John Irving - Until I Find You

Well, Jack knew someone who was old enough. When he was adrift in grade one, under the apologetic supervision of the weatherless Miss Wong, Emma Oastler was in grade seven, thirteen going on twenty-one. No topics were off-limits for conversation with Emma. There was only the problem of how pissed-off she was. (Jack knew Emma would be furious with him for speaking to Wendy and Charlotte first.)

Don’t misunderstand the outlaw corridors and washroom thuggery—namely, the older girls’ behavior outside the classroom. St. Hilda’s was a good school, and an especially rigorous one—academically. Perhaps the demands of the classroom created an urgency to act up among the older girls; they needed to express themselves in opposition to the correct diction and letter-perfect enunciation, of which Miss Wurtz was not the only champion among the generally excellent faculty at the school. The girls needed a language of their own—corridor-speak, or washroom grammar. That was why there was a lot of “Lemme-see” stuff—all the “I’m gonna, dontcha-wanna, gimme-that-thing -now ” crap—which was the way the older girls talked among themselves, or to Jack. If they ever spoke in this fashion in their respective classrooms, the faculty—not only Miss Wurtz—would have instantly reprimanded them.

Not so Peewee, Mrs. Wicksteed’s Jamaican driver. Peewee was in no position to criticize how Emma Oastler spoke to Jack in the backseat of the Lincoln Town Car. To begin with, both Peewee and Jack were surprised the first time Emma slid into the backseat. It was a cold, rainy afternoon. Emma lived in Forest Hill; she usually walked to and from school. After school—in both her middle- and her senior-school years—Emma normally hung out in a restaurant and coffee shop at the corner of Spadina and Lonsdale with a bunch of her older-girl friends. Not this day, and it wasn’t the cold or the rain.

“You need help with your homework, Jack,” Emma announced. (The boy was in grade one. He wouldn’t have much homework before grade two, and he wouldn’t really need help with it before grades three and four.)

“Where are we taking the girl, mon?” Peewee asked Jack.

“Take me home with him,” Emma told the driver. “We’ve got a shitload of work to do—haven’t we, Jack?”

“She sounds like she’s the boss, mon,” Peewee said. Jack couldn’t argue with that. Emma had slumped down in the backseat, pulling him down beside her.

“I’m gonna give you a valuable tip, Jack,” she whispered. “I’m sure there will come a day when you’ll find it useful to remember this.”

“Remember what ?” he whispered back.

“If you can’t see the driver’s eyes in the rearview mirror,” Emma whispered, “that means the driver can’t see you.”

“Oh.” At that moment, Jack couldn’t see Peewee’s eyes.

“We have such a lot of ground to cover,” Emma went on. “What’s important for you to remember is this: if there’s anything you don’t understand, you ask me. Wendy Holton is a twisted little bitch—never ask Wendy! Charlotte Barford is a one-speed blow job waiting to happen. You’re putting your life and your doink in her hands every time you talk to Charlotte! Remember: if there’s anything new that occurs to you, tell me first.”

“Like what ?” the boy asked.

“You’ll know,” she told him. “Like when you first feel that you want to touch a girl. When the feeling is un-fucking-stoppable, tell me.”

“Touch a girl where ?”

“You’ll know,” Emma repeated.

“Oh.” Jack wondered if his wanting to touch Emma’s mustache was necessary to confess, since he’d already done it.

“Do you feel like touching me, Jack?” Emma asked. “Go on—you can tell me.”

His head didn’t come up to her shoulder, not even slumped down in the backseat; there was the suddenly strong attraction to lay his head on her chest, exactly between her throat and her emerging breasts. But her mustache was still the most appealing thing about her, and he knew she was sensitive to his touching it.

“Okay, so that’s established,” Emma said. “So you don’t feel like touching me, not yet.” Jack was sad the opportunity had been missed, and he must have looked it. “Don’t be sad, Jack,” Emma whispered. “It’s gonna happen.”

“ What’s going to happen?”

“You’re gonna be like your dad— we’re all counting on it. You’re gonna open your share of doors, Jack.”

“ What doors?” When Emma didn’t answer him, the boy assumed that he had hit upon another item in the not-old-enough category. “What’s a womanizer ?” he asked, imagining he had changed the subject.

“Someone who can’t ever have enough women, honey pie—someone who wants one woman after another, with no rest in between.”

Well, that wouldn’t be me, Jack thought. In the sea of girls in which he found himself, he couldn’t imagine wanting more. In the St. Hilda’s chapel, in the stained glass behind the altar, four women—saints, Jack assumed—were attending to Jesus. At St. Hilda’s, even Jesus was surrounded by women. There were women everywhere!

“What are charity cases ?” he asked Emma.

“At the moment, that would be you and your mom, Jack.”

“But what does it mean ?”

“You’re dependent on Mrs. Wicksteed’s money, Jack. No tattoo artist makes enough money to send a kid to St. Hilda’s.”

“Here we are, miss,” Peewee said, as if Emma were the sole passenger in the limo. Peewee pulled the Town Car to the curb at the corner of Spadina and Lowther, where Lottie was standing with most of her weight on one foot.

“Looks like The Limp is waiting for you, baby cakes,” Emma whispered in Jack’s ear.

“Why, hello, Emma —my, how you’ve grown!” Lottie managed to say.

“We’ve got no time to chat, Lottie,” Emma said. “Jack is having trouble understanding a few important things. I’m here to help him.”

“My goodness,” Lottie said, limping after them. Emma, with her long strides, led Jack to the door.

“I trust The Wickweed is napping, Jack,” Emma whispered. “We’ll have to be quiet—there’s no need to wake her up.”

Jack had not heard Mrs. Wicksteed called The Wickweed before, but Emma Oastler’s authority was unquestionable. She even knew the back staircase from the kitchen, leading to Jack’s and Alice’s rooms.

Later it was easy enough to understand: Emma Oastler’s man-hating monster of a divorced mother was a friend of Mrs. Wicksteed’s divorced daughter—hence their shared perception of Jack and his mom as Mrs. Wicksteed’s rent-free boarders. Emma’s mom and Mrs. Wicksteed’s daughter were Old Girls, too; they had graduated from St. Hilda’s in the same class. (They were not much older than Alice.)

Calling downstairs to Lottie, who was aimlessly limping around in the kitchen, Emma said: “If we need anything, like tea or something, we’ll come get it. Don’t trouble yourself to climb the stairs, Lottie. Try giving your limp a rest !”

In Jack’s room, Emma began by pulling back his bedcovers and examining his sheets. Seemingly disappointed, she put the covers loosely back in place. “Listen to me, Jack—here’s what’ll happen, but not for a while. One morning, you’re gonna wake up and find a mess in your sheets.”

“ What mess?”

“You’ll know.”

“Oh.”

Emma had moved on—through the bathroom, to his mother’s room—leaving him to reflect upon the mystery mess.

Alice’s room smelled like pot, although Jack never saw her smoke a joint in there; in all likelihood, the marijuana clung to her clothes. He knew she took a toke or two at the Chinaman’s, because he could occasionally smell it in her hair.