“Aunt Jo, I can’t believe you said that. You of all people! You’re strong and independent. Men are always after you.”
“Short term, Maggie. Men see me as a challenge. When the challenge gets to be too much, they make their exit. Trust me, strong women have to find a way to balance the male ego thing if they want a man in their life. It’s too much work for me, but Issie’s a good example. She uses humor as armor and lots of care in picking her fights. To Eddie’s credit, he understands the importance of comic relief; and so far, hasn’t hit the limits of Issie’s tolerance for crazy schemes and get-rich-quick plans.”
“Seriously? I don’t get it. Why would Sam, Eddie or any man want a woman to be weak? Darwin must be pitching a fit in the next dimension. Wouldn’t our survival instinct push us to choose a strong mate?”
“Maggie you can take that cockamamie theory and stuff it. I know you understand the threat of strength. I’ve seen you wield it like a shield and a sword.”
Maggie thought dark clouds never seemed so welcome. A foundling wind entered the side door with a trace scent of hibiscus and ruffled the dog-eared pages of Dr. Spock. Defused sunlight not only cooled their tiny home, its camouflage of shadows seemed to mend the buckled linoleum, warped wood floors and peeling wallpaper. Maggie stood in the hall and looked at the nursery. All white semi-gloss walls, furniture and ceiling, with a freshly waxed hardwood floor. A yellow rocking chair from Clyde and Blanche’s basement and an African animal print quilt from Loretta gave the room a colorful panache. Ready for the baby’s homecoming, Maija’s white crocheted blanket and cap waited on top of the changing table.
Maggie sat on the rocker and put her hands on her sinking mezzanine. The baby was quiet, saving energy for a trip through the birth canal. From some very wise, ancient, remembered place, Maggie felt a sense of wellbeing, a knowledge of motherhood that transcended her experience on earth. Maggie knew she was a mother and played with the idea that motherhood began before birth. Did this connection reside at some cellular level? Had Anna passed her love for her mother to her? Would her love for Anna become part of some complex genetic code she transfers to her baby? Maggie placed her hands together, as if in prayer, and one of Anna’s rhymes came to her. Moving her hands to this old cadence, Maggie quietly chimed, “Here’s the church, here’s the steeple, open the door and see all the people.”
Maggie didn’t hear Sam come home or notice him in the hallway when he stopped to listen. Twilight, wending its way through the bamboo blinds, glanced off Maggie’s fingertips as she repeated the rhyme. A lapsed Lutheran, Sam never understood the concept of holiness until now, here in this broken little house with no stained glass.
Maggie turned in time to catch Sam in awe and greeted him with a wink. “Hey, Papa, the baby dropped. I shaved my legs and the doctor said, ‘stay tuned.’ Any day now we’ll have another mouth to feed.”
Aunt Jo’s house was filled with summer colors, a chorus of women’s voices and a picnic bouquet—scents of watermelon, fried chicken, potato salad, baked beans, an out-of-this-world coconut cake by Robin, and Maggie’s favorite, Aunt Jo’s rhubarb pie.
Maggie was wearing her one and only maternity dress—a sleeveless, lightweight gray and white dotted Swiss with a white sailor tie. Her packed suitcase was in the Corvair’s trunk. If Maggie went into labor with pains five minutes apart, she’d call Sam at Angelo’s to pick her up. From Aunt Jo’s, St. Mary’s Hospital in Livonia was a trek, but Maggie had chosen Issie’s OB/GYN because he delivered her two healthy sons without complications. Dr. Stanley assured Maggie she’d have plenty of time to get to Livonia from Detroit because first-born children usually meant a long labor.
