Cosmetically Yours

Rumble loved his car. I don’t know why. It was a banged up beater. A Dodge Dart well past the age of darting anywhere. Still, he washed it, petted it, polished it and praised it. Most days — since my car was really Gram’s car — Rumble drove me to college. He sometimes took my friends Carla and Susan as well. He provided me with a key to the trunk of his car so I could switch out books between classes, but he refused to supply me with a key to the door. He said he didn’t trust me — bad mistake. By not trusting me, he gave me permission to be untrustworthy. I mean, it wasn’t like I was going to disappoint him, right? Gaining access to Rumble’s car wasn’t all that hard. He was taking a mechanics course and I just went into the auto shop and lifted his keys from his workbench while he was under someone’s chassis.

Maybelline used to make — may still make for all I know — eyeshadow in a tube that went on like liquid, but dried to a powder. My friends and I always carried a half-dozen tubes of the stuff at any given time. I didn’t care for them much on my eyes, but they were wonderful for writing on mirrors — or car windows.

Carla, Susan and I often used the eyeshadow to write notes on Rumble’s car window, like: pick me up at the library, or don’t wait I have another ride home. Rumble was used to seeing them, and knew they wiped right off. On this particular day I used them all and decorated every window. However, this time I decorated them on the inside, and I drew hearts and flowers, advertised his nickname, and wrote notes in baby-talk. The work was slow and meticulous because I had to write everything backward, so it would show correctly through the window. When my masterpiece was complete, I moved his car and parked it square in front of the auto shop so all his friends could see it. Then I walked up the embankment and sat down behind some bushes to wait.

At lunch time the auto shop emptied. A few of Rumble’s classmates found the car first. They walked around it reading and laughing, then using his nickname, they called him out in baby talk. “Oh Rumblie, ud woo come here, pwease?” They were laughing hysterically, but fell quiet and backed away as he approached the car, his face darker than a thunder cloud.

Rumble jerked out his pocket handkerchief and took a swipe at the window. His baby name mocked him. Painted in lavendar and surrounded by little pink hearts, it remained. He took another swipe. No change. Not even a smudge. A few of his friends snickered. Someone taunted, “Whudssa matta, Rumblie?” He let out a snarl and scrubbed frantically. The writing stayed.

He thumped his fist against the top of the car and stomped back into the auto bay. Someone called, “Hey, Rumblie, doan go ‘way mad! Come back!”

Rumble stomped back out to his car, ignoring the continuing taunts. He cupped his hands around his eyes and peered in the car windows. I knew he wasn’t going to find his keys, they were in my pocket. I had forgotten to return them.

Rumble walked slowly around his car, then he stopped and turned his gaze to the people around him. “Did anyone see who did this?” He rumbled. He didn’t raise his voice, but there was definite menace in the words. With hasty, “no’s” his audience dispersed. Rumble stood in the parkinglot, his eyes scanning the vicinity and suddenly I realized he was looking for a suspect. I scooted hastily behind a tree. When I finally had the nerve to peek out again Rumble was gone, and if I didn’t hurry, I’d be late for English class.

At the end of the day I approached Rumble’s car just as casually and nonchalantly as I assumed an innocent person would. Rumble was leaning against it waiting for me. He held out his hand and rumbled, “My keys?”

I told him I didn’t have them. It was true. I didn’t. While Rumble was leaning on his car waiting for me I’d slipped into the auto shop and put them back on his work bench. Rumble said, “Somebody took them. It had to be you. ” He pointed at his windows, “I recognize the paint job.”

“Hey!” I said all innocent, “I’m not the only one who uses that stuff!”

His hand was still outstretched. “My keys?”

Pretending impatience, I raised my hands and said, “Search me. I haven’t got them.”

“Where are they?” He asked. Rumble’s voice is deep and low and, when he wants it to be, menacing. Luckily, I knew I was safe from any actual physical violence, so the threat was wasted on me.

“How should I know? They’re not my keys!” I acted all put out, then added graciously. “Do you want me to help you look for them?”

“I already looked.”

“Yeah,” I said, putting my books down on the trunk of the car. “Like you looked for your textbook I found on the foot of your bed right where you left it.”

He turned his gaze back toward the auto bay. “Okay,” he said, and we walked inside.

I returned his keys just a few inches away from where I’d found them. Behind a can of WD-40 instead of in front of it. I hung back and let Rumble find them. When he said, “But I looked here earlier.” I just said, “Right.”

