by Laurel Brett
I stood close enough to my Schrödinger girl to pull her back should she think of walking on the lawn. I didn’t know how far she’d go. For a moment her body stood as still as the Bernini statue of Apollo and Daphne, and I worried that she was emotionally overwhelmed. I wanted to put an arm around her, yet I knew by instinct that she would shake the arm off. She wanted me nearby, but she wanted to face her establishment enemy alone. I still scanned the crowd, seeking that auburn side braid that SDS Daphne always wore. I thought I caught a glimpse of it, but before I could be sure, the Daphne standing next to me rushed up on the grassy mound.
A toddler, a blond mop-top wearing only overalls, had become separated from his parents and waddled onto the Pentagon lawn on his naked chubby feet. The poor soldier nearest the child automatically responded and pointed the rifle at the boy. Just then, other waiting protesters rushed the grass in groups. Daphne ran to save the child. She scooped him up while the police, seeing a volatile situation developing, released canisters of tear gas noxious enough to cause the child to vomit on a choking Daphne. She hugged him tightly and scurried off the lawn. The child began wailing with a cry that alerted his parents. They hurried over and took him from her. I wondered why they’d brought him into such a dangerous situation.
I rushed to Daphne’s side and asked a stranger for some water. Someone thrust several napkins into my hands and I handed them to Daphne to wipe the vomit off her gray ribbed top. When she had almost soaked the shirt through with water, she turned and threw up herself. I begged another cup of water from someone nearby. When my young friend recovered from being sick, she was still coughing and struggling to breathe. I was able to get her to drink the water, and she kept it down.
“I didn’t think they’d do it, Garrett. I never believed they’d really hurt us. But when I saw that toddler in danger and the determination in that soldier’s eyes, I had to save him. They wouldn’t have shot him or bayoneted him, would they? I can’t believe the soldier would have. He was only a baby. But who would point a gun at a baby? Who does that?”
I could only murmur, “There, there.” I was too shaken myself. I had just witnessed the most disturbing sight I’d ever seen—an American soldier pointing a bayoneted rifle at an American baby. I wouldn’t recover for a while, but now I had to take charge.
“We’re going back to the bus. No discussion. Come on.”
I would have to give up my quest to find my other Schrödinger girl. This Daphne was just too sick. Since she was still coughing, I approached protesters until I could find someone who would drive us to the bus, so Daphne wouldn’t have to cover the three miles on foot.
* * *
When we arrived at the tour bus people were dozing, playing cards, and listening to music very quietly. A pixie-haired, wiry, middle-aged brunette, the school librarian according to Daphne, jumped up upon seeing her and cried, “My goodness, you look like a wreck!”
“I was teargassed.”
“Really? How awful. Is there anything I can do?”
Daphne shook her head. She didn’t want to speak about the incident involving the child. Maybe she was afraid she’d break down in tears. One of the girls gave her a hug that she accepted after warning, “Be careful of the vomit.”
We made our way to our places. My backpack and her bag were waiting for us. Daphne was so small she was almost hidden by the tall seats. I think she was grateful for the privacy. I peeked at the other passengers. They were eating their packed sandwiches and cookies. Some kids were making out in the back, and several riders had their lights on to read. I tapped Daphne on the shoulder and pointed to the panoramic windows. We could see the last rays of sunset. Tendrils of pink streaked through the blue and then faded into the surrounding gray.
“Have some coffee,” I told her. “You need it. It’s still a little warm.” I was glad that thinking of her, I’d added cream and sugar. I suspected she would be unable to eat until the effects of the tear gas wore off. She sipped the coffee without saying anything. She still appeared to be ill. Someone on the bus was playing “Light My Fire” on a DC FM radio station. Daphne had turned me on to rock, but I suspected I was just too old for the radically sensual sound of Jim Morrison and the Doors.
“Do you think that baby is all right?” she asked.
“I’m sure he is. I don’t think tear gas does permanent damage, and you got him out of there pretty fast. That was really heroic, by the way.”
