Z. Packer - Drinking Coffee Elsewhere

But when Mrs. Hedy began talking about her husband, thinking about her husband, seeing clouds shaped like the head of her husband, she couldn’t be quiet, and no one could dislodge her from the comfort of her own woe. Only one thing could perk her up — Brownie songs. If the girls were quiet, and Mrs. Hedy was in her dopey, sorrowful mood, she would say, “Y’all know I like those songs, girls. Why don’t you sing one?” Everyone would groan, except me and Daphne. I, for one, liked some of the songs.

“C’mon, everybody,” Octavia said drearily. “She likes the Brownie song best.”

We sang, loud enough to reach Mrs. Hedy:

“I’ve got something in my pocket;

It belongs across my face.

And I keep it very close at hand

in a most convenient place.

I’m sure you couldn’t guess it

If you guessed a long, long while.

So I’ll take it out and put it on—

It’s a great big Brownie smile!”

The Brownie song was supposed to be sung cheerfully, as though we were elves in a workshop, singing as we merrily cobbled shoes, but everyone except me hated the song so much that they sang it like a maudlin record, played on the most sluggish of rpms.

“That was good,” Mrs. Hedy said, closing the cabin door behind her. “Wasn’t that nice, Linda?”

“Praise God,” Mrs. Margolin answered without raising her head from the chore of counting out Popsicle sticks for the next day’s craft session.

“Sing another one,” Mrs. Hedy said. She said it with a sort of joyful aggression, like a drunk I’d once seen who’d refused to leave a Korean grocery.

“God, Mama, get over it,” Octavia whispered in a voice meant only for Arnetta, but Mrs. Hedy heard it and started to leave the cabin.

“Don’t go,” Arnetta said. She ran after Mrs. Hedy and held her by the arm. “We haven’t finished singing.” She nudged us with a single look. “Let’s sing the ‘Friends Song.’ For Mrs. Hedy.”

Although I liked some of the songs, I hated this one:

Make new friends

But keep the o-old,

One is silver

And the other gold.

If most of the girls in the troop could be any type of metal, they’d be bunched-up wads of tinfoil, maybe, or rusty iron nails you had to get tetanus shots for.

“No, no, no,” Mrs. Margolin said before anyone could start in on the “Friends Song.” “An uplifting song. Something to lift her up and take her mind off all these earthly burdens.”

Arnetta and Octavia rolled their eyes. Everyone knew what song Mrs. Margolin was talking about, and no one, no one, wanted to sing it.

“Please, no,” a voice called out. “Not ‘The Doughnut Song.’”

“Please not ‘The Doughnut Song,’” Octavia pleaded.

“I’ll brush my teeth two times if I don’t have to sing ‘The Doughnut—’”

“Sing!” Mrs. Margolin demanded.

We sang:

“Life without Jesus is like a do-ough-nut!

Like a do-ooough-nut!

Like a do-ooough-nut!

Life without Jesus is like a do-ough-nut!

There’s a hole in the middle of my soul!”

There were other verses, involving other pastries, but we stopped after the first one and cast glances toward Mrs. Margolin to see if we could gain a reprieve. Mrs. Margolin’s eyes fluttered blissfully. She was half asleep.

“Awww,” Mrs. Hedy said, as though giant Mrs. Margolin were a cute baby, “Mrs. Margolin’s had a long day.”

“Yes indeed,” Mrs. Margolin answered. “If you don’t mind, I might just go to the lodge where the beds are. I haven’t been the same since the operation.”

I had not heard of this operation, or when it had occurred, since Mrs. Margolin had never missed the once-a-week Brownie meetings, but I could see from Daphne’s face that she was concerned, and I could see that the other girls had decided that Mrs. Margolin’s operation must have happened long ago in some remote time unconnected to our own. Nevertheless, they put on sad faces. We had all been taught that adulthood was full of sorrow and pain, taxes and bills, dreaded work and dealings with whites, sickness and death. I tried to do what the others did. I tried to look silent.

“Go right ahead, Linda,” Mrs. Hedy said. “I’ll watch the girls.” Mrs. Hedy seemed to forget about divorce for a moment; she looked at us with dewy eyes, as if we were mysterious, furry creatures. Meanwhile, Mrs. Margolin walked through the maze of sleeping bags until she found her own. She gathered a neat stack of clothes and pajamas slowly, as though doing so was almost painful. She took her toothbrush, her toothpaste, her pillow. “All right!” Mrs. Margolin said, addressing us all from the threshold of the cabin. “Be in bed by nine.” She said it with a twinkle in her voice, letting us know she was allowing us to be naughty and stay up till nine-fifteen.

“C’mon everybody,” Arnetta said after Mrs. Margolin left. “Time for us to wash up.”

Everyone watched Mrs. Hedy closely, wondering whether she would insist on coming with us since it was night, making a fight with Troop 909 nearly impossible. Troop 909 would soon be in the bathroom, washing their faces, brushing their teeth — completely unsuspecting of our ambush.

“We won’t be long,” Arnetta said. “We’re old enough to go to the restrooms by ourselves.”

Ms. Hedy pursed her lips at this dilemma. “Well, I guess you Brownies are almost Girl Scouts, right?”

“Right!”

“Just one more badge,” Drema said.

“And about,” Octavia droned, “a million more cookies to sell.” Octavia looked at all of us, Now’s our chance, her face seemed to say, but our chance to do what, I didn’t exactly know.

Finally, Mrs. Hedy walked to the doorway where Octavia stood dutifully waiting to say goodbye but looking bored doing it. Mrs. Hedy held Octavia’s chin. “You’ll be good?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“And remember to pray for me and your father? If I’m asleep when you get back?”

“Yes, Mama.”

WHEN THE other girls had finished getting their toothbrushes and washcloths and flashlights for the group restroom trip, I was drawing pictures of tiny birds with too many feathers. Daphne was sitting on her sleeping bag, reading.

“You’re not going to come?” Octavia asked.

Daphne shook her head.

“I’m gonna stay, too,” I said. “I’ll go to the restroom when Daphne and Mrs. Hedy go.”

Arnetta leaned down toward me and whispered so that Mrs. Hedy, who’d taken over Mrs. Margolin’s task of counting Popsicle sticks, couldn’t hear. “No, Snot. If we get in trouble, you’re going to get in trouble with the rest of us.”

WE MADE our way through the darkness by flashlight. The tree branches that had shaded us just hours earlier, along the same path, now looked like arms sprouting menacing hands. The stars sprinkled the sky like spilled salt. They seemed fastened to the darkness, high up and holy, their places fixed and definite as we stirred beneath them.

Some, like me, were quiet because we were afraid of the dark; others were talking like crazy for the same reason.

“Wow!” Drema said, looking up. “Why are all the stars out here? I never see stars back on Oneida Street.”

“It’s a camping trip, that’s why,” Octavia said. “You’re supposed to see stars on camping trips.”

Janice said, “This place smells like my mother’s air freshener.”

“These woods are pine,” Elise said. “Your mother probably uses pine air freshener.”

Janice mouthed an exaggerated “Oh,” nodding her head as though she just then understood one of the world’s great secrets.

No one talked about fighting. Everyone was afraid enough just walking through the infinite deep of the woods. Even though I didn’t fight to fight, was afraid of fighting, I felt I was part of the rest of the troop; like I was defending something. We trudged against the slight incline of the path, Arnetta leading the way.