Saving Face - Fiction

Saving Face

I straddled my bike at the top of the hill and surveyed the road below me. The hill was steep, the road narrow, and at the bottom was a blind turn that opened to a two lane rural town road. They had all underestimated me – my brother, his friends and the middle school girls in the neighborhood. I was too old to play dolls or dress up. I belonged with the middle school kids and this ride would prove it. My ride would either go down as one of the bravest feats in the history of Circle Drive or it would end in injury, possibly even death. But I was not afraid. In my heart I knew that today, I, Lizzie Baker, at nearly ten years old, would become the youngest and only girl member of the Fort. I had dreamed of this moment all summer long.

It was a lazy, hot day in August; the kind of day that happens towards the end of a busy summer. We had picked clean the berry bushes in the field out back, our swimming lessons were over and 4H camp seemed like a distant memory. My mother’s summer calendar of planned activities had come to an end and my older brother TJ and I had nothing but time on our hands. In our house, however, lounging about and complaints of boredom invited unwanted chores like pulling dandelions from the side yard, sorting and pairing the large basket of unmatched socks or shucking corn for dinner. So every morning after straightening up our rooms, TJ and I would head out into the neighborhood to find something exciting to do.

The kids on my street were divided into three groups: the high school kids, the middle school boys and everyone else. The high school kids always seemed somber and disinterested, smoking cigarettes and avoiding interaction with adults and younger children at all costs. The senior high girls, the Farrell sisters and Mary Kay Johnson, wore their hair ironed straight, parted down the middle to allow only a small glimpse of their serious faces. The mini skirts they wore were ridiculously short: my mother would shake her head and worry aloud about the future of any girl who would wear such clothing. I thought the skirts impractical and limiting. How could they ride a bike or climb a tree in such clothes? The high school boys, the Henson brothers, Jimmy Rudnick and Vic Thomas, were only rarely sighted outside in the summer. They kept their hair loose, covering their ears and they wore long, tight fitting jeans regardless of the temperature.

The middle school girls and all the younger kids hung out together playing “make believe” or creating dance routines. One new neighbor, Julie Moore, had taken several years of dance classes back in Ohio and had suitcases full of fancy, glittery costumes perfectly sized for most of the little girls in the neighborhood. Once or twice every summer we would put on a neighborhood recital for the moms and charge a nickel to cover production expenses and refreshments. Each of us would raid our pantries in search of cookies, saltines or oyster crackers to serve the mothers after the recital. KoolAid was always donated by Julie’s mom. Once, we all pooled our allowances and bought a bag of Oreo cookies, scraping together all the frosting to create a “dip” and arranging the bare black wafers artfully on a platter surrounding the bowl of lumpy white cream for our patrons to enjoy. Oddly enough, the mothers preferred the unadorned Oreo wafers and so the performers, between dances, snuck fingerfuls of frosting until the bowl was wiped clean.

Another favorite pastime was reliving the Miss America Pageant. One of the younger boys would mimic Burt Park’s deep voice and announce the winner. A cape made from the plastic sheet of a Twister game and a crown fashioned from a white headband, grosgrain ribbons and shimmering barrettes was placed upon the crying beauty. Each week a different winner was chosen by a committee of middle school girls and the newly crowned winner would walk among her subjects waving regally and carrying an armload of pretend roses. Whenever I played along, the votes and the crown eluded me and I was always chosen as one of the lesser runner-ups. Since I didn’t possess an ounce of talent for singing, dancing or acting, I always scored poorly in the talent portion of the pageant or got one of the minor roles in the dance recitals. I also despised dressing up in tights and satin because I was too much of a tomboy and with my short, sensible haircut and abundance of freckles, I was ill suited for the frilly, feminine costumes. I usually left undiscovered and bored in search of my brother, his friends and their more mature and dangerous adventures.

The group I longed to be a part of consisted of all the middle school boys on Circle Drive. The boys led us in daring explorations of the fields and woods behind our house, performed amazing tricks on their bicycles and challenged younger kids to match their skill and bravery stunt for stunt.

