slim figure in a simple robin’s egg blue jumper and crisp yellow linen blouse gave her an air of quiet modesty. Unless she was provoked by sarcasm or stupidity.
“Denmark,” one of the flip-ups asked. “Isn’t that where all the icebergs are?”
“No, we haven’t got any icebergs in Denmark, we have mermaids.”
I loved Lotte’s humor—like Danish butter, smooth and delicious.
It turned out we also took the same route home after school. Our houses were only a few blocks from each other. The porch of Lotte’s red brick, two-story house was clean and tidy, no clutter of dusty outdoor furniture, just two sculptured terra cotta planters overflowing with freshly watered red geraniums that flanked both sides of the front door. I could see a willowy version of Lotte standing in the doorway. “You must meet my momma,” Lotte insisted. Her momma gave me a passionate embrace laced with the heady scent of Shalimar. Right away, I knew Danish mothers were different from other mothers, especially mine.
That year in Hartford it stayed hot and muggy right through September. The second week of school, Lotte invited me to spend Saturday afternoon at her house. Asking her to mine would take a lot longer.
Walking up the porch steps, I heard waves of feminine laughter through the open windows. Lilting words in a language I didn’t understand somehow told me a lot of fun was going on inside.
Several times I pressed the doorbell. No one came. I tried the door. It wasn’t locked. Mother always locked our front door. Danish people must not worry about criminals. I let myself in and followed the laughter through the entryway into the living room. Two shiny metal fans whirring at high speed on opposite sides of the room did little to cool it down. But, it wasn’t the heat that shocked me.
Four bare-breasted women hooting with laughter were clustered around a card table. None of them had a stitch of clothing on their top parts. Each woman held a glass of sparkling liquid in one hand, and in the other, a fan of playing cards. Every card they slapped down or picked up from piles in the center of the table came with another burst of laughter. I’d never seen a group of women having so much fun together—definitely not four bare-breasted women! One of them twisted around to a tiered, metal stand and helped herself to mini-triangle sandwiches and yummy-looking cookies.
“Oh, my sweet new daughter is here!” Lotte’s mother said. I recognized her face, but not her two rosy breasts. Her joyous smile and knowing blue eyes took in my awkwardness. “Little one, come meet my girlfriends. They won’t bite you!”
“So, this is Lotte’s new friend,” 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