“No. Anyone would have done it.”
“No one else did. You did. I didn’t. The other adults standing around didn’t. You did.”
“Garrett?”
“Yeah, sweetie?” That just kind of came out.
“I didn’t feel like a teenager. I felt like an adult. Like a maternal adult.”
“Well, you were. How are you feeling?”
“Better.”
And then she fell asleep, her head on my shoulder. Today she had learned to feel maternal, and now I found myself thinking, This is what being a father must feel like. I felt good having someone trust me, and I was glad I’d been there to shepherd Daphne back to the bus, yet I felt a keen disappointment that I hadn’t seen SDS Daphne at all.
While everyone slept I stayed up, thinking. It’s a lonely but oddly exhilarating feeling to be the only one besides the driver awake among a group of sleeping humans. Perception becomes somewhat distorted, and it feels as if the world exists just for you. My thoughts kept returning to the brief moment when I thought I’d caught a glimpse of an auburn side braid. Was that her, or was it just someone else with a side braid? I didn’t know. Things happened so fast after that—the baby, the vomit, Daphne’s vomit—I didn’t have another chance to look for her. I wondered if she’d sought me out. Probably not. She had surely been too busy with the logistics of the march. I felt thwarted. Was I never going to be able to solve this Schrödinger mystery?
My mind kept flashing back to the young soldier who’d pointed his rifle at the child. Was there another universe in which the soldier actually used that bayonet? I hoped not. Borges must have known something of what I was going through. I wished I could have asked him what he thought. It was impossible to know how many Schrödinger girls were there, maybe even ones I didn’t know about. Perhaps Galen and his Daphne had come. But I hadn’t seen another Daphne.
Somewhere in southern New Jersey, I fell asleep. The bus movement made me dream of the ocean and harpoons like bayonets and whaling ships and schools of auburn-haired girls swimming like mermaids through teeming seas. I awoke as the bus pulled into the parking lot at the high school, just as Daphne was also stirring. She busied herself with packing up her bag and then she kissed me on the cheek for the first time. She got off the bus just ahead of me but turned back and said, “Goodbye, Uncle Garrett,” and then walked toward the waiting Oldsmobile I could just see through the windshield of the bus.
Chapter Fourteen
* * *
I drove to New York through the darkness. We had left the high school parking lot at four a.m. Saturday morning and returned exactly twenty-four hours later. I passed by the bridge exits that would have taken me to New Paltz because I wanted to see Caroline. I made great time driving on the early-Monday-morning roads. I parked my car near her street and dozed for a couple of hours until sunrise. Even with all her prickly ambivalence, I missed Caroline, and wanted to talk to her about the demonstration, but I planned to stick with my little deception.
When the day grew bright I consulted my watch, which read 8:00, late enough to risk one of Caroline’s moods. I had no classes until late afternoon. A sleepy but mellow Caroline answered the phone. She immediately asked, “How did the march go?”
“I’ll tell you in person, if you’re okay with seeing me. I’m near your apartment now. I could take you to breakfast.” As I said this, I realized I was hungry. I tried to suppress the thought that I’d lied to her and betrayed her by going to the march with Daphne without telling her, but that knowledge kept surfacing in my mind. I had alm
ost blurted it out when Caroline answered.
“Give me a half hour,” she said.
We ate bagels, the standard breakfast in New York. We weren’t at a fancy place, just a nearby bagel joint where the coffee wasn’t too awful. We sat at a small Formica table with rickety old wooden chairs. Caroline, the Indiana girl, ordered an everything bagel covered with lox. I had always liked my bagels pristine: plain with just cream cheese. I added a large orange juice to my order.
Caroline hadn’t dressed for work yet. She must have just jumped into the shower and pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. They suited her. Her wet hair streamed over her shoulders in the way I loved.
“So, spill,” she said.
I told her everything as it had happened, keeping the story of the toddler and the soldier until last, editing out all mention of Daphne. She blanched.
