There was nothing quite so exciting as the last day of school, with summer vacation waiting just beyond the final bell. The year was 1958. In St. Germaine’s fourth grade classroom, a delicate looking girl kept glancing at the big round clock on the wall. Emma Winberry had timid blue eyes and a dark cap of perfectly straight hair. At nine years of age, she was among the youngest students and perhaps the only one who felt some sadness over school ending, for it meant that she would lose her best and truest friend until September. In fact, Franny Brocado was her only friend, always quick to share a smile or a secret.

The class was noisier than usual as they handed in textbooks and washed their desks with rags dipped in soapy water. When everything was in order, Sister Teresa called for silence and began handing out the final report cards. Emma knew she would pass. She was a conscientious student, but dreadfully shy, and the thought of walking up to the teacher’s desk in front of everyone made her pulse race. Since the students were called in alphabetical order, Franny did not have long to wait, but as always, Emma was dead last. She sat nervously cracking her knuckles until her turn came. Scarcely breathing, she stood in her blue uniform dress and made her way to Sister Teresa.

“Good work,” Sister said, smiling as she handed over the card in its yellow sleeve.

“Thank-you, Sister,” whispered Emma. Then she was safely back in her seat, opening the card, rejoicing in the neat column of A’s penned in black ink.

At exactly noon, the dismissal bell rang. Emma gathered her belongings and met Franny out in the warm June sun. Together they walked to the street where Franny’s mother sat waiting in a shiny new Pontiac.

A lump formed in Emma’s throat. “I wish you weren’t going so far away.”

Franny hugged her. “Me, too. I’ll write and tell you all about my relatives in Portugal.”

Tears shimmered behind Franny’s glasses, and she jumped into the car. She waved out the window as it left the curb and disappeared around the corner.

For a long moment Emma just stood on the sidewalk, while happy children rushed by. Here she was, living among millions of people in the heart of California’s San Fernando Valley, yet as lonely as could be. Clutching her used workbooks and old pencil case, she wandered over to the church, donned a round chapel veil, and went inside. The cool sanctuary soothed her as she knelt in a back pew and folded her hands in prayer. With her eyes focused on the tabernacle, the distant sounds from the playground were not quite so painful. She thought of St. Germaine Cousin, for whom the parish was named. Like Emma, Germaine had lost her mother and felt friendless, too.

Deep in her heart, Emma said, “Dear Germaine, please send me a summer friend — someone nice I can play with, so I won’t feel so alone.

Afterward, she did not have far to walk home. On the church corner, she crossed a quiet side road and continued up Arbor Street, which fronted a public high school. Graceful pepper trees grew along the curb and shaded the sidewalk all the way to her house. Pausing at the gate, she turned toward the high school and scanned the windows of the second floor where Papa worked as an instructor. Robert Winberry did more than teach science; it was his life’s all-consuming passion. Ever since Mama died, he had devoted every spare minute to the projects cluttering their converted garage.

Wishing he were home, Emma sighed and jiggled the latch so the saggy wooden gate would swing open. She entered the yard. At one time there had been a beautiful green lawn, but it had withered away from neglect, leaving scruffy weed patches that harbored interesting bugs. The house was set deep on the lot, drenched in the shade of five towering trees. Its formerly white stucco looked dingy and the red paint on its trim was starting to flake, but Emma’s eyes passed over the imperfections, to the ivy framing the entryway. Mama had planted it long ago, and the creamy green and white runners were still thriving. Emma walked over to the ivy, and as she fingered a smooth leaf, her cat rose from the porch and stretched his fluffy gray body.

“Hi, Puff,” she said, bending down to scratch behind his ears. Purring happily, he followed her into the house.

