‘Uh-huh.’
‘Why don’t we call you Billy instead. My real name is Milly, and I’ll go back to that.’
He stared at her, thumb halfway to mouth.
‘I like the name Milly,’ she said. ‘It’s what my parents called me. I am giving you the name Billy. You can be Billy now. It’s a boy’s name really, and it’s short for William. Which is your full name.’
He stared at her blankly. She didn’t like it when he looked dumb, so she shook him gently by the shoulders, and kissed his forehead.
‘You’ll be okay with Billy. It’s a great name. Suits you, honey.’
‘Billy. Billy, Billy, Billy.’
‘That’s right. Billy boy. My handsome Billy boy.’
She called the children again, held Billy’s hand.
‘From now on, your brother is Billy. Not Willy, right?’
‘Yeah, yeah.’
‘Far out. Love it that you can just change names like that. Can I be Cassidy instead of Donald? I love that name.’
‘No. And no more joking. Willy is now Billy. Please try to remember. No more Penis Head.’
‘What’s he going to piss from then?’
‘Enough. And I am Milly now, in case you’re interested. My birth name. Though I’ll still answer to Mom.’
‘Does Dad know?’
‘Yeah, did he say you could?’
‘Of course. We agreed before he left, I just forgot to mention it.’
‘Mom, you’re a crap liar.’
‘Stop swearing. Go back to cleaning, please. Now.’
‘Why? Why all this hassle?’ whined Donald and Danny.
‘Why do we need to impress him? While he’s been off in Timbuktu, probably sunning himself on a beach,’ said Sam.
‘Stop talking like that! He’s been working in Germany. Doing important, difficult…stuff. Book sales and stuff. Do as you’re told. Your father is…Jack is…’ And here, her voice gave way to a high note, denoting irreverence.
‘He is…the king!’ She waved her hands upwards and curtsied.
At this, they all scoffed and laughed, aside from Willy/Billy, who began to cry softly. Billie/Milly heaved him up and cuddled him. Was this name switch going to work? His legs dangled down, and Ike affectionately licked his bare feet while Truman tried to chew Ike’s tail.
‘Where are your shoes, Billy?’
‘Doo doo,’ he mumbled.
Milly put him down and sniffed the air. Yep, definite dog excrement. She moved to the other rooms, sniffing. Hell! Only three hours to go. While she tracked down the smell by putting her nose to several places on the floor, she admitted to herself it had been a blissful week. No cooking real meals, no having to justify where the money went, or why there were no peppercorns in the grinder, or constantly telling the kids to play their records at a lower volume. No arguments. But she’d missed Jack, she had. She always did, but it was such a mishmash kind of missing. Living without him was possible, of course she knew that now, but if he for instance suddenly ceased to exist, well! It did not bear thinking about.
Darn, where was the disinfectant? There was dog poop stuck to the new rug, where Billy (already it was becoming more natural to say Billy instead of Willy) was walking earlier. Darn dog! Darn Willy! (So, not so quickly after all. It would take time, of course it would.)
Half an hour later, from the living room record player came that song again: This could be the last time, maybe the last time, I don’t know. Oh no, oh no. Donald was pretending to be Mick Jagger, prancing about, his fingers plucking air. Elisabeth was sitting, eyes closed and cross-legged, on the floor and appeared to be mouthing words. Sam was watching Sesame Street with the sound off, and Billy/Willy was on his lap, sucking his thumb. Danny was reading Herb Caen with a smile on his face, oblivious to everyone. Billie/Milly noticed, not for the first time, that they all looked related. Each completely different too, of course – but there was a thread of Molinelli running through them all, so now, arranged around the room, they looked like a tribe. All four boys had the Molinelli almost-white hair, which was really Anderson hair from her mother’s side. Elisabeth had her father’s dark hair and blue eyes, but her mother’s heart-shaped face and, it had to be said, her perfect legs. Not that she ever showed them. There was something self-contained about them all, thought Milly/Billie. Something almost insular. They were, she realised for the first time, essentially antisocial. Hardly ever invited friends round. Hardly ever went out, actually.