Behind the homes on our side of the street was an enormous field that stretched out for several hundred yards until it hit the base of Waverly Hill. The field was unkempt and covered with hay, wild flowers, prickers and berry bushes and home to a myriad of insects and rodents, the occasional deer, and ominous snakes that I only learned later in life were harmless black snakes.

I believed then that I lived in one of the greatest places in America. I had the companionship and convenience of living in a small town neighborhood but the excitement and adventure associated with living on the edge of wilderness. I could explore the wild all day yet return to the safety and comfort of my bedroom every night. It was perfect. In my nine year old mind, I was sure that I would live on Circle Drive forever.

Each season that glorious field held for us some activities and adventures that have been etched forever in my memory. In the summer, my brother and I would take baskets out back and pick sweet juicy blackberries and red boysenberries. TJ would remind me, “One for the belly and then one for the basket,” in hopes that we could gather enough to have them for desert after dinner. We would come home hours later dying of thirst, our fingers and shirts stained red and our bellies and baskets full of berries. Sometimes Mom would make a berry pie or, if there wasn’t time, she would wash the berries, sprinkle them with sugar and serve them over sweet biscuits at dinner.

In the field just beyond the berry bushes was a small pond. In the spring and fall, we would catch tadpoles and frogs and bring them home for pets. In the winter, the pond would freeze over and we would walk across the field in our ice skates and spend all afternoon with the rest of the kids in the neighborhood running obstacles courses and speed races and practicing spins and jumps. I never knew, until I went to college, that the blades on the ice skates should be sharpened regularly and protected off the ice. For my brother and me, the skates were just clumsy hiking boots until we made it to the ice and then they were transformed into blades of speed and grace. By late afternoon, my mother would spot us walking back and make us strip down at the back door and then give us warm blankets and hot cocoa.

But the biggest draw in the field by far was the “Hole” – a large indentation of land rumored to have been made by an alien spacecraft a decade earlier. Others, like me, believed it more likely created by a dinosaur. To me, that seemed more likely because the “Hole” was, after all, in a pretty remote, wild part of upstate New York and it was very wide and deep –probably the footprint of Giganotosaurus, I imagined.

Despite the size and depth and steepness of the sides, the Thompson boys raced their bikes down the sides carving paths that the rest of us only dared sidestep down. At the bottom of the Hole, the boys had erected a fort made from branches, boards, nails and clothing line rope they had collected or stolen. Inside were several crates and barrels that were used as furniture and tables. On the ground were remnants of firecrackers and cigarettes, candy bar wrappers and National Geographic magazines that featured half naked tribes of dark skinned people with long, stretched out ear lobes or lower lips pierced with bones.

Only official members were allowed inside the fort unescorted. Temporary memberships were granted on an hour by hour basis if anyone could complete the challenge of the day. The challenges were always changing depending on the mood of Joey or Richie, the oldest two members of the fort. Sometimes the tests were simple: touch the shed skin of a “rattlesnake”, eat a potion of “poison” berries or receive an Indian burn by one of the members in good standing. But by late August, the boys had exhausted all reasonable ideas on how to prove a candidate worthy of fort entry and the challenges became downright scary.

It bothered my brother TJ that I wanted to hang out with his friends. “We don’t do anything special, Lizzie. It’s no big deal,” he would tell me. TJ wasn’t much of a braggart. Tall and handsome, the short haircut and freckles suited him. He neither led nor followed his friends and it irritated him that I was so envious of them and their fort.

On this particular August day, the privilege of hanging out with the gang and gaining access to the Fort could be earned by riding my bike down the hill at the top of Circle Drive and making the turn by Dr. Diamond’s house without my feet on the pedals – which meant taking the turn with no brakes. This was a blind turn that had a narrow shoulder and a hedge on the inside edge and loose gravel, several driveways and a water drainage pipe along the outside edge. This was no easy feat. Although a few kids like Joey Cunningham and Richie Thompson could navigate the hill and turn without hands, lots of the younger neighborhood kids were under strict instructions from their mothers not to ride down that hill. There had been too many gravel burns, broken arms or collarbones and lost or broken teeth.

