I remember her
eyes best of all. They were paisley. Not paisley like the pattern,
but the colors - brown and green and gold in mottled swirls of iris.
She liked Cheezies, I could tell. Her paisley eyes flitted from the
back of the green vinyl seat to the shiny orange cellophane in my
hand and then back to the seat again. I held out the open bag. She
blushed and one corner of her mouth twitched upward. Her hand
followed her gaze and she reached in, methodically, emancipating a
single powdery Cheezy from the bag, looking down at her bruised knees
as she silently popped the treasure into her waiting mouth. I popped
another into mine and, in unison, our cheeks collapsed as we sucked
the cheese treats till they disappeared on our tongues.
That's how we
became friends. It was a silent friendship, mostly. A mutual,
introverted, wall-flower friendship. We spoke in rhythms and
movements and rituals. Like the Cheezies ritual, which took place
every day after that for almost two weeks, at three-thirty pm on the
bus ride home from swimming lessons. I didn't know her name yet. I
wouldn't learn her name until later, when it was too late.
It was 1972.
The orange bus lumbered along Highway #52 like an old locomotive in
the fever of the August sun. Heat waves danced on the highway in
front like fairies, stealing away the mirage pools just before our
tires could make a splash. I sat in the front seat with my new
friend, both of us too awkward to push past the imposing faces behind
us to a more venerable spot. In the front we'd be the first to
arrive.
I'd never
particularly liked water, or pools, or instructors who insisted that
your head must break the water's surface to become a proficient
swimmer. Just last summer I'd invented five ways to be sick during
swimming hour - one for each day at junior camp. The camp counselor
and my mother must have collaborated, because here I was - my first
summer in swimming lessons.
My fingers
curled around the quarter in the pocket of my pink polyester shorts.
It was small recompense to get me on the bus each day, swimsuit and
towel in tow. It was the purchase price of a bag of vending machine
Cheezies and a new friendship.
Chlorine kissed
our noses as we disembarked. I liked the smell; it was a clean smell
and it drew me willingly into the confines of the first open change
stall. I exchanged glances with my friend before swinging the
teal-painted door shut. She would wait there while I changed then I,
in turn, would wait for her.
My feet danced
lightly on the cold, cracked concrete as I pulled the tie dyed T over
my head. I lay my clothes neatly in a pile on the bench. She would
stack her outerwear on top where they would await our return. There
was a distinct disparity between her and I, although only
superficial. Placing her generously patched and fraying clothing on
top of mine, I reasoned, would reduce the likelihood of change room
thievery. I double checked the pocket for my quarter.
We moved out
into the open pool area like Flossie and Freddie, the Bobbsey twins,
holding hands, close at each others heels. This was where the
chopping block came down. We could no longer ride shotgun from here.
Edging in
gently next to another girl in roll call line, I pulled my Josie and
the Pussycats towel tighter around me. The breeze was cool and, as
the goose bumps rose on my calves, I imagined the prepubescent hair
on my legs standing on end like flags in a windstorm. I dropped the
towel a little lower.
“Debbie?
Gloria? Jeffrie? Brenda?”
Our instructor
checked each name off her list. I glanced around the pool for the
familiarity of my friend. She sat on the concrete at the far end of
the pool, knees bent up to her chin, shielding her from unwarranted
attention to her faded, stretched out swimsuit. Her class hadn't
started yet. She looked like a dusty, bygone china doll.
“Okay class,
jump into the water and give me ten bobs.”
Bobs. Why must
we always start off with bobs? I slipped silently into the tepid
water and turned my back to the instructor. Holding my nose between
pinched fingers, I bobbed, my face never fully breaking the surface.
Somehow, miraculously, I was the first to achieve ten. I turned to
watch the others, still bobbing, luxuriating in the feel of water in
their eyes, noses and mouths, on top of their heads, in their ears.
They were sea creatures and I a ground mammal. I bounced on my tippy
toes, up and down in the water, enjoying the feeling of buoyancy.
