I got up and turned to give Trip his booklet and saw that he was still writing. “Hey Dummy,” I prodded. “The bell rang.”
I tried to peek over his hands to catch a glimpse of anything he’d written down just as he swiped the pages off his desk and folded them out of my sight.
“That for me?” I asked.
He grabbed his books and tucked the note in his shirt pocket. I couldn’t interpret the look on his amused face; kind of embarrassed, but still lighthearted. “Maybe. Someday. Just not today.”
I was just dying inside. Somehow, some way, I was going to get my hands on that thing. I didn’t even care if it wasn’t the love letter I was delusionally hoping it was, even though he’d started writing it long before our teacher asked us to Mind Ramble. I figured maybe he’d just gotten caught up on a tangent and rambled on endlessly about it. But the thoughts flying around the head of Trip Wilmington, whatever they were, were just too enticing a mystery not to be explored. What I wouldn’t have given for just the slightest glean into that brain of his. The key to unlock that particular treasure chest was folded right there in his pocket, yet he wasn’t handing it over. It was like offering a starving person a cookie, but holding it just out of their reach.
Of course, I couldn’t ever convey my overwhelming obsessions to him. So, I gave a casual shrug and said, “Whatever floats your boat, pal.”
Chapter 6
WHERE THE HEART IS
I had absolutely nothing to wear. The thing was, from Monday to Friday, getting dressed for school was a no-brainer. Grab an Oxford, choose a skirt, out the door. I know the public school kids probably wondered how we could possibly wear uniforms every day without wanting to jump off a bridge. But the truth was, I kinda liked it. There was no fashion show to compete with from day to day. We all looked the same from our necks down to our ankles.
Until the weekend.
My entire annual school-clothes budget went toward replenishing Oxfords, maybe replacing a skirt or two and restocking my undies drawer. The rest went toward shoes.
When you wore a uniform every day, the only place left to express yourself was with your shoes. You’d be surprised how creative we could get with our footwear while still keeping within the guidelines of “hard soles, nothing above the ankle”. And trust me, there wasn’t a girl at St. Norman’s that didn’t push those parameters right to the edge.
But blowing the majority of my school-shopping allotment on shoes constantly left me scrambling on Saturday nights. After all, unlike the public school kids, I couldn’t very well hit a party in my weekday clothes.
I’d already torn through my closet, dismissing every garment I owned as unsuitable, more determined than ever to get a job and earn some wardrobe money.
My father had already left for the evening-poker at the VFW-so I took advantage of his absence and raided his closet.
The closet in his bedroom was a huge walk-in which I was normally forbidden to enter. Though I suspected it had less to do with my father’s desire for privacy and more to do with the indefensible fact that my mother’s side had remained virtually undisturbed since the day she left us.
One time in fifth grade, we took a class trip to Thomas Edison’s laboratory. It was so cool to see his workspace with all the long tables set up, awaiting his next stroke of genius.
I remember thinking that his office was so cool. All those books! And in the corner of the library, there was a cot for his erratic sleeping needs. The story was that he’d work for endless hours, pass out for ten minutes and then wake up and get right back to work again.
But what sticks with me most is his desk. A beautiful rolltop plunked right in the middle of the expansive room, fitted with a piece of plexiglass across the opening. Apparently, upon his death, his wife had the desk sealed up. Stopped in time, exactly as he last left it, posthumously honoring the work that would forever go unfinished.
That was my father’s closet.
Despite the fact that his side was crammed with clothes and shoes and boxes of godonlyknowswhat, my mother’s side was left completely untouched.
I ran my hand across the racks of clothes, the remnants of what she left behind, neatly aligned, undisturbed and awaiting an owner who would never release them to the light of day again. I pressed my face to a row of blouses and inhaled the familiar scent of my mother-Chanel No. 5 mixed with lemon-and it brought tears to my eyes for only the briefest second.