Emma went straight to her bedroom, where she shed her uniform for the last time and donned pedal pushers and a blouse. No more dresses for her, if she could help it. Maybe this would be the summer of her dreams. She would climb trees, hunt for snails in the ivy, and collect the little butterflies that settled on the orange lantana bush in a sunny corner of the backyard. She would spend her allowance on model airplanes, smoke bombs, and shrunken heads from the novelty store. There would be kites and candy bars and armloads of books from the public library. She would keep herself so busy, she would hardly ever think of Franny…or Mama.

Emma’s gaze settled on the framed picture of her parents atop her maple dresser. She went over and picked it up. The background of the studio portrait looked misty, like the fog that had pressed in on the car as Papa drove them downtown for Mama’s cancer treatments. It had been the winter of Emma’s fifth year, and now the memories seemed dreamlike, all jumbled together. Zooming along freeways, elevator rides tickling her stomach, marble halls that smelled of disinfectant. Mama’s pallid face and the terrible sadness in Papa’s eyes — a sadness that had never completely gone away.

In the photograph, Papa still had lots of dark wavy hair on top of his head. Mama looked healthy and happy. Her rich blue eyes were exactly like Emma’s, and so was her funny nose. Papa said it was a “sweet” nose, and he called Emma his “Honeybee”. He had called Mama just plain “Honey”, in a gentle loving voice.

They did not get to be husband and wife very long. During the war, Papa served as a naval officer. That was when Mama met him, “as handsome as could be” in one of the uniforms that still hung in the back of his closet. Just after the war ended, they got married and moved into this same house. It was the only world Emma had ever known.

The afternoon passed quickly. Emma had everything ready for Papa’s return, but he was late getting home. Though his more serious students often delayed him, he never seemed to mind. He enjoyed talking science, and sometimes teenagers even joined him in his garage laboratory after dinner. During the summer, Papa worked on his projects all day long.

Suddenly Emma heard the front door open. She called out a greeting from the kitchen, where she was mixing tuna and cream soup for dinner — one of her specialties, served over buttered toast. Looking dapper in his suit and bow tie, Papa came in and hugged her. Emma loved the rough feel of tweed against her cheek. Though Papa was not a very tall man, his slim build and straight posture made him seem tall to Emma. It did not matter to her that he had only a fringe of hair. She thought his piercing dark eyes and chiseled lips were very handsome. When at rest, his face wore a naturally stern expression that he used to good effect in his classroom, but at heart he was gentle and loving.

“How’s my Honeybee?” he asked, sniffing the open pot. “And what’s this marvelous aroma?” As if he didn’t know, for she made the same concoction at least three times a week. On most other nights, they ate frozen potpies or bargain day cheeseburgers served by carhops.

Smiling, she pulled her report card out of her apron pocket and handed it over.

Papa’s face brightened as he read the grades. “Remarkable! Just remarkable! Great job, Honeybee!”

Emma glowed with pride.

oooo

By Saturday, the high school classes were at an end. So far, Papa had not mentioned anything about Emma’s usual summer babysitter, and she kept the fingers of her left hand crossed as they finished breakfast at the kitchen dinette table. Surely she was old enough to be on her own while Papa was in his lab, but his troubled glances did not bode well. She could tell that he was working up to an unpleasant announcement.

As Emma swallowed the last bite of her cereal and banana, Papa put down his coffee cup and said, “Your Great-Aunt Daisy is coming today.”

Emma’s heart sank. Aunt Daisy had the same single-minded nature as Papa, and each summer Emma became her special project. It meant frilly dresses and hair ribbons and pink fingernail polish. Last year, Daisy had even permed Emma’s hair — made her sit as still as can be in a beauty parlor, choking on the terrible fumes while her head ached and her eyes burned. Afterward, Emma’s hair had looked silly for weeks.

“But Papa,” she protested, “we don’t need her. We can manage fine, just the two of us!”

“School’s out,” he said gently. “I’ll be busy with my research. It’s not good for you to be alone so much. And besides…she loves you.”