There were at least half a dozen empty cans of Shasta on the floor, empty Fritos bags and candy wrappers eddying at the room’s edge, not to mention shoes absolutely everywhere. How did six people acquire so many pairs of shoes? But she had to admire their skill, negotiating around the house without constantly tripping. Really, it was not easy living happily in a pigsty. People underestimated slobs.
In her mind, she said sternly: Turn that down please! I asked you to help clean up this house! But what was the point? If Jack was here and shouted at them, they’d swear under their breath but obey. Since his job changed to publishing, their lives had become patterned around his absences. Dad-at-home meant rules, clean rooms, proper meal times, proper meals, twice-daily dog walks. Dad-away meant unmade beds with unfresh sheets, dog sloth, French toast for dinner three nights running, Grateful Dead on the living room record player instead of in their rooms, records left out of sleeves, and no shouting at all.
‘Children!’ she said softly during a pause between tracks.
‘What?’ They turned to look at her with identical expressions. The next track began, and Donald turned the volume down.
‘Can you please help me finish cleaning the house. Your father is, Jack is…’
‘We know! The king is on his way! Don’t sweat it.’
‘Geez! The house is fine, Mom. I’ve vacuumed the hall, and the bathroom’s clean.’
‘All we have to do is pick up in here. It’ll take two minutes.’
‘Mommy?’
‘Yes, Wil…Billy?’
He giggled at this, so she repeated herself.
‘What do you want, WilBilly?’
‘I can’t hear Sesame Street.’
‘Turn the music off, Donald. And turn up the television, Sam.’
‘Sure thing…Milly.’ Sarcastically.
Milly again, she thought. It was the perfect solution. But how strange. Was being Billie really gone for ever? Quite fundamental, yet it had happened so easily. She felt more grown up, not in a pleasant way. Milly felt more…conventional than Billie. Also childish, because the last time she was Milly, she’d been living with her mother and sister. She’d had a favourite outfit, the summer she declared herself Billie, not Milly. A red nylon dress, with white polka dots and a tiny black belt. Billie had sounded so snazzy. So modern, so not valley. And now, she was back to meek Milly. Just how much would a mother sacrifice for her child? She sighed as she took an armful of clothes belonging to Sam to the room he shared with Danny and Donald. It used to be the master bedroom – but that seemed like ancient history now. Willy/Billy was in the smallest room, Elisabeth had the converted garage, and she and Jack slept in the middle room. Somehow, over the years, the small house had expanded to accommodate them all. If another child magically appeared, she had no doubt the house would at first groan, then stretch out till a suitable corner was found.
She kicked open a storage drawer at the base of Sam’s closet, and dumped in his clothes. Bending to push the drawer closed, she spotted his diary. The one she gave him for Christmas a few years ago, which was why she felt entitled now to have a quick read. Also there was the way her son’s eyes looked last night when he went to bed at the unprecedented hour of 8:30, after being dropped off by that new friend. And actually, now she thought of it, he’d been avoiding her eyes all day. So she squatted by the open drawer and quickly flicked through the diary. She was impressed – almost every page was full. Some even had scribbling going up the margin, with arrows. Peace signs appeared in various sizes,
as did doodles of naked girls. The dates had been crossed out, new ones scribbled in, and some entries were longer than one page. One entry, about a year old, in messy handwriting:
I love Frances. This is it. Destiny. I gave her a necklace tonight for her birthday and told her I love her. She didn’t say she loved me too, but so what.
How sweet! Sam was a romantic. She’d always thought he was different.
Now I get all those love songs. It’s like when I finally started to inhale, after months of smoking doobies and wondering what the fuck everyone was talking about.
Sam smoked pot? Well, of course he did. So did Jack, actually.
Wonder if she’ll let me fuck her now.
What? Oh well.
She flicked to the final page. Yesterday’s date. The handwriting was different. The pen had not been pressed hard enough, and at times almost faded into transparency. But there were the words still, loud as a smoke alarm.
On acid. Flying. I can hardly feel this pen, and Che Guevara is winking at me from the wall. Henry said it lasts for at least 8 hours, which means I have 3 hours to go. Fuck. But this will pass. All things must pass, as the song says. All things must pass away.
Milly shut the diary quickly, replaced it and closed the drawer. Her heart raced as if a train had mysteriously derailed from that rarely visited side of downtown, and was heading straight for her home. And in a way, that was exactly what had happened. She had been so relaxed all week, but here was life, rushing to meet her again.