“Oh my god. You’re kidding. No. That couldn’t happen. And tear gas? Really?” I saw that she wanted to cry. “Someone is taking away my country. That isn’t America. In America soldiers don’t kill our babies, or even threaten to.”
“I know,” I said gently. “It’s quite a shock, isn’t it? But I’ve had hours to think about it, and what I keep thinking is what does it matter whether it’s an American baby or a Vietnamese baby? How can any soldiers point rifles at toddlers? Of course, it’s more shocking to see an American threaten another American, but I am also haunted by images of Vietnamese children threatened, napalmed, shot. Seeing the threat of violence up close makes me realize that it has its own taste. And I tasted violence at the moment that baby was threatened and when the tear gas was introduced into the crowd.” Now that I had taken a stand on the war, all these suppressed images flooded me.
“Awhile back you asked me why I keep seeing you, Garrett. Saying things like that is one of the reasons. It doesn’t matter what nationality a child is. What happened to the baby?”
“My reactions seemed slowed by shock, but fortunately someone else rushed onto the grass and rescued the kid. By that time he had already breathed enough tear gas to vomit on the Good Samaritan.”
Then making the intuitive leap that women do, she said, “It was Daphne, wasn’t it? The Good Samaritan.”
I tried to avoid the moment. “What?” I started to say. But I quickly caved in. She’d caught me. It had been futile to try to keep it from her. So much for secrets. “Yes. How did you know?”
“Her image just flashed in my mind. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to upset you. I wanted to talk to you so much this morning. I needed to. I didn’t want Daphne to come between us. Maybe we could just let it be, just this one time.”
“It’s not upsetting at all finding out you lied to me,” she said, in a voice hard with sarcasm. “I should let go of the reality that you were hiding something important?” Her nose became long and aquiline when she was angry or hurt.
“This is what I was trying to avoid.”
“Sure. I get that. But lying?”
“I can’t explain it. I have to find out about her, about them. I just have to. It doesn’t have anything to do with you, but you keep thinking that it does, so I guess I try to hide my involvement.”
“How am I supposed to feel about that, in your little universe?”
“I don’t know. I can see I had poor judgment. I want you to be my girlfriend—”
“Whom you don’t trust.”
I decided to cut to the chase: “You have to decide, Caroline. Not me. You have to decide if I’m crazy.”
She sat considering this, and went back to eating her bagel without saying anything. There was no wait service, so I went to the counter and got us both coffees. I set Caroline’s in front of her and drank my own with feigned concentration, making a point of showing her that I was giving her space. I waited for endless minutes before she addressed me. Whenever the conversation turned to the idea of my being crazy, I thought of Jerry. He had kept his true assessment of my mental state to himself, but now I was worried about him. Is everyone crazy? I wondered.
“The jury’s still out about whether or not you’re crazy. Don’t lie again. Ever. You get one pass today. Come back to my place.”
She was inviting me to make love. I had dozed enough to take the edge off my exhaustion. Caroline was entirely in charge of our sex life, which varied with her moods. I had decided that if I were going to stay in the game I could never turn down one of her invitations.
I took a shower to wash off the last twenty-four hours. Her tiny bathroom and shower stall left only enough room for one, and she kept trying to talk to me over the noise of the water from the big room, but I had no idea what she was saying. More relaxed and refreshed, I went to her bed where she was completely naked, her nipples already erect from the lingering morning chill and anticipation. As I neared she laughed, “You’re still too wet. Dry off!” She took the towel I had wrapped around my waist and began toweling my back and shoulders. That was too much, and I realized I was quite aroused.
Daphne was not between us that morning. As we embraced and caressed each other, I felt both the sadness of the war and the exhilaration of being alive. I remembered that the first time we had made love, Caroline had cried. This time I wanted to exult in the magnificence of being close to her. I was not guarding some worthless grass with a rifle and a bayonet, but I was still guarding secrets.
