The In-Betweener Read online

  “Yeah,” I replied.

  “Well, grown-ups do something like that too.”

  I sat up. “What are you talking about?”

  “Remember when I said we were moving? That was funsies—not keepsies.”

  I stared at him in disbelief. “You mean…”

  “It was a joke!” He grinned and spread his hands, as if releasing a spray of invisible confetti. “We’re not moving from Marshfield. Are you kidding? We’re not going anywhere!”

  I got a surge of intense Christmas-morning elation. Not moving! It was the ultimate practical joke. He and Mom had been yanking our chains all along. Not keepsies—only funsies! Though it did seem awfully strange to hear those words come out of my father’s mouth.

  That’s when I woke up. Dream over.

  The Other Fletchers

  SAYING GOOD-BYE TO Andy, Steve, and Freddy would be the hardest thing I’d ever had to do. But it wasn’t just my friends I’d miss. I realized I’d also miss their toys, their zany little brothers and sisters, their dogs and cats. I’d miss the smell of their houses, so different from my own. I’d miss their fathers and especially their mothers: Mrs. Hunt, Mrs. Fishman, and Mrs. Fletcher.

  The Fletchers lived down the street. They weren’t related to us, though we had a lot in common. We had eight kids; they had ten, so Acorn Street was crawling with Fletcher kids. There was a saying on the street where I lived: Either you were a Fletcher or you pretended you were one.

  The other Fletchers were older than us. Freddy Fletcher’s parents were ten years older than mine, so most of his brothers and sisters were older. Freddy was the third-youngest kid in the family. Some of his big brothers and sisters were already in their late twenties or early thirties.

  Sometimes we’d have a friendly argument as to which house was best—Steve Fishman’s or Freddy Fletcher’s. (Andy and I accepted the fact that our houses, while perfectly nice, were not in the running.) Steve’s house and Freddy’s house both had fantastic chicken coops, barns, under-barns, root cellars, storage bins, and workshops that were perfect for our games of War and Hide-and-Seek. Which place was best? It might have been a tie, though Freddy’s house was located next to the golf course, so we found lots of lost balls in the woods, which tipped the balance in his favor, though just barely.

  Freddy’s house was huge, sprawling, and O-L-D. I’m talking ancient, historic. The structure had been built in the 1690s! After centuries of family life, one side of the house had settled; the kitchen floor was definitely tilted in one direction. You could feel it when you walked in. If you dropped a marble on the left side of the room, it would roll downhill and smack against the wall on the right.

  The Fletchers’ kitchen always had a pungent smell of sweet molasses. That’s because Freddy’s mother made big batches of molasses cookies. She didn’t bake cookies once in a while or just on a holiday. Nope—she baked molasses cookies every morning. And they were out-of-this-world delicious. She made enough cookies for all ten of her kids, and her kids’ friends too. One day I went into the kitchen where dozens of molasses cookies were cooling on the counter.

  “Help yourself, Ralphie.” Millie gave me a teasing smile. “You’re a Fletcher, aren’t you? You never have to ask—you’re family. Take as many as you want.”

  Like I said, we weren’t related, but Millie seemed to enjoy this little joke between us. But she didn’t treat me any different from other neighborhood kids on account of my last name. Andy and Steve had the same privileges. They could also grab molasses cookies whenever they wanted.

  Millie Fletcher was important to me. I knew I would miss her a lot when we moved away from Marshfield. I wasn’t one of her kids, but she cared for me as if I was. She was like a second mother. She always included me when she brought out Popsicle treats, or glasses of lemonade, or a big tray of watermelon slices. If they decided to go to the beach while I happened to be at their house, she’d take me along with them. If I got hurt, or cut my knee, Millie would carefully patch me up so I was good as new. Afterward she’d wipe my tears, give me a reassuring hug, and kiss the top of my sweaty head. It felt like a real mother’s love—pure and unconditional—even if we weren’t connected by blood.

