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RICHARD
ATLANTA, GEORGIA
I AM REBECCAbut I know that isn’t true. Mother tells me that most people are a sucker for destiny. I don’t know exactly what she means, but I pretend I do so she likes me. All I know is that’s why my name is Rebecca, hers is Rosemary and we live with a man named Richard. She tells me once that her real name begins with the letterB. It makes me want to ask her more questions about who she is, who we are, but I know better than to upset Mother.
She makes me call her Mommy in front of other people, but I’m not allowed to call her that when we’re alone. It makes me nervous because if I mess up, I know that she won’t talk to me for hours. Sometimes days. I hate when Mother is mad at me, so I make extra sure to think about where I am and who we’re with before I call out for her. I always want her attention, so I try not to do anything that will make her take it away from me. I just want her to like me.
Richard’s house has white bricks, a black door and a swimmingpool. It seems to always be hot in Atlanta, even in the fall. Richard teaches me how to swim and it’s my favorite thing. Mother watches us, saying nothing. I like how it feels being underwater. LikeThe Little Mermaid.
I sing down there.
I’m quiet at the surface.
The pool water feels like a warm bath from the heat. Richard wears bright blue swim trunks that stop just above his knees. He usually takes the steps to go into the pool, but sometimes he’ll jump in with me if I ask nicely. We hold hands and count to three.
“Rosie, come in the pool with us!” Richard shouts to Mother. She’s in a black bikini with black sunglasses and bright red lips. Her pretty lips, like a bright bow, are even prettier when she smiles, but she never smiles with her teeth. Maybe because then she’d be too pretty, too shiny for anyone to be around her, and I always want to be around her. Richard does, too. Even though she always says no about the pool, Richard always asks anyway. “Come on, Rosie! Please?” She shakes her head and smiles at him. He’ll ask her again. Beg her. Mother knows this and enjoys it because she says it’s exactly how it should be.
Mother tells me that Richard is the ideal man for us right now. She needs a rest and he’s easy. Richard’s a very tall person with weak shoulders. That’s what Mother calls them. She says his chin is weak, too. His eyes, nose and mouth are all bunched in the middle of his face with the ends of each falling down like a melted candle. His cheeks droop, too. He’s not handsome, but he has a good voice. Deep, but kind. He has the voice of a handsome man. He hangs my report card on the refrigerator like he’s proud of me. Mother laughs about it.
“How could he be proud of you? He doesn’t even know you. I’m the only one you need to worry about. Makemeproud of you.”
Maybe Richard could get to know me, I think.
And I don’t think I could make Mother do anything.
•••
WE GO TOMass on Sundays at Christ the King with Richard’s mother, Lois. She likes me and tells me to call her Grandma. She says Richard is lucky to have a new wife with such an adorable little girl. She tells the people at church that I’m her granddaughter and I like when we shake hands with them. We saypeace be with you. Lois always dresses up for church and wears a colorful scarf, either around her neck or over her hair. We pick her up from assisted living on the way to Mass, but we never go inside her place. She meets us at Richard’s Cadillac and he always opens the door for her. She sits in the front seat and I can tell Mother doesn’t like that, but she allows it. Grandma Lois is Richard’s only family, except for us now. Mother and Grandma Lois never say much to each other, unless it’s about me.
“Becky is just the cutest little thing, Rosemary. You really should be taking her to auditions. She’s a star, I know it,” Grandma Lois says. “The next Shirley Temple. Do you know who Shirley Temple is, honey?”
“No, ma’am,” I say.
“But she should smile more. Why don’t you smile more, honey?”
“She smiles plenty,” Mother responds for me, her voice low, and I know instantly that I had better start smiling more. Mother tells me later that everyone trusts a smiler. It’s important to be a genuine smiler. She makes me practice until my cheeks hurt. I do whatever she asks so she likes me.
“Rebecca needs to concentrate on school,” Mother says in a way that ends the conversation about auditions. Grandma Lois scoffs.
“I’d take you myself,” she whispers to me through the gap between the front seat and the back seat. “But I’ve already been put out to pasture.” Then she speaks a little louder. “Maybe you can come over and watch a Shirley Temple movie with me sometime?”
“We’ll see you next Sunday, Lois,” Mother says.
•••
MOTHER TAKES MEon an audition for a kids’ variety show and doesn’t explain to me what that means. She doesn’t tell Richard about it. It makes me nervous but I am already enjoying the extra time alone with her so I am excited to go if it will make her happy. She dresses me in a nautical jumper with polka dots and curls my hair and does my makeup. A bright red lipstick pops out of its gold case. She holds my chin and I feel her nails press into my skin ever so slightly. She has a French manicure like always. Quick little swipes on my little lips.
I love having her so close to me.
“Blot,” she says, holding up a Kleenex to my face. “Well, bunny, you’re no JonBenét, but you’re pretty damn cute.”
I smile at her. Really. I’m not practicing. I feel the smile all the way to my toes.
She doesn’t smile back at me, but when she calls mebunny, I know she likes me, at least a little bit, and that’s good enough for me.
The room is empty except for a long table with two women and one man behind it; all of them grin at me when I come inside. I can’t seem to smile back. I’m alone. Parents aren’t allowed. There’s anXon the floor in tape. I am supposed to stand on it. So I do. The room is very cold. Now I just want to get this over with and I hope I do a good job for Mother. I wonder if they can see the goose bumps on my legs. I’m freezing.
“Sing ‘Mary Had a Little Lamb’ for us, sweet pea,” the man says to me.
