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I finish my Friday night dinner of tomato soup, fancy fish sticks, and french fries and then go back to staring at the phone. Finally, it rings in a special way, and I can just tell it will be for me. I leap for the phone, skirting past Michael, who is getting ready for sports night up at his school. It is Mr. Flanigan on the other end.
"'Ho ho ho.'" He says this each time he calls. "Guess who this is!" Another "ho ho ho" and a snort.
"Mr. Flanigan!"
"How'd you guess?"
I bite my nail and worry he will not ask me to come along to the movie, and instead will ask for Dad, who always lights up a cigarette when you tell him Mr. Flanigan is on the phone.
"Do you want to talk to my dad?"
"No, honey, we'll leave that ole Irishman alone. Listen, how would ya like to see that new movie up at the navy base tonight? We've got room in the car."
"'The Sound of Music?'"
"And, honey, I got a free pass just for you." He snorts again.
Mr. Flanigan always says he has a free pass. He was in one of those big wars, just like Dad, but Dad was in the army and had to go to faraway places. Mr. Flanigan gets tickets for half price when a new movie comes to the Jacaranda Navy Base theater, but he calls it a free pass because free pass sounds more exciting than half price.
I put the phone down and run from one room to the next, asking Julie and John where Mom is and they shrug their shoulders, playing Mother Goose. I find Mom in the back bedroom. She wears her pink sweater and scoops down to Joey. She holds his hands together, rubs something off her cheek with her shoulder, as she sings low. She says the lyrics, line by line, from "The Farmer in the Dell." Joey's eyes smile back even though his mouth falls open and saliva covers his chin. Mom wipes it up.
"Hi, Mom."
She looks up, startled, and I see tears shining on her cheeks. Her eyes are red with veins. Before she says anything, I become a tornado and run out of the room back to the kitchen. Dad walks in with his tin bucket full of sudsy water, sets it down, and leans over to start mopping the floor, just like he does every Friday night. First he flicks on the radio to listen to a California Angels game, then turns it off when he spots the phone off the hook.
"What's going on here?" Dad says this like any moment a call could be coming in from J. Edgar Hoover and we should remember to keep the phone free.
"Ooops. I'll get it." I pick up the receiver, pull the phone cord as far away as I can, and whisper, "Mr. Flanigan, my parents say it is okay for me to go." He tells me to get ready right away because the Flanigan family will honk their horn in five minutes.
I hang up the phone, so quiet. Dad sets the mop down, stretching his neck like a turtle.
"What do you think you're doing?"
"Nothing."
"Who was that on the phone?"
"I'm going to see 'The Sound of Music' with the Flanigans." I say it so fast I nearly choke.
"Did you ask your mother?"
"No, she's with the baby...She's cryin'–"
"Did you ask me?" He leans forward, crosses his arms again to inspect how I will answer his question.
Dad doesn't have any scars on his face, just a tight grin. He has that look that says I should be careful if I want to get away with going to the theater with the Flanigans.
"Can I...see the movie?"
He shakes his head, then turns to the heating vent in the wall as if ghosts live there. "I've never seen a house like this in all my life," he says. The ghosts must listen, because he says this all the time, even if none of us ever mutter a word.
"Please, Dad?" My tongue tightens.
Mom comes out with Joey in her arms. She looks at my scrambled eyebrows, then looks at Dad.
"This one here." He points to me.
"Mom, Mr. Flanigan invited me to see 'The Sound of Music.' They're going to pick me up right now."
"How wonderful! That sounds like a terrific invitation." Her eyes roll back over to Dad.
Dad mumbles under his breath. "How is Joey feeling?" Mom clears her throat, nods her head so Dad will remember me.
"Oh, sure, okay." He reaches into his pocket. I hear the tinkling of metal whirling about. Sparkling coins come out from his trousers, as if they could be wishes tossed into a fountain. He turns quarters in his wet palm, looking for the right one.
(continued on the next page)
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