We walked back to the car. I gathered my books from the top of the trunk and stashed them inside. Rumble jerked open the driver’s door and wiped his nickname from the window. He crawled all through the car, cleaning every window. I waited outside. Rumble is a gentleman. He always opened the car door for me, cousin or not, and I knew better then to open it myself, besides, it was still locked. Finally Rumble emerged from the driver’s door and looked across the top of the car at me. “Since you didn’t have the keys, I know who did this.”

“Oh?” I said, my voice may have been a little sharper than I intended.

“Hmm,” Rumble nodded. “Had to be Susan. I gave her my keys this morning because she said she’d lost something in the back seat. I hope she enjoys walking home tonight.”

Oh crap. I’d just gotten one of my friends in trouble. “Maybe she didn’t do it,” I said. “I mean, why would she?”

“You. Susan. Carla. ” Rumble held up a finger as he listed each name, then he went through them again, “Carla is in Cataldo. You say you didn’t do it. Susan had the keys.”

Technically, I never said I didn’t do it. I couldn’t admit that, though. I also couldn’t let Susan take the blame. “But I’m sure Susan didn’t do it!” I snapped.

Rumble smirked at me across the top of the car. “So am I. Now.” Then he dropped into the driver’s seat, shut the door and — just before he drove away — waved at me.

Let Me Steer

I was one of the first kids in the neighborhood to learn to ride my bike sans hands — well, one of the first in my age group. I had to learn how to ride my bike without hands because Sugar Jay’s big brother, Handsome, almost never touched his handlebars. It was just too cool.

Cheerleader was one of those girls that life blessed with perfect looks, perfect hair, perfect teeth and perfect coordination. I wasn’t. By rights, Cheerleader and I shouldn’t have been friends, but by some quirk of fate, she didn’t know she was perfect, so she was nice, too. We used to ride our bikes all over the neighborhood together — then we started ranging farther afield.

The old cemetery had the absolute best bike-riding trails. The roads were paved in swoops and curves and dips. If a kid got enough speed going in, she could coast around and around and around, rarely ever having to pedal again. Cheerleader and I loved to ride our bikes there.

One afternoon as we were heading home from the library, Cheerleader’s front bike tire picked up a nail. We dropped her bike off at a friend’s house, she climbed on my handlebars and we continued on our way. As we neared the cemetery we had a discussion about whether we should cut through it or not — it was starting to get dark. Cemeteries are all fun and games in the daylight, but at night there were actually graves about. Graves are full of dead people you know. And dead people don’t like children.

We decided we weren’t babies, and a bit of fading light wasn’t going to keep us from a quick spin down our favorite paths. I pedaled for all I was worth and despite Cheerleader sitting on my handlebars, picked up a good bit of speed. We made a full circuit of the dips and swoops and curves, though I did have to pedal a bit more than usual.

Cheerleader said riding on the handlebars was ten times more fun then pedaling the bike herself. She said she really felt like she was flying. After the first circuit, she begged for one more. I really didn’t want to go again. I was having to work a little harder than usual at keeping the bike straight, plus I was used to riding the circuit without ever touching the handlebars. My arms were aching from holding her weight.

Add to that the fact that the shadows were growing pretty close together. I said, “Let’s just go home,” but Cheerleader challenged my courage. Refusing to admit cowardice, I acquiesced.

I was peddling standing up as we approached the top of the highest hill. Cheerleader’s blonde hair was flapping in my face, stinging my eyes, and my arms were aching. I wanted nothing more then to sit down on my bike seat and rest.

“Let go!” Cheerleader called.

“Huh?”

“Let go of the handlebars. Let me steer.”

My brain said, “You’ve got to be kidding,” but my arms complied. I sat back on my seat and let go of the handlebars. We shot down that hill faster then ever before. Too fast. We weren’t going to make the corner at the bottom. We weren’t going to make it because Cheerleader wasn’t turning.

“Turn,” I screamed. “Turn! Turn!” I made a mad grab for the handlebars, but they weren’t there — the bike wasn’t there. I was flying though the air. Then I was sliding across the grass. I shot between two tomb stones and came to rest, grass stained, but surprisingly unharmed.

I sat up slowing, mentally checking my physical well-being, and realized I was sitting squarely on a grave. I transported off of it faster than I’d landed on it. I bolted to the road, turning in the direction I thought I’d find my bike. I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see much of anything but wobbling dark shadows.

Dark Shadows. Why did I have to think of that? I was forbidden to watch the soap opera, but forbidding me did little good when I was left home alone with the TV set. I watched the show every day. And I knew what happened to people who wandered through cemeteries at night. Worse, I wasn’t alone. I could hear a terrible moaning. Something was coming to get me!

