Dreamsleeves by Coleen Murtagh Paratore Page B

loudly over my head, leaving a wispy white tail behind it. The sun starts cooking me right away. The blond hair will have to wait. We don’t have any lemons.
    Later, I do a Dreamsleeves label and stick it on my shirt:
    Beck, I’m sorry. Please forgive me.
    When B sees it, he immediately reads his name. “What’s the rest of it say?” he asks me. I point and sound out each word for him.
    â€œAll right,” he says, “but three strikes and you’re out.”
    I hug him. “Thanks, B. Come on, slugger. Let’s go play some ball.”
    â€œMe, too,” Callie says, “me, too.”

In the spring of ’27, something bright and alien flashed
across the sky. A young Minnesotan [Charles Lindbergh]
who seemed to have had nothing to do with his generation
did a heroic thing, and for a moment people set down their
glasses in country clubs and speakeasies and thought of
their old best dreams.
    â€” F. S COTT F ITZGERALD
    T he next day I get up my courage and dial Sue-Ellen Dandridge’s number, praying that she won’t answer the phone.
    â€œDandridge residence,” a grown-up woman answers.
    Sue-Ellen’s mother, good. “Hello. This is Aislinn O’Neill and I’m calling to say that I will be pleased to attend Sue-Ellen’s birthday party.”
    â€œLet me get the list,” Mrs. Dandridge says.
    She’s back on the line in a second. “Say your name again,” she says.
    I do.
    â€œSpell it for me, please.”
    â€œSure, I know. Aislinn is an unusual name.”
    â€œIt’s a nice name.”
    â€œThank you, Mrs. Dandridge.”
    There’s laughter. “Oh, no, sweetie. I’m not the missus. I’m just the maid.”
    The Dandridges have servants? Wow. They are richer than I thought they were. I wonder if the maid has to wear a gray uniform dress and a frilly white apron and cap like the ones on television. I start to get nervous about the pool party. What if my new suit isn’t good enough? What if Sue-Melon can tell I bought it at Two Guys?
    I can’t do anything about the suit, but I can work on my tan. I’ll need to make sure all the little ones are sound asleep first, though. One of them might try climbing up to follow me and fall off and get hurt.
    Up in the shed, we say the pledge of allegiance, hands over hearts, proud faces turned to the small flag stuck out of a hubcap on the wall. B, C, and D look so solemn and patriotic lined up, chins in the air, “I pledge allegiance to the flag….” Eddie is standing up in his playpen, hands clutching the top, thumbs sticking through the mesh netting, mumbling along in baby talk like he knows the words. I wish I had a camera to take their picture to send to my uncle Bobby and uncle Jimmy serving in Vietnam to let them know how much we appreciate their service.
    The last time Mom got a letter from Uncle Jimmy he said his feet were getting moldy from tramping through wet rice fields and trenches, but he was sure better off than his best buddy, Wayne, who got his leg blown off in a land mine.
    Please, God, bring my uncles home safely, and all the other soldiers, too .
    I speed through school, teaching Beck and Callie the capitals of ten states, Dooley how to do upper and lower case G, and Eddie how to count on his fingers.
    After lunch — peanut butter and marshmallow fluff because it’s quicker than grilled cheese — I put on Mom’s Chubby Checker album and I get the little ones dancing, dancing, dancing until I see Callie yawn. I read Curious George Flies a Kite in a whisper-voice and soon, good, they’re all sleepy little monkeys.
    Beck down. Callie down. D and E down. Done.
    I’m putting on my bathing suit when I hear the key in the kitchen door lock. Oh, no! I rush to put my clothes back on.
    My father is at the counter, pouring himself a drink.
    A drink at one o’clock in the afternoon? This is not good.
    â€œWhere are