That, Emma doubted. If you loved a person, why would you always be trying to change them? Close to tears, she argued, “But Daisy’s allergic to cats. She won’t let Puff inside…or my jar of butterflies, either. And she’s always threatening to pour salt on the snails and kill them.”

Papa encouraged her with a little smile. “It’s only for a couple of months. Come on, be a good Honeybee.”

“A couple of months? It’s closer to three, Papa!” Emma wanted to prove that she was too grown-up for a babysitter, but a sob escaped her and she ran from the room.

All the tears in the world could not keep Aunt Daisy from arriving. By Sunday afternoon, she had settled in and started fussing over Emma’s short “limp” hair. Emma knew what was coming next, and hurried out to the laboratory where her father was pecking away at his typewriter.

“Papa, she’s thinking about perms again! Don’t let her touch my hair!”

He chuckled. “Tell her your papa says ‘no perm’.”

When Emma relayed the message, Aunt Daisy pursed her lips together and little crinkles appeared around her eyes. She was thin and energetic, like all the Winberrys, with her gray hair stylishly curled. Wiping her busy hands on her apron, she said, “Well, we’ll see about that.”

This time, Daisy had brought along a portable sewing machine, and now she refocused her efforts in that direction. She did not believe that females of any age should wear pants. Dress patterns took over the dinette table, and pinking shears cut bolts of flowered cloth. All week there were fittings while Emma stood motionless, dreading the poke of a stray pin. When she complained to Papa, he reminded her of the pot roast dinners and frosted layer cakes. True, Aunt Daisy was a good cook. They were eating high on the hog, but Emma would rather eat out of cans than wear dresses every single day of the week. She had to be careful of dirt and rips and even a spot of glue. Skirts made it hard to climb trees, and when her roller skates caught in a sidewalk crack, her knees paid a bloody price. Daisy and her silly dresses were spoiling all of Emma’s summer fun.

oooo

One blistering June day, Emma wandered into her father’s lab and watched him tinker in the draft of a swamp cooler. For once, he was alone. The lure of the beach must have won over even the most loyal of his teenage protégés.

Drawing a deep breath, she said, “Papa, you promised we’d go out and get ice cream sodas when the weather got really hot.”

He did not look up. Bending over a strange instrument, he answered, “Sure we will, Honeybee. Maybe tomorrow…” That’s how it was when Papa was working. Tomorrow, always tomorrow.

Emma was feeling disappointed when he straightened up and pointed out the nearest window.

“See that brown haze?” he asked.

She nodded. There was enough smog to burn her eyes.

“It’s bad today and unless something’s done, it’s only going to get worse. More and more families are moving into the Valley. More people are driving cars.” It was one of Papa’s favorite subjects, and he was slipping into his teacher’s voice. “What we need is cheap, clean-burning fuel, without all the harmful byproducts of gasoline. Hydrogen is the answer. Why, if…”

Emma yawned, like she always did when he started in on the virtues of hydrogen. Lately, he had set aside all of his other projects to concentrate on his dream of hydrogen-powered engines. Aunt Daisy did not like it one bit. She would say, “One day, you’re going to blow us all to kingdom come.” But Papa insisted there was no danger from his experiments, not like the threat of bombs that sent Emma and her classmates scurrying under their school desks during the monthly air raid drills. Though Emma believed him, she still wanted her ice cream soda and it must have shown on her face.

Reaching into his pants pocket, Papa brought out a crumpled dollar bill. “Go up to the store and pick out a nice carton of ice cream — any flavor you like. We’ll have some for dessert.”

He had not said anything about telling Aunt Daisy, so Emma bypassed the house. Through a partially open window, she could hear the sewing machine humming as it added more frills to another sundress. She opened the gate and started down the blazing hot sidewalk. Arbor Street was always quiet this time of year, with no revving cars or motorcycles tearing in and out of the high school. It was a neighborhood of elderly people whose children had grown up and moved away. Some of them liked Emma, but others saw her as a threat to their carefully tended flowers, and did not like her anywhere near the blossoms. On an afternoon like this, most everyone was indoors, out of the heat. Even the squirrels that ran along the power lines were taking their naps, so Emma stopped to admire a few roses along the way.

