That’s not the rule. That’s not what she said before.
Chrissy looks up at her mother, who is standing in the open doorway of their house and telling her to go far.
“But you always say…”
“What Chrissy? What do I always say?”
Chrissy gave up. “How far should I go?”
“Really far.”
“But everyone’s at school.”
“Knock on the door. If no one’s there, go to the next house.”
“What if they ask me to come in?”
“Great. Perfect.”
There’s a wad of cotton in one ear and a woolen hat pulled down tight over Chrissy’s head, making her mother’s voice sound far away. Much louder is the roaring sea-shell noise inside her head that makes her think of the beach. The sound of an earache.
It’s funny to think of the beach when she’s standing in snow. She’d like to tell about it, but there are so many things she’s not supposed to say.
Her mother’s face is wearing its bossy expression and is partly painted with make-up.
There is a green half moon over each eyelid. One eyebrow, darkened by pencil, forms a graceful arch over its emerald crescent. The other lies forgotten on the bone, a naked fringe of wispy blonde hairs. Chrissy focuses first on one eye, then the other, trying to decide which one looks more normal.
“Are you listening?”
“Yes”
“What did I say?”
“Knock on all the doors.”
“I said if someone asks you in, make sure you call and tell me where you are.”
“OK.”
“If you’re hungry, you can stay for lunch.”
“OK.”
“You’re not hungry now, right? You just had that milk.”
Chrissy shakes her head “no” to show that she is not hungry. She stays where she is, waiting for her mother to turn back inside the house so she can go and hide under the porch. She doesn’t want to go knocking on people’s doors. Her ear is throbbing and the hot sea air is roaring around inside her head and nose.
She wants to go inside and lie back down on the couch.
Just an hour ago, she had been cozy under blankets and towels, watching The Friendly Giant on television. The hot goo dripping onto her pillow was yucky, but at least she was allowed to watch TV. First grade is good, except for missing all the morning shows.
The Giant was just about to start story hour when the phone rang. It rang and rang, but Chrissy didn’t move. She was not allowed to answer the phone. When it finally stopped and her mother’s bedroom door remained closed, she let out a sigh.
A few minutes later it rang again. On the fourth ring, her mother came out to answer it. Chrissy listened to the silence in between her mother’s words.
“Hello?” Yanking irritably on the coiled cord.
“It’s a bit early. Christ.” She carried the receiver into the kitchen.
“I’ve got a sick kid here.” Clutching the phone in the crook of her neck, she freed her hands to hold the kettle under the faucet.
The sound of water thundering against the kettle’s insides drowned out her mother’s voice. Chrissy went back to watching the Giant.
He was telling the story of Sleeping Beauty and making puppets act it out. Now the witch was giving special herbs to the father for his pregnant wife. The witch made him promise to give her the baby when it was born, then climbed back into her tower. Later, the witch came back to claim her prize.
The parents were crying over their lost baby when Chrissy’s mother came into the living room and sat down on the edge of the couch.
“How’re you doing?” she said, placing a hand on Chrissy’s forehead.
“OK.”
Her mother’s weight on the edge of the couch made Chrissy roll forward a little. She tensed her body to try and hold herself against the back of the couch, away from her mother’s heavy thigh.
“Lift your head.”
Chrissy lifted her head. Her mother looked at her pillow and grimaced.
She went into the kitchen and came back with a teaspoon and a glass of milk. In the teaspoon was some crushed aspirin mixed with sugar and water, which she told Chrissy to swallow. Then she told her to sit up and drink the milk.
“Let’s see how you do with that,” said her mother.
Then she went into the bathroom and took a shower. When she came out, there were five fat rollers on her head, one in the middle and two on each side. Chunks of her short blonde hair were pulled smoothly around the rollers, and the rest of it lay flat against her neck, short in back.
The Friendly Giant ended and Mr. Magoo came on.
Back and forth her mother went, from the bedroom to the bathroom, and back again.
Chrissy looked up from the television to see that she had changed out of her nightgown. She was wearing green slacks and a blouse with a pointy collar. With the rollers still in her hair, she sat down at the table with her makeup mirror and started painting.
Chrissy watched her spread the skin-colored lotion over everything until her face was pink and smooth. Then the pencils came out, along with the green eye shadow. She drew one eyebrow, then stopped, as though suddenly remembering something. She looked over at Chrissy, and then at the clock on the wall. She got up from the table and came over to the couch to feel Chrissy’s forehead again.
