In the Matter of Andy Hattenrash

Me, at about the age of those precious school-bus years w/Andy Hattenrash.

WHEN WE LEFT OUR HEROINES, one was standing in our parents’ bedroom, holding a photo in her 9-year-old hand. She just wanted ice cream and, as a result of that hunger, came away with a whole lot more than she was after. It would take her little sister—me—14 years to come to the same conclusion that Margaret did in that instant: that our mother was having an affair.

But what preceded that incident? Before things tilted as they did, there were nearly 10 years of existence for Margaret, including—though in no way limited to—having me arrive in her life.

There were friends, of course, some of which you heard about in my 25 Random Things list. (Margaret’s is here.) And then there were best friends.

Always a social creature, I had lots of friends, though my absolute-finito-ideal, all-time-favorite-friend was Andy Hattenrash, who in kindergarten was my very best friend in the whole world.

Andy, like me, was 5, and as far as I could tell, the only difference between us at that age that mattered was that he smoked cigars. That’s how I remember it, and how I told it back then. And I told it a lot.

Our father was a famous sportswriter, a profession that carries an equal love for the hard play of others and for telling stories. My sister and I learned early to do and value both, especially if we wanted his full attention, which was hard to get, since his schedule kept him away from home most nights as well as every Saturday. Rarely home for dinner, on those fine long nights when everyone sat down together, I’d tell an Andy story, always including his cigar, and the great joy he took from smoking it on the schoolbus. And always, everybody laughed.

Andy and I rode the same bus, which is where and when he mostly smoked, not being allowed to do so at home. And I’d sit beside him every day, kind of protectively since I was a tomboy and he wasn’t, and the kids might have picked on him if I wasn’t there, a bookend between the riff-raff in the aisle and quiet Andy, while he always rode tucked up against the window.

‘He was mute. Not totally mute, but something was wrong with Andy’s speech, and his soft sounds were hard to figure out unless you paid the real close attention.’

He might have just wanted to look out at the scene all the way home but I wouldn’t have it. I talked to him. He was mute. Not totally mute, but something was wrong with Andy’s speech, and his soft sounds were hard to figure out unless you paid the real close attention I thought it was my job to do. It’s not the slightest bit odd to me that my best friend didn’t speak. I don’t recall that he had a need to since I was so comfortable doing all the talking.

Like me, Andy was a redhead, though unlike me he was the delicate sort, the hothouse-flower variety, whose veins seemed to pulse through the gossamer skin and whose eyelashes, the color of old cellophane, did nothing, as awnings go. I was the other kind of redheaded kid.

I could locate today where Andy lived and what his living room looked like and the Vanilla cookies and warm-ish milk his mother served us on the few times I was invited to play. And that’s important to this tale—that I think I can still find the house—since Margaret swears that Andy was imaginary.

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