me.

  “I’m still in one piece, aren’t I?” he said with a grin.

  “Yeah, well you won’t be for long, flying in that old wreck that’s got to be from about World War I times.”

  “Hey, that ‘wreck’ is a Piper PA-12 Super Cruiser!” Tommy looked boyishly defensive, and suddenly I felt bad, remembering him at about twelve, walking on the other side of Uncle Rudy, his skinny strides long, his dirt-smudged face filled with exhilaration as he talked about how he was going to join the Air Force when he was eighteen, and fly a Boeing B-29 Superfortress, like his uncle. But when he was a junior, their tractor tipped over and pinned his dad underneath, crushing his pelvis and doing heavy damage to his spine. Mr. Smithy only lasted a year after that, and I can’t say for sure, but I think Tommy was disappointed that he wasn’t drafted, because with his mother and the farm needing him, he couldn’t enlist in the Air Force as he wanted to. Maybe I didn’t have a dream, but Tommy did, and I knew what it felt like to try to take the place of a parent. Besides, I knew Tommy had worked hard to finagle enough time and money to get his pilot’s license and to buy that plane.

  “I was just giving you guff,” I said. “I’m sure it’s a fine plane.”

  “You damn bet it is! It’s been modified, it’s got a big-ass engine, new wing flaps … metal-skin fuselage …”

  “Well I don’t care what’s been done with it, I’m still not getting in it. Even looking at planes in the sky and thinking about people being in them is enough to give me the heebie-jeebies.”

  “Ah, you don’t know what you’re missing, Button,” Tommy said, lifting his eyes toward the sky. “Cruising up there, above all the hassle down here. You become a part of the sky, and feel freedom you just can’t feel down here.”

  The roar of a vehicle sounded down Peters Road, and I groaned inwardly when Brody Bishop’s dusty red Mustang sped by, then jammed to a stop and zigzagged backward to block the driveway.

  “Hey buddy,” Brody called from his car, his bronzed arm hanging out the window.

  Brody and Tommy had been friends since childhood. They both liked to fish and hunt, suck beer and drive like bullets. But that’s where the similarities ended. Tommy was hardworking, while Brody was as lazy as a newborn. Brody also thought he was God’s gift to girls. I could never look at Brody—well built, though short, with dimples—and not think of how strange it was that someone so good-looking could start looking ugly to you when you figured out that what was beneath their looks was so unattractive.

  I wanted to flee to the house before Brody reached us, but he was already slamming his car door shut. I knew the second I turned around, he’d be staring at my butt.

  “What you up to today?” he called to Tommy. “Wanna do a little fishin’?”

  Dad claimed that the Army made men out of boys. If that was true, then it was a pity for Brody’s wife, Marlene (everyone called her Marls), that the pin in his leg from a car accident six years ago wouldn’t allow him to pass an Army physical. Especially since he was going to become a dad in four months. Brody and Marls lived with his folks, and he used his bum leg as an excuse to quit every job he started. But his leg didn’t keep him from hopping from rock to rock down at Dauber Falls when he wanted to fish, or hiking miles over the Smithys’ eighty acres to hunt deer or birds. Nor did it stop him from hitting the dance floor on nights when there was live music in town, old and young women alike begging him for a dance so he never got to sit—or so Brody bragged.

  Poor Marls, sick from her pregnancy as she was, her ankles bloated bigger than my knees, waited on him like a personal servant because she worshiped the ground he walked on. I had no idea if she knew that Brody gawked at every girl over fifteen that crossed his path. Like he was staring at my chest at the moment. I moved the bolt of chiffon to hang in the crook of my arms to hide my boobs.

  “Nah, I can’t. I’ve got too much shit to do.” Tommy spat on the grass like he was laying a period on his sentence. I didn’t know why men spit on the ground like dogs peed on tires, but I knew that after Tommy spit, Brody would, too. And he did.

  “How’s Marls?” I asked, forcing myself to say anything at all to Brody, since guys like him made me jumpy. But I was concerned. “Aunt Verdella said she was sick.” I didn’t know Marls well since she was three years older than me and from Eagle River. I knew enough, though, just by looking at her, to know that she didn’t feel attractive enough to be with Brody. Just as I didn’t really feel attractive enough to be a match for Jesse.

  “Ah, she’s always sick,” Brody said, talking to my chest, even if it was hidden. “Getting big as a heifer, too.”

  “That was mean,” I said.

  “What?” Brody said with a cocky grin. “It’s the truth.”

  “See you guys around,” I said, backing up.

  “Yep, and you’ll be seeing plenty of me, too,” Tommy said.

  “So I heard.”

  “At least you’ll have something to brighten up your dull days,” he teased.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “I knew she’d be thrilled,” he said to Brody. “As thrilled as she was to hear that she’s gonna be my co
pilot.”