Maggie thought back to her first day of required prenatal classes at St. Mary’s when one of the nuns greeted the small group of women and asked them to introduce themselves and where they lived. When Maggie said she lived in Detroit, there were a few gasps. Among the group, she was the sole non-Livonian and the only woman expecting her first child. After introductions, the nun began with the dress code, emphasizing the importance of pregnant women maintaining dignity and respect for both their condition and its effect on others. Without looking at Maggie, the nun said, “We find it obscene for pregnant women to wear slacks or sandals. Not only is this offensive to polite society, it creates a safety hazard if the obstetrician has to cut off someone’s clothes to save the baby. To avoid any misunderstanding, you must dress properly when you attend these classes and when you arrive at the hospital in labor. If not, you’ll be turned away.” Maggie was the only woman in slacks and sandals, specifically purchased for these classes. Most of her maternity clothes were borrowed, drab and billowing. Maggie’s new tapered red slacks, matching red and white sailboat print top, and strappy white sandals better reflected her sense of style and color. She’d felt fresh, hip, grown up when she dropped Sam off at work, which made the public humiliation sting more. Before pregnancy, Maggie would have smirked at the nun and thought, screw you. When this happened she almost cried. What happened to her pre-pregnancy-kick-ass self? Freedom lurked three-days after delivery when she and the baby would be discharged, released from the hospital’s puritanical rules. During her stay, mothers and babies could only bond on some rigid schedule set by the nuns—feedings every four hours at ten, two and six, ten, two and six with no regard for the baby’s hunger or need to be held. One of Maggie’s friends from Windsor told her that nurses in the States snapped their sharp fingernails against the soft bottom of an infant’s foot to wake them up or encourage nursing. Maggie was horrified. Issie said she was over reacting and it was no big deal, babies survived. Ultimately, Maggie decided she was too tired and intimidated by the nuns to protest these barbaric practices. She hoped words and cooing sounds would be enough to coax her baby to stay awake and nurse while under this black-cloaked regime.
Loretta walked up and hugged Maggie back to the present, before putting her hands on the mezzanine. “Well, it’s a good thing you didn’t wait any longer to have a shower. Look at you! This baby is halfway down the Erie Canal. We might have to bleach and boil some new diapers and help your Aunt Jo deliver her first baby.”
“Hah. My guess is Blanche would take over and have everything cleaned up in time to eat. Your yummy fried chicken?”
“Grease and all.”
“Have you seen Issie? She here yet?”
“Haven’t seen her. Sit yourself down, I’ll get you an ice-cold Vernors.”
“How about a Bloody Mary without booze?”
Covered in soot and ash from the riots two years ago, Angelo’s Pizzeria looked more like an abandoned tool and die shop. The gravel parking lot was pock marked and sprouting crab grass. Angelo’s ‘Shiniest Windows in Tiger Town’ looked like collages of fingerprints, pollen, acid rain and mud splatter. So not like Angelo who wiped the dust off his shoes six times a day. His employees called him Mr. Clean behind his back. Sam thought Angelo must be sick or depressed.
“Hey, Tervo! What the hell you doin’ this side of town? You lost or what?”
“Hey, Angelo. You still in charge of this dump?”
Angelo looked around, shook his head and said, “Hard to believe isn’t it? Worked my ass off all these years to keep this place looking like a top and since Maggie left I stopped caring. Not blaming Maggie, but she had a good way of upping the ante and keeping me on my toes. She’d raise one of her eyebrows and without another word I knew it was time to clean the windows. She here with you?”
Sam laughed and said, “Oh, I know that raised eyebrow! Aunt Jo is giving her a shower. Thought you’d know.”
“Another bad move. I told Jo it’s either all or nothing and she said nothing. Which, of course, meant I had to walk away. I’m such an asshole. Back myself in a corner then watch the fucking house burn down. What can I get you?”
“Coke’s good. I’m meeting Clyde at one. You got time to shoot the breeze till then?”
“No can do. I’m the only grunt in the kitchen today. Trying out
these new cost-cutting gimmicks. No fucking reason I have to work so hard, but I’m better by myself.”
“First, you’re full of shit. You don’t do better by yourself. Look around. Plus, you’re dumb on both sides if you walk away from Jo. Where you going to find another Jo? Crow isn’t that bad. Eat it and move on.”
“Yeah, well maybe. We’ll see.”
“Yeah, well maybe my ass. Call her. Go to a movie and sit without fidgeting for ninety minutes. Coming from you, she’ll know it’s a mega mea culpa.”
Maggie was surrounded by laughter, wrapping paper, ribbon and the most remarkable collection of baby clothes and furnishings. Issie was last to arrive, pushing a brand-new stroller up the sidewalk—packed with undershirts, bibs, infant gowns, receiving blankets, a yellow rubber duck with three ducklings and Robert McCloskey’s Caldecott Award winning book, Make Way for Ducklings. Maggie’s favorite book as a child.