Finally, with thirty minutes till his father’s return, Sam was out in the backyard scooping up dog poop with an old spoon into a brown paper bag. Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve. Thirteen, under the steps. Fourteen and fifteen, behind the barbecue. Most were dry, odourless, but some were soft and fresh. The dogs were following him around, sniffing their own excrement as if they’d never seen it before. Billy, who was increasingly less a Willy, was playing hide-and-seek with Elisabeth in the house. Elisabeth was actually reading Seventeen magazine, but every few minutes shouting numbers, and Ready or not, here I come! Where’s that Billy who used to be Willy? Danny and Donald were playing Pong, sitting on the floor in front of the television with their remote controls in their laps. There was a hollow ping! every time one of their paddles hit the ball. Milly, who was less Billie already, surveyed her house. It looked a little sneaky, a little false, with a shoe toe peeping out from under a sofa, and the kitchen junk drawer refusing to shut. The kitchen floor was still wet, highlighting the corners that the mop had missed. Jack was on his way home, the house was superficially clean, and the kids were all present. Tick, tick, tick.
But Sam had taken acid.
She watched him in the yard, from the kitchen window. Milly often let her eyes linger on her first born; of all the children, he resembled her most. As for taking drugs, however, he got that from his father. Loving intoxication from whatever source. Which reminded her, had she dusted his water pipe recently? He might be wanting that when he got home. Grass was not scary, but acid was. While Milly was considering what to do, she noticed Sam pulling himself up the tree in the backyard. He hadn’t climbed a tree in years, what was he doing? Up and up he climbed, and Milly felt a coldness creep over her skin, despite the sun. Sam paused on a branch about forty, maybe fifty feet up. She stared at him but did not go outside, because she had to keep her eyes on him in order to will him down safely. He hardly looked like Sam, way up there. She imagined him looking down, seeing the yard and the dogs, and maybe even her own worried face looking out the kitchen window. He started swinging down quickly, holding onto branches with his hands, not stopping to find proper footholds. Like a monkey, she thought. Then she watched as he missed a branch and hung by one hand, his other grappling in air for another place to grip. The bark was smooth and he was a big boy. It was obvious to Milly he couldn’t hold his own weight long, and she watched as his hand slid off the branch. He fell quickly, but her own reactions seemed to happen in excruciating slow motion. She opened doors and ran out of the house, but it didn’t feel like running. Tried to scoop up her son as if he was six again, his gangly legs and arms spilling awkwardly. He moaned a little but didn’t open his eyes.
‘Shush now, you’ll be fine,’ she ordered softly over and over. Danny carried his feet while Milly held him under his arms. He swung heavily between them. Elizabeth opened the back seat door and helped them slide Sam’s body across the seat.
‘Want me to come?’ asked Elisabeth.
‘Stay!’ Milly commanded, as if she was a puppy. The adrenalin still pumping, her arms and legs trembling.
‘Look after…him.’ Pointing at Billy/Willy, and blank about his name. ‘Everyone stay put till I get back.’ Even her voice was shaking now. She was one big shake.
‘Is he okay? Is Sam hurt bad?’
‘I don’t know. Your father will be here soon. Tell him.’
Then she got in the car and burned rubber for the first time in her life. The acrid smell seeped into her panic, even as she hurtled the old station wagon down China Camp Road, the shortcut to Marin General Hospital. She had never felt this afraid. She’d never driven this dangerously. She figured (in some calm, calculating room in her mind) that since she’d driven twenty-six years without breaking any traffic laws, she was due a little leeway and would get away with this. She had the perfect excuse, the only excuse really. This was an emergency, and she wanted to scream at the Volkswagen puttering along at thirty. She hit her horn, then swerved out to see if it was clear for her to pass.
By the time Milly registered that her car was no longer moving, people were running up to her. She heard an odd grating noise, and it turned out to be her own cries. She knew because her throat hurt. So did every other part of her body. Especially her left leg. Someone opened her door and reached across to release her belt. When they pulled her out she immediately fell down. She sat on the roadside and as if she’d just come out of an elocution lesson, explained to the stranger leaning over her:
‘Excuse me. I need to get to the hospital immediately. Immediately, do you understand? My son is hurt. He is in the back seat.’
