by Robin Greene
“Love you, too, Mom. Tell Dad I say hi.”
“I will. Have a great day. Love you.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
I’m up now, ready to brush my teeth, wash, make the bed, start the day for the second time. I rise, glancing out the window to find that the sky is dark, clouded over.
But now, I breathe in, breathe out, collapsing onto the rattan chair, where I often read, by the bedroom window. Closing my eyes, hot tears well up, begin falling, until I’m sobbing out loud.
I’m thinking of my brother. I sit on the chair, wipe tears with the bottom of my tee-shirt, which, along with my sweat pants, I’ve put back on. I stop crying, adjust myself, sit up. Short vignettes come to mind—fleeting moments, images. Jake is beside me, probably wondering why I don’t come downstairs to get him breakfast. But the past is alive within me.
First: Dennis is asking me if I’m “mad” or “glad” at him. He has a face to express each emotion: one with an exaggerated frown, the other with a laughing but silent smile. We’re eating dinner at the kitchen table in South Shelburne. Dennis is in seventh grade; I’m in third. He’s had a bad day in school—failed a math test and pitched a losing game, his first intramural. He’s told me this earlier and made me promise not to tell.
But at the dinner table now, we’re talking about school, and our dad, who isn’t working late this evening, asks Dennis about his vocabulary words, if he needs any help memorizing them.
“No,” Dennis says. “I got them.” And he winks at me.
“Any other tests this week?”
“No,” Dennis says. “I’m good. Science test next week.”
“Games?”
“Yeah, one today. Pitched something fierce, but we lost two to three. I only pitched two innings. Mitch Feldman got to throw.”
Dennis is lying. He sneaks a “glad” face at me, and I’m supposed to sneak the same face back at him.
Instead, I’m fixated on my baked potato. I’m thinking I need more butter and should smash the potato with my fork, smother it in butter, then eat it with the skin, which I love. But the butter isn’t on the table, and I don’t want to get up. It’s a problem. Should I look up and give Dennis the grin because I’m not going to contradict his story? Should I just get up, get the butter, but risk Dennis’s wrath, without giving him the grin? But I don’t want to grin, to collude. On some level, Dennis’s code game is offensive; I feel bullied and increasingly unwilling to participate. But his staring eyes pierce me, arrow-like, trained on my face. My features feel loose and disorganized. I put down my fork and make the grin.
Dennis wins. He’s more powerful than I, and more needy.
Next: I’m younger, maybe six or seven, and my parents are out on this Friday or Saturday night. Dennis is babysitting me; he’s been paid to do so. We’re arguing about what to watch on TV, when Dennis picks me up—and I begin to kick and scream—as he ties me up with a belt from his closet, along with twine he’s found in the kitchen junk drawer, and then locks me in the hall closet beneath the winter coats. I don’t scream now, because if I do, Dennis will gag me as he’s done twice before.
I’m cold and uncomfortable. My feelings are hurt, but by offering me a bribe, Dennis will talk me out of telling our parents. So, I think about that. This time, I might get money—as much as two dollars—or Dennis might be my slave for a week, which never quite works because he’s the master manipulator, and I can never out-think him. After about half an hour, Dennis comes to the closet door and asks, “Who’s the boss?”
“You are,” I say.
“I’ll let you out, but you can’t tell. How about we eat cookies, and I give you two bucks to keep your mouth shut?”
“Yes,” I say. “Let me out.”
“Deal?” Dennis asks.
“Deal,” I say.
“You mad or glad at me?”
“I’ll be glad if you let me out.”
“Promise?” Dennis insists. “Say it now: You’re glad at me.”
“I’m glad. I’m glad. Let me out.”
The door opens. It’s dark in the hall. I scoot out, and Dennis unties me. A few minutes later, we’re eating chocolate chip cookies together in the den, and I have another two dollars in my tin-can bank. We’re watching Bewitched on the couch, milk and cookies spread out on the coffee table. Dennis gives me his glad smile to check in with me. I return a glad smile. We’re friends.
