When I Was Your Age, Volume One Page 5

  “We’ll keep an eye out for him,” the policeman said.

  Before she went home, Daisy stopped at the tiny general store opposite the school. Its windows had all been blown in, but it was still open; indeed there was a cheerful notice lettered on the plywood which had already been nailed over the windowframe, reading: MORE OPEN THAN USUAL. With some pennies she found in her pocket, Daisy bought a bun, and when nobody was looking she threw it into the ruins of the old lady’s house. Muffin would be back, and he would be hungry.

  And Muffin did come back. Before long, the playground was cleared of rubble, the road was repaired, the remains of the old lady’s house were flattened, and school began again. And the children began to notice Muffin, sometimes, lying on the ground where his house had been. He was thin and dirty, and his ears and tail were no longer as perky as they had been before. Some of the children tried to call him, or catch him, but he always ran away.

  Only once, when Daisy was alone and called, “Muffin! Muffin! Show your manners!”— then Muffin came trotting to her and licked her hand, and let her pat him. But even then he leaped away when she tried to take hold of his collar. There was no sign of him afterward, for days.

  Fat Alice had been distracted from her usual pursuits by the excitement of the bomb craters, and the prestigious bits of shrapnel that could be collected, or taken away from the collections of smaller, weaker boys or girls. She had not forgotten Daisy, however. She began now a quiet campaign of small intermittent cruelties, with no reason or pattern. At unexpected times of the day, in classroom or playground or corridor, she would appear suddenly at Daisy’s side and give her a quick fierce kick or pinch, vanishing afterward with a speed remarkable in one so large. Daisy began to feel constantly nervous, like a hunted animal.

  Sometimes she felt angry with herself for doing nothing to combat the maliciousness of Alice Smith. But what was there to do? She was outsized and outnumbered, and the little gang of bullies took care never to do anything that might catch the attention of a teacher. Now that Daisy had lost the old lady, the only grown-up she could enlist as saviour was her mother. But that had been tried last term, by Molly Barnes, a placid, amiable girl even fatter than Alice, who was the butt of the gang for so long that she seemed to be constantly in tears. Molly’s mother had come to school to complain — and close on her heels had come Alice’s mother, a tough, aggressive lady who was heard, through the headmaster’s closed door, angrily shouting a number of words Daisy had never heard uttered before.

  So the headmaster had not known which mother to believe, and the reign of Fat Alice had gone on undisturbed. And Daisy said nothing that would bring her own mother to the school, because she knew the result would be just the same.

  It was a Friday, four weeks after the bombs fell, when Alice did the worst thing of all. Daisy liked Fridays, not only because they marked the end of the week, but because the last class of the day was art. She loved drawing and painting, more than anything. Even though, in their overcrowded school, her class had to double up with Alice’s class for art — giving Alice easy opportunities for poking Daisy with one end of a paintbrush, or dabbing paint on her skirt with the other — even so, it was Daisy’s favorite class.

  And this Friday was even better than most. Their teacher said, “Think of the best story you’ve ever heard from your mother or father, and paint me a picture of it.”

  Daisy thought of the last time her father had come home on leave, after he had been sailing to the north coast of Russia on what he called “the Murmansk run,” and she painted what he had described. She painted his destroyer, as she often did at home, but she showed it encrusted all over with ice, with men muffled up in heavy jackets and gloves chipping the ice away from spars and guns and rails. She painted the gray angry sea and the big waves, and a patchy blue sky, and a huge, white jagged iceberg rearing up in the background. She particularly liked the iceberg.

  “That’s wonderful, Daisy!” said her teacher, and she held it up in front of the class. She said Daisy should take the picture home to show her mother, and then bring it back next week to be shown to the whole school in morning assembly.

  Daisy set off cheerfully for home, in the noisy bouncing crowd pouring out of the playground. But a figure came running and pushed her sideways, and then another, and she found herself nudged and shoved out of sight of everyone else, behind the air-raid shelters. Alice, Pat, and Maggie closed around her, bright-eyed, grinning.

