Sally and the Leg of Lamb

Around the age of seven, a good thing happened. The mother of my classmate, Katy, was on to things. With my stepmother, that is. Or so it seemed.

To be clear: Katy was my classmate, not a bosom buddy. Why were we not best friends? Who knows? We were both voracious readers and got good grades, yet neither of us was the teacher’s pet. And we both had awful wardrobes, bad shoes, and lousy haircuts. We loved horses, though neither had ever met one in person, and we were fascinated by Queen Elizabeth and had made a secret list of all the nicknames one could have if, in fact, Elizabeth was one’s name. And then there was Elizabeth Taylor in National Velvet. The most glamorous Elizabeth ever, with the world’s most beautiful horse. There was a book in our school library that had hundreds of pictures from the movie (which neither of us had seen), and for months, we took turns checking it out. And as there was no internet back in 1969, we had to ask random people (who knew about these sorts of things) what nicknames were acceptable for Elizabeths. Our list grew to 17 names, then we got stuck. On to arguments about who was more handsome… Cary Grant or Gregory Peck? Clark Gable was decidedly too dumb for us. And Fred Astaire was really yucky. I voted for Gregory Peck.

The main attraction in our soon-to-be friendship: we were both as smart as a whip. And because of that, we had respect for one another. I knew Katy would never be looking over my shoulder to cheat on spelling tests because she already knew how to spell all the words. And vice versa.

Katy was pretty discriminating about everything — from what books were worth reading, to which boys in class were the best looking, to whether our teacher’s shoes paired appropriately with her ensemble du jour. Quite often it did not, and Katy would not hesitate to say so to whoever would listen at recess. In describing Mrs. McCoy’s wardrobe, which she hated, Katy would use terms that required a look up in the dictionary: “hideous,” “god-awful,” and “capricious.”

My standing as class clown was really the only monkey wrench, and it was a big one. Katy wasn’t a fan of my Marco Grouch routine, and being funny was the thing that got me through each day, what with the situation at home. But Katy liked most everything else I did, so, eventually, we got along anyway. When I hung out with her, I just turned the humor spigot off. Frankly, it was a relief to do so, as there was a lot of pressure in having to entertain my class through math and social studies every day. The other kids in class fell into one of two categories: they were either falling out of their chairs laughing at my antics, or they gave me a wide berth. The wide berthers were not the smartest kids in class, and I suspected some of them couldn't make heads or tails of my wisecracks. Regardless, there was power in either reaction, sort of that “bad publicity is good publicity” thing.

Those who chose to be my friends were often drawn into whatever pushing-the-limit (or outright breaking-the-rules) scenario I had conjured up for the day. Their association with me landed many in the principal’s office, or relegated to the hallway as penance, where they were forced to sit for half an hour, no talking, no moving about — the very definition of cruel and unusual punishment. Apparently (to some), this was but a small price to pay for the high-quality comedic entertainment I provided, because time and again, these friends came back for more, and with a twinkle in their eye. Had Miss White, our principal, taught them a lesson? No, she had not.

Katy, who always got my jokes, invariably responded with a stone-faced expression, as if to discourage my bad behavior. Seeing her across the room with that practiced air of I-don’t-care only made me laugh harder. I loved it that she thought my jokes were sophomoric. Mission accomplished.

So, how did our friendship blossom, you might ask? Well, it never really did. It was always just there — a relentlessly tight, unopened bud. The person who tried to realize the bud’s anthesis was Katy’s mother, Sally. One day after school, as Mrs. Hodgden’s class burst out the back exit like soda shooting from a just-shaken bottle, Sally grabbed my arm as I was whizzing by and blurted out: “Hey, slow down! Might you like to hang out with Katy this weekend?” Before I could protest, she proceeded to list ten crazy good things we might do together, half of which required money, something I didn’t have. Sally said not to worry; she would take care of everything, including making sure I had pajamas and a toothbrush for the overnight. And she was hoping I would consider staying all weekend, as she had work to do and Katy needed some companionship.

I was confused… was I suddenly Katy’s friend or something? Who told Sally we were friends? Were we? It felt a little like Sally had picked me randomly out of all the girls in our class, and that if I had been running just a tad faster, she might have snagged Rebecca or Darlene instead. Ah, what the heck, going to Katy’s sounded much better than having to watch my brother all weekend, or eating that nasty chipped beef with white gravy on toast — a delicacy we had to endure every Friday at my house. So, off I went with Katy and Sally, back to their house, which was less than a block from school. As soon as we set foot in the front door, Sally was on the phone with my stepmother, and from what I heard, as I eavesdropped on Sally's half of the conversation, Carolyn had been caught off guard, which undoubtedly left her short on reasons to make me come home. The girls didn’t have any homework or art projects due, Sally noted, so why not let them be together? No socially acceptable excuse popped into Carolyn’s head, and so the deal was made: I could stay all weekend.

Hallelujah! I was free! From a weekend of folding laundry, doing dishes, polishing silverware for next week’s dinner for my dad’s boss, and watching my brother. And just maybe Sally would let us stay up late. I really hoped for that. For once, I wanted to see all those late-night shows the other kids talked about, like Svengoolie and Saturday Night at the Movies, or those Shirley Temple movies they played into the wee hours.

Sally wanted Katy to have a friend — someone kind, and smart, and with decent manners, something I actually had, when I felt like it. In retrospect, I think Sally noticed that underneath all my mirth-making was a really sad kid. And her kid was sad, too. Sad for being teased about her weight, and sad because no one could touch her in the smarts department. Not even Tim Nelsen, who always got 100% on his math tests. It was pretty lonely up there, on the penthouse level of our second-grade class. But was it as lonely as being a Rockefeller and living in that 40-room apartment at 740 Park Avenue in Manhattan? That was something Katy and I explored in Life Magazine.