Then, it’s 1959: I’m in bed, in the apartment, late at night. Much stuff from the apartment has already been moved to the new house. It’s the end of first grade, and I’ll have to finish the last few weeks in my new school. My mother has told me that this will be best because I’ll make new friends before the academic year is out. But I’m anxious and have trouble falling asleep. Every so often, I pray silently for help—with falling and staying asleep, with negotiating my new school, with saying goodbye to friends. I don’t want to cry and have to choke back tears when I think of leaving Barbara, Teddy, and Glenn.
“You asleep?” Dennis asks.
“No,” I say.
“Can I come over? Rover, rover?”
“Yes,” I say.
When Dennis comes to my bed, he lifts the covers and slips in beside me. He puts his warm arms around me, kissing my cheek. We snuggle. Dennis loves me.
As I fall asleep, inhabiting the shadowy place between wakefulness and dream, I feel Dennis’s hand run along my body—chest, face, and down. His touch feels good, and I’m floating in gray space, between feathers and air. Dennis’s breathing changes ever so slightly, and the pace of his hand on my body quickens. We’re in a train now, traveling in darkness toward some faraway destination. When we arrive, Dennis leaves me, and the bed becomes chilly, then warm again. And it’s easy now to turn over, fall into the shadow, sleep in God’s hands that welcome, hold me.
k
I’m downstairs. I open the hall closet, the one I’ve recently reorganized, open the kibble bag we keep on the floor, scoop out a cupful into Jake’s bowl, then toss the empty cup back into the bag, catching an unpleasant whiff of the kibble before closing it. I go over to the refrigerator, take out half a slice of rye bread, crumble into the bowl, then pour about a quarter of a cup of nonfat milk over the mix. Jake is intent, following me over to his placemat behind the kitchen table. I put down his bowl, and he hungrily attacks the mixture.
I need coffee to wake up. But I feel like going back to bed again.
Instead, I walk around the quiet house. There’s a blankness I’m inhabiting, a large open space with nothing in it. I sit on our odd chair, the mismatched one against the far wall. It’s an extra, rarely used sort of Parson’s chair from the seventies that we’ve had reupholstered.
My breathing is shallow, so I try to deepen it. I hear Jake go outside through his dog door.
I sit and think. About childhood. About Dennis. About his cancer and possible death. About Nick being gone. About Cal and Will being grown. About me alone. About the novel I can’t write. About my life. My head hurts, especially above my left eye. Coffee. That’s what I need. But it will take a tremendous energy to make some.
Jake is out in the backyard and will want a rawhide bone when he comes in. I can get it for him. I muster my energy, rise from the chair, walk into the kitchen, open the lower cabinet where the dog bones are kept, take one, wait for Jake to return.
I feel like I’m three hundred pounds. Maybe I’m getting sick, coming down with a summer cold. But I have no symptoms. Jake returns, and I hand him the bone, which he greedily snatches from my hand. I watch him trot into the living room to eat it.
I head upstairs and lie down in bed again, getting under the covers. Alone in this house, I can time-travel through my life. Become any age. Bed is bed, I think, and question what that means. Then I let the question go. Not all thoughts have meaning.
Jake is upstairs and joins me on the bed. He won’t go there when Nick’s home, but he knows he can join me when I’m alone. Jake senses I ne
ed him. I close my eyes, try to breathe deeply to counteract the shallow breathes that, I’ve determined, are making me feel so strange. I fall into another fitful sleep.
twenty-one
I dream about modeling, which I began during the summer between fourth and fifth grade. My father had a customer at the furniture store who wrote a syndicated column called “Taffy’s Tips to Teens” that was published, among other places, in the New York Post. Her name was Gloria Shifferman, and, at some point, she asked to see photos of my dad’s two kids. When he showed her pictures of Dennis and me, she suggested that I try fashion modeling. Then she autographed her book—of the same title—for me.
That night when my dad came home with the book, he asked if I wanted to try modeling. He told me that when I came into the store to thank Mrs. Shifferman in person for the book, she’d tell me more about it. I said yes. That Saturday, when I went to thank Mrs. Shifferman—I’d already written and mailed her a formal thank-you note—she explained that she could give me the names of the top five modeling agencies in New York and that I should start with the top agency and work my way down. My mother was to call and make an appointment for me to go into Manhattan for a group interview. Folks there, she explained, would look at me, and, if they were interested, they’d tell me what to do next.