  “She did ever such a nice painting!” said Alice, shrill, jeering. “She’s so stuck-up, she thinks she’s the cat’s meow — here, I’ll show you her lovely painting!”

  She grabbed the rolled-up paper from under Daisy’s arm.

  “Give it back!” Daisy yelled. But Pat and Maggie were holding her arms, and she couldn’t get free. She struggled, feeling her eyes blur with angry tears, and she saw Fat Alice unroll her beautiful painting and drop it deliberately face-down into a muddy puddle. Then Alice lifted her foot and trod on it.

  Daisy let out a great sob, and kicked at Alice. She felt her shoe hit Alice’s shinbone, hard.

  Fat Alice shrieked with pain. Her face twisted with fury and venom, and she advanced on Daisy. “Just you wait!” she hissed.

  But behind her, there was a sudden astounding noise, halfway between a roar and a shriek, and out of the wasteland that had been the old lady’s house, Muffin came rushing. He looked very small, and very dangerous. He flung himself at Fat Alice, growling and snapping; then whirled at Pat and at Maggie, nipping their ankles, jumping up at them, teeth bared. A small dog had become a small tornado, a whirling flurry of danger and menace. The three girls screamed and backed away, but Muffin came after them, snarling, biting, until they scattered and ran.

  “Mad dog!” Alice howled. “Mad dog . . .” Her voice faded as she disappeared down the road.

  Muffin came back to Daisy. He looked up at her, panting, his tongue lolling, and she crouched beside him and fondled his small dirty head. Muffin licked her face.

  “Let’s go home, Muffin,” Daisy said.

  Muffin barked, deliberately, twice.

  Daisy picked her painting out of the puddle. It was a blurred, muddy, unrecognizable mess. She crumpled it up and dropped it again, and she turned and ran out of the playground, through the streets, home. Muffin ran at her heels.

  Bursting through the kitchen door, breathless, Daisy found her mother peeling potatoes. “Mum,” she said, grasping for the words she had been rehearsing as she ran. “Mum, I have a friend, he’s been bombed out, please can he stay?”

  Daisy’s mother looked down at Muffin.

  “Dad says every ship should have a mascot,” Daisy said.

  Her mother smiled. She said, “You just have time to give him a bath before tea.”

  “My story ‘Muffin’ is set in England during World War II, because that’s where I was when I was your age. I once put all that part of my life into a book called Dawn of Fear, a war story which is pure autobiography except that I turned myself into a boy called Derek. Don’t ask me why.

  The main character in ‘Muffin,’ Daisy, is not me, but she goes to the same school as Derek/Susan, and the bombs that she hears fall are the same ones Derek hears in Dawn of Fear. I found myself wondering the other day whether Derek ever met Muffin. It’s sometimes hard for writers to remember where real life ends and story begins.

  I began life as a passionate reader and pretty soon realized I was a writer as well. When I edited my school magazine, I found it was much easier to write things than to persuade other people to write them, and I still own a rather embarrassing issue in which eleven contributions (and two pictures) are signed by Susan Cooper. I’ve been scribbling away ever since.”

  It all started the day my friend Casilda dared me. All my friends were hanging out in the schoolyard at St. Anselm’s. It was around seven o’clock on Saturday evening. Casilda, Wanda, Mary, and little Ritchie had already confessed earlier.

  Now we were just watching people
leaving church after confessing. The kids began to talk about how confession made you feel different — pure and holy. “. . . so then the next day when you receive Communion,” explained Casilda, “you become clean and without no sins.” She looked up at the sky all dreamy-eyed, like she had just done something so perfect.

  The fact was, all my friends — except for Joey who was Pentecostal — had already made their First Communion. Even little Ritchie, who was only eight, had made his Communion last year in Puerto Rico. I was ten years old and I still had not made my First Communion. Every Saturday, it was the same. Me and Joey had to wait until the rest of them confessed; then we had to hear how they all felt pure and terrific. More and more, I began to feel left out, like I was a stranger instead of their friend.

  Here I was again, listening to them sound off. Blah, blah, and blah, bragging like they knew it all. I was really getting annoyed and decided to let them know just how I felt.

