winked a robust, blonde owner of another distinctive pair of breasts. “How lovely you are! Your braids remind me of our Danish girls at home.”
A third Danish woman, her bosoms so abundant that I didn’t even notice her face, held out her arms. “Come, let me hug this pretty young friend.”
I stood, transfixed, unable to move. Yet another woman stood up, placed her drink on the table and, two perky breasts bobbing, walked over to embrace me. “Don’t be shy, we’re only girls here having fun.” She smelled sweet and pungent. Her skin was silky, warm, and glowing with perspiration.
Lotte, meanwhile, was hopping around from behind one pair of bare shoulders to another, reaching for another unattended glass on the table. One sip here, one sip there, Lotte closed her eyes each time. The contentment on her face told me the lemonade in those glasses tasted really good.
During that sultry afternoon, four Danish women shared with me their joy, affection, and celebration of each other. One year of immersion in Lotte’s friendship transformed me from being isolated and different to feeling included and loved. Where Miss Quail had taught me to fly strong, Lotte, her mother, and the Danish women taught me to celebrate womanhood, friendship, and cultural identity. When Lotte and her mother returned to Denmark, I thought my heart would break. “Pen pals forever” was all we could promise.
Without Lotte, I had to face sixth grade alone. It was a dark year for me—a time of loneliness, humiliation, and betrayal. Starting with Miss Boyle, aka “The Boyle,” my sixth grade music teacher. She patrolled up and down the aisles of the classroom. Her piercing eyes missed nothing; her wrinkled apricot ears heard everything.
In the school library, Webster’s 1950 Giant Illustrated Approved Dictionary listed “Boyle” under Boyle’s Law—Physics. The volume of a gas at constant temperature varies inversely with the pressure exerted on it. The Boyle was full of gas and pressure. And she was obsessed with the color blue, wore it every day—a squared-off navy jacket over a light blue blouse that varied only in collar shape and a navy blue skirt that hung mid-calf or longer. Chunky-heeled navy pumps anchored her thin legs wrapped in baggy blue stockings.
Vocal Music with The Boyle met every Wednesday before lunch. Herds of boisterous students streamed into the music room and filed past the front podium, where The Boyle loomed like a dark bird of prey with a wooden baton gripped in her claws.
Thinking she couldn’t see or hear me in the middle of a circle of girls, I got a little cocky. “I sing pretty well,” popped out of my mouth, “but how awful that we have Miss Boyle.”
The Boyle rapped the baton so violently I thought it would crack. An ominous pall settled over the class. No one dared to make a sound. The Boyle, like a menacing guard with calculating eyes, surveyed the class and picked her victim.
“It has come to my attention,” she spat, “that a student among you has a special talent for singing.” Eyes gleaming, she continued, “Today she will have the chance to entertain us.” She smirked. “That person is Donna.”
Heads turned in unison, pairs of bullet eyes riveted on me.
“Come to the front of the room. Bring Workbook #5 with you.”
I sat paralyzed, my bottom cemented to the chair. The Boyle glared, arms crossed against her flat chest. Silence stretched into eerie silence.
“I’ve changed my mind,” she sneered. “Don’t bother to bring the workbook.” She oozed contempt. “Donna is probably better than any of us. So, come up here, Donna, and lead the class.”
Everyone in the room watched to see what I would do. Nothing could make me follow The Boyle’s order. For an eternity of silence, I sat in my chair and watched her face contort with meanness as she decided my fate. The Boyle used silence as a weapon.
Finally she spoke. “I see that Donna has no desire to demonstrate her special talent.” Her eyes narrowed with vengeance. “By next class, she will memorize all the songs in the workbook. I will pick one. And Donna will sing for all of us.”
That time never came. I skipped the next four Wednesdays of Vocal Music class by hiding in the girls’ restroom. When I returned weeks later and slipped into the back row, The Boyle treated me as if I were invisible for the rest of the semester. In January, report cards came out. I received the only “F” of all my school days, written in bold black, next to Vocal Music, initialed HB (“Horrible Boyle”).
For years, The Boyle’s legacy stayed with me. I avoided the spotlight and never sang if anyone could hear me. But at home, in front of the bathroom mirror, I howled along with Patti Page:
How much is that doggie in the window?
The one with the waggely tail.
How much is that doggie in the window?
I do hope that doggie’s for sale.
Mother had her own idea about my music education. “Danusia, is time you take piano lessons,” she announced. “Wednesday after school, Mr. Catlin will teach!”
Had The Boyle told Mother I’d skipped Vocal Music? Or had Mother seen me sneak through the blue velvet draperies into the living room and slide onto the bench of the upright piano? Though I never touched the keys, only wiggled my fingers above them, pretending I was a child prodigy.
The first Wednesday at 4:00 p.m. the doorbell rang. I was already seated at the piano bench, waiting. The velvet draperies parted. In came Mother, followed by a rotund man wearing a brown suit and a stained yellow necktie. I stared at his puffy lips capped by a mustache that bristled.
“Danusia, here is Mr. Catlin, piano teacher of good student, Jadzia Bokovska.” She was also the obnoxious show-off daughter of our next-door neighbor. Mother pointed at Mr. Catlin. “You are paid after,” she announced and disappeared through the draperies.
Mr. Catlin flung his bulky briefcase on the ornate coffee table that Mother always warned, “Never touch! Delicate!” Plunging his hand into the depths of the briefcase, he pulled out a wooden box about the height of the kitchen’s giant peppershaker. “Meet Captain Metronome, on duty for every practice and every lesson.” Mr. Catlin positioned the little dictator on the left side of the piano, right above the keyboard.
Again he dug into the briefcase and brought out a worn red and white booklet, John Thompson Series, Book 1, Level 1, For Beginners. Mr. Catlin opened its earmarked pages and shoved the book against the music ledge. One more time he reached into the briefcase. This time, he ceremoniously withdrew a cigar box as if it were a rare treasure. On its cover was a sexy dark-haired woman with big bosoms. Above her head, bold black letters spelled out Havana Delights, Made By Hand. In smaller script at the bottom, Genuine Cuban Cigars made in Venezuela.
With gusto, Mr. Catlin flipped open the lid and surveyed the contents. His thick fingers fluttered over the cigars as if they were waiting piano keys. He selected one and raised it up to his nose. He held it between his teeth, reached into his pocket, and withdrew a gadget that clip-clipped the tip of the cigar. Then Mr. Catlin lit up the first cigar I’d ever smelled and would never forget.
Even my big imagination couldn’t have invented the way Mr. Catlin transformed into Maestro of Doom. He loomed over me, shouting drills, spewing billows of cigar smoke into a toxic fog that enveloped the Maestro, the piano, and me.
The precise moment the grandfather clock struck 5:00 p.m.,