At the end of Arbor, she came to a busy roadway lined with slender, towering palm trees. There she stopped to ponder the strangest sight in the neighborhood. Directly across the street, a weathered wood fence enclosed an entire city block. From this angle, Emma could see the roof of an old red barn. Summer and winter alike, there was always an intriguing whiff of animal manure. Could it be from a horse? Smack dab in the middle of the city?

Lured by the open knotholes in the fence, she crossed the street. Somewhere beyond the fence, a dog barked and went silent. She cautiously touched the rough surface of a loose plank.  

“Hello there!” spoke a cheery voice, quite near.

Emma jumped back and found a green eye twinkling at her through the very knothole that she had planned to use.

The owner of the eye giggled. “Come on in. It’s like a gate…I’ll show you.”

Emma spoke in a near-whisper, as she always did when she felt shy. “Oh, I can’t…I shouldn’t…”

“What did you say?”

The board swung on a single long nail, creating an opening just large enough to squeeze through. Out stepped a freckled girl in blue denim overalls. Her pretty red hair was parted down the middle and hung in two long braids. She was a couple of inches taller than Emma, with a huskier build.

Smiling broadly, the stranger said, “Won’t you come in? I’m Susan Kester and I live here. What’s your name?”

Emma’s heart was thumping. With one hand in her dress pocket, she gripped Papa’s dollar bill. Buying ice cream — it was the perfect excuse to leave. But red-haired Susan seemed so friendly, so welcoming…and Emma had not gotten a single postcard from Franny Brocado.

Suddenly she found herself saying, “I’m Emma Winberry. I live just down the way…with my father. His name is Robert. He teaches at the high school.” Embarrassed, she glanced down at her pink gingham sundress. “I don’t usually wear this sort of thing. Great-Aunt Daisy is visiting, and she makes me. Her real name is Marguerite.”

Susan laughed. “That’s clever. Marguerites are a kind of daisy.”

Emma had not expected Susan to know that, and she wondered about the girl’s age. To Emma, age was a matter of great importance. Her dearest wish was to be ten, like most of her classmates. She could imagine nothing more wonderful than being ten years old. She would want to stay ten forever — or maybe twelve — certainly no older than that. And Papa would stay just the same, too.

As if Susan was a mind reader, she said, “I’m almost ten.”

“Me, too!” Emma said in surprise, and followed her through the old fence.

Susan chattered nonstop as she led Emma past the big red barn and stopped at the base of a windmill. It seemed that Susan had a little brother named Tommy. Her mother was named Christina, and Uncle Lars came over a lot. Sometimes he even took them to drive-in movies.

Just now, Emma was more interested in a pungent row of eucalyptus trees shedding their stringy bark. Down on the ground, a colorful assortment of chickens fluffed their feathers in dust wallows.

Susan said, “It’s nice in here, away from all the pavement. Mom says the truck garden makes it cooler.”

Confused, Emma glanced around. “Truck garden?”

“Over in the field. We mostly grow tomatoes, corn, and melons. Some we eat, and the rest we sell to markets.”

Emma scuffed at the dirt with her sandal. “We used to buy fruit and vegetables out in the country…back before…” Remembering her mother, she fell silent.

Susan gazed at her steadily. “Back before what?”

Emma swallowed hard, her shyness intensifying. “We’d go for Sunday drives…back before…before Mom got sick and died.”

“Oh…” Susan’s eyes melted with sympathy. “My dad’s been dead for a couple of years. He had heart trouble.”

Emma did not know what to say.

A German Shepherd came ambling up, his pink tongue lolling as he panted in the heat. Suddenly cheerful again, Susan dropped to her knees and petted him. “Hey Buddy, this is Emma. She’s my new friend.”

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