Christine’s Bows

By Loretta Morris

              Christine K. was my classmate, and from the day I first saw her hair I knew I had to be friends with her. I went to school with Christine from first to eighth grade, and her dark brown hair was curled into nine perfect, identical ringlets every single day. I know it was nine because I counted them. Nine. Every day. She wore a navy blue bow that matched the school uniform in that perfect hair every day, too. A bow that always looked crisp and new and not at all smashed or worn or frayed. Perfect every day for eight years. Once, when I was at her house, I learned how that was even possible. But more about that later.

Christine and I played at my house about once a week after school all throughout second and most of third grade. She came right home with me without even stopping at her own house to change into play clothes. She said she had five uniform skirts so it didn’t matter if she got dirty. Five! I had one skirt that I wore for years, and it was a hand-me-down to begin with. I had to walk her home after we finished playing because her mother didn’t want her to be alone in case a kidnapper was lurking. I guess it didn’t matter to anyone if I was abducted on my return trip.             

Finally, I convinced Christine that we should play at her house. My house, with all my brothers and sisters, was always loud and crazy, and there was never any place we could play by ourselves. Christine was an only child – almost unheard of in our neighborhood. So it was decided that the next time we played together, I would stop home after school to have a snack, change into play clothes, pack up my Barbie doll in her shiny black patent leather case, and head over to her house.

              I had never met Christine’s parents before that. Her folks didn’t go to school events and were never outside. They had “people” to cut their lawn, and their groceries were delivered. When I asked what Mass her family went to on Sundays I was told that it must not be the same one we go to. No kidding.

              Mrs. K’s first name was Inez. Inezzzz. My world was filled with Debbies, Marys, and Kathys, never a name with a Z in any position. Mrs. usually wore a flashy-colored housecoat and mules, complete with pom-poms, and I could see that her toenails were polished in a color unacceptable in my plain, plain household. Her hair was long and loose and jet-black, so unlike the standard crispy protective shell that every other mother in the neighborhood sported. So exotic, so… I don’t know… so Inezzzz.

              I didn’t see Mr. K very often. He was a chef at an exclusive downtown Chicago restaurant, so he was usually working afternoons. But one time when he was home he whipped us up eggs benedict for an after school snack. (“With hollandaise sauce?” my astonished mother asked, suddenly feeling defensive of the routine meatloaf and canned waxed beans on our dinner menu. She about fainted when I replied, “Yeah, I guess that’s what that yellow stuff was. It was pretty good. Why don’t you make that?”) It would have been too cruel, and she might not have even believed me, if I had mentioned that we ate our sumptuous snack on intricately hand-painted china plates and drank our orange juice from cut crystal goblets.

              But her unusual parents were nothing, nothing, compared to her unusual home. Or maybe I should say her bizarre, amazing, mind-blowing, unfathomable, borderline psycho, or maybe full-on psycho, and I have to admit, awesome home. My mouth literally fell open when I walked in for the first time, thinking that I would have to take careful note of where I laid my Barbie case, because I might never be able to find it again if I didn’t take precautions.

The K’s were hoarders.

As far as I know, the term ‘hoarder’ had not yet been coined in the mid 1960’s, but even as an unworldly nine year old, I knew it when I saw it. Every table, chair, counter, and surface of any type was at least three layers deep with stuff. Not garbage. There wasn’t a speck of trash in the whole place. Not a crumb on whatever counter space was visible or an overflowing waste basket like at my house. This was good stuff. Clean stuff. Awesome stuff.

There were paths, literally paths, throughout the house, with walls of…of… everything from Christmas wreaths to suitcases to flower pots to picture frames all lining the way. A maze through mountains of boxes, bags, and containers overflowing with books, and cat toys (but no cat), and shoes, and bats and balls, and mink coats, and art supplies, and plastic flowers, and light bulbs, and…and… an endless crazy jumble.

It occurred to me after a few visits that the K’s were not just hoarders, but collectors. There was rarely just one of anything. There were three crates of porcelain ballerina figurines, still in individual boxes that Christine told me they were saving, with no other explanation. In her bedroom, five three-foot tall dolls, all with nine, count ‘em, nine perfect ringlets of brown hair, dressed in fancy lace and taffeta dresses, stood at attention along one wall. They were not to be played with, although occasionally, for reasons unknown to me, they would be lined up in a different room or be facing in a different direction. Stacks upon stacks of books towered precariously in one corner of the living room. Once I asked if I could look at one, and was sternly told “No” by Mrs K. They were too “good” for anyone to read, and they were to be left alone. Then she began nervously straightening and rearranging them, all the while watching me with a suspicious eye.

 Mrs. K only went down in the basement on laundry day, (She always washed their towels twice to make sure they were really clean) so we usually had unrestricted run of the place, and boy, did we have fun.

Once, after making our way to a life-size nativity set that had been crowded in a corner (and being delighted to find three Baby Jesus’s there), we unearthed an old piece of exercise equipment – we called it a “jiggle machine.” The idea was that you stood on a platform with a thick leather belt around your hips which was attached to a motor. Once turned on, it simply jiggled your fat away. After trying it a few times, and laughing ourselves silly, we secured the Virgin Mary into the belt and flipped the switch. A few hilarious seconds later she was launched out and landed on a box brimming with old door knobs, cracking her holy elbow. We quickly returned her to the manger and her triplets and never spoke of it again.

And then there were the bows.

One afternoon we were playing up in her bedroom. Since I had gotten in the habit of freely exploring, I eventually made my way over to an interesting box and looked inside. In it were dozens and dozens of crisp, new navy blue bows that matched the school uniform. Bows that would never have the chance to become smashed or worn or frayed. Bows that would always look perfect in nine perfectly curled ringlets every day for the next five years.

“I take a new one every two weeks,” Christine said flatly, as if everyone lived like this. I was dumbfounded, suddenly feeling smashed and worn and frayed myself. “You can have one if you want,” she whispered, “Just don’t tell my mom.”

I picked one out and stashed it in my Barbie case before she could change her mind.

I suppose I knew right from the beginning that something was really wrong there. Something so strange and different that it just had to be wrong, but saying it out loud would have spoiled everything, broken the spell. So I didn’t tell my parents about the trails and mountains and treasures and bows that made up the K’s house.

But I did tell my sister.

Who told my mother.

Who called Mrs. K.

Who said I couldn’t come over any more.

And that was that.

Christine and I remained friends throughout elementary school, but were never really close after my banishment. We grew up, graduated from different high schools, and I didn’t see her again until many years later. I was browsing at the jewelry counter of a department store, and looked up to see her standing just a few feet away from me, also browsing. Her hair was straight, she had no bow, but she carried the biggest, craziest looking tote bag I had ever seen, stuffed full of God only knows what.

I smiled to myself and walked away.