Betty Jo

 

“Today me and George played in the leaves. It is fall and they are lots of colors. We went inside and mom made tea for me and not George because he is a stuffed animal. I took him with me to my Grandma’s and left him in the car when we ate. Mom says Grandpa’s smoke isn’t good for monkeys and little girls, but I had to go anyway.”

Her hand hurt from holding the pencil and a smudge of graphite colored the side that had set on the paper. This homework assignment was much better than what some of the other students had written in the journal. They hadn’t even mentioned that George was just a toy; they talked of going to the zoo where he said “Hello” to the other monkeys, or out to dinner with George because monkeys like pizza. Betty Jo didn’t want to hurt their feelings, but she didn’t want them to be foolish, either. Being foolish was bad, just as bad as anything she could think of.  She put the pencil down next to the notebook on the dinning room table, grabbed George and put him on top of the journal, and used her tiny hands to stabilize her descent out of the chair.

The carpet was worn flat, more like a faded calico stretched from corner to corner. She shuffled across it into the living room where the grown ups were watching a show about famous people in nice clothes with sad eyes. She walked over to the couch where her mother was sitting with her little brother in her arms, and planted herself between the feet and legs, wrapping her elbows around the ankles of her larger than life mother.

“Where’s George?” she asked, setting the boy down. She ran her hands through Betty Jo’s hair lightly and began plaiting into a thick braid. It seemed almost impossible that her mother could listen to the TV, talk to the family, and make something pretty with her hands, but she always did.

“He’s on the table.”

“What is he doing there? Setting the places for dinner? The set switched off as her father moved through the room and into the kitchen. She heard the soft noises of the tap being run and some shuffling of pans. From the fact that dad was making dinner Betty Jo anticipated the wet, sticky mass of spaghetti to come with discomfort. Her mother had finished with her hair and Betty Jo scrambled up next to her and the brother, pulling the boy gently into her lap with only a little help from mom.

“No. I suppose he’s just there, on top of the journal. He’s a stuffed animal. They don’t move much.” A spring in the cushion was poking her in the back, so she shifted slightly. At the movement her mother took the brother back and stood up with him, gently bouncing him up and down in her arms and walking about the room. “Maybe he moves when you’re not around. You couldn’t see it then, but wouldn’t it be awful if you didn’t believe in George?” Her mother looked at her then, smiling the smile she had been giving the boy. Betty Jo wondered at that smile, but shook her head. Things made of fluff couldn’t move. Did her mother want her to seem foolish? Was it a trick?

The window was open and a cool breeze came into the room, which had started to smell starchy and wet. Her mother moved over to close the glass, but paused for a little to point out some bird or neighborhood cat to the brother. Betty Jo watched and wished that the TV was still on.

From the other room she heard her dad shout, “Hey JoJo, come take a look at this!” At first she was afraid it was a spider. Sometimes he would show her crawly things that made her feel itchy so she waited on the couch. The rough weave was starting to leave imprints on the palms of her hands. Her mother called back, “What’s going on in there?” The boy bounced up and down, reaching for strands of hair. Apparently it was just something that had to be seen. First mother and the boy slipped into the dining room, exclaiming “Ooooh!” and “Aaaah!” The boy giggled a little. Nobody giggled at spiders. After a minute more, Betty Jo took a chance and made her way back across the carpet.

Light from the sliding glass doors lit the room. It was full evening now and the tree just outside blocked much of the sun. When the wind blew leaves dropped from it, which giving the room the appearance of growing brighter despite the approaching night. Across from the door sat George, at the head of the table. He was propped up on the chair by a stand of cookware and phonebooks so that his eyes peered over the edge of the table, on the same level as Betty Jo’s eyes. The journal and pencil were gone and had been replaced by place settings and glasses full of water. “Isn’t that amazing!” her father exclaimed, while her mother said, “I always knew George was a polite primate!” They smiled and leaned into each other for a kiss. Then the boy was put in the high chair and dinner was set about being served.

“Wait till they hear about this at school!”