  The Earthworm

  MOVING DAY CREPT closer and closer. Mom told us to sort through the stuff in our bedrooms and put aside what we didn’t need; she would donate it to Catholic charities. Meanwhile she continued packing boxes, stacking them in the corners of the house.

  One day we got some shocking news—a family had bought our house. The Leatherbees. I actually met one of the kids, a boy named Rob about my age. Rob Leatherbee seemed okay, though it felt weird to imagine him living in MY house, the house where I grew up. I tried not to think about it. I continued living my life as if everything was normal, which was crazy, because I knew that our ship had hit an iceberg and was taking on water, fast.

  One Saturday morning Andy came over. His father wanted help digging up some bushes. We worked on the far side of Andy’s house. I spaded deep into the black earth, but when I lifted my shovel I saw that I had accidentally cut a worm in half. I felt horrible.

  “Sorry!” I said to nobody in particular.

  “It’s okay,” Andy assured me. “If you cut a worm in half, both sides will grow into a new worm.”

  “Well, not quite,” Mr. Hunt corrected him. “It’s true that the half that has the worm’s heart will grow back its body and live. But the other half, the half without the heart, will die.”

  That idea haunted me. That evening I opened my notebook, hoping that writing might help sort out my jumbled thoughts.

  My life feels like that earthworm I mistakenly cut in half. Part of me will get left behind … the other part will go to Winnetka. The half with the heart will live, but what about the half without a heart? Will that part wither and die? I don’t want that to happen. I don’t want either half to die.

  I shut off my light and closed my eyes. The faces of my friends materialized before me: Andy, Steve, Freddy. I realized that in the past few weeks we had spent little time talking about my moving away. I wondered why. Maybe if we’d been girls it would have been different, but my buddies and I never talked about serious stuff. I guess we couldn’t find the words, or maybe we knew they’d be too painful if we ever did speak them out loud.

  Next morning I was wandering in the backyard when I noticed a grown-up standing near the swamp. Mom. That was unusual; my parents rarely ventured into the woods.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Admiring the swamp cabbage,” she said, pointing.

  I wrinkled my nose. “Quite a smell.”

  “I’ll say. Do you remember the time Bobby brought me the white flower of a swamp cabbage on my birthday? That flower stunk to the high heavens.” She smiled. “You guys all poked fun at him, but that was really quite sweet.”

  I nodded. “It’s the thought that counts, right?”

  She smiled but then she turned away from me, and I realized she wasn’t laughing anymore.

  “Mom?” I whispered. “Are you okay?”

  She sniffled, and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “Moving is hard for you kids, but it’s hard for me too,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “So many memories. Marshfield has been a great home for all of us.”

  “Yeah.” I didn’t dare try to say any more than that—I was afraid I’d start bawling. Instead I put my hand on her shoulder and gave her a little squeeze.

  * * *

  Finally the big day arrived. Jimmy said good-bye to Ricky Topham and Timmy Ross. Lainie said good-bye to Sharon Oxner. Tommy said good-bye to Michael Fletcher and Gary Fishman. Bobby said good-bye to Paul Fishman. I wanted to say good-bye to Andy, Steve, and Freddy Fletcher, but they weren’t around. I suspected they wanted to avoid the melodrama of a final farewell. I didn’t hold it against them.

  Over the years I had found a number of arrowheads around our neighborhood. I loved knowing that Native Americans had r
oamed the same forests where my friends and I played. I opened a shoe box and selected the four best specimens from my arrowhead collection—one for each of my friends, and one for me. I brought those arrowheads to a place in Ale’s Woods and buried them under six inches of dirt.

  As I was repacking the dirt, I spotted a fat earthworm. It reminded me of what Mr. Hunt had said a few days earlier about what happens when a worm gets cut in half. The half that has the worm’s heart will grow back its body and live. But the other half, the half without the heart, will die. I had been troubled by this idea, but not any longer. I realized that my Marshfield memories would never die. They would take root, and grow, and always have a central place in my heart. Always.

  Back home I was eating a second bowl of cereal when the doorbell rang. When I opened the door, I was greeted by my friends.

  “C’mon, Ralph. We’re taking you to the woods one last time.”

