THREE
The Birthday Boy
As I watched Avanelle walk away from me, I felt terrible about being so unfriendly. She probably thought I was like the other kids, who hadn’t exactly beaten a path to her locker when she enrolled in school this morning. Avanelle didn’t know yet about my being invisible, but it was just a matter of time before someone would tell her or pass her a note. I wasn’t going to set myself up to be hurt again.
We shared the same lunch period and the same math book, and we had three classes together in a row—art, PE, and math. Whether I liked it or not, we’d been thrown together.
Georgina Gregory had PE class with us, too. If she passed the word during fourth hour Monday, Avanelle would be out of my hair. If she didn‘t, Avanelle would probably tag along after me again after school. What if she just kept walking and talking all the way to my house and then expected me to invite her in for a Coke?
As I turned onto Mulberry Lane, Georgina’s bratty little brother cried, “Watch out!” as he grazed past me on a bicycle and wheeled into his yard. He was laughing because I’d jumped about two feet straight up.
“Hey, boy,” I yelled, “don’t you know it’s against the law to ride on the sidewalk?”
“So? Whatcha gonna do about it?” he yelled back before ducking in his front door.
You and your sister make a good pair, I fumed. You’re brave from a distance, but cowards up close. Remembering how Georgina had shied away from Punky’s touch, I clenched my fists and stormed past the house.
I knew Punky didn’t look normal, but he didn’t look scary, either. He just looked like anybody else who had Down’s syndrome—moon-faced, with almond-shaped eyes, doughy white skin, and a thick tongue that seemed too big for his mouth.
I could feel the Gregory boy’s eyes watching me, and I imagined I heard him laughing. The brat. You couldn’t expect much from a kid who brought his friends over to spy on Punky whenever he got the chance.
When I was almost home, I made a conscious effort to wipe the frown off my face and relax. I didn’t want to spoil Punky’s birthday.
As I opened the screen door, he said, “Hi, pretty girl,” and got up stiffly from his cross-legged position in front of the television. Since it was so hard for him to get up and down, I don’t know why he wanted to sit on the floor. But that’s where he always sat, at a table with sawed-off legs that he pushed up against the TV.
Punky grinned and hitched up the elastic waistband of his red britches. He was so short and roly-poly, jogging pants were the only kind that fit. I tossed my books on the couch and gave him a hug. “Hi, birthday boy. What’s for supper?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.
“Fried chinny.”
I smiled. Mom would have fried a chicken every night for Punky, but to keep Dad happy she kept it down to every other day.
“Cake, presents, party tonight,” said Punky, clapping his stubby hands. Each of his fingers had a bump on the first knuckle, from being chewed.
“Presents!” I teased. “What makes you think you’ll get presents?”
“Shirley said,” he replied matter-of-factly, taking my hand and pulling me into the kitchen, where Mom was drawing an icing clown on his birthday cake.
Mom stopped squeezing the red frosting from the tube for a moment and rubbed her wrist. She always wore black slacks because they were slenderizing, but I wished she’d get rid of that shirt. Its wide horizontal stripes made her look twenty pounds heavier.
“Hi, hon. How was school today?” she asked.
I didn’t tell her that I was the only student in sixth hour who didn’t rate a partner for science lab, or that Mrs. Wiseman had called on everyone to read parts of Evangeline except me. What I said was, “Nothing to shout about. I got a B on my book report, and Mr. Casey thinks I have artistic promise.”
“Promise? That’s an understatement if I ever heard one.”
“You’re pretty artistic yourself,” I said as I admired the clown taking shape on the cake.
“My clown ... my birthday ... my chinny,” said Punky, pointing first to the cake, then to himself, and then lifting two bags of chicken that were thawing in the sink.
“Two chickens, Mom?” I said.
“I’m afraid so. Your Uncle Bert and Aunt Queenie are coming for supper.”
“But why?” I asked, trying not to whine. Aunt Queenie’s real name was Queen Esther, after a famous queen in the Bible, so she thought she was royalty.
“Party,” said Punky.