Caroline had to be at the gallery by eleven, so she left me dozing in her bed. I fell into a dreamless sleep. I awoke hours later and left to make my class. Walking to my car I read the headlines as I passed newspaper stands. The confrontation between the protesters, the police, and the army had gone on all night. The police made arrests. I was glad we’d gotten out of there.
I drove home with images of Caroline and Daphne: Caroline’s body welcoming me into her bed and Daphne covered in baby sick, and Galen’s Daphne looking wan by the koi pond. And then there was my SDS Daphne, suddenly happy when Terry put his arm around her. Caroline held out love to me like a full cup, but Daphne represented all the tantalizing mysteries of the universe. Why was everything so complicated? Although she denied it, I got the feeling that Caroline was hiding something from me too.
Chapter Fifteen
* * *
I became fixated on what Caroline could be hiding from me. That she was finally dumping me? That she had gotten a new job in Hong Kong? That she had met someone else? That she was suffering from a serious disease? Every time I asked her if there was something she needed to tell me, she always said no, but was very cagey about it. She had arranged a leave of absence from the gallery because her parents were considering selling their farm and had a lot of work to do sorting possessions, painting dingy walls, and getting the place shipshape. Whenever I got her on the phone, she was very noncommittal, so I flew out to Indiana the day after a lonely Thanksgiving meal in the only restaurant open in New Paltz.
Caroline met me at the airport. I couldn’t imagine my sleek Modigliani beauty on a farm without her sophisticated black dresses, but here she was, a local in jeans and a flannel shirt. She had always insisted that she was an Indiana country girl at heart, but I didn’t find this incarnation of Caroline as convincing her New York self. Her family lived near Fort Wayne, and we drove around like tourists to Amish settlements and consignment stores, but seemed to have less to say to each other than when we were in New York. She was restless and unfocused. She came back to my hotel and we had mechanical sex in the nondescript room. Then she drove us downtown for a very good cheeseburger. Conversation still stalled.
Finally, Caroline asked, “What are you doing here exactly, Garrett?”
“I came to see you.”
“Of course. But why? I mean you’re not here to tell me you’re giving up on this Daphne business, and I don’t think you’re here to propose, so why the drama?”
“I don’t want to lose you. I missed you. New York is empty without you.”
“Well, that’s corny,” she said.
“You don�
�t believe me?”
“No. I actually do. But love, it’s okay if I say love, isn’t it? Love is sacrifice. And besides, I told you. Your Schrödinger obsession is really starting to scare me. I need you to be sane. I think that’s a basic requirement.”
“You go back and forth so much. You say you’re backing away but you ask me into your bed. I’m not sure what that means. And I want to meet your parents. When do I get to do that?”
“You don’t. It would only get their hopes up. They think I’m an old maid and that New York has ruined me.” Then she laughed a little ruefully. “You can’t imagine the locals they are lining up for me to date. These gruesome blind dates—kids of their friends. The ones who didn’t leave Fort Wayne.”
“You’re not actually thinking about staying, are you?”
“Sometimes. I feel like life is slipping away.”
“I’m not supposed to leave till Monday morning. Should I change my ticket?”
“We’ll go to the zoo tomorrow. You can leave on Sunday.”
Fort Wayne has one of the best children’s zoos in the country. It had begun as some kind of preserve in the fifties, and they had just opened the shiny new zoo in 1965. We walked around eating popcorn and looking at animals. Amos, a pygmy chimpanzee, was the zoo’s most famous resident and unofficial mascot. Caroline let me hold her hand when we spent some time with him, though I’d always felt uncomfortable around chimps. They reminded me too much of myself.
Even the day at the zoo failed to lift her spirits. She couldn’t tell me what was going on except what she’d already said, that her life wasn’t really making too much sense. She wanted to hear me say that I would never think about Daphne again. Maybe she even wanted me to say that I’d brought a ring. We just stood and stared at Amos playing with a stuffed lizard.