On the Big White Oak

It was a plastic table that her mother set up, and a big sign that said: Lemonade. Marian sat by herself watching the lemon-halves float lazily against the pale liquid that sparkled beneath the hot July sun. Her hair was brown and uncontrollably curly, and the spirals ended just past her shoulders, some strands sticking to the sides of her face as beads of sweat began to form.  She was freckled on her nose and cheeks, and her mother found it cute.  But she hated being cute.  And she hated freckles.  She wished, many times, that she looked more like her striking cousin, Delia, who was just like a sister to her, but different, because people paid attention to Delia and not so much to Marian.

​

The old Victorian house across the street was one of many in the quaint little village of Babylon, Long Island. It was white with wide, red doors and green shutters and it had a large wrap-around porch with an old wooden rocking chair that she swore sometimes rocked when the wind was calm and no one but her was watching.

​

The house had been vacant for some time now and she often wondered when someone would move into it.  She dreamed of a girl living there - a young girl, close to her own age, of course - and the girl would have long blonde hair (a contrast to her own dark features) and she would like lemonade stands and kickball, and the two of them would be inseparable.

​

She sighed.  The empty street showed no promise of customers, only the glaring, hot pavement that would burn her feet if she walked on it barefoot, and the houses with everything closed - the doors and windows, because people had their air conditioners on. 

​

She saw two birds hopping in front of her. One of them seemed angry at the other – lunging at it, its melodic voice becoming seemingly frantic.  Moments later they flew away, one right behind the other, and Marian watched as they glided, effortlessly into the bright blue sky. I bet they’re the best of friends, she thought.  Best friends never stay cross for long.

​

She closed her eyes, imagining the birds, a whole bunch of them, surrounding her, landing on her shoulders and her head, whistling – singing only for her. Then she heard a sound.  A large, white truck was coming down the block. It was out of place – unwelcome.  She frowned, impatient for it to pass - but it started to slow down. The faces in the windows were sunburned, and a cigarette was flicked out and onto the grass – embers burning.  Then, the truck stopped right in front of the empty house.

​

Marian watched as the men jumped out.  They were laughing and talking loudly.  One of them playfully punched another on the arm.  Then, they began to pull things out of the van: boxes and some chairs, and as they did this, their chatter seemed to dissipate.  Quickly, against the heat, they were fanning themselves and wiping their foreheads.

​

She wondered about calling to the men and saying: Here, drinks for you!  And she imagined their relief – their smiles.  They would laugh with her and tell her how delicious her lemonade was.  And they would fill her jar with money.

But she wouldn't call to them. There were many things she did in her head that she couldn’t do in real life.  It was as if something would lodge in her throat.  She was always afraid someone would laugh at her. 

​

Even in school she kept to herself and didn’t know how to make friends.  She was boring, they told her.  Weird.  Why? Because dolls didn’t interest her?  Because she didn’t like wearing pretty dresses?  She preferred inspecting bugs and chasing frogs.  She liked lying in the grass and throwing rocks into puddles.

​

Delia was her closest friend, surely by default because she was family, and Marian treasured the weekends she spent sleeping over at Delia's house.  Delia smiled all the time and laughed at Miriam’s jokes.  It didn't bother Marian that Delia's bedroom was filled with all kinds of dolls: porcelain dolls that couldn't be touched, squishy dolls for sleeping, dolls that blinked, dolls that talked, dolls that had long, silky hair, which Delia liked to brush.  And it didn't bother Delia that Marian never played with the dolls.

​

Two years ago, when Marian was five, her father died in his sleep.  A brain aneurism, they called it.  And her mother cried herself to sleep for six months.  Since then, it had only been the two of them, but Rosa (Marian always called her that) never seemed satisfied with Marian.  She never understood about dirty fingers and soccer balls, and so Marian tried, sometimes, to wear the dresses that Rosa constantly bought for her, but she was never in them for more than ten minutes before they were stained, and Rosa was cross.

​

Constantly, her mother would compare her to Delia.  “Why can’t you be more like your cousin?”

Marian would shrug. She didn’t know.

“Be a lady, Marian! This stuff you do – it’s for boys!”

But Marian didn’t really understand why.

​

Rosa was born in Lima, Peru.  She met Robert, Marian’s father, only a year after she arrived in New York - and they had both confessed the love was instant.

​

Robert was a tall Irish man with pale skin and dark eyes.  He was cultured and educated, and Rosa admired him.  Sometimes, she felt she wasn’t good enough for him.  That her English was lacking.  That she was lacking.  Six months after they met, Rosa became pregnant with Marian and feared she might lose him. But he had already purchased the simple diamond solitaire he was going to present her with and when she told him the news, he was ecstatic.

​

Robert adored Rosa’s vitality.  He loved to watch her dance in the kitchen.  Her pot roast was the best he’d ever tasted.  She was an adoring and doting mother and wife.  He thought himself lucky to have found her, and he didn’t think twice about taking care of her. 