“Because I invited them,” replied Mom, adding the final touches to the clown. “Now that we live so close, it’s only right.”
“But Aunt Queenie—”
“Delrita, she’s my brother’s wife. We can’t change that.”
“She’ll spend the whole evening complaining about the way you take care of Punky.”
“I’m a big girl. I can take it.... Who wants to lick the bowl?”
“I do,” Punky and I chimed together. He took the bowl, I got some spoons, and we went to the sawed-off table to watch commercials on TV. Punky loved commercials, and he was always flipping the channels back and forth, watching for his favorites. Our cupboards overflowed with boxes of detergents that danced, toilet paper that unrolled itself, and several kinds of cat food, even though we’d never owned a cat.
Aunt Queenie said we were spoiling Punky, and I had to admit she was right, although we had a good reason. Doctors had warned us that he wouldn’t live very long, because he had a bad heart.
The frosting was too sweet for me on an empty stomach. My vision was blurred, too, from sitting so close to the TV. I got up to move to the couch and surrendered the bowl to Punky, who scraped at it with his spoon and his fingers to clean up every bit. When he was finished, his round face was sticky with red icing.
“Better wash up,” I said.
“Wait a minute.”
With Punky, a minute could be a minute or an hour and a half. He didn’t budge, but sat there twisting his wiry brown hair with his left hand and changing the channel with his right.
I grinned, thinking about my dad’s complaint that the only things he ever got to watch on TV were the advertisements for soap.
“Look, D.J.,” Punky said happily. “Clown.”
From where I sat, I couldn’t see much except the back of Punky’s head, including the bald spot where he had twisted his hair out. When I leaned over and saw a kids’ program featuring Jellybean the Clown, I knew Punky wouldn’t touch the dial again until the show was over. Now would be a good time to wrap his birthday present.
Green was my favorite color, as anybody with one eye could tell the moment he stepped into my room with its forest-green carpet and mint-colored walls. The sea-green princess curtains matched the spread on my four-poster bed.
Nearly everything in my closet was green, too, and Mom said my wardrobe looked like leftovers from a St. Patrick’s Day parade.
I pulled out my old Barbie doll suitcase, which held the present I’d carved for Punky. I’d gotten rid of the dolls ages before, but the case was perfect for my woodcarving tools. It was funny how I’d never had the patience to dress Barbie in those teeny-tiny clothes, and yet I could whittle on a block of wood for hours.
When I opened the compartment where my basswood carvings were stored, staring up at me was my first project, an ugly blob of a snowman. I’d saved it as a reminder of how much I’d learned—and how much I still didn’t know—about woodcarving.
I passed over the snowman and picked up the little clown I had carved and painted for Punky. His smile was slightly crooked, but he definitely looked like Jellybean, with his yellow hair, orange jumpsuit, and gaudy purple shoes.
Jellybean was only four inches high, so he fit perfectly in a big matchbox. I wrapped the package, then hid it at my side as I carried it down the hall.
Punky was enjoying the program on TV, and I smiled on my way to the kitchen. His giggles reminded me of doves cooing in a barnloft.
The smell of
chicken frying, fresh cucumbers, and green onions made me realize I was starving. The cooks at school had served cardboard pizza for lunch.
“Want me to set the table?” I asked, to hurry things along.
“Sure,” Mom said, “but use the antique dishes and the good silverware.” Her face was pink from the heat of the stove, and her dark hair curled in little ringlets at the back of her neck. Lucky Mom. When my hair got damp, it hung limp as a dead cat.
I counted out five plates from the china cabinet but went to the cupboard for Punky’s. He wouldn’t eat unless his food was served on a red plastic plate.
When I heard Dad’s car pull into the carport, I knew it was exactly twelve minutes after five. You could set the clock by my father, who closed our antique shop promptly at five o‘clock, then dropped by the bank with his day’s deposit and drove home in twelve minutes flat.
“Hi, squirt,” he said to me as he came in the back door. Glancing at the table, he said to Mom, “I see Bert and Queenie accepted the invitation. I hope you’ve got your armor. Now that her majesty has done a few hours’ volunteer work with the handicapped, she thinks she’s the expert.”