  “Hey, you got it?” Brody asked.

  “Yesterday.

  Brody pounded Tommy’s back, and as they headed to the field so Tommy could check the fences before he brought his cows over, Brody childishly spouted plans for their first flying adventure, hardly a limp in his stride.

  It was fun, working with my stereo cranked to ten, chiffon gliding softly under my fingertips in a rhythm as soothing as a heartbeat, Jo’s bridal gown spread out behind me on the big, square butcher-block table Aunt Verdella found at the Community Sale last summer and helped me refinish. The morning ticked on and the bridesmaid’s dress took shape and I thought of how amazing it was to see a pattern come to life under my hands.

  I would have stayed content that day, happy even, had it not been for Boohoo.

  I was stitching a wide cuff when Boohoo came in for the umpteenth time. I didn’t look up, or listen as he chattered about what he’d found. I was too busy sewing and grooving to my Creedence Clearwater Revival album. “Evy, look. Look!”

  “Just a minute,” I told him when he got louder than the stereo. I circled the fabric under the bobbing needle to finish the sleeve, keeping my eye on the seam I was stitching.

  And then Boohoo started yelling loud enough to cut through the chorus of “Proud Mary.” “Get back here, Hoppy! You’re gonna fall and break your neck!”

  I turned, and there was Boohoo, his muddy knee hooked on the edge of my worktable, one leg teetering on a footstool. “Boohoo!” I screeched. He was on the table by the time I got to my feet, his grubby hands reaching for the fat toad tangled with orange yarn that hopped over Jo’s gown.

  “What are you doing?” I shouted when I saw the snow-white skirt folding like an accordion under Boohoo’s grubby knees, tiny clumps of damp soil dropping from his mitts as the toad leapt out of his hand and he reached for him again.

  “Don’t worry, Evy, I got him! I got him!” Boohoo stood up on the dress, and when I screamed, he quickly leapt to the floor. He held up his hand, his fingers squishing the toad’s pale green potbelly, its legs dangling.

  I looked down at the trail of dirt over the lace bodice, and the smudged, crumpled skirt. I clutched my head. “Boohoo, look what you’ve done!”

  Boohoo’s smile faded and he looked at the table. “I’m sorry, Evy,” he said. And before I could stop him, he reached out and brushed the dirt into one long, dark streak, grinding it into the lace covered fabric. “Stop!” I screamed.

  Boohoo tilted his wrist and looked at his palm. Then he moved the toad so he could see the dress, too. “You peed,” he told him.

  I sent Boohoo back to Aunt Verdella’s, then sat down, my arms going limp between my knees. I’d never get our gummy, clay soil out of that dress without leaving a stain. Not in a million years. I could only hope that Linda had enough of the same fabrics on hand and didn’t need to run to Porter to replace them, if spot cleaning didn’t work. The wedding was in four weeks and the beading alone would take me forever.

  I’d finish the second sleeve of the bridesmaid’s gown, then go across the street and call Linda. I’d tell her to take the new fabric out of my salary, if it needed to be resewn. I’d offer to remake the gown myself, and assure her that I could sew a wedding dress from start to finish. I’d apologize profusely to Marge, since she, not Linda, had sewn the dress, because Linda couldn’t sew even as well as me. She was simply a businesswoman who loved the glitz of weddings, and wanted to keep Ma’s vision alive since they’d been such close friends. She’d hired Marge and Hazel, sisters who worked out of their homes for years, sewing for family and neighbors who couldn’t afford the time or money for a trip to the Twin Cities, or down to the southern part of the state, yet needed something special to wear to a wedding or prom and didn’t want to show up at the event in a dress from the Montgomery Ward catalog, that at least five other women would be wearing. I sighed again. Even if the stains could be worked out of the gown, I’d be giving everyone extra work and worry.

  The record was finished, the needle making chh-it, chh-it sounds as the turntable spun past the last track. Downstairs, Tommy’s truck started. I leaned back in my chair and reached for the lever to play the album again, but before my hand hit its mark, I heard Tommy shout, “Boohoo!” And then Aunt Verdella’s voice screaming the same. I hurried to the window to see what my brother had done this time.

  Brody’s car was gone, and I couldn’t see more than the bed of Tommy’s truck from either window, so I raced downstairs.

  Tommy, red-faced from running, reached into the opened window and grabbed the keys. “Damn it, Boohoo, you could have smashed my truck, and you, both!” He yanked the door open and pulled Boohoo out of the front seat, as Aunt Verdella charged into the yard.

  “Don’t yell at him like that, Tommy,” I snapped, to which he told me that somebody had better start yelling at him. “What he did was dangerous!” Tommy had genuine fear in his eyes, and I closed my mouth and swallowed the rest of the rant that was about to come.

