kept bowls of hardcandy all over the living room: little purple globes wrapped in cellophane, golden butterscotches, and the striped peppermint discs my mom carried in her purse. Even after the girl and her family moved away, I’d think of Mrs. Meeks sometimes when I had nothing else to do. Sometimes, when I rang the bell, Mr. Meeks would answer and call, “Loretta!” to his wife in the back. She’d say, “Okay, Meeks. I’m coming!” It always took her a few minutes to make it up to the kitchen, enough time for Mr. Meeks to offer me a grape soda in a tall glass of crushed ice.
The Meekses had no children, or else their children were already grown. They lived on a corner lot behind a yard plotted with juniper bushes and red lava rocks. Some of the other kids in the neighborhood stole handfuls of the rocks to throw at one another (I did, too, at one time, before I learned better). I liked visiting there, and my mother never stopped me from going. It gave me a feeling of sophistication to have made friends with a grown-up. I’d bring Mrs. Meeks pictures and cards that I’d made, and she’d always clap her hands and say how clever I was:
I wrote this letter to tell you
I wrote this letter to say
Happy Mother’s Day, Mrs. Meeks
Even though it’s not Mother’s Day!
My parents always waved to Mr. Meeks when we drove past him on the street. I think they sometimes even walked over and paid the couple visits, which Mr. Meeks repaid mostly by himself. “Loretta’s a bit of a shut-in,” my father told me when I asked him about it. “I don’t know that I have ever seen her outside the house.” His emphasis on the word ever told me he was scandalizedby such an idea. When I’d see Mrs. Meeks, she’d give me a great big hug, toppling me into her bosom, which smelled like powdery perfume and, more vaguely, of cigarettes. She wore a silky nightgown and slippers and tied up her hair in a satin scarf. Sometimes, if I learned a new fact on TV or in one of my books, I’d run over to her, knowing she’d clap her hands and say, “Ooh, Tracy, baby, you are so clever !” Sometimes my mother would clip some roses from our yard and let me carry a bouquet over, and when I handed Mrs. Meeks the arrangement, stems wrapped in a wet paper towel and then covered with tinfoil, she’d say, “Oh, Tracy, baby, these are beautiful ! You are so sweet .” Other times, I’d ring the bell two or three times before accepting that nobody would answer, though if Mrs. Meeks never left the house, how could nobody be home?
During the same ceaseless summer, my father received news that his next air force posting would be in West Germany and would begin, if he intended to accept it, in September.
Having already begun to cut mental ties to my old school life, the thought of going to a whole new country whipped my heart into a frenzy.
“If we move, will I become German?” I asked my parents.
“No,” my father answered. “No matter where you are, geographically, you will still be American.”
“But if I wanted to, could I become German?”
“Theoretically, you could renounce your American citizenship, but that would be foolish. You’re fortunate to be American. This is the best country in the world.”
My father showed the first signs of bristling. And I could feel a resistance mounting in my own core, some part of me that didn’t like the blank sweep of what he was beginning to say. It struck me, even then, as dangerous to be so certain of a thing like that, thoughI also knew from watching my brothers argue politics with him that if I pushed back, he’d tighten his mouth and harden his gaze. “Shoot,” he’d eventually say, “if you don’t like it here, then move to the Soviet Union. Or China. You’ll see how valuable this kind of freedom is once you give it up.”
Over the next weeks, Mom and Dad made a show of considering the possibility. “You know, Floyd,” my mother said one morning while Dad was reading the paper and
The Meekses had no children, or else their children were already grown. They lived on a corner lot behind a yard plotted with juniper bushes and red lava rocks. Some of the other kids in the neighborhood stole handfuls of the rocks to throw at one another (I did, too, at one time, before I learned better). I liked visiting there, and my mother never stopped me from going. It gave me a feeling of sophistication to have made friends with a grown-up. I’d bring Mrs. Meeks pictures and cards that I’d made, and she’d always clap her hands and say how clever I was:
I wrote this letter to tell you
I wrote this letter to say
Happy Mother’s Day, Mrs. Meeks
Even though it’s not Mother’s Day!
My parents always waved to Mr. Meeks when we drove past him on the street. I think they sometimes even walked over and paid the couple visits, which Mr. Meeks repaid mostly by himself. “Loretta’s a bit of a shut-in,” my father told me when I asked him about it. “I don’t know that I have ever seen her outside the house.” His emphasis on the word ever told me he was scandalizedby such an idea. When I’d see Mrs. Meeks, she’d give me a great big hug, toppling me into her bosom, which smelled like powdery perfume and, more vaguely, of cigarettes. She wore a silky nightgown and slippers and tied up her hair in a satin scarf. Sometimes, if I learned a new fact on TV or in one of my books, I’d run over to her, knowing she’d clap her hands and say, “Ooh, Tracy, baby, you are so clever !” Sometimes my mother would clip some roses from our yard and let me carry a bouquet over, and when I handed Mrs. Meeks the arrangement, stems wrapped in a wet paper towel and then covered with tinfoil, she’d say, “Oh, Tracy, baby, these are beautiful ! You are so sweet .” Other times, I’d ring the bell two or three times before accepting that nobody would answer, though if Mrs. Meeks never left the house, how could nobody be home?
During the same ceaseless summer, my father received news that his next air force posting would be in West Germany and would begin, if he intended to accept it, in September.
Having already begun to cut mental ties to my old school life, the thought of going to a whole new country whipped my heart into a frenzy.
“If we move, will I become German?” I asked my parents.
“No,” my father answered. “No matter where you are, geographically, you will still be American.”
“But if I wanted to, could I become German?”
“Theoretically, you could renounce your American citizenship, but that would be foolish. You’re fortunate to be American. This is the best country in the world.”
My father showed the first signs of bristling. And I could feel a resistance mounting in my own core, some part of me that didn’t like the blank sweep of what he was beginning to say. It struck me, even then, as dangerous to be so certain of a thing like that, thoughI also knew from watching my brothers argue politics with him that if I pushed back, he’d tighten his mouth and harden his gaze. “Shoot,” he’d eventually say, “if you don’t like it here, then move to the Soviet Union. Or China. You’ll see how valuable this kind of freedom is once you give it up.”
Over the next weeks, Mom and Dad made a show of considering the possibility. “You know, Floyd,” my mother said one morning while Dad was reading the paper and
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