I bolted for the gate. At that point neither my bike, nor Cheerleader were of any concern to me. I wanted out — alive! A lurching apparition plunged out of the darkness and crashed into me. I screamed and ran faster, but it had already passed me by.

Cheerleader. The coward. I screamed — “Wait for me!” — and she did, once she was about half-way home.

The Library

I wanted to go to the library. That didn’t seem like too much to ask, but Gram was busy baking for some PTA something or other, and she told me to go read the books I already had. I went to my room, sat down on my bed and stared at my bookcase.

I owned dozens of books – most of which I knew by heart. Those books were old friends and I cherished them, but I wanted a new adventure. More than that, I had just met the library for the very first time the week before, and it was full of adventures I was dying to experience.

Six year olds were only allowed to check out two books at a time.. How stingy is that? They had millions and would only lend me two. I read those two books every day for a week. It was time for something different.

In an unusual stroke of bad luck, Gram didn’t give-in to my whining. She ordered me to go outside and find something to do. Walking to the library is something to do, right? I grabbed my books and my little plastic library card and away I went.

I knew exactly where the library was. It was the big brick building kitty-corner from the Post Office and across the street from my dentist’s office. I did pause for a bit when I came to Lincoln Way. I wasn’t allowed to cross the big street alone. Finally, one of the older neighborhood kids came along on her way to the store, so I crossed the street with her.

I felt pretty grown up. I had never been so far away from home on my own before. I thought about how proud Gram was going to be once she realized I could go to the library by myself. By the time I got to Government Way my books were getting heavy. There was a big building on the corner. A place that Gram said was where old folks went to rest. I thought I’d rest there, too. I crawled up on a big, pine-shaded boulder in the rose garden and sat.

From the boulder, I could see Government Way. It was a bigger, busier street than Lincoln Way. I had never been told not to cross it, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to. Besides, on the other side of the street were the railroad tracks, and I knew I wasn’t supposed to go anywhere near them. Then I remembered I could turn and follow Government Way south to Gibbs Mercantile. Lots of people always crossed the street there. I hopped off the boulder and continued my journey.

I had to sit on the stoop at Gibb’s for a while before somebody crossed the street the way I wanted to go. I crossed the street with a lady and two kids. The lady asked me if my mom knew where I was. I told her yes. I figured it was true. Gram always said mom was watching me from heaven. If she was watching me, she had to know where I was, right?

I followed the lady across the rail road tracks and two more streets. She turned on 3rd Street. I wasn’t turning until 7th. I crossed 3rd Street and 4th Street with the same group of people. None of them paid me any mind. I was tired again by the time I got to 7th Street, and there was nowhere there to rest. I sat down on the edge of someone’s lawn, but an old man came out and told me to “get away.” I walked for several more blocks then sat for a while on the lawn of the junior high. It was pretty, like a park.

I’d been holding on to my books so tight there were grooves in my fingers. My feet were getting sore and I was thirsty. The school had an outside drinking fountain so I had a nice long drink – which started me thinking about bathrooms. I decided I’d better hussle to the library.

When I walked through the gate of the high brick wall surrounding the library I felt very grown up and very small all at the same time. The steps were high and wide, and hard to climb, especially without Gram carrying my books and holding my hand. The door was heavy and I pulled and pulled on it. Finally, a man coming out held it open so I could go in. I told him thank you and dashed straight for the bathroom.

The bathroom was very tiny and very dark. I couldn’t reach the light switch and I was afraid to go in. A lady came and told me I couldn’t use that bathroom anyway, I needed to use the children’s bathroom upstairs. By that time, I was doing the potty dance and I am not entirely certain the water leaking from my eyes was solely tears. The lady took pity on me and turned on the light.

The children’s section of the library was upstairs. The staircase was quite wide, but the stairs themselves were steep and narrow. I took a deep breath, grasped my books tight to my chest and started to climb. I reached the top panting. My feet hurt and my legs were trembling, but at last I’d reached paradise.

I gave the lady behind a big, tall desk my books, then ran to select more. There was a huge, multi-paned window with a window seat and bright, fluffy pillows. I climbed up, opened my first book, and promptly feel asleep. A two-mile walk will do that to a six year old.

I didn’t recognize the library lady, but apparently she recognized me. She attended our church. Church ladies should know better than to tattle, but this one didn’t. She called Gram and got me in trouble. On the bright side, I got to ride in a car going home, they broke the library rules and let me check out four books; and I had some great reading adventures while perched on the kitchen stool that week.