  I had to talk Dad into it, since we would be leaving later that morning. Finally he let me go with them. How could he not? I followed them into Ale’s Woods, feeling happy and suddenly carefree, like things would work out somehow, even if I couldn’t say how. They led me into the woods along a path I knew by heart. That forest was my heart.

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “We’re having a funeral,” Andy replied.

  “For who?”

  “You,” Steve explained.

  “A funeral! Hey, I’m moving. I’m not going to be dead!”

  “You’ll be dead to us.”

  We walked past the spot where I had buried the four arrowheads a few hours earlier. I considered mentioning it to my buddies, but I decided not to. It seemed right that those arrowheads should stay buried in Ale’s Woods, along with all my other memories of Marshfield. I had left them in a secret part of the forest, but I knew where to find them. I still do.

  A few minutes later I was lying down, playing dead, while my friends had a little ceremony to recognize that I would be leaving them. They stood on both sides of me—the closest friends I had on planet Earth—and told stories about what I meant to them. It was like a final eulogy, I guess. The whole thing was sad, funny, a little weird, and very sweet. I was all choked up and couldn’t speak. Thankfully, I didn’t have to do anything but lie there, listen, and take it all in. I felt very lucky in a Tom Sawyer–ish way. I knew then that I would remember these friends for the rest of my life. We kept in touch with letters after I moved away, and many of us still keep in touch today.

  The Final Fletcher

  MY LITTLE SISTER Kathy was baby number eight. She was the final Fletcher. Or so we thought.

  We spent the next three years living in Winnetka, Illinois. After that, we moved to West Islip, a town on the south shore of Long Island, New York. I was a senior in high school. I had a cool job digging clams on the Great South Bay, working for myself on a small boat that Jimmy and I bought with our own money. I had several close friends, plus my first (sort-of) girlfriend. Best of all, I had a driver’s license. So things in my life were going swimmingly when Mom pulled me aside one afternoon.

  “Ralphie, can I talk to you for a minute?”

  The serious expression on her face gave me pause.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” But she looked pensive.

  “What is it?”

  “I’m three months pregnant.”

  I blinked at her.

  “No way!”

  “Way,” she said wearily. “Big way.”

  “But, you’re, uh…” I didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

  “I’m no spring chicken,” she admitted. “I’m forty-three years old. It’s not technically too old to have a baby, but…”

  Mom stood five foot two inches. I was pushing six feet, so I towered over her as we spoke. Often when I looked at her I had the same thought—what a miracle that all of me had come from her. I thought she was still beautiful, though years of nonstop mothering had definitely taken a toll on her. I was seventeen, Jimmy was sixteen, Lainie was fifteen, Tommy was fourteen, and Bobby was thirteen (born in the same year)! She had five teenagers in the house, plus three younger kids, and now another one on the way. No wonder she looked careworn.

  “So what do you think?” she asked nervously. “You’ll be eighteen by the time the baby’s born. Will that feel strange?”

  “No, I think it’s great,” I assured her. “The more the merrier.”

  She sighed. “That’s easy for you to say.”

  The other kids were equally thrilled, though we did have a squabble about whether it would be a boy or a girl.

  “If it’s a boy, that would make seven brothers,” Tommy pointed out. “Seven is a lucky number.”

  “Seven brothers would be an abomination,” Lainie countered. “I’m praying for a little sister.”

  “Me too!” Kathy put in.

  Jimmy smirked. “Yeah, well, keep praying.”

  Six months later, on May 6, 1971, we were eating supper when Mom suddenly sat up straight.

  “My water just broke,” she announced.

  “The amniotic fluid,” Lainie explained, in case we didn’t understand.

  Dad drove Mom to the hospital. I stayed behind and played my familiar role, making sure younger kids did their homework and got to bed on time. In many ways I was still an in-betweener—half kid, half parent. By now, playing that role was baked into my identity.

  Next morning a shrill cry yanked me from a deep sleep.

  “It’s a girl! It’s a girl!”

  It was Lainie, calling up from the first floor.