“Turn on your side,” she commanded.
She reached over to the coffee table for the eardrops.
“Tip your head.”
Chrissy shivered when the oil went in. It dribbled thick and cold through the hole in her ear and spread itself around inside her brain.
“Sit up.” Her mother reached for the aspirin bottle and opened it up. She pulled the cotton out of the top, worked it around in her fingers, then stuffed it into Chrissy’s ear.
“OK, you’re ready. You can go out and play.”
And that was how Chrissy found herself standing in the snow, distracted by her mother’s eyebrows and trying to understand how the rules had changed.
Normally, she was not allowed to leave the block.
Chrissy started walking.
“Hurry up, Chrissy! Jesus!”
She gives a little skip to go faster but that makes her head pound, so she just walks. The street is deserted. Walking past the empty houses, she tries to look purposeful. When she hears the door slam behind her, she turns around, hoping to slip back to the house. But her mother is at the window, watching to make sure she walks away.
She had wanted to go the other way, toward Missy’s house. Missy’s mother was sure to be home and would invite her in for hot chocolate. But her mother had said “No, absolutely not” and told her to go the other way. She pointed toward the other end of the neighborhood, where the only person Chrissy knows is Steffie Meloche. She never plays with Steffie Meloche.
To get to Steffie’s house now, she crosses the street and cuts through two back yards. Steffie’s driveway is empty and the curtains are closed. Maybe Steffie is inside, she thinks, sick like me, and wanting someone to play with. Maybe she wants to be left alone. Maybe we’ll become friends!
Chrissy walks up the empty driveway and knocks on the side door.
She waits patiently like she’s been taught. No one comes. She knocks louder, again and again, until she is pounding. She notices a doorbell and pushes the button. Doorbells are so friendly. She presses it again and puts her good ear to the door, hoping to hear through. Nothing. She presses it again, holding it down this time.
For a long time, she stands pressing and pressing on the button, trying to hear it, hoping someone will come and invite her in. It’s fun to make so much noise when there’s no one around to get mad at her.
Finally, she walks to the end of the driveway and stands there for a while, wondering what to do. The midday street is completely void of people. She is far enough from home that her mother can no longer see her, but she’ll get in trouble if she goes home so soon.
Then she remembers the nuns.
Most of the nuns would be teaching right now. But some of them, the old ones who do the cleaning, they’ll be there.
Nuns are legendary for taking in children. They’re horrible in the classroom, quick with the strap and full of insults. But when grownups get stuck in traffic or can’t pay the bills, when they have to go to the hospital for their nerves, they count on the nuns.
Chrissy’s own mother has told the story so many times she knows it by heart; the one where she was running late to pick up Johnny from nursery school. Sister Jeanne d’Arc brought him next door to the convent while they waited and she gave him cookies for a snack.
“There he was, right up on the counter like a little prince!” her mother would exclaim in the telling.
Now that she has a destination, Chrissy walks more quickly. Even with her legs being such a long way from her ears, the swishing of her snow pants sounds loud and angry.
The only way to the convent is to pass the school first. Chrissy goes around the back of the playground, between the trees, so as not to be seen. Far away, across the blacktop, she can see through the windows of the 7th grade classroom where the big kids are sitting with their heads bent over their work. A test? Her sister Tess complains constantly about how much work she gets.
Chrissy skirts the empty blacktop with its basketball nets and abandoned hula-hoops. She ducks behind the equipment shed and crosses underneath the clothesline in the nuns’ back yard. A single pair of underwear hanging on the line gives her pause.
She gives a little knock at the kitchen door and steps back to wait. She contemplates the underwear, yellow nylon with baggy leg holes.
She thinks of her mother’s underwear, the colorful garters and pointy bras that hang in perpetual rotation on a line stretched across the inside of their bathroom at home. Whenever she’s on her way to the toilet, Chrissy likes to walk through the curtain of stockings to feel the weightless nylon brushing softly across her face. She tries to imagine being grown up and having a body that would accommodate such things.
When you grow up, you have to be something. You can’t just play all day. You can be a nun-teacher or a mother-waitress. Being a nun looks more fun because you can be a missionary and travel to other countries, whereas mothers seem sort of stuck. Her mother on the phone is always talking about how she can’t keep enough food in the house for all her damn kids. The only other choice is nurse, but Chrissy hates being around throw-up.
Now, the underwear on the line is making her think again. Maybe it’s not so good to be a nun. She wonders if they all have to share the same underwear or if they get to keep their own.