I was nervous about the very real possibility of flying over the handlebars and losing a tooth or two. But despite the risks, I really wanted to belong. I would be ten soon, ready to prove that my courage and skills were equal to the middle school boys who had access to the fort and lived from one daring adventure to the next.

I was confident in my bike, a refurbished StingRay my father bought at the church yard sale. Dad had painted it white, fixed the brakes, put in a new red banana boat seat and hung plastic red, white and blue tassels from the grips. On the spokes, I had little colored beads that slid up and down as the wheel spun around and made nifty clicking noises. Not only would I conquer the hill, I told myself, I would do it in style.

So I walked my bike to the top of the hill beside my only competition that day, Eric Cunningham. Eric was Joey’s eight year old brother. Although Joey was blond and lean, his younger brother was short and chubby with brown hair and he wore the kind of dark framed, thick glasses that older gentlemen usually wore. Wherever Joey went, Eric had to follow. Joey was under strict orders to keep an eye on Eric and everyone knew that when Mrs. Cunningham gave Joey an order, she meant it. Poor Eric had spent most of the summer frantically pedaling or running some considerable distance behind his brother and his friends or sitting outside the fort hoping to join the boys for a peek at the coveted National Geographic magazine.

Wisely, most of the other kids opted out of the challenge that day, preferring to watch the disaster unfold before their eyes. TJ, realizing that I would probably get hurt and that he would be held accountable, raced home to get my mother to intervene.

The Thompson boys posted themselves at the bottom of the hill after the turn to warn those of us at the top of the hill of any oncoming cars. The All Clear was given and Eric took off on his shiny black Varsity Racer to the cheers of neighborhood. Quickly it became apparent that Eric had hugged the inside shoulder of the turn too closely and, in a matter of moments, found himself and his bike scratched up and firmly stuck inside the hedge. I felt bad for Eric but his older brother showed no mercy and fell to the ground in laughter. Eric crawled out of the hedge and ran home in tears, his bike still lodged inside the hedge. Joey Cunningham got serious real quick and ran after his brother hoping to catch him. You could hear Joey yelling after him, “Buddy wait up! I’m sorry you fell. You can be in the Fort!”

It was my turn now and I was determined not to make the same mistake and land in the hedge. My plan was to go wide of the center and lean into the curve. I don’t remember being nervous, just determined. I was determined to accomplish what only a handful of older boys had ever done, eager to prove that I did not belong with girls who played Miss America and wore silly costumes. I would show them that Lizzie Baker was worthy of being a permanent member of the Fort.

One of the Thompson boys yelled that the coast was clear and I took off, staying just left of the middle of the road and leaning into the curve as planned. As I picked up speed, I felt the wind in my hair and the elation that comes with seeing a crowning moment materialize. I felt like I could fly. I envisioned myself telling the middle school girls that I had no time to dance in their silly productions. Miss America had no power over me. My talent was something too spectacular and grand to be done on a stage!

As I rounded the turn, I realized that I was riding too fast and too wide. I leaned into the turn even more trying to compensate. My tires lost traction and skidded on the loose gravel. As I wiped out in the middle of the turn, the bike slid out from underneath me leaving the right side of my body exposed to the road. My lower leg and thigh as well as my hand, forearm and elbow were on fire. Just then I heard my mother invoking the name of the Holy Family.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Are you all out of your minds?”

Unfortunately for my pride, there was little blood, just raw flesh with embedded gravel. And, at that moment, my pride hurt more than my asphalt and gravel burns. I willed myself not to cry. Thinking on my feet, I told my mother that I was sure I had broken my nose. My mother was a practical woman who firmly believed that 99% of all ailments could be cured with Bactine or Vaseline.

“Your nose looks fine. You’re lucky you didn’t kill yourself.”

The gang quickly dispersed and I overheard one of the boys say that I had chickened out before the turn. My mother walked my bike beside me as I took the walk of shame home.

As the day wore on, my body ached and my burns stung. But mostly I just dreaded facing the boys; I was sure that I would be banned from the fort for the remainder of the summer.

