I reach our front stoop, and Juanita lingers on the sidewalk in front of our house. I think about Diane’s green eyes filling with tears, her tortured glances at Johnny as he was hauled in. The way she spoke about Dallas with such doom in her voice it makes me wonder how she ever made it back alive at all.
‘I think you’re right,’ I say to Juanita. ‘But I also don’t think we can push her to tell us what it is. That girl … it’s like she’s about to break all the time, you know?’
‘Yeah,’ says Juanita. ‘But at the same time, it’s like she’s tougher than nails, too. And that’s what makes her one of us.’
I nod, grinning at Juanita and grateful for her, too. For the briefest moment, I want to stay outside with her. Maybe try and talk things through with her. Sort through the shadows in my mind that have only been building since that night at Winkler’s. I know Juanita would listen and she’d be kind about it, more sensitive than Connie or Sunny might be. But if Juanita thinks being ‘one of us’ means being tough as nails, what would she really think of me if I cried?
‘I gotta get inside, I guess, and face my grandmother,’ I say at last.
Juanita tips her head toward her own house next door. ‘I have my own firing squad waiting for me,’ she says.
‘Bye, Juanita-not-Janie,’ I say, heading toward my front door.
‘That’s Miss Juanita Barajas to you!’ Juanita exclaims, flashing me a big smile and striking a brief, exaggerated pageant-queen pose for good measure, causing both of us to laugh before we head inside our homes.
Either Grandma believes that I had a stomachache and came home from school early because of it or she doesn’t want to deal with the possibility of a lie, because she doesn’t fight me when I show up unexpectedly during lunch. She’s sitting on the couch watching Search for Tomorrow and eating a sandwich when I head inside, but once she buys my story, she lets me crawl into bed. Of course, my ‘stomachache’ means I can’t have anything to eat, and I have to find a way to calm my growling tummy as I curl up under the covers and stare at my ceiling, wondering how this can honestly be my life. How just four days ago everything turned upside down when that monster caught me.
I clench my fists and roll over, punching my pillow hard once, then twice. It feels good, so I keep doing it until I run out of energy and slump down face-first, my heart thumping, my eyes shut tight, my nose filling with the peculiar scent of the bargain detergent Grandma uses to wash our sheets. I try not to think.
Eventually I fall asleep, waking up only when I hear an urgent knock on my bedroom door, followed by my grandmother.
‘Evelyn,’ she says, crossing my messy floor, her face creased with concern. ‘Cheryl is on the phone and wants to speak with you.’
Groggy and fuzzy-brained from my nap, I blink hard a few times and try to grasp what my grandmother is saying.
‘What time is it?’ I ask, stumbling out of bed. I realize I’m still wearing my scuffed loafers.
‘After four o’clock,’ she says, leading me toward the kitchen.
Long distance is so expensive there has to be some reason why Cheryl would call in the middle of a weekday. Our Sunday evening calls last for a few minutes at most, just enough for all of us to stand around in a circle in the kitchen and pass the phone to say hello. It always feels forced and uncomfortable, not like a real conversation at all, and I’ve been dreaming of Christmas when she can visit in person and the two of us can have real talks, like we used to. That is, if she can stay with us. What if she has to stay at Dennis’s house?
I shake all these thoughts from my mind as I grab the telephone.
‘Cheryl?’ I say, any remaining sleepiness instantly gone. Grandma hovers in the doorway of the kitchen, observing. I turn toward the wall, trying to create some sort of privacy.
‘Oh, Evie, I’m glad you’re home,’ she says, her words cracking a bit. ‘I just needed to hear your voice.’
‘Cheryl, is everything all right?’ I ask, conscious of Grandma’s presence behind me.
There’s a pause, and I imagine Cheryl in the small kitchen of her on-base housing, trying to keep herself together. Of course, I have no idea what Cheryl’s kitchen looks like, but I try to make a picture in my mind of my older sister standing in the middle of it, clutching her phone to her ear, her dark hair pulled up off her face, her brown eyes filling with tears. Whatever she has to say, I will her to be okay.
Cheryl sniffs, then whispers, ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s nothing.’
My heart aches for my big sister, who suddenly sounds awfully young to me, her voice so staticky and far away. I consider Grandma’s eavesdropping and try to think about how to encourage Cheryl to talk without giving too much away.
‘Maybe it is or it isn’t, but …’ My voice trails off, but I hope Cheryl hears the encouragement in it. The permission to tell me what’s wrong.
‘It’s just …’ She takes a deep breath, her voice increasing in volume. ‘Dennis and I got into an argument this morning. He wants to have a baby. And … I’m not ready. I’m just not. And I feel like …’ She pauses again.
‘Yes?’ I ask, and at this I peer over my shoulder, where Grandma still stands in the doorway of our kitchen, her expression worried, her hands twisting the gingham apron tied around her waist.
‘I feel like a bad wife, I guess,’ Cheryl says. Her voice draws my focus back to the phone, and I turn and curl toward the receiver.
‘No, of course not,’ I tell her, hoping my end of the conversation sounds as vague as possible.
‘Grandma’s listening, isn’t she?’ Cheryl asks.
‘Yeah.’
Cheryl manages a soft laugh and then a deep sigh. ‘Of course she is.’
‘But I mean it,’ I say. ‘It’s all right that … you feel … the way you feel about that.’
‘Mary next door said I should do it,’ Cheryl says. ‘She said it would be fun for the two of us to have kids together so they could play in the front yard.’
‘That’s not enough of a reason,’ I say, turning back toward the wall, my voice hushed.
Cheryl sniffs. ‘Thank you, Evie. I know that. I think I just needed to hear you say it.’
‘I’m sorry I haven’t answered your last letter,’ I tell her, feeling like a terrible sister and wishing I could explain everything that’s been happening in my life that’s prevented me from doing so. What I wouldn’t give for Cheryl to be here, at home with me, just a whisper away across our shared bedroom. What I wouldn’t give to be able to have her to spill all my secrets to.
‘It’s okay,’ she says, her voice steady again. ‘Write when you can, but I have to get off the phone. This call is costing a fortune. But make something up for Grandma and Mama. I don’t want them to worry. You can think of some explanation.’
I can? I’m not sure about that, but I promise Cheryl, and after an exchange of I-love-yous, I hang up. Just then I hear my mother walking in the front door.
‘Is Cheryl all right?’ Grandma asks me as I turn away from the phone, my mind racing for some false reason she phoned us.
‘Why wouldn’t Cheryl be all right?’ Mama asks, heading into the kitchen. She pulls a Salem from a pack in her purse and grabs an ashtray from the kitchen counter. She only smokes after work if she’s had a really hard day.