“Shhhh,” said Mom. “They’ll be here anytime.”
Dad winked at me and ran a hand across his sandy hair. He made his tall, thin body ramrod straight and put his hands on his hips. “I declare, Shirley,” he said, mocking Aunt Queenie as he pranced around the table, “you’re going to kill us all with your fried food. Why, I can feel my arteries slamming shut this minute.”
“Oh, Sam,” said Mom, giggling and shooing him away to the shower.
I heard car doors closing. My aunt and uncle had arrived. Instead of coming in the back door, which was closer, they went around to the front and rang the bell.
“Would you get that, Delrita,” Mom asked, “while I run a comb through my hair?”
I headed for the living room and realized, too late, that Punky hadn’t budged from in front of the TV. He was staring spellbound at a toothpaste commercial. “Punky! Hurry! Wash your face,” I said.
“Wait a minute,” he replied, not taking his eyes off the set.
I hesitated, willing the commercial to end. As I glanced out the screen door, I decided there was a shade of green I didn’t like. Uncle Bert was wearing hideous green pants and a bright yellow shirt with a brown tie. The clothes, and the blond toupee bushing out from beneath his brown golf hat, made him look like a giant sunflower.
“Hurry up, Delrita. It’s hot out here,” said Aunt Queenie. Even though she could see me, she would never push the door open and walk right in. She stood there tapping her foot impatiently as if the bun she wore like a crown would melt and slide off onto the porch.
The commercials went on and on, until finally I had to open the door or have a good reason not to.
“I declare, Delrita,” said my aunt, pushing past me into the living room, “you’re as slow as Christmas.”
“Christmas! Santy Claus!” cried Punky, getting up at last with a wide grin on his sticky face.
“Punk-Man,” boomed Uncle Bert, stooping to give Punky a one-armed bear hug since his other arm was clutching a present. He didn’t seem to mind that Punky was kissing his cheek, icing and all.
Punky patted the gift and looked at me. “See, D.J.? Presents. Shirley said.”
When it was Aunt Queenie’s turn for a kiss, she backed away, saying, “This is a new dress. I’ll wait until you’ve washed your face.”
FOUR
Aunt Queenie
With a clean red T-shirt and a freshly scrubbed face, Punky made a beeline for Aunt Queenie. As he stood on tiptoes to kiss her cheek, Uncle Bert said playfully, “Whoa, Punk-Man, that’s my girl.”
“My girl,” argued Punky.
“No, she’s my girl.”
Punky folded his arms across his chest and said, “She’s my girl, you old goat.”
Uncle Bert roared with laughter, and even Aunt Queenie smiled.
While Mom and I were setting supper on the table, Dad and Uncle Bert talked about my uncle’s real estate business. Punky was telling Aunt Queenie about the clown on TV, but she either didn’t understand what he was saying or didn’t want to. She kept saying, “Slow down, Punky. I know you can speak more clearly if you take it slow.”
Dad asked the blessing, and as soon as he said, “Amen,” Punky said, “Bang!” This was Punky’s signal that all was right with his world, but Aunt Queenie frowned her disapproval.
“Horns,” said Punky, pointing to the chicken wings on the platter.
“Yes, Punky, they’re all yours,” said Mom, dishing up the four wings onto his plate and adding green beans, salad, and mashed potatoes and gravy.
“Hey, Punk-Man,” said Uncle Bert, “leave some for me.”
“You’re a fat boy,” replied Punky, getting up from the table and carrying his meal to the living room.
“I declare, Shirley. I don’t know how you can let Punky just do as he pleases, eating all over the house,” said Aunt Queenie.
Dad and I exchanged secret smiles. Wouldn’t she hit the ceiling if she knew that as soon as Punky cleaned the meat off a horn, he’d fling the bone behind the TV?
“There’s such a thing as good manners,” my aunt went on, “and it doesn’t look right for him not to eat with the family.”