  “It don’t sound like a big deal to me,” I told them.

  “That’s because you don’t know what you are missing.” Casilda went on boasting, paying me no mind. But I had already heard enough! I was going to show them what I thought of them and their holy selves.

  “I think I’m gonna receive Holy Communion and without no confession,” I blurted out.

  “But you can’t!” argued Wanda. “You have to go to confession and tell the priest all the bad things you done. Then the priest gives you prayers to say so that God will forgive your sins.”

  “That’s right,” added Mary. “That’s called penance. You gotta say penance first to prepare for Holy Communion.”

  “Or else it’s a sin — a big sin — and you could go to hell!” declared Casilda.

  I enjoyed looking at their shocked expressions and decided to go even further. “But I don’t believe in no confession. Anyway, my father says there ain’t no hell and no heaven either. He says heaven and hell are right here on earth. Heaven is for the rich and hell is for the poor.”

  “That’s a bad thing to say,” shrieked Mary.

  “You better not talk that way,” warned Wanda.

  “Yeah,” agreed little Ritchie, “I think that’s a real bad sin to say.”

  I just shrugged at their attempts to stop me. Actually, I was pleased to be getting all their attention.

  “All right, since you act like it’s no sin and you ain’t scared, go on!” shouted Casilda loud and clear. “I dare you to receive Holy Communion tomorrow.” I hesitated, but Casilda wouldn’t let up. “Well Big Mouth, are you gonna do it or not?”

  Everybody became quiet, waiting to see what I would do. So how could I back off? Especially the way Casilda got right into my face. No way was she going to make me look chicken in front of my friends.

  “Well?” she shouted, standing with her hands on her hips and her chin pointing my way. “You said you were gonna do it. It’s tomorrow or forget about it.”

  “Tomorrow for sure,” I answered, trying to sound unconcerned and confident. “Unless you got a problem, girl, I’ll see your face there too.” I could hear the oohs and aahs from the others. But I stood my ground, because tomorrow at ten o’clock Mass, all my friends were coming to see me take Casilda’s dare.

  My mother blamed my attitude about religion and the Catholic Church on my dad. And in more ways than one, she was right. You see, I never went to Catholic school like some of the other Catholic kids. The main reason was because we couldn’t afford the fee. I was the youngest of seven children, and the only girl. Money was always scarce in our household. But even if we’d had the funds, my dad would have refused to pay for parochial school. He was an avid socialist and was opposed to organized religion, especially the Catholic Church.

  So I was sent instead to catechism. Two afternoons a week I was let out early from public school to attend religious instruction at St. Anselm’s Catholic school. But most of the time, I never got there like I was supposed to. Instead, I skipped catechism and played outside until it was time to go home. Or I’d go farther down to Third Avenue where the big stores were, and I’d window-shop.

  When I did manage to attend catechism, I hardly paid attention. I found it all very boring. But now as I look back, I can see my dad’s influence at work. “Don’t be superstitious like your mother,” he’d warn me. He told me to question everything the nuns taught me. My dad told me it was the bosses in our dominant society who wanted all workers to be obedient. Then the workers would never fight for justice or their rights. It was the Church’s way, and the way of capitalism too, he told me.

  When I asked him if he believed in God, he’d snap back, “There is no God. There is humankind and only the here and now!”

  He would never tell me these things in front of my mother. She was quite religious and always had a lit candle in a red glass holder in front of a holy picture of St. Lazarus. My mother often prayed at her small altar for the salvation of my father’s soul.

  But I wasn’t so sure my dad was right. For instance, sometimes I’d sneak into St. Anselm’s by myself, especially on the afternoons when I was supposed to be in religious instruction. If I heard or saw a priest, nun, or any grown-up, I would duck down behind one of the pews and remain out of sight.

  I loved inhaling the fragrance of melted wax and incense. Sitting and just thinking in the silent, almost empty church had a comforting effect on me. Carefully, without making a sound, I would visit the stations of the cross and all the holy statues. I’d examine the details of each station and the carving of the snake beneath the sacred Virgin’s feet. It was at once both mysterious and marvelous.