Mrs. Shifferman was a tall bleached-blonde of late middle age who wore a tailored, dark navy gabardine suit. She thought I was pretty, but more importantly, that I had the “look” that modeling agencies wanted.
“You’ll do great,” she said, as we sat on a floral print couch together in the furniture store. We were in the display on the front part of the floor, and customers walked past us. Mrs. Shifferman had on high heels and her knees peeked out from the hem of her tight skirt.
I asked Mrs. Shifferman how the agency would determine if they wanted me, and on what basis would that decision be made.
“You never know, sweet-pea. They might have you walk, or not. They’ll either see something they think is marketable or else they’ll simply pass on you. If that happens, your mom will make an appointment with the next agency down the list. If you go through them all, I’ll give you names of some other agencies. Someone will want you.”
Mrs. Shifferman opened my copy of Taffy’s Tips to Teens, which I’d brought with me. It was a hard-covered, slim volume, maybe two hundred pages at most. She found a black and white drawing of a thin, leggy girl in a traditionally waisted dress with a flared skirt. “Wear something like this. Almost to the knees, not too short. And you’ll want to wear socks, not stockings. You’ll be going into the children’s, not the teen’s, market.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Shifferman. Thank you for all you’ve done. The book is great. I love it.” I crossed my legs. I was wearing a plaid jumper with a cranberry colored jersey underneath, matching knee socks, and new Oxford shoes.
“I can see you’re becoming a young lady. I’m sure your dad is very proud of you.” Mrs. Shifferman rose and extended her hand.
I rose, too. I thought about curtseying but decided not to. I simply shook her hand. “Thanks again. I really enjoyed meeting you.”
“I’ll catch your news from your father. I wish you good luck. Remember that young ladies are our future; the civilized world depends on them.” She walked into the office where my dad was doing some paperwork. I watched through the glass window as my dad rose politely from his chair and shook her hand before they both sat to do business. As they talked, I felt very excited and ran down the wide staircase to watch Henry apply gold leaf to an end table. Henry usually had a piece of candy for me, and today was no exception. It was a Hershey’s kiss that he took from a plastic bag stashed away in a high drawer. I unwrapped the foil and stuck the chocolate into my mouth.
Two weeks later, my mom picked me up early from school, PS #5. I met her in the carpeted office as she was signing me out. She had a change of clothing for me—an old-fashioned cotton dress with a fitted bodice and full skirt—and we planned to drive into the city for my group modeling interview. First, however, I needed to change in the girls’ bathroom.
The afternoon sun poured through the high, west-facing side window of the bathroom. My mother and I were alone, standing by the row of white porcelain sinks, low against the tiled wall.
The dress my mom had chosen was one I didn’t like, thinking that it made me look like a little girl rather than a young lady upon whom the civilized world could depend. Also, my mom had brought along an itchy crinoline, and I knew I’d have to sit through a long car ride and possibly a subway ride in it.
I yanked the crinoline around, trying unsuccessfully to calm it down so that it would lie a bit flatter. But it didn’t cooperate and spread the full skirt out, shortening it inches above my knees. Also, my mom had brought white-laced bobby socks along with patent leather Mary Janes. I looked like a bizarre doll, not a fashion model.
“Mom, I look weird.”
“You’re beautiful. We’ve got to go, or we’ll be late.”
“Can I put the crinoline on in the car? It’s itchy. And these socks, I hate them.”
“Leave it all alone. I know what I’m doing. You’ll be fine.” Off we went, down the hall, where, I was grateful, no one saw me. Then we were in my mom’s Chevy Malibu, driving down Peninsula Boulevard, out Sunrise Highway to the Van Wyck Expressway, down Queens Boulevard, across the 59th Street Bridge, into Manhattan.