  “It’s a GIRL!”

  “Wh-what?” I looked over at Jimmy, sleeping on the other bed. “What did she say?”

  “It’s a girl!” Lainie yelled triumphantly. “G-I-R-L!”

  After a few days, Dad brought Mom and the baby home from the hospital. After he put a pillow on a chair in the living room, Mom gingerly sat down. We all crowded around, eager to get a closer look. The baby had a red scrunched-up face and was fast asleep. I thought she looked exhausted, like she had just completed a baby’s version of a marathon race.

  “What do you think?” Dad asked, nudging Jimmy.

  Jimmy nodded, noncommittal. “Well, it’s a baby, all right.”

  “A female baby,” Lainie said with a satisfied smile.

  “I think she’s adorable!” Johnny cooed.

  “I expect you guys to all pitch in more around here and help your mother,” Dad said. “Babies take a lot of work.”

  “When can I play with her?” Kathy asked.

  Mom smiled. “Not for a little while yet.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Carolyn.”

  Carolyn. To my ears the name sounded like caroling, the joyful singing we did around Christmas time. That seemed appropriate. I was singing inside. We all were.

  “Nine kids is an uneven number,” Jimmy pointed out. “It’s unbalanced. You know, Mom, maybe you and Dad should go for a nice round number: ten.”

  Mom gave him the Look. “Don’t even joke about that.”

  I leaned forward and inhaled the sweet baby smell. Bobby touched the baby’s nose. Lainie caressed the baby’s tiny cheek with the back of her hand.

  I looked at Mom. I felt close to everyone in my family, for sure, but close doesn’t even begin to describe the way I felt about Mom.

  She gave me life.

  She taught me how to love.

  She was the first woman I ever loved.

  Often, I believed I knew what Mom was thinking. Like right now. With the whole family crowded around, oohing and ahhing over this tiny new life, she must have been thinking, Freeze this moment when our family is happy and healthy and whole. Don’t let it end.

  Epilogue

  MY FAMILY DIDN’T have much to complain about in 1971. The eternal Fletcher baby—along with diapers, tiny socks, rubber nipples, baby spoons—had made a triumphant return. Now we had enough kids to field an entire baseball team!
Nine is a lot of mouths to feed, but Dad had received a big promotion, so our fridge was full. We lived in a lovely house on the south shore of Long Island, New York. I had gotten accepted at a top-notch college. A happy ending, right?

  Well, not exactly. A few years later, in 1974, a dark cloud swept in and cast a terrible shadow over my family. In the spring of that year, Jimmy (nineteen) got in a car wreck in Iowa; it nearly claimed his life. A few months later, Joey (thirteen) got seriously burned when he tried to take some hot oil off the kitchen stove. He spent five weeks in the hospital. A month later, Bobby (seventeen) was in a head-on collision in West Islip, New York. He clung to life by a thread, and everyone prayed like crazy, but a week later his heart gave out and he died.

  In writing this book, I decided not to focus on that part of my life, partly because I already talked about it (in the “Bobby” chapter) in Marshfield Dreams. This collection of stories focuses on those years when I felt like an in-betweener in the family, when I was trying to figure out who I was.

  Bobby’s death was a cataclysmic event for me and my family. We were damaged. Yes, we would heal, but only to a point. Some part of the Fletcher family would always be missing. After we lost Bobby, my life would forever be divided into Before and After.

  An event like that pokes a hole in your world, like a wormhole or a black hole in space. It distorts time. In some strange way, Bobby’s death casts a dark light back on the innocent Marshfield years that came before. Today it feels as though that tragedy, or at least its seed, was part of me even when I was a little kid.

  Wouldn’t it be great if you could go back in time and weed out all the bad stuff in your life … cherry-pick only the happy memories? But it doesn’t work that way. All of life’s experiences—the bad as well as the good—make up who we are. I am shaped by every story in this book, all the people who touched me and influenced my life. Even the ones who are gone.

  Except they’re not gone, not really. I hold their spirits inside me. Keep them close to my heart.

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