Perfectly crisp and clear.
‘Excuse me. I said, excuse me. Did you hear me? And my name is Milly. No longer Billie. Mill. Ee.’
Jack was Jack, meanwhile, and sitting eighteen miles away in the living room of the poet from Nebraska, Betty Lou Schmidt. In his left hand was a Manhattan that might just be the best cocktail he’d had in his life. In his right hand was a cigarette. Screw those Gauloises and Gitanes. Screw those huge tankards of schwarzbier. He’d meant to drive straight home, but his plane had landed early and Billie wouldn’t be expecting him for another hour. Why rush? He needed this. The flight was murder.
‘Tell me all about it,’ said Betty Lou, stretching out the word all. She sat next to him. Close enough so he could smell perfume, but not touching.
He’d head home in a half hour. He wished he didn’t feel this way, but the truth was, he didn’t want to go home. Billie would be dressed up for him, and she’d skip back and forth to the table serving his favourite steak and salad with Thousand Island dressing. Oh, that sweetness and servitude could drive him crazy sometimes. It could feel accusatory, and he’d done nothing to feel guilty about. This was an innocent situation right now, him and Betty Lou.
‘And how did the publisher justify that?’ Betty Lou was saying softly. ‘Bastard! When you’d come all that way! Well, their loss.’
‘Krauts. They always have to win.’
Pause, while he lit her cigarette. More perfume wafting.
‘Actually Jack, that is not a word people use any more. Kraut. You know that, right?’
Pause. Jack chuckled indulgently, as if she was a child. He noticed, suddenly, his own odour. That particular sour airplane stink. His head hurt and his skin felt greasy. He wanted a very hot shower and bed. He remembered a few nights ago in Frankfurt: drinking too much and getting lost walking around. Those prostitutes had started following him –
giggling at him, it had seemed. He hadn’t been able to remember the name of his hotel to tell the taxi driver. He’d just wanted to be home then, with his Billie frying hamburgers, wearing that old denim shirtdress, her hair tied back in that cowgirl scarf. The kids all bickering about something trivial. Willy’s broken fire truck. Danny’s new record being scratched by someone. That cold Frankfurt night, Jack had wanted nothing more than to lie on his bean bag in front of the television, his feet up on the hearth, a cold can of Hams by his side, and to watch The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Secretly, he loved that show.
Two Years Earlier
Lemonade on the Deck
October 4th, 1970, Billie’s house and Colette’s house
10:12am
All the terrible things Billie had expected to happen actually happened. She’d watched Peyton Place; by the time they happened to her, adultery and separation were old hat. She’d almost ticked them off a list. Less money – tick! Loneliness – tick! Social exclusion – tick! Despite the presence of four teenagers and a toddler, there’d been the unsurprising emptiness in her home. And her bed was cold and too large. She’d huddled up on one side – at first her side, then his side. She bought a floral bedspread Jack would have hated, but still huddled and shivered, especially around 3am. She’d noted the absence of invitations and didn’t mind, curiously. Though she was shocked when Bernice dropped away. It turned out she was part of a package with Ernie, and Ernie belonged to Jack.
Actually, had Bernice ever really been her friend? Did she have any friends left at all? Any real friends? There was that Irene from across the street. She kept making overtures, since her son and Willy were the same age, and she was single too. She seemed to think she and Billie were soulmates, but Billie was not been drawn to her. Her sister, Louise, Bernice and Jack were the only people she actually liked, and they’d all jumped ship. The image was particularly apt in Louise’s case, since her most recent postcard was from a cruise ship, where she had a temporary job working in the kitchen. The gallie!!! she’d called it. Her sister’s spelling mistake and exclamation marks had made Billie weep. It was so like her. She missed her sister. The missing of Jack was expected and justified; it sat smack dab in the middle of the kitchen table every night at dinner. But over the fourteen months since Jack’s departure, missing her sister had become visceral and obsessive. A chronic pulling down in the area just above her abdomen, and couldn’t be explained with words like grief or love or even sister. It ached all the time. Sometimes Billie rubbed her belly absent-mindedly, as if trying to loosen it.
Wait For Me Jack Page 16