So what does a person do when there are no more SRA reading cards to tackle, and you’ve aced every quiz and writing assignment? Time for some much-deserved fun, right? And with whom? That’s where Sally entered stage left. She was the one who brought us together, then she gave us everything we needed in the way of food and entertainment. She was a smart lady. Sally was dialed in. Rotary dialed, that is.

And so it was done. Sally had called my stepmother and told her they would like me to visit for the whole weekend. The whole weekend. Not just an overnight, or for a Saturday afternoon. Nope — two full days and nights, five meals, a trip to the movie theater (holy toots — The Prime of Miss Jane Brodie!), and the opportunity to ride our bikes all over the community college campus. My stepmother, who was rarely comfortable with anything more than a two-hour get-together, seemed incapable of saying no to Sally — she was very persuasive. That woman could talk a blue streak. It was likely that Carolyn couldn’t get a word in edgewise and just gave up. Whatever the case, I wouldn’t have to deal with family obligations for an entire weekend. I was thrilled.

Once we got to know each other outside the classroom, Katy and I discovered we shared many common interests, including Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys novels, and Madame Alexander dolls. Though I had never had any Madame Alexander dolls of my own, I frequently (and secretly) rode my bike down to Meyer’s Toy World, where the dolls were featured prominently. There were new ones every time I visited, and I prayed I would get one of them for Christmas, preferably Glinda the Good Witch. They were very expensive, however, and none ever managed to find their way under our tree. Katy had twenty-two of them, and most were characters from movies, like Scarlett O’Hara and Shirley Temple as The Little Colonel.

Sometimes we wrote letters to our pen pals, or pretended to be a rich lady and her maid, or we rode our bikes all over the neighborhood pretending they were horses, or we hung out on the monkey bars on the playground at school when it wasn’t in session. Much energy was expended hammering out chopsticks on the piano, making it go faster and faster until it mashed into a tree and was totaled. And we loved pawing through all of Sally’s Christmas decorations from Germany on the living room coffee table. Then there were all those smell-goods in the bathroom cupboards. Sally would let us run the bath and pour whatever we liked into the water to make it fragrant — lotion, bath salts, perfume, Old Spice, even shaving cream. Then we would soak in our concoction for a good hour, reading our respective library books.

My favorite thing at Katy’s was staying up all night, or at least until the TV screen was filled with snow. We would watch movies for hours, and somewhere in the middle, we would start feeling a bit peckish. One night, we pulled out the leftover leg of lamb from dinner and stood at the kitchen counter, picking off every last bit of meat. Partway through our extravagant midnight snack, Sally popped her head into the kitchen. “Perhaps you’d like some mint sauce with that,” she said quietly as she pulled it out of the fridge. We hadn’t heard her come in and nearly hit the ceiling from surprise.

Sally was a large, forthright woman, an intellectual and an editor at a publishing house. I had no idea what to make of her demeanor — she was not like any mother I had ever met. But she was, by far, the coolest mom ever, even though she was a terrible housekeeper and a chain smoker. And Sally could cook like Julia Child, whom she revered. A well-worn, greasy copy of “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” always sat open under a lamp on the kitchen counter next to a mile-long spice rack, on which sat exotic things like Droste’s Cocoa and Madras Curry Powder, whatever that was. A lamp in the kitchen — now that was a bit of an oddity, except considering how very much time Sally spent there, it seemed appropriate. Sally deserved some soft lighting as she spent hours spatchcocking chickens and making puff pastry.

Dinner at Sally’s house was always out of this world. What had any of us done to deserve duck l’orange with creamed spinach and scalloped potatoes? Nothing! Sally just loved feeding people and making them happy. We could smell the food cooking for hours (or so it seemed) as we poured over ancient issues of National Geographic in the basement. By the time dinner was served at 8:30 p.m. — way past my usual bedtime — it was all we could do to keep from rudely snarfing it down in two seconds. Sally taught us to savor each dish and take our time, serving us Shirley Temples in highball glasses to sip on between soup and entrée courses. Never would you have found food like this on the children’s menu at Bill Knapp’s. And accompanying all of this was music from Bob’s collection of vintage jazz albums. What a happy time dinner was at Sally’s. No one argued. We ate delicious food. And we laughed about every stupid thing, and listened to stories of Bob’s week at work as a civil rights attorney. I felt like part of the family. I learned all about politics, and I felt understood.

That first weekend I stayed with the McCauleys was an especially happy one, and many more would follow. For the first time in two years, I quit pining for my mother and worrying incessantly about my brother. I began to hate my stepmother a little less, and I stopped imagining my father would ever pay attention to me. I accepted that wasn’t going to happen. I let it go.

At Sally’s, I got to be a kid, and I got spoiled. She and Bob listened attentively to my anecdotes about school and asked my opinion on the Vietnam War, and what did I think of Richard Nixon. Bob talked about the rights of all people and how important it was to respect everyone, that you never knew what someone had been through. We talked about the other kids in our neighborhood and discussed our classmate Carole, who lived on Harvard Street. What had happened to her after her father disappeared?

Sally showed me how to cook, and she helped me with my writing. She took the time.

And it was made clear that Katy and I were meant to share all things, as sisters should, and that meant the Madame Alexander dolls and all of the Nancy Drew novels. And occasionally Katy had to be the maid, so I could be the rich lady.