When Aunt Jo suggested a few shower games, there was a deep, visceral group grunt as if a medicine ball had hit everyone at the same time. One by one, Aunt Jo looked around the room at her uneasy guests. Then, she threw her arms up as if a tent revivalist had palmed her forehead to cast out evil. “Glory be to god! I forced myself to come up with some games but it was the devil’s work. Praise the lord and pass the mimosa!” At first, there was an awkward silence. Did the spirit move Aunt Jo or was she just kidding around? Issie’s unbridled hoots answered the question, inviting more raucous laughter until everyone understood Aunt Jo shared her nieces’ wicked, bizarro sense of humor.
Blanche lifted her mimosa and proposed a toast. “To our friend, sister, niece,” then catching Maija’s wave, “and daughter-in-law. May you find your way through motherhood as gracefully as you’ve earned the love and respect of all who know you! Some of us want to be you. Honestly, a few of us have pushed narcissism to new heights by attaching ourselves to your pregnancy. So here’s the rub, we’ve offered many fine names for you and Sam to consider and we have no idea what you plan to call our little boy or girl. Give it up.”
Maggie was cheered by the love, and as always, the freedom to say it straight or slanted. “Merci, mon cher ami! Naming our baby turned out to be way bigger than we thought. As most of you know, we took it on like a community project and risked driving you nuts with our constant need for attention. Although we must have known we weren’t the first couple to get pregnant or name a baby, we acted like this was the second coming. So, after unimaginable hours spent interviewing friends and family, debating, pencil tapping, head scratching, playing pin-the-tail on the name games . . .”
Issie interrupted with a “Drum roll please!”
Maggie laughed. “Okay, got it. Anyhow, most of you know Sam and I both thought we’d have a girl, but now we’re not so sure.” Maggie smiled as she rubbed the front of her rotunda. “Boy or girl—we’ve fallen hopelessly in love with this child. If she’s a she, her name will be Tekla, Tekla Tervo. Tekla’s the name of Sam’s maternal grandmother, Maija’s mother, and I can’t imagine a more beautiful name or alliteration. We haven’t decided on a middle name. If we have a boy, his name will be Otto, Sam’s father’s name. Samuel was Sam’s grandfather so this continues a tribal practice. I wanted to call our son Samuel, so we came up with Otto Samuel Tervo.”
Among the hallelujah chatter, Maija hugged herself, nodded and mouthed, “thank you” across the room to Maggie, who smiled and nodded back.
After Aunt Jo and Issie helped Maggie out of the recliner, the women formed a circle around the dining room table. Robin’s round, two-layered, silver-frosted, coconut cake was lit like Cape Canaveral—twelve white candles, in concentric circles, and a taller orange candle in the center, rocket style. Around the circumference of the cake, seven yellow and orange moons were arranged from the waning crescent to a full orange harvest moon to the waxing crescent. Only the unseen new moon was missing.
Except for unplugged third-world nations, and conspiracy theorists who thought the moon shot was an international stunt to one-up the Russians, the entire planet was over-the-moon moon crazy, collectively holding its breath in anticipation of NASA’s moon shot. Maggie loved to say it was outlandish to imagine a man on the moon, the stuff of fairytales, Buck Rogers, Flash Gordon. Yet, in three days, on July 16th, Apollo 11, a three-hundred-sixty-three-foot rocket, would be launched into orbit from the Kennedy Space Center with three astronauts dressed like deep-sea divers. If things went according to plan, Apollo 11 would land on the moon July 20th, just one week away.
“Hey, Tervo, sorry I’m late.”
“No problem. It’s a rare thing when I get to sit and let my mind wander without guilt. Kind of pisses me off when I think about it. What am I doing that is so god-awful important I don’t have time to kick back and chill?”
“Amen, brother. You’re talking to a swami who’s preaching the same sermon, or whatever swami’s call a sermon.”
“What would a swami call a sermon? A satsang?”
“Could be.”
“Maybe Angelo knows.”
