Chapter 3 - The Tin Box (Reposted)

Chapter 3                                                                     The Tin Box Secret

          My father sat in his chair reading aloud from the newspaper about the student protests that were sweeping the nation.  They were protesting against the war and organizing demonstrations for civil rights.  There were women burning their bras to protest the need for equal rights of the sexes.  There were marches in the south urging equal civil rights for all races.  College campuses had been turned into platforms for the anti-war movement.  At Howard University, the students had seized the administration building; students took over another building at Bowie State College in Maryland, and there had been an eight-day sit-in at Columbia University.  After thousands of students marched on the White House in Washington D.C. chanting, “L.B.J., L.B.J., how many kids did you kill today!” peace talks had finally begun between the U.S. and the North Vietnamese.  My father stopped reading and shook his head, "What is this world coming to?"

 I jumped at the chance to talk to him about what was going on in our own town.  "Dad, even here people are protesting. Walk-outs and sit-downs organized by the girls in our own high school, finally made the administration give permission for girls to wear pants in both the high school and junior high.  There are strict rules to follow, the pants can only be slacks, no blue jeans allowed.  We were warned that any girl arriving in school with a hole in her slacks, a hem that was dragging on the floor, or pants torn in any way, would be suspended from school."

"And are you telling me you are wearing slacks to school now?" Dad was surprised.

"Mom bought me two pairs of bellbottom slacks, one is orange and the other is a lime green plaid.  But the younger kids in elementary school still aren't allowed to wear pants."  After I said it, I realized I probably shouldn't have told him.  Now he would know that mom had taken the bus to go shopping for us.  He wasn't going to like that.  But before he could say anything, Mom called us in to dinner. 

Angie came downstairs to join us, excited to tell us something.  "I heard you talking about us not being able to wear pants.  Well, that all changed today!' she announced.  

"It was so unfair!  The sixth grade girls didn't care because in September they'll be in junior high.  We had to do something or we'd be walking to school again next year wearing those ugly itchy woolen leggings under our jumpers!"

Angie related the events that had occurred earlier in the day.  She had organized the fifth grade girls to march down to the principal’s office.  I wish I could have seen Mrs. Munson’s face when the fifth grade girls entered the office and demanded an audience with the principal.  Mrs. Munson was Principal McGuire’s secretary, but she was also Karen Munson’s mother.  And Karen also happened to be one of the fifth grade girls standing in front of her desk demanding to see the principal.   When Principal McGuire came out of his office to see what the commotion was about, it was Karen who spoke up first. 

  Angie continued, “The girls stood behind us and Karen told Principal McGuire, ‘We should have the right to wear slacks in school!’  Then I said, ‘This is an injustice!  What’s good for the high school and junior high girls should be good for us too!’” 

"Angie, you're so dramatic!" I exclaimed.

I had a hard time trying not to laugh.  Her face was so serious and she flung her arms about in excitement as she retold the story.   

“Then it was the best, we all started chanting, ‘These are the facts!  We want to wear slacks!  These are the facts!  We want to wear slacks!’” Angie held her head high, proud of being one of the organizers of this protest. 

“What did he do?”  Mary asked, amazed at our spunky little sister.

“Well, Mr. McGuire told us that he had to speak with the superintendent before anything could be done.  But later he called all the fifth and sixth grade girls down to the multi-purpose room and announced that we too would be allowed to wear slacks to school!”  

           My mother shook her head at this.

            Caught up in the lively dinner conversation, I jumped in next, wanting to share my story of the day.  “You have to hear what happened in our English class today.  I have the coolest English teacher!   Today Mr. Cabot had us all lie down on the floor in the aisles between our desks.  He told us to close our eyes and think calm thoughts.  Then he had us stretch and then relax each part of our bodies, starting with our toes and slowly making our way up to our neck and head.  It was so cool!  Then he said to think of something beautiful.  I thought of the bay.  I imagined there were two seagulls gliding down and then soaring up toward the sky again.” 

Angie started to giggle, “Now who's being dramatic, Juliana?”

I ignored her and continued, “He said, stretch, relax, we repeated the motions over and over.  I was dying to have Dr. Martin walk by and have him peek into the classroom, I don’t know if he would have thought that it was as cool as we did.”

“This Mr. Cabot sounds like a hippie to me.”  My father said with disgust.  “This is what we are paying taxes for?  This is teaching?”

At the same time, Angie reached for more mashed potatoes and my father took his fork and stuck it into the back of her hand.  She cried out and quickly pulled her hand back and gave me a nasty look.  My father ordered, “Don’t reach. Ask if you’d like more.”