Perhaps my pretty floral swimsuit would distract them all from my
inadequacies.
By the end of
the first week I'd come to realize that not all instructors were
required to get wet in order to be swimming teachers. My instructor,
Margie, was that variety. I wondered what possessed her to put on a
bathing suit before leaving the house in the morning. She could have
stayed in a housecoat for all the effort she put in.
“Not like
that class, like this.”
We would stop
and rub the moisture from our eyes as she'd demonstrate – poolside
– her arms drawing on great heaps of air, balancing on one leg
while kicking like a dolphin with the other. She looked like the
perpetual motion drinking bird my dad kept on display as a
conversation piece at home.
Each class
would eventually end with a race to the pool steps, a clamber back to
our reckless summer lives, free of tutelage and responsibility.
I was usually
the first back to the bus, reserving “our” seat and waiting while
the others returned in twos or threes. Eventually my friend would
board, her brown hair tangled and dripping. It was no great feat for
her to find me on that bus, we were parallel personalities, kindred
in so many ways, drawn together like opposing poles. We came from
two different worlds and found a solidarity in this new one.
We knew nothing
of each others lives, not even a name. We shared Cheezies and
trivialities. Perhaps too many details would muck up the mystery and
the vulnerability of what we had. I didn't question it then.
The last day of
swimming lessons finally arrived but something was different.
Everything was different. My friend was not on the bus, not in her
usual spot, not smiling her crooked tooth smile as I plopped down in
our seat. Her spot was cold and it left me cold as I shuffled in.
Perhaps she missed the bus and her parents would drive her in.
My friend did
not arrive. She was not there to safeguard the change room door,
shadow me to the pool or share a celebratory bag of Cheezies on the
way home. She was not there as her instructor called out her name,
not there to collect her badge. I wished in that moment I'd known
her name. How would I ever find her?
I lost myself
over the next few days in the hot, hazy summer cycle of play and
boredom. Then suddenly I saw her. Not the way I'd expected; not
waving from a passing car, or skipping with a group of friends. It
was an image; a likeness looking back at me in black and white
familiarity, the face that drew me to the newspaper on our kitchen
table. She stared back at me from the front page and for the first
time I learned her name; Renata.
Renata
Wiebe, the newspaper stated in tiny font underneath the picture
of my swimming lesson friend. She looked happy, completely unaware
of the large, bold faced letters above her threatening to squash her
from the page.
Gruesome
Slaying Shocks Community. I
didn't understand. Found dead Friday morning...nearly
decapitated...father used a butcher knife. Was
this a joke? Lost his job just weeks prior...family was
soon to be evicted from the home they'd been renting...Renata was
eight years old...mother and younger sibling safe in police custody.
My
mother entered the room and drew next to me, brushing my bangs from
my face. She swept the newspaper from the kitchen table, away from a
young girl's curious eyes.
“Don't
you have something to do? A friend to go play with?”
I
shook my head. I wanted to tell my mother that Renata was
my friend, that we both liked Cheezies, but the words wouldn't come.
I wanted Mother to say that the paper had made a mistake, but she
flipped it over on the counter top, front page down, smiling a
worried smile. A worry that sits behind a mother's eyes, fretting
over the world her child must grow up in. Fretting over another
degree of innocence slipped away, victim to a dark and hungry
reality.
I
curled into my bed and watched the sunlight dance on the purple
bedspread beside me. Closing my eyes I tried to be there, in her
last moments, in her house on Second Street. But I was lost; I
couldn't find my way through the unfamiliarity of this foreign place,
a land so barren, ugly and bereft of humanity.
I
thought, instead, of the wind in our hair as we won the battle with a
jammed bus window, wobbly fountain pen tattoos scrawled onto our
arms, and giddy giggles behind pursed lips as we kicked a rotten
apple core toward the bus drivers unsuspecting feet. I thought of
Cheezies.
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