  “I wasn’t gonna drive it,” Boohoo said. “I was just gonna move it so I could get Hoppy.” He looked at Aunt Verdella, then pointed under the truck. “Hoppy’s under there and Tommy drives bad.”

  We were all talking at once then. Tommy lecturing Boohoo—and defending his driving—me tattling to Aunt Verdella about what he’d done to Jo’s gown, and Aunt Verdella calling to Boohoo, who had slipped underneath the truck to find the toad.

  When Boohoo came out, he was clutching Hoppy without mercy and grinning. That is, until he saw our faces. “I just wanted to get my toad,” he said.

  “Oh, Boohoo,” Aunt Verdella said, still huffing from her hop over. “I know you don’t mean to be naughty, but … well honey, you go back home now,” she said. “And up to your room and stay there for a half an hour until you figure out what you did wrong.”

  “One hour!” I snapped, because I was still shaking, even though I knew full well that Aunt Verdella would let him out in ten minutes if he cried, which he was already doing.

  After Aunt Verdella marched Boohoo back to her house, Tommy left, and I trudged back upstairs to stare at the ruined gown. Then—partially because I dreaded telling Linda what happened, and partially because I was determined to get at least something accomplished by the end of the day—I flipped on Simon & Garfunkel and sat down to finish the whole bridesmaid’s dress.

  It was about twenty minutes after the truck fiasco when I felt someone in the room. I turned, and there he was. Boohoo. Standing in the doorway. “What are you doing over here? You’re supposed to be in your room. I heard Aunt Verdella yell at you a few seconds ago, now get back there. You have to listen when—”

  “She wasn’t yellin’ at me,” he said. “She was yellin’ at you.”

  “Boohoo, please. Go. I’ll come get you when I’m done here.” I didn’t look him straight in the face, because I’d calmed down and knew that if he looked sad, I’d be pampering him every bit as much as Aunt Verdella.

  “She was,” he said. “Because somebody’s here.” He mumbled a name, but his chin was tucked as he struggled to tuck the line of yarn dangling from his pocket back in.

  “Vinny? I don’t know any Vinny,” I said.

  I reached over to the stereo, lowering the volume, just as he was saying, “No. Winnie—not Vinnie. Winnie. Like Winnie the Pooh.”

  My body went taut, and my heart started thumping in my ears. I put my hand over my chest, just like Aunt Verdella always did. “Winnalee? Was that the name, Boohoo? Winnalee?”

  “I dunno. But she’s peeing and Aunt Verdella is crying.”

  I hurried to the window and leaned into it so fast that I bumped my forehead on the glass.

  There was a van in the driveway, painted with wild psychedelic colors and shapes I couldn’t make out except for the purple peace symbol on the roof.

  Aunt Verdella was in the middle of her yard, one hand over her heart and the other working as though she was trying to scoop me from my house. She stopped and r
an-hopped to the front steps, her arms flailing, then ran back to the center of the yard to gesture again. Back and forth she went, her arms scooping, clutching her chest, her mouth, the sides of her head. Everywhere! She must have seen me in the window, because she yelled, “Button, hurry! Hurry! She’s here! Our Winnalee has come home!”

  Then there she was. My very first, forever best friend. Coming down the front steps with a green army bag slung around her neck and resting below the opposite hip. Her dishwater blond, hip-long loopy hair and bright peasant dress billowing in a wind that must have blown in with her.

  CHAPTER

  6

  BRIGHT IDEA #12: All the best things in life are worth waiting for. Like Saturday morning cartoons, and summer vacation, and Christmas cookies with candy sprinkles.

  I sped down the stairs—glossing my lips and smoothing down my hair as I went—Boohoo thumping behind me, asking, “Who is that Winnie girl, Evy? Who is she?”

  I was mumbling, “Oh my God … oh my God,” as I shoved open the screen door. They were just coming across the road, Aunt Verdella laughing and crying and waving her arms like an excited grade school crossing guard, and Winnalee wincing as she ran across the graveled road on bare feet, her face lit with joy as she screamed, “Button! Button!”

  The air filled with happy shrieks as we hugged and leapt in circles and squealed about how we couldn’t believe we were together again. I caught Aunt Verdella’s blurred image with every rotation we made, her head tipped to the side, her hand on her cheek, one arm around Boohoo’s shoulder.

  When we exhausted ourselves, we stopped, and, winded and holding hands, we backed up so we could see who the other had become. “Oh my God! Look at you, Button! You’re so pretty!” Winnalee’s voice was almost as high-pitched as when she was nine. She pulled her hands free and lifted handfuls of my hair, parted in the middle like hers. “And you’ve got long hair now! Straight, too!”