  Occasionally, I tried to feel pious by staring at the faces of the large statues. I hoped to see them blink an eye or move a muscle. I waited for a signal that would prove their power. But they continued to stare blankly into space and never moved an inch. Still, I got to know each one and even developed a fondness for them. I had two favorites: the Sacred Heart of Jesus and the Immaculate Conception. I lit candles to them but never bothered to put a cent in the money box. Most of the time, I had no money. When I did get a few cents, it went to buying candy, which I was not about to give up for anybody or anything.

  Whenever I was tempted to make a wish, I thought about my dad and felt like a traitor. I knew I was doing wrong by taking the candle in the first place. But since I didn’t make a wish and asked for nothing, I figured it wasn’t too terrible a sin.

  But tomorrow, according to my friends, I would be committing a terrible sin. If my mom knew, she would surely give me a bad punishment. If I was caught, my dad wouldn’t defend me either. For sure he’d say I got what was coming to me for playing silly games. No matter which way I figured it, I was risking deep trouble.

  Besides, during my solo visits to St. Anselm’s, I had bonded with my church. In fact, I figured how I probably knew it better than Casilda, Wanda, Mary, and her cousin Ritchie did! I knew each corner and just about every carving there. Even though I wasn’t religious like my friends, I knew that the Communion wafer was supposed to be the body of Christ. Now that was a scary thought!

  As much as I loved and respected both my parents, it was hard to figure out which one of them was right. I listened to my dad, but I also prayed just like my mom. Usually, I prayed to God. When I wanted something or got scared, I was not above pleading with God. I’d pray with all of my might: God let this happen or God don’t let that happen. It seemed I always called on God when I needed help. During those times of need, prayers came naturally to me.

  Tonight was no exception. I prayed real hard that something would happen to stop my going through with the dare. I also prayed that if I did go to church tomorrow, none of our neighbors would see me there, especially not nosy Mrs. Melendez. She was always watching out of her front window so she could gossip about everybody on our block. That whole night, I could hardly sleep. My stomach did flip-flops, and I tossed and turned until the sun came up.

  I ate my breakfast on Sunday morning, well aware that it was customar
y to fast from confession until one received Holy Communion. “You gotta have a clean stomach to eat the body of Christ,” Wanda had warned. “Maybe you better not eat breakfast.”

  “I’ll eat all I want for breakfast,” I had told her. Now, I could hardly chew my cereal or drink my milk.

  I was grateful that no one in my family went to early Sunday Mass. My mother always told us she preferred to go on weekdays when there were few people and she could commune better with God. My older brothers never attended Mass, except for Easter Sunday and other high holy days. My aunt Maria went to afternoon Spanish Mass at one o’clock.

  My mother gave me her blessing, as she did every Sunday, and sent me off to meet my friends. We were all going to attend ten o’clock Mass as usual.

  I tried to act really calm when I saw everyone. I was surprised that even Joey was there. His folks didn’t allow him to go inside our church. Joey was taking a chance disobeying them, so I knew he was there to see the action. There was no way I was gonna back out now.

  “Are you really gonna do it?” asked Joey.

  “Sure,” I answered. “Why not!”

  “You can still change your mind, you know.”

  “It’s all right if she’s chicken,” said Casilda with a big phony smile. “It don’t matter to me none.”

  “Look, girl,” I snapped back, “I’m going through with it. So it don’t matter what you want. I even had me a big breakfast — bacon and eggs.” I lied. “And they tasted great. So, be cool . . . fool!”

  When we arrived at church, we went right up to the front pew, because everyone except Joey was receiving Communion. I sat still during Mass, not daring to turn around. If anybody saw me, I sure didn’t want to see them. Then the time came for Communion. Slowly but surely Casilda turned and stared into my eyes. As she walked up to the altar, she was followed by Wanda, Mary, and Ritchie. At first, I sat there feeling too numb to move. Maybe my friends wouldn’t notice and I could stay put. But I knew I had no choice, so I stood and followed behind Ritchie.