Chapter Twenty

“I’m going shopping after school,” Al said. “You want to come?” We always get out early Friday afternoon, so I told her, “Sure. What are you going shopping for?”

“I have decided to buy myself a sweater with the money I got from my father. I figure ten dollars ought to be about right.”

“I thought your mother always bought your clothes at her employee discount,” I said. “Will she think it is all right for you to go to some place else and pay full price?”

“It is my money,” Al said. “I have decided to take the bull by the horns and buy myself something nice to wear. Instead of buying myself junk. Food junk. You know.”

She looked at me like she was expecting me to argue with her. I thought the whole idea was great. Beautiful. I told her so.

“Beautiful,” I said. “I will help you pick it out. What color do you want?”

“I think I will have pink. Pink is a good color. My mother says elderly women buy pink so the reflection will make them look young. They even have pink lamp shades in restaurants so that the ladies will look young.”

“But you are not elderly,” I said.

“So what?” Al shrugged. “Some days I feel awful old.”

She tossed a pigtail over her shoulder. “Let’s go,” she said.

“One thing I know,” I said as we went downtown, “one thing that would make you look better is if you stopped wearing those pigtails. Comb your hair out and it looks great. It kind of shines and it’s real pretty.”

“Holy Toledo,” Al said, “you’d think I was trying out for Miss Teen Queen of America,” but she looked pleased and her cheeks got pink even though she had on a white blouse.

We went to the sweater department of the store, which was not the one where Al’s mother worked.

“Yes?” The lady gave us the fishy eye. They must train salesladies to give the fishy eye. She acted like we had a large paper sack under each arm and were preparing to stuff them full of sweaters and run for the nearest exit.

“I want a pink sweater,” Al said.

“What size?”

Al said, “I don’t know. I have never bought a sweater for myself before.”

The saleslady stood back and narrowed her eyes. “I would say a thirty-six,” she said and reached into a glass case and came out with a couple of pink sweaters.

Al said, “I will take this one.”

“Don’t you want to try it on?”

“I’m going to wear it,” Al said. “That is, if I can afford it. How much is it?”

“With tax, that comes to nine dollars and forty-five cents,” the lady said. “But you’d better slip it on and see if it fits. There’s a dressing room back here.”

Al slipped it on and it fit fine, which was a good thing because I think she would have worn it even if it hadn’t fit.

“It looks very nice,” I said, because it was what she wanted to hear and also because it was true. “That color is good on you.” This is what my mother always says.

All the way home Al kept running her hand over the sleeve of the sweater.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a pink sweater before. It’s the first thing I’ve really bought for myself. To wear, that is. It is a good feeling to buy something for yourself to wear. You know? I will write my father and thank him for the check and tell him what I did with it. I think he would like that. Maybe I will have a picture of myself taken wearing the sweater and send it to him. Do you think that would be good?”

“That’s a great idea,” I said. “Then he can show it to all his friends and say, ‘This is my daughter.’ He would probably like that a lot.”

“You know something?” Al said. “I don’t think he’s ever really going to come to see me. I just decided that now. I think he thinks he will, but he’ll never make it. Sort of like Mr. Richards never getting to see his daughter and his grandchildren. He wanted to, but he never did.”

“Oh, no,” I said. “He’ll come when he isn’t too busy. Men get awfully busy. He’ll come when he isn’t on a trip.”

“Do you really believe that?” Al asked me.

“He thinks about you,” I said. “He sends you money and most kids’ fathers don’t even give them a quarter without an argument.”

“That is true,” Al said. “But I feel sorry for him. I am the only daughter he’s got and he’ll never really know me. Just like Mr. Richards will never know his daughter. And she’s the only one he’s got. That is really kind of sad, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” I said. “I agree. It is sad.”

“I’ll write him tonight,” she said. “I’ll tell him exactly how much it cost, tax and all.”