There was little traffic in the middle of the afternoon, and in forty-five minutes we were parking in a small underground garage just a few blocks from the Marge McDermott Modeling Agency, the top one in the city, Mrs. Shifferman’s first choice.
We stopped in the ladies’ room on the first floor of the large nondescript Manhattan office building, with its marble entranceway, door man, and concierge at a front desk, who directed us to the public bathroom, then to the fifth-floor agency. In the ladies’ room, my mom adjusted my crinoline dress and combed my wavy, strawberry blonde hair, which I wore long and pulled back with a hard-plastic, tortoiseshell-colored headband.
Looking into the full-length mirror in the little powder anteroom, I watched my mother as she made me presentable. I looked okay but younger than my years and very un-hip.
“This isn’t working, Mom,” I tried to complain, but I knew that my objection would fall on deaf ears and that it was too late for any change. “Maybe we should do this thing another day.” I tried but failed to smile at myself in the mirror.
“You look great. Trust me.” My mom was squatting by me in her tight-fitting burgundy dress and heels. I could smell her perfume and hairspray as she straightened my skirt, pulled up my bobby socks. When I finally managed a smile, trying to project my best self, and looked at myself in the mirror, I saw the hole in the back of my mouth where I’d lost a tooth.
My mom took my hand and calmly said, “Let’s go.”
We entered a large carpeted room filled with wall-to-wall kids—boys, girls, babies, toddlers, young teens. There were moms to match them. And lots of noise. Some were sitting in upholstered folding chairs arranged around the room’s perimeter.
As I walked in, still holding my mom’s hand, I noticed that the carpeted area was located in a roped-off section, and beyond the rope—which was red velvet, like the kind that cordon off long lines at fancy movie theaters—a marble tiled area connected two doorways at either end of the room.
No one came out to tell us what to expect. The room felt uncomfortably hot. I looked at my mom with an expression that said, maybe this was mistake and we should just go home. My mom smiled back at me as if to reassure me that no, the situation was all right and that we needed to give it some time.
There were no vacant seats. Many people, including us, had to stand. Babies cried, toddlers whined. The large plate glass office window at the side of the room looked out onto the city street, where cars were stalled in traffic and honking—the very beginning of rush hour.
Then an elegant woman appeared, and the crowd hushed as if she were a m
ovie star. She certainly was glamorous, in high patent leather, spiked heels, and a tweed business suit with a yoke collar and pearls. Her hair was done up in a sophisticated high bun, worn at the back of her head. She walked back and forth twice across the marble tile, heels clicking. The room remained quiet, and she glanced over us all, pointing to three children.
“You, you, and you,” she said, and at the final you had pointed at me. “The rest can leave. Thanks for considering the Marge McDermott agency.” She exited through the door at the opposite end of the hallway. A man came out, exactly on cue, to unhook the velvet rope and to nod the three of us in—a very young girl, maybe three or four years old, me, and another girl, perhaps a few years older.
As if it had been the most natural thing in the world, my mother found my hand, squeezed it, and we walked along with the two other sets of moms and girls into a swanky back room.
“Please, sit down,” the woman in the tweed suit said. She was already seated behind a large kidney-shaped dark wood desk. She didn’t rise to greet us. The man who had unhooked the rope stood by the now closed door. He was dressed, I noticed, in a black pin-striped suit and had his hands folded together in front like a TV gangster.
“I’m Marge McDermott, and I want to welcome you to our agency,” she said.
I sat beside my mom, listening as the woman—Marge, she preferred to be called—explained that she would arrange for a photographer to take photos for our “composites”—a sheet that would contain a sample of photos and our information—and that if they looked good, we’d do photo-modeling as well as fashion shows. But if they didn’t, we’d just be doing fashion shows.
Marge offered the moms written contracts to be returned at a later date. There were forms to fill out—so that we could get Social Security cards and working papers. We’d be paid per job, and the rate of pay varied considerably. Much of this information flew by me, and really, I was still in shock that I’d been selected.
There’d been beautiful girls out in that room. Stunning girls and young women whom Marge had passed over. And here I was in my silly white bobby socks, my little-girl dress. I felt like a fool, a pretender, a fraud.