          Dinners at our house were supposed to be “family time.”  But my father sat at the table with his strap laid across his lap waiting for any of us to misbehave.  Sometimes he would fold the strap over and hold the ends in each hand and then snap the strap to make a menacing sound of warning. 

I decided to eat the rest of my meal in silence. 

In my thoughts I reminisced alone about the unusual events that had taken place that day.  After our lesson in relaxation, Mr. Cabot said, “Your new assignment this week will be to develop a product or service and then present your idea to the class.  Explain why you think the rest of the class should buy your product or use your service.  After the projects are presented, the class will vote on which product or service they would most likely use.  You will be working with a partner, so please choose one and spend the rest of the period brainstorming.”  Everyone started looking around the classroom for a partner.  Then Mr. Cabot said, “Julie, I’d like you to partner with the new girl.” 

I looked at the new girl.  She dressed different from the rest of us, more colorful, even the material of her clothes seemed different.  Mr. Cabot waved her over to us before I could protest. 

She came over to my desk and Mr. Cabot introduced us.  “Petra, this is Julie, she’ll take good care of you.”  He said with emphasis on the word “good” as he squeezed my shoulder.

Not knowing what else to say, I blurted out, “Hi.”

“So, what do you think?  I don’t even know where to start.” I added as Mr. Cabot walked toward some other students.

Petra smiled, “I think it’s going to be fun!  And I’m really glad that Mr. Cabot asked us to work together.  Since I don’t know anyone in our class yet, I was nervous when he said we’d have to work with a partner.”  There was this soft hint of an accent when she spoke that made we wonder where she was from. 

“Maybe we can get together on Saturday at the library to do some research.”  I suggested.

“Isn't the library pretty far away?” 

“Yeah, it’s about two miles north of here.” 

“Well,” she said, “Maybe we could meet at my house instead.  My mom’s family has had a library in the house for ages.  And my parents just added a bunch more, the room is jammed with books about everything.”

“That would be great!  Then we wouldn't have to go all the way to the library.  Where do you live?”

 “On Willow Lane.” 

“Hey, that’s where I live!” 

“Do you know the old Victorian house?” 

I warily shook my head yes. 

“Well, that’s my house.”

“Are you Lydia Menlo’s daughter?” 

“Yeah.  But her name is Lydia Racine now.”  Cautiously she asked, “How do you know my mother?” 

“Well, I heard my mom talking with some of our neighbors after church a few weeks ago and they mentioned that she had moved back into her mother’s house.” 

Petra seemed to be weighing what I said.  “Did they say anything else?” 

“Well, they said she had a daughter around my age.”  After a moment’s hesitation I thought it was best to get it out in the open and let her know what I knew.  “And my mother told me that your grandmother committed suicide in the house when your mother was a girl.” 

Petra tilted her face down and closed her eyes.  I think she was trying not to cry.  I felt really bad and touched her hand. 

She frowned and said, “My mom doesn't like to talk about it.  I've asked her questions but she says she doesn't know what happened.  She moved away shortly after and hasn't been back until now.  I’m worried that now that she’s back, it will upset her again.” 

I thought again about the potholes along the Belt Parkway and how they kept being reopened, and then I said, “Well, if it does upset her, at least now she will have you to take her mind off of it.” 

Petra reached out her arms and hugged me, “And now, I have a new friend!”

Later, Petra joined Heather and me as we walked home. 

“What does your dad do?” Since Heather never knew her own father, she had an obsession with everyone else’s fathers.

          “He’s the curator at The American Museum of Natural History.” 

           Heather gushed, “Wow!  Groovy!”

          “What did he do before you moved here?”  I asked.

          “He worked at Le Museum National in Paris.  I was born in Paris.” 

          Heather screeched, “Cool!” 

          “So Julie, do you think we could work on the project tomorrow?”

          “Sure.” But I wasn't at all sure that my dad would let me go to her house. Tomorrow was Saturday and I hoped that my parents didn't have any plans that included me.

          When we got to Heather’s house I said, “How’s everything been with your mom?” 

          “She’s been going to work, so that’s good.  But she’s also been out a lot at night.  I guess things could be worse.”   She walked to her front door and said, “Well, I’ll see you guys on Monday.  It was nice meeting you Petra.” 

          “Hey, look, if you want to come and hang out with us while we work on this English project, you’re welcome to come over on Saturday too.” Petra offered.

