If the Moon Had Willow Trees (Detroit Eight Series Book 1)

by Kathleen Hall

  “No, Issie—Sam did not tell me. But I know. He’s so secretive these days and works late almost every night. When I can’t reach him at work, he says he was in a meeting or in someone else’s office. I’m not a fool.”

  “Did you ask him if he was having an affair?”

  “I wanted to talk to you first. I can’t imagine life without Sam. I’m five months pregnant, no job. I’m not sure I want to bring it up. Maybe I’m wrong.”

  “I think you’re wrong. Besides, the Maggie I know would have already asked him. Your hormones are a complete mess and this is Sam’s first year on the job. You don’t even know what normal looks like. Find something to do to keep busy. You’ve got way too much time on your hands. What about your civil rights work? My guess is we still have a lot to do on that front!”

  “Everyone’s advice, but without a car my options are little and none, or slim and none, whatever that saying is.”

  “Then get a car. You’ve got twenty grand sitting in the bank. Take a grand, buy a used car.”

  “Isabel, you might think you know what’s best for me, but you don’t. How much of the twenty grand do you and Eddie have?”

  “Maggie, that’s so fucking unkind. You know we had a ton of bills after Eddie’s layoff. And, when I told you he buried us in gambling debt at the track, it was because I trusted you. Why are you trying to hurt me? Never mind, I’m going to hang up before you say another word.”

  When Maggie heard the phone slam, she began to cry, then wallowed. It reminded her of the cries of ages coming from the monolith in 2001: A Space Odyssey—ancient, enslaved souls. Maggie thought she felt her heart fold over and cramp up before the familiar loneliness wrapped her like an old curse. This time heavier, darker, more ominous. Ominous like cumulous, cumulonimbus clouds turning gray, thought Maggie. I’ll check the etymology.

  When Sam pulled into Big Boy’s, the parking lot was empty. He peered through the winter grime collected on the restaurant’s windows to make sure it was open. A narrow slice of florescent found its way through the sludge. March in Michigan was the pinnacle of stir-craziness. Everyone was stretching their necks, arms, bodies to reach freedom from forced-air-heated enclosures and inactivity. Sam looked at his waist folding over his belt and recalled hearing that men with pregnant wives gained weight. Sam was convinced he and Maggie were both suffering from some deep, dark malicious form of boredom. Their conversations were banal, bland, blah. His work was intense and tedious, the last thing he wanted to talk about. And, Maggie with no car, no work, no friends nearby, must be bored out of her frigging mind. Here they were, starting a life together, expecting a baby and the humdrum was deafening.

  A knock on the driver’s side window jolted Sam back to the present.

  “Hey, Tervo! You waiting for a carhop or what?”

  Sam climbed out of the car and gave Clyde a bear hug. “Give me a break. I was having the sweetest thoughts about rabbit holes before you interrupted my reverie.”

  “Let’s reverie inside and chow down. Which is what I do now—chow down. Not sure what’s going on, but my guess is cabin fever. Every March I pig out like there’s no tomorrow or yesterday. I bet I put on ten pounds last week.”

  Sam pinched his waist and said, “March or Maggie’s pregnancy? Not sure which.”

  “Aren’t we a pair to draw to? We’re beginning to sound like two old broads,” laughed Clyde.

  Sam caught a subliminal flash of their future. Twenty years from now, two beer-bellied guys with gray hair, elongated noses and liver spots pinching their waists and talking trash.

  Inside, Clyde took off his eight-pound burgundy-colored car coat and threw it on the seat in the next booth. Sam took off his black and gray wool-tweed suit jacket, folded it and put it next to him.

  Today their waitress was a skinny white woman—pale skin lit by freckles and frizzy red hair held down by an arsenal of black bobby pins. No greeting, pencil poised over the order book, thin lips pursed, eyes averted, she waited for them to speak. Sam resisted an urge to engage her in conversation about the new wave of bi-racial friends. Clyde ordered for both of them.

  Clyde rolled his eyes as the waitress left the table and said, “freeze-dried,” their code for unreachable whites or blacks. “What’s up man?”

