Only A Name
Crystal Pool. What a name. Maybe I never saw the obvious imagery because Crystal always hated her name in the way teenagers complain about everything, especially pimples.
Crystal was my only and constant babysitter until I turned six years old. Because she lived in our house, her services were convenient and free — which worked well for my parents, but not so well for Crystal.
Family lore has it that my parents took a toddler-age Crystal into their home after they repeatedly found her wandering the neighborhood in bare feet, unbathed with matted hair. At some point before I was born, they made it official and Crystal became their foster child. Maybe everyone else in town knew the implied shadow story that Crystal’s real parents were negligent alcoholics, but I never heard that angle. My mom made it sound like Crystal’s lack of cleanliness was the real crime.
When Crystal turned twelve, I rather shockingly appeared on the scene when my parents were in their ancient forties, after a decade of failed pregnancies. As I grew, so did Crystal’s care-taking responsibilities. The age gap between us made her a natural teacher for me, and likely made me a pain-in-the-ass for her. But, we got along well. We both laughed a lot.
Crystal and I spent a lot of time together because my mom and dad spent a lot of time at taverns. The joke that there is a bar or church on every other corner in Sheboygan is true. When my parents weren’t at Florence’s Bar across the street from our front door, they were at Kohl’s Tavern that shared a parking lot with the train station.
Sometimes Crystal and I would go with my parents to Kohl’s Tavern and play outside on the red brick passenger platform or carefully position a shiny copper penny on the track to see if it would get squished by the train. The loud local trains did not zoom past often. Crystal said the station was a good place to take photographs of me because the tracks were hard, straight steel and my hair was soft and wavy.
Crystal loved beading, so I made 60s-stretchy headbands and bracelets with square flower patterns on a little metal loom. Crystal loved macrame, so I worked tirelessly on natural jute wall hangings. I also knit several simple scarves with multi-colored yarn. We would walk together six blocks to Woolworth’s or seven blocks to Prange’s department store to get supplies. I loved the walk and all the choices and learning how to make things.
Crystal also drew beautiful portraits of cats with regular pencils, and portraits of herself with colored pencils because she had red hair and green eyes. She wrote poetry with red ink in a blank book with crinkly pages and real maple leaves decorating the cover. Although I did not always understand the words, I liked the way she wrote lines stacked on top of each other on the left side of the page, and doodled on the right half. Crystal got me a diary with a gold lock and gold key before I knew how to read or write.
My mom hated all the crafts and the mess and the spending money that Crystal did. She hated that Crystal said “shit” and other swear words, and smoked Marlboros and drank brandy at age 16. My mom and Crystal screamed at each other at the top of their lungs over dishes and vacuuming and making the beds. Mom called Crystal lazy and disrespectful. Crystal called my mom a bitch who wasn’t her mother.
Then one Sunday when Crystal was 18, she went to teach Sunday school but did not come home for lunch. Our phone rang at 1:30. Crystal told my mom she was sending her brother to our house to get her things and then hung up. My mother said, “Good riddance, ungrateful bitch” over and over as she stuffed Crystal’s sweaters, underwear, shoes and pajamas into paper grocery bags we usually used for garbage.
Crystal’s brother picked up her things from our porch without ringing the doorbell or turning off his car. I heard it all happen from my bedroom under my soft purple bedspread with slightly scratchy white polka dots. I wanted to ask my mother if Crystal would ever come home, but I was too scared to make her more mad.
Instead I pulled out my diary from the wooden nightstand drawer and opened the lock with the shiny key. I wished I knew how to write more words than my name.