In my home there was little sympathy for those suffering the consequences of stupidity. My mother busied herself with chores and my brother went back out to play. I lay down on my bed reliving the events of the day, recreating the outcome. After a while I began to deal with reality trying to devise a way to make the most out of a bad situation. If I could somehow make the boys see my attempt as heroic (heck, I didn’t even cry) Maybe if I had an injury that required medical intervention, that would make them see me in a different light. I knew a broken arm trumped a brush burn any day of the week but unfortunately, all my limbs were fine. But a broken nose or better yet, a broken nose that required the surgical removal of small stones would really make those boys sit up and take notice.

For the remainder of the afternoon, I cried and complained that my nose hurt and that it felt like a stone or two had lodged inside. “See Mom,” I cried through earnest tears, “I can barely breathe out of this nostril.” I rarely ever cried; it seemed too childish, too girlish – all the things I tried desperately not to be. My tears definitely wore her down. Finally, in frustration, my mother offered to call my dad at work. It was a small victory; my mom now thought there was something seriously wrong with me.

My dad was a hardworking man who left for work everyday looking handsome and polished in a suit only to come home every evening looking tired and old. The only thing I knew about his job was what I overheard him tell my mother – he worked in an office of idiots counting beans. It seemed like an easy enough job but he always came home looking like he spent the entire day harvesting the beans by hand rather than counting them.

My father, also a firm subscriber to the Bactine and Vaseline philosophy, had a conference in the bedroom with my mother and I eavesdropped on their conversation.

“Ryan, I really think she hurt her nose,” I heard her say.

My dad came out, kneeled beside me on the couch and said, “Hey Pumpkin, I hear you took a fall.”

I retold the story about the day’s fort challenge, emphasizing my bravery and embellishing my injuries. Tears fell as I confessed that my nose still hurt and that I was sure there was a stone or two lodged deep inside my head. As my dad ran his fingers gingerly along my nose and across my nasal passages, I winced in pain.

Convinced both by my mother’s concern and my theatrics, my father finally said, “Lea, I’m going to take her to the emergency room.” I felt immediately better and jumped up in anticipation of the field trip.

My father and I were greeted by a pretty nurse in a starched white hat and dress. Business was slow and my brush burns and tears garnered the attention I craved. The physician on duty, however, could find nothing wrong with my nose and called in an ear, nose and throat specialist from home. In the meantime, X-rays were ordered. It was all so exciting that I could barely wait to relay all the details to the gang.

Finally, after hours of examination, the specialist looked at me and said, “Honey, I see no evidence of a break or any stones in your nose. Tell me again why you think you have a stone up there.”

The gig was up. I was caught. There was absolutely nothing wrong with me. “Well, I said, I told my Mom that my nose hurt and she said that I probably had a stone in my nose.” Although the doctor suppressed a good laugh, my father was not at all amused.

Money was always tight and as my mother often said, “Your father could ride a buffalo off a nickel.” I never understood that phrase completely but I knew the gist – my father took frugality to an art form. My father paid the emergency room bill and we headed home in silence.

After a while, I spoke up. “Daddy, I am very sorry. It’s just that the boys wouldn’t let me play with them or go in their dumb fort.... .” The tears this time were genuine; I had never considered the cost to my family. I was only trying to save face in front of the boys.

When we arrived home around 8:00 PM, a few of the older boys were hanging outside near our driveway. My dad walked over to them and told them that he knew that they were very strong, brave and capable of doing difficult things that the younger ones couldn’t do.

“Today my daughter had a stone the size of a quarter removed from inside her sinus cavity. If she inhaled it, she very well might have died.” He then warned them to be more careful in the future and to take better care of us.

“Mr. Bradshaw, we meant no harm. We’re really sorry,” said Richie Thompson. The other boys hung their heads in a show of remorse. My dad had managed to compliment their manhood while giving them a sense of responsibility for the safety and well being of those that looked up to them.

After we walked inside my father put his arm around my shoulder and said, “Friends who ask you to put yourself in dangerous situations aren’t really your friends.”

Although I had to relearn that lesson several times throughout my life, especially during my teen years, I did learn something else important that day. The lesson I learned was that my dad, despite being a no-nonsense, strict, cost conscience man, had a heart of gold. My father allowed me to save face in front of the neighborhood and I, in turn, promised never to ride my StingRay down that hill again.