  “Wish I knew. Back on January 3rd, Maxine got a call from Zito when I was out. He told Max he wanted to leave a message but hung up. I might’ve been wigged out if I had time to think, but it was the day of Jingo’s Auto Show Pre-Party at The Book. Big promo that night—tall, thin, hot looking models from New York mixing with Jingo executives, ad agency guys, media types and investors. By investors, I mean the whole shebang—Mafioso, union chiefs as well as the cobras from Wall Street.

  “The night was clear, the moon was yellow and the leaves came tumbling down, or so the song goes. First person I see in the hotel lobby is Zito. He said he wanted to give me a heads-up about Carla being there so I didn’t wet my pants. We volleyed back and forth. When I asked him why he was there, he said, ‘Who wants to know, Bozo?’ I decided to keep clear of him and Carla.

  “My job was to set up one of the salons, more commonly known as ‘Poker Rooms,’ to meet with each of the eight models, get their signatures on a contract, and give them an orientation schedule. The models spend four days getting to know the cars, the media, Jingo bigwigs, go through final wardrobe and fittings, then run through two dress rehearsals. The schedule is non-stop. My job, with Maxine’s help, is to make sure this all happens.

  “Everything was clicking along until I reached the last model, Ella. I waited fifteen minutes after her scheduled time before I decided to tape a note on the door for her to sit tight if she arrived. In the meantime, I looked for her. Based on her profile and photos, I knew she was a fair-skinned red-haired Cuban. At five-five, she was short compared to the other models. By then it was close to eight and the party in the ballroom was rocking. The other seven models and a few other women, including Carla, were dancing freestyle. Some dudes who knew how to dance, or were so drunk they forgot they didn’t know how to dance, were drawn into the mix. The bar on the other side of the room was three deep, with a bunch of guys standing in some sort of a huddle. The huddlers were getting louder and rowdier. As I moved closer, I saw Ella in the center. She was stretched across three fancy bar stools, her black velvet mini skirt over her waist and her red boat-neck sweater pulled down below a pair of gorgeous, mondo knockers. The guys were frenzied—touching, stroking, pinching, pouring wine on her body then finger-painting through it. It felt like some erotic version of the novel Clockwork Orange. Ella was laughing and asked if anyone had a stick shift. She was stoned out of her mind. And, I, good buddy, was immobilized and mesmerized. I hated that I couldn’t take my eyes away, that I didn’t want to or know how to stop myself, or the unhinged rabble-rousers. Then, one of the suits showed her a twenty-dollar bill, rolled it up, pulled down the crotch of her black lace panties and tucked it out of sight. He moved up to her face and unzipped his pants. By now, the guys in the huddle were rubbing themselves or rubbing against Ella’s arms, legs, stomach, as if no one was watching. Think about the groans and cheers you heard when Cassius Clay was taking down Sonny Liston. It was that kind of loose, uncontrolled energy, like the room was lifting off the ground. The band got louder and the dance floor looked packed. The suit with the twenty-dollar bill looked like he was going to have a heart attack. The music stopped. In the silence, Ella let go and the suit cried, holy mother of god, save me. I turned around and Carla was staring at me, looking at me in a way that was sober and hard, like she was trying to warn me about something. I must have looked down because when I looked back, she was gone.

  “And, the huddle was gone. I don’t remember walking away. I saw Ella at the bar chatting up some guy. She was fully dressed in a knee-length velvet skirt, a red turtleneck sweater, nylons and a pair of go-go boots. Her makeup was perfect, her hair neatly combed. The band was playing some Tommy Dorsey thing, no rock. There was no one
on the dance floor. I thought holy shit did I just make up this scene? Am I so slammed by knowing Carla was here that I imagined this whole fucking thing? I looked at Ella’s file in my hand. When I opened it, there was a signed copy of her contract. I raced down to the Poker Room. There was no note taped to the door. Inside the Poker Room the lights I’d left on were turned off. My brief case was on top of the table and locked. My folded jacket was draped over the brief case as if I’d prepared to leave.

  “On my way out Ben, the president of Jingo, was in the hallway talking to Zito and Carla. I looked straight ahead and race-walked. My heart was beating so hard I was sure they could hear it. Zito caught up with me in the lobby and handed me a rolled up twenty-dollar bill and said, ‘I think this is yours.’ I shook my head no but the word got stuck in my throat. Zito said, ‘Look, ass wipe, we’ve got the whole fucking scene on tape. We still own you. Don’t forget it.’