          “That would be great!  Just let me know what time, okay?”

          “All right, see you tomorrow,” I said.  Heather entered her house with an extra bounce in her step. 

          Petra and I wrote each other’s phone numbers on our hands.  As I wrote down my number on her palm, I explained that our phone was on a party line.  “One of the people we share the party line with is our neighbor, Mrs. Conner.  Just a warning, she listens in on everyone’s conversations.” 

          Petra started laughing, and with a devilish gleam in her eyes, she said, “Well then, we’ll have to give her something to listen to, won’t we?”

          Now as I sat at the dinner table alone, I pushed the Lima beans around on my plate and tried to hide them in the mashed potatoes.  My mother was cleaning up the dinner plates. My father had already finished his dinner and was sitting in the living room in his recliner, reading the Daily News.  My sisters had gone down to the recreation room to watch T.V.  Only I still sat at the dinner table trying to swallow the detested Lima beans while I tried to think of a way to ask my dad if I could go over to Lydia Menlo’s house tomorrow.   Finally, my mother grew tired of waiting for me to finish, so she put her finger to her lips to warn me to be quiet.  She took my plate and scraped it into the garbage, before adding it to the dirty dishes in the sink.  She handed me a dishrag and I started to dry off the wet dishes and put them away.  We worked in silence; familiar with the routine, we performed our duties with efficiency.  I watched her red hands caress the dishes and wondered what it would be like if she ever touched me with those hands.  The familiar ache welled up inside of me.  The urge to reach out and touch her was strong, but I knew from experience that she would shrug it off with a nervous laugh.  So I held the rag, warm in my hand, and concentrated on the plate that she had just washed.  When we finished the dishes, I walked into the living room to talk with my father.

“Dad, I have an assignment for English that I need to work on.  My partner on the project is Lydia Menlo’s daughter.  She said that I could come over tomorrow, if it’s okay, and we can start doing some research.”

 “I don’t want you over there.”

“Dad, please.  I don’t understand what the big deal is.”

 My dad snapped, “I said I don’t want you over there and that’s it!” he shouted. 

“But why?  We have to do this project together for school!”

“Fine, then go to the library.”

I looked down the hall to the kitchen at my mother and pleaded silently for help.  She just shook her head.  My mother had less say in our house than I did.  Well, I decided that I wasn't giving in this time.

I gathered all of my courage and defiantly raised my voice, “I am going to Petra’s house tomorrow!”

You could have heard a pin drop, it got so quiet. 

Then he erupted, “What kind of name is that, ‘Petra’?  What kind of family are they?  I don’t like it!” 

He stood up and started unbuckling his belt, but this time, I walked right over to him.  I stood as tall as I could and said between gritted teeth, “You can hit me with that.  But I’m telling you, I’m going anyway.”  

          After a long moment, my father sighed.  He sat back down in his chair and moved his right hand through what was left of his hair.  For a moment, I almost felt sorry for him.  He looked so defeated.

 More calmly this time, I explained, “She has all the books and information that we need at her house.  If we do the work there, then you don’t have to drive me all the way to the library and then come back and pick me up a few hours later.  I’ll just be right down the block.” 

Slowly a slight smile came to his face.  Perhaps, in some small way, he admired my courage.  He shook his head, took a deep breath and said, “What am I going to do with you?”  Silence again.  Then finally, “Okay.  But I want you home by five o’clock sharp!” 

“Thanks Daddy.” I went over to him and gave him a light kiss on his cheek.  His smile broadened.  I’m not sure what changed his mind, maybe it was the memory of how out of control he had been the last time he hit me.  Maybe it was simply that he had seen a bit of himself reflected in my own stubbornness.  Whatever it was, I felt like a slight wind of change had just blown through our house.

The phone rang and my mother answered it in the kitchen.  She called, “Juliana, it’s for you.” With a surge of pride born out of the small victory, I picked up the phone.

Petra was on the line, “Hi Julie!  Can you come over tomorrow?”

“Yeah, but I have to be home by five.”

“Okay, so how about you come over around eleven and my mom will give us lunch.”

I could hear Mrs. Conner’s nasally breathing on the party line and I heard Petra giggle as she realized what the noise was.

Then Petra added, “I hope you’re not afraid of ghosts! Because, you know, our house is haunted by my grandmother!”

A gasp escaped from Mrs. Conner’s lips as she hastily hung up the phone.

I laughed as I pictured Mrs. Conner hastily closing the curtains to hide from the ghost of Petra’s grandmother.