“You’re kidding? What would possess you to think Angelo knows anything about swamis or sermons? Okay, no more mind wandering. You’re getting soft in the head. Blanche said she’d pick up the wrecking crew so I have an hour and some change. I’ll throw a pizza together and tell Angelo we’re planning a demonstration so he’ll keep his distance.”
“Maggie you look tired. Take a nap till Sam gets here. I’ve got a rowdy flock of nesters demanding to wash dishes and clean up. My bedroom will be cooler because I’ve got a window fan. Your choice.”
“Seriously, Auntie Jo, you don’t have to say another word. My feet are barking and my back is ready to shoot the damn dog.”
Aunt Jo’s Dr. Zhivago bedroom looked a little tired or Maggie thought, maybe she was tired and her view was tainted. Maggie slipped off her dress and pried off her white flats. Venetian blinds turned down, the window fan pulled air from under a shade tree into the darkened room. Maggie looked at her body with a tenderness she hadn’t felt about herself in a long time. The baby stretched his legs and pushed at the underside of the mezzanine. Maggie felt and could almost see the entire outline of a tiny foot, as if the baby was kicking off from the side of a swimming pool or the edge of a diving board! Soon they’d meet. Maggie folded back the dark eggplant quilt and in her maternity bra, underwear and patina of sweat, she and her baby slid under a fresh white cotton sheet. Maggie wanted to hold on to these last few hours or days of in utero symbiosis. For months Maggie had been talking, singing or playing music to teach, delight or relax her child. She thought she was making a connection. Yet, Maggie realized, she had never paused to listen. Placing her hand on the baby’s head, Maggie whispered, “If you can, give me a few days to pay quiet attention, to hear your thoughts, to know your soul.” Maggie felt certain spiritual awareness was lost upon entry.
Sam didn’t know how hungry he was until he inhaled a second piece of pizza before looking up.
“Sam, what do you know about gaslighting? Meaning mind-control, not stove tops or post lights.”
“Absolutely nothing. Have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, you do. From a 1940-something movie called Gas Light with Ingrid Bergman. Her husband kept her off balance by changing things around the house, turning the gas lights on and off, then giving her the third degree so she’d think she was losing her mind. People started to call it gaslighting when you mess with someone’s mind. And, it’s a big deal because the CIA, FBI and mafia are using it to fuck with reality. Like yours, the two times you thought you were set up.”
“Whoa. Jump back—the CIA, FBI and mafia? What the hell are you talking about?”
“Sorry. Got ahead of myself. Back to the beginning. A few years ago the NAACP got some of the brothers together to see if we could build a coalition that worked, instead of playing alone in our cribs. We try to get together every month. I’m not saying who all’s involved, but we’ve got dudes from the FBI, CIA, and at least t
wo guys who have major connections to the mob. No doubt we use them and they use us. A crooked, dangerous chess game but we’ve greased the wheels so long that sometimes we start bullshitting and forget where we are. Bottom line, you gotta take what I say with a grain of salt and a pound of pork belly. That said, this boy’s club is the only up close, inside view we get of law makers and breakers.”
“So our grassroots movement to improve the world is potted in CIA, FBI and mafia dirt?”
“Tervo, you weren’t born yesterday. Staying close to our enemies is a smart move. Believe me, no one is recruiting or evangelizing. These dicks and dons love to strut their stuff, drop names, top each other’s brags and trade their James Bond stories.”
“But why gaslighting? This mind-control game could take months, even years, before someone gets flipped. If they’re trying to mind fuck me, two hits more than twelve months apart won’t do it. Although it made me crazy for a few weeks, after a year it loses its hold.”
“Here’s the deal. LSD and other drugs, hallucinogens, are being used to fast forward gaslighting. So, instead of it taking months or years, it can go down faster.”
“And the purpose? Why would the CIA and FBI play with LSD?”
“We’ll get there. There’s a third piece, exploitation or snuff films. Films so raw, so violent, they knock morality on its ass. Once we had good guys and bad guys playing with mind control; now it’s hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys. What’s happening is so hardcore underground that only a handful of people know about it. If either of us opens our mouths, we’re toast. Look at me, Tervo. I want to make sure you know how fucking serious this is.”
If the Moon Had Willow Trees (Detroit Eight Series Book 1) Page 20