Ed Gorman - Wake Up Little Susie

I was sitting at a stoplight when the black Ford convertible mysteriously appeared next to me.

A beautiful blonde. Kim Novak. Head scarf. Shades. Radio blasting Buddy Holly. Revving the engine. Daring me to drag her. A smile that said we knew each other, disturbing without me understanding why. And then she was fishtailing and her tires were screaming and she was laying down a quarter block of rubber. And then she was gone.

The acreage was scruffy, overgrown with weeds.

Wire fences falling. Bottles and cans and papers littering the front yard. Windows crisscrossed with tape. A chimney that was little more than a pile of bricks atop a shingle-bare roof.

From what I could see, Chalmers had himself what was essentially a tenant-farmer agreement. There were a lot of acres in the adjacent land given over to soybeans and even more given over to corn. In the distance along the horizon line you could see a new big blue silo, a new red barn, and a new white farmhouse. Whoever lived there was doing all right for himself. But he still had some back acres he wanted worked so he offered a subsistence wage and a faded frame two-story farmhouse and disintegrating outbuildings and told the tenant farmer, in this case Chalmers, to go to it. Miserable as the conditions were-I had the sense that there was electricity but no indoor plumbing, thus the outhouse in the backyard-it still had to beat being in prison.

There was a rusty Ford pickup sitting at the end of the dirt drive. The house and the outbuildings looked even rougher close up, badly in need of washing and painting. A John Deere even older than the truck sat near the left-leaning barn.

A sweet-faced border collie ran in sad useless circles before slowing down to take a look at me. All that frantic pointless energy.

I got out. The border collie came over and growled. I put out my hand. She licked my fingers. I smiled at her and patted her head.

She looked old and dusty and lost, a kind of quiet doggy sadness that can break your heart.

I went to the back door. Knocked. No answer. I went to the side door. Knocked.

No answer. I went to the front door.

Knocked. And that’s when the girl came out.

She was probably around twelve or thirteen, slender, shoulder-length blond hair with a tiny blue plastic barrette in it. Her flowered dress had been washed a few dozen times too many. You noticed the eyes first, the animal sorrow, the animal fear. And then, as she came into the sunlight on the porch, you saw the metal brace on her leg.

She just looked at me. “He isn’t here.”

“Who isn’t?”

“My dad.”

“Mike Chalmers your dad?”

She nodded. “I’m Ellie.”

“You know when he’ll be back?”

“He’s at work.”

“Your mom around?”

“My mom’s dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

“That isn’t what girls usually say when their moms are dead.”

“Well, it’s what I say, mister.”

She was going to step back inside at any moment. Shut the door.

“You wouldn’t happen to have an extra glass of water on hand, would you?”

“My dad said I shouldn’t ever let anybody inside.”

“I’ll drink it on the porch.”

“You wait here.”

When she turned and started walking I felt terrible about asking her for water. Walking looked to be such a ponderous effort for her.

She brought back a glass that was a couple of notches this side of clean. Handed me the water.

I thanked her. There was an ancient porch swing suspended on rusting chains. I went over and sat down. Pulled out my cigarettes.

She said, “I bum one of those offa you?”

“Wouldn’t your dad get mad?”

“My dad lets me smoke.”

“How old are you?”

“Fifteen.”

I held my pack out to her. And made her walk again. She did what I’d hope she’d do.

Sat down next to me in the swing. She took a cigarette and I put a match to it. She inhaled and wiggled into a comfortable spot. I pushed on the swing. It glided gently back and forth.

“He was in prison.”

“Your dad?”

“Yeah.”

“You ever go see him in there?”

“A couple of times. He cried whenever I had to leave. Just broke down and cried.” She said this with no particular emotion.

“How come you hated your mom?”

“It don’t matter. She’s dead.”

“It’s just funny, that’s all.”

“What is?”

“A girl hating her mother.”

Head back, eyes closed, exhaling smoke.

Fetching nymphette profile. “I’d get scared to go to school and she’d call me a sissy and slap me and stuff.”

“How come you were scared?”

“Oh, you know.”

“I guess I don’t.”

She looked over at me with one eye. She was a skilled con artist. “Maybe if you gave me another cigarette I’d tell you.”

“You’re not done with that one.”

“For later.”

“Ah.”

For the very first time, she smiled. “I like that.”

“Like what?”

“That word. Ah. I like words sometimes. Maybe I’ll start saying it.”

I gave her another cigarette. She tucked it behind her ear.

“How come you want to know all this?”

“I work for Judge Whitney.”

“She’s the one that sentenced my daddy.” Again, and curiously, without emotion.

We swung for a while. It was nice out here.

Anytime I stay outdoors on a sunny day I decide to give up my law practice and move west to the mountains and live off snake meat and tree bark. It’s a hell of an exhilarating feeling. But that’s usually when the first mosquito sinks its stinger in me so deep you suspect it’s drilling for oil. And that’s when I see the ants in the picnic basket and realize I’ll have to go take a pee behind a tree, and then moving west suddenly doesn’t sound so good.

She said, “It’s on account of my leg.”

“Oh?”

“That I’m afraid to go to school.”

“Oh.”

“Most kids try and be nice to you. But some kids make fun of you. And I always end up leaving early and coming home and crying. Dad says don’t give ‘em the satisfaction, but I can’t help it. It hurts my feelings. I mean I didn’t ask to get polio.”

Polio used to be a scare word. In summers, moms were afraid to let their kids go into theaters and swimming pools and shopping centers. Dads got terrified when their little ones ran a fever for more than a day or showed any kind of sudden weakness.

It was our Black Plague. At best you might lose the use of a limb. At worst you could spend the rest of your life in an iron lung. Early death would be a mercy. Thank God for Jonas Salk.

“The worst is when we have little dances in the afternoon.”

I watched her jaw muscle work.

“Mrs. Grundy at school said she was sure I could do it. Dance, I mean. Slowdance. Not rock-and-roll. That if I did a slow dance I’d be fine. There’s a girl on American Bandstand who does it all the time. She’s got a brace just like mine. But I’m scared to.”

“You’re too pretty to sit on the sidelines.”

“You really think I’m pretty?”

“I sure do.”

“You can’t really be pretty if you limp.”

“You sure can.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“That’s what Dad says too. But I know as soon as I get out there and start dancing, they’ll start laughing at me. You know, kind of whispering and all.”

“They laugh about me being short.”

“They do?”

“You bet they do.”

“Does it hurt your feelings?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes it just makes me mad.”

“Yeah, it makes me mad sometimes too.”

We swung some more.

“What happened to your real mom?”

“Cancer.”

The phone rang inside. She got up and struggled to go get it. I pitched the water over the side of the porch and felt kind of dirty about it.