  “I didn’t see the kryptonite coming. I don’t know how I could have. I’m not sure what they gave me, LSD or some other hallucinogenic, but this was no small-budget film. I didn’t call right away because this story makes me sound psycho. I don’t even believe it myself. Did I hallucinate the entire night? Since then, there’s no doubt I’ve been sleepwalking through my days. I can’t think straight because I keep flipping between here and there, now and then, real and unreal. I’m either totally fucked or crazy as a loon. Maybe both.”

  “Tervo, I don’t think you’re crazy. But, you’re right. This is no low-ball bid. They want you big time. They had to spend a shitload of money, time and energy setting this up. Why do they want to own you? What do you have that they want? Why would Jingo be involved? What’s the connection?”

  “That’s what I keep asking myself. I’ve opened every memory of conversations, encounters. Nothing. I don’t know what they want or who’s involved. At the risk of sounding like a dimwit, I’m a simple Yooper. I have no power, no connections, no mafia contacts, no money, no rich relatives, no inside information on anyone. What the hell?”

  “There’s something, kimosabe, and it’s a big something.”

  When Sam got home from work, Maggie met him at the door. She was wearing a non-maternity tent dress, jewel-toned paisley on red brocade, masking her expanded girth. Maggie’s hair was washed and curled. Her face colored with mascara, eyeliner, blush and red lipstick. Somehow she’d managed to get her swollen feet into the three-inch peau de soie heels she wore when they were married. Sam felt like falling to his knees and crying but he didn’t want to scare her.

  Maggie batted her lashes and said, “Monsieur, I know you were expecting your wife, but tonight belongs to me. My name’s Colette, and you and me, well, we’re going to have a night to remember!”

  Sam moved into the kitchen and heard the pressure cooker rattling. He shook his head and said, “Sorry, Colette. That’s not going to happen. You see Maggie’s the only woman I want.” He took off his suit coat and draped it over the kitchen chair. “Come sit down. Once I tell you about Maggie, you’ll know why there’s no room for anyone else.”

  Maggie looked at Sam, as if he’d walked on stage before his cue, then blindly followed him into the living room. Sam patted the cushion next to him. When Maggie sat down, the sofa felt like a caress.

  Staying in character Sam looked at her and said, “My wife Maggie isn’t easy, but I don’t want easy. She’s a Canuck, a French Canadian, with all the fire and intellect this combo brings. She’s drop-dead gorgeous, pragmatic, sassy, wickedly funny and sexy as hell. Did I mention newly rich?” Maggie gave him the look and pinched his cheek. Sam pulled her on his lap and said, “It’s hard to describe how exciting it is to be in love with Maggie. Every day, when I wake up and see her next to me, I pinch myself. How did I get so lucky? In a world filled with naysayers, chronic complainers and sleepwalkers, I end up with this beautiful, complex person who has the heart, mind and energy to change the world. But look at me. I’ve been sleepwalking for months because I got lost in someone else’s fantasy. For some demented reason, I became more interested in climbing the corporate ladder than climbing into bed with my wife. I made myself miserable. I’m sure I made her miserable. I lost my sense of humor and sense of fun, and maybe I’ve lost the interest of my incredible wife.” Maggie started to interrupt, but Sam placed his finger to her mouth and whispered, “Wait, let me say this.

  “My closest friends, including Maggie, know I can be a dickhead. I am a dickhead. But I want you to know I love Maggie far beyond my limited vocabulary, and I’m desperately sorry I got lost in my work. I saw my dad give up everything he had, even his life, for work. That’s not the legacy I want to leave. I hope she’ll forgive me.”

  “Oh, Sam. I’ve been such a slouch the last few months that it made sense you’d rather be at work. I’m starting to recognize myself again, but being pregnant took me down for the count. I let my hormones get the best of me and take me places I didn’t want to be. Issie told me I was a mess and I am . . . I was. I thought you were having an affair and it was making me so crazy and wild.”

  “Babe, not your fault. It wasn’t about you. No affair. I’m spending every calorie of energy on work and I’ve neglected everything and everyone else, including you. No more. Let’s find our core. I want to build my life with you, not with Jingo Motors, not with anyone else.”

  “Build, like layettes? Nurseries? A home?”

  “All of the above and more. We’re a team. Don’t worry and please don’t go quiet on me again.”