“Queenie,” said Mom, quietly but firmly, “did you ever think that Punky is with the family twenty-four hours a day, and maybe he likes having a few minutes to himself?”
“You’ve spoiled him. No, I take that back. Your mother spoiled him, and you’re just making it worse.”
“Maybe so, but he has so few pleasures in life, why shouldn’t he get to do what makes him happy?”
“But he’s never even been to school,” argued Aunt Queenie. “You’ve had him since he was sixteen, and you could have sent him until he was twenty-one.”
Uncle Bert looked uncomfortable. He wiped his face with his napkin and said uneasily, “Queenie, we’ve been through all this before. You know Mama took Punky to be tested once when he was a little boy, and she came home angry and humiliated because the testing wasn’t fair.”
Aunt Queenie glared at Uncle Bert as if to ask, Just whose side are you on?
“That’s right,” said Mom. “The school gave him a standard IQ test for twelve-year-olds, and he failed miserably. One of the questions was ‘How do you describe the handle of a knife?’ I’m thirty-seven years old, reasonably intelligent, and I’m not sure I could describe the handle of a knife well enough to pass an IQ test!”
Aunt Queenie drew a deep breath and looked heavenward, probably praying for patience. “Things have changed since Punky was a little boy. Nowadays they have special schools and Special Olympics. There are sheltered workshops where the handicapped can work under supervision. Now that you live so close, Punky could get a job at the workshop here in town.”
“You would actually have me send Punky to that old warehouse?” Mom asked in disbelief. “It’s dark and depressing, with not a window in the place! What’s more, it’s full of strangers who are worse off than he is!”
“Punky needs something to do,” insisted Aunt Queenie. “Just look at how he chews his fingers and twists the hair right out of his head.”
Mom was trying hard to keep her temper. “Queenie,” she said, “before Mama died, I gave her my word that I’d keep him with me always, and that’s what I’m doing. I know you’ve helped some with the handicapped, but you haven’t lived it. Mama and I have, and Bert. Ask him what it’s like to see people poking fun and making mean comments about someone you love.”
Uncle Bert, who’d been taking a drink of iced tea, started choking. I wondered if it was on purpose. After all, he had to live with Aunt Queenie.
My aunt, glancing from Uncle Bert back to Mom, drummed her manicured fingers on the table and said, “I know you want what’s best for Punky. The workshop—”
“No,” said Mom, her blue eyes smoldering.
“Well, I dec
lare,” began Aunt Queenie, and I was afraid I’d scream if she declared anything one more time.
“Declare all you want,” replied Mom, “but I’m Punky’s guardian, and what I say goes.”
That was probably the longest meal of my life. There wasn’t much to talk about after Mom closed the subject of Punky. We all just sat there chewing and swallowing.
Aunt Queenie’s feelings were hurt, but at least that meant she wouldn’t be asking me a lot of questions. Since she didn’t have kids of her own, I don’t know why she always seemed so interested in me, my school, and my friends. Especially now, being invisible, I was a real nobody.
When the dishes were cleared away, Mom set out the packages.
I lit the candles on the clown cake, feeling sad at the number thirty-five. According to the doctor, it was rare for people with Down’s syndrome to live past forty.
“Don’t forget the matches,” said Mom.
I nodded and hid them in a drawer. Once, Punky had lit a candle to look for something under the bed and had forgotten to blow it out.
“Birthday cake and presents,” Mom called into the living room.
Usually you needed a stopwatch to see if Punky was moving, but this time it took him about three seconds to reach the kitchen.
When he tore into Uncle Bert’s package and found a portable radio, he said, “Wait a minute,” and headed off with it to his bedroom. In a moment he was back, singing into his stick microphone.
The next present was from Mom and Dad—a T-shirt that said “Surf Bum” and a pair of red socks. Immediately Punky kicked off his shoes and started ripping off his old shirt.
“Well, I declare, Punky,” said Aunt Queenie. “Are you going to strip down right here in the kitchen?”
“Yup,” Punky grunted as he pulled on the new shirt.