​

After his death, Rosa was scared that she might be looked down upon.  She was a foreigner – not one of them - and she never quite acclimated to the culture.  She was uneducated; she didn’t even have a high school degree, and she had grown up as an illegitimate child - the daughter of a whore (they’d said).  When her older sister, Delia’s mother, decided to leave Peru for good, Rosa tagged along.  And together, they made good lives for themselves.  They both held on to old-fashioned beliefs, and wanted, for their children, what they believed was best: For each of them to find a proper man.  

​

Now, Marian turned to see her mother’s round face - thick, black hair piled in a bun - staring at her through the window. Marian waved half-heartedly, wishing she would go away. Rosa waved back, smiling: Come in for lunch!

​

The men across the street seemed to be taking a break. Cigarettes were being lit.  One of them stretched his arms above his head, as if he were only just waking up. For a few minutes, everything was calm again.  Then, a shiny, black car pulled up in front of the house and the men dispersed.

​

Marian felt a stirring in her belly.  It was a feeling so intense, she would remember it for years.  She would, in time, try to describe it to herself – but nothing seemed to do it justice.

​

A man got out of the car - a tall man with a big, bright smile.  Marian liked the man's face.  Then, a tiny woman emerged, a quick woman with short, blonde hair who was pointing at things and speaking very fast – like a teacher Marian had known once; a teacher she hadn't liked at all.   The woman appeared to be displeased about something, and she was shaking her head as she walked into the house. The tall man stood back, talking with one of the movers, his hands in his pockets, his face calm - and for a moment, he tilted his head back in laughter.  Then, another figure came out of the car – a smaller figure.  Marian stretched her neck to see.  She was sure that it was a girl about her age.  She noticed the long, golden hair moving in the breeze.  She wondered: Has my wish come true?

​

The girl was bouncing a ball - a tennis ball, perhaps?  Marian watched as the ball smacked into the sidewalk and then flew back up, as if suctioned into the girl's grasp.  Then, the ball hit the ground too hard and went flying over the car, toward Marian.

​

Immediately, Marian ran to get it, because now she had a reason to say hello.  But the girl was quick, too, and standing in front of Marian just as she caught it.  When she looked up, she realized that the beautiful golden hair was not attached to a girl at all.

​

His hair was down to his shoulders - she had never seen a boy's hair so long, and his skin was tanned and flushed.  He had big, twinkling blue eyes. 

​

She felt herself blushing.  She wanted to turn away.  But he spoke: 

"How much?"

She didn't understand.  “What?”

“For the lemonade.  I’m thirsty.”

Marian had forgotten all about it. “Fifty cents,” she said, and she pointed to the sign.  "See - fifty cents."

He creased his forehead, and he smiled in a lopsided way - a look he would carry with him way into adulthood.  “How old are you?” he asked.

“I’m seven. I’m going to be eight next week. July eleventh.”

“Figures,” he said, shaking his head and taking the ball from her. “Well, I’m nine and a half. If you were older, you’d know that people are getting at least a dollar for lemonade these days.”

Marian was surprised.  “A dollar?  For one cup?”

He began bouncing the ball again.  “Sure. Just in the summertime, though.”

“Well - of course.  Nobody sells lemonade in the winter.”

“That’s cuz there’s not a need for it. People aren’t thirsty as much in the winter as they are in the summer. In the summertime people are hot from the sun.  They get dehydrated and that makes them thirsty. When there’s a need for something you can raise the price."  Then his eyes widened.  "I betcha you can get a dollar twenty-five!”

Marian shook her head.  “Nobody will pay that much.”

“I’ll prove it,”  he said. 

Then, the tall man came up from behind him.  “Time to go, Adam,” he said.  Then, to Marian, “And what’s your name?”

“Marian Brown,” she said, feeling shy. She looked at her feet.

Adam interrupted.  “Can I have some lemonade, Dad?”

His father nodded, reaching into his pocket. He took out a dollar.  “How much, sweetie?”

Adam answered for her.  “It’s a dollar twenty-five, Dad.”

Marian’s felt her heart beating fast, but she didn't deny it.  She only hoped the man wouldn’t notice the big sign behind her. She kept her eyes at her feet.

The man took out another dollar. “I don’t have any change,” he said, then winked at her. “Keep the rest as a tip.”

“Thank you,” Marian said, still looking down.

“And Marian - it's nice to see a kid out here, trying to make some money." 

She nodded. 

He started to walk away.  “Five more minutes, son."

When the tall man was back across the street, Marian giggled. “Wow," she said, "I can’t believe it!”

She handed the boy, Adam, a cup of lemonade.  He drank, quickly, then crumpled the cup in his hand.

“I told you," he said, smiling brightly.

“You’re really smart,” Marian said.

Adam shrugged. “I have to go now.” 

"Wait."  Marian held out the dollar. “This is for you.  It’s only fair since you helped me.”

He took it. “Thanks,” he said.

Then, he raced away.

Marian watched until he disappeared into the house. When it was only her and the moving men again, she heard Rosa’s voice from behind her.

“Why don’t you come inside now, sweetie?” 

 But Marian shook her head.  “I’m just going to stay out here for a little longer, okay?”  A feeling she couldn’t explain, began fluttering within the pit of her belly.