  “Yeah, that’s pretty funny when I hear it out loud,” laughed Maggie. “What, me worry? What, me go quiet?” Putting her head on Sam’s shoulder she sighed as she picked up his scent in a way that told her she’d lost it for a while. The baby kicked and turned as if delighted by the remembered voice and balm. Maggie placed Sam’s hand on her growing mezzanine. The baby kicked again and again.

  21

  Mind Over Matter

  War is Peace, Freedom is Slavery, Ignorance is Strength.

  —George Orwell, 1984

  JULY 1969—Naked under Issie’s threadbare green and orange flowered moo-moo, Maggie propped her chin on her fists inches from the electric fan on the kitchen table. Oscillating back and forth, the steel blades blew a clumsy, waterlogged breeze. Sweat was collecting in every crevice of her body as she looked around the wrinkled kitchen and wondered what happened to the burst of energy she’d had over the past two weeks. The house was spotless, the nursery freshly painted and ready. Sam had cleaned all the light fixtures and boxed as many books as they were willing to give up for a few months. Maggie had scoured every square inch of the pink and black tiled bathroom, cleaned closets, mopped floors, organized cupboards and drawers. On one of their drives to check out neighborhoods in Livonia, they found a sturdy white crib with a matching changing table at a yard sale. Maggie washed both with scalding hot water and ammonia.

  Clyde hadn’t asked them to consider a move to Livonia. He didn’t have to. The Freedom Riders needed a white couple to begin changing attitudes within the suburbs, or as Willie liked to say, behind enemy lines. Since Maggie and Sam were the only white couple in The Eights, who also happened to be poised to move west, it was a no-brainer. Based on suburban facts and legends, it seemed clear if they could integrate Livonia, they could integrate anywhere on the west side. Maggie thought life in the burbs signaled death by boredom, but Sam’s enthusiasm about having more space, seeing the stars at night and planting a garden gave her a boost. With July temperatures climbing to ninety, the idea of big shade trees almost pulled her over the top.

  Maggie reached her hands under her misshapen, domed rotunda to find it sitting low, almost between her legs, then used the width of her hands to see how much space she had between her boobs and the mezzanine. Dropped, she thought. Of the many books Maggie read on childbirth and labor, she knew labor might begin immediately, but almost certainly within two weeks. Maggie ran her hands over her damp, prickly legs and decided to take a bath and shave before she called
the doctor.

  “Good morning, Jingo Personnel, may I help you?

  “Maxine, Clyde here. What’s the buzz?”

  “Work and more work. I’m determined to get a life but not sure how. What’s up with you?”

  “Work, family and some rare moments of freedom. This whole thing about growing up sure looked good from the other side, but I’m here to tell ya, it ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

  “Amen. I keep thinking it’s going to slow down next month, next season, next year. There’s no next. You looking for a toe-headed white guy in a suit?”

  “You got it.”

  Clyde tapped the eraser of his pencil to the beats of the transferring call.

  “Hey, Clyde, what’s up?”

  “Time for another summit. I might be on to something. Blanche said Maggie’s got a shower at Jo’s on Sunday. I can leave the wrecking crew with the in-laws. Lunch at Angelo’s?”

  “Sure. With Angelo?”

  “No, just us. Got to run. See you Sunday about one.”

  “Hey Auntie Jo, how’s it going? You need help setting up for Sunday?”

  “Not for a minute, Maggie. You’re the guest of honor. Don’t ask again and don’t lift a finger on Sunday.”

  “Cool. I’ll flop my walrus-shaped body on the recliner, rest my clubfeet and sip an ice cold Bloody Mary without vodka. A Virgin Bloody Mary?”

  “What does that even mean? It sounds sacrilegious. You mean tomato juice?”

  “Tomato juice with a Bloody Mary mix, no vodka. Not that I want one. It just struck me as funny, like a New Yorker cartoon.”

  “So how are things between you and Issie? Back to normal?”

  “I hope. I’m lucky she’s a good cheek turner, because I’m so cheeky. Have I always been this obtuse when it comes to insulting people?”

  “Oh, Maggie, anyone who knows you feels your kindness. But, in truth, you’re headstrong when you think someone’s trying to tell you what to do. Like Anna, maybe all the Landry girls, we’re strong willed, we want what we want. The down side is loneliness. Most men don’t like strong, independent women.”