Hollywood and Maine

by Allison Whittenberg

  Too bad there was no call for it. Guys never faint in movies.

  seventeen

  Not having Raymond to receive calls from left my evenings free. I read more of The Pearl. I had gotten to the point where the main character, Kino, found the gigantic pearl, and he was happy that finally he’d be financially set. However, his wife was against the oversized jewel. She claimed that it was haunted, so he bopped her one. I mean, he really let her have it. At that point, I stopped reading in sequence and flipped ahead to the later parts of the book.

  Kino’s wife was in it till the end, so somehow they patched things up. What kind of message is that? I was completely appalled that Mr. Mand would assign such an anti-women’s lib book. This was 1976, after all.

  I hated Kino and vowed he’d never get me back on his bandwagon. I wished the author had shown him as a rat from the beginning, not as a caring husband. I felt tricked and cheated and decided that even though Steinbeck was sympathetic to the indigenous population of Mexico, he’d lost me as a fan.

  As luck would have it, in class the next day, almost as soon as my behind hit the seat, the teacher called on me.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Mand, I haven’t gotten that far in the book,” I confessed.

  A stunned look swept over his face.

  Behind me, I heard the class stir. What hypocrites! For years, I’d witnessed my classmates scribbling down notes after I spoke. Lots of people came to class without doing the assignment; I would guess the majority of them didn’t. They sat back very comfortably. Daddy always said many hands make light work, so it was ironic that on the one day I refused to be the Rosa Parks of my English class, this one time that I came to school unprepared, the whole world collapsed.

  Raymond didn’t let his end drop, and he bantered on about poor Kino, the pearl fisherman, and how the capitalist system changed him into a monster.

  “I’m not convinced that communism is such a bad idea,” Mr. Mand mused aloud.

  I wasn’t sure Mr. Mand was red, but he was at the very least pink, and I wasn’t referring to his peaches-and-cream complexion. That snapped me back into things. Communism wasn’t so bad? Around the world, most recently in Cambodia, millions had died under its banner.

  “Please try to finish the fourth chapter,” Mr. Mand instructed. He seemed to look directly at me.

  I nodded uneasily and looked over at Raymond.

  The buzzer buzzed.

  Raymond said this dig before walking out: “I think Demetrius is rubbing off on you.”

  eighteen

  That did it. What a creep, I thought. I hate when people jump to conclusions. I was mad practically the whole day, but then at school’s dismissal, my heart melted and my anger faded.

  It used to be that he would catch up with me after school, but now there was no wide grin to greet me. There was nothing. What’s that saying about never missing water until the well is dry? That afternoon, I figured I might as well give Raymond a chance to apologize to me. I called and called. It rang and rang. Too bad his household was so tiny. If only he’d had meddling siblings, I would have cracked through a lot easier.

  I did better after his folks came home. “Hi, Mr. Newell. Is Raymond there?” I asked, and didn’t notice that I was clutching the receiver in both hands.

  “He just stepped into the shower, Charmaine.”

  That’s bull, I thought, but I’d never say that to Mr. Newell. Who takes a shower at six-thirty in the evening? “Well, thank you. If you could just leave the message. ‘Maine called. Call her back.’ You know, when he can.”

  “Of course, Charmaine.”

  And of course, I didn’t hear from him that evening.

  When I went downstairs, I found out that everything had been taken over by Uncle E. He’d been working a lot, and I’d been going to sleep earlier, not catching his late show.

  Uncle E quarterbacked and kept the group from straying by singing lead and keeping the melody on his guitar. One of Daddy’s pinochle friends had a washboard. (I bet he took it from his wife’s laundry basket.) However he learned such a skill, he was on beat. Leo and Tracy John shared bongo duty. Daddy breathed in and out of a harmonica. Those two thick-necked guys from the furniture store made the best of simple instruments; they played the spoons.

  Oh, my God, I thought, this is what people were forced to do before there was TV. There they were in the living room; I wouldn’t get to see a show for the rest of the night.

  Another one of Daddy’s friends, who always wore a kofi, remarkably kept it straight and square on his head as he played bass. And who knew Daddy knew someone who played the violin—sorry, the fiddle? (Why do fiddlers have to stamp their feet when they play?)

  I was trying to decipher their song but couldn’t. It sounded country, quite a feat because as far as I knew, the Upshaw side of the family hadn’t worked on a farm since 1865. Daddy always talked about “in the country,” despite the fact that he grew up in West Philly, a place not known for its wide-open spaces. I could conceive of this if it were from Ma’s people from way down in Alabama. It would be understandable if they would wax about lean stalks of field cane.

  They had a real hoedown going on, singing lines like “All right now” and “Hey, hey” and “Put your hands together” and “That’s all right” and “Yeah” and “Uh-huh” and just plain “Sing it.”

  All these ad-libs hyped up and punctuated the song. At the end, or should I say just when I thought it was over, someone yelled, “One more time!”

  A voice inside me screamed Get out of there, Maine, before someone hands you a tambourine!

  nineteen

  Leo had dance and Tracy John was over at Basil’s and Ma had gone to the fruit truck for some bananas (we were having pudding that night). It was now or never. I stole up to the attic in the hopes of finding out just who Uncle E was once and for all.

  I wanted to find something incriminating to finally rip the wool off my family’s eyes. This was the man who got caught with a nickel bag, after all.

  Fell in with the wrong crowd, my heinie. I took the steps two at a time.

  Sure he’d make out like he was working so hard moving furniture, and make like he was so gentle, with his guitar and everything, but I knew.… I knew there was something up here, a stash of some kind of stolen items or drugs. (Would I even know what angel dust looks like? Did it look like regular dust?) Or a roach clip? (Whatever did that look like?) As Charmaine Upshaw, P.I., I hoped that if I found a gun, it would have a safety on it, though I didn’t know what that switch looked like either. I had to find some vice.

  Be fearless, I kept telling myself, though I was tortured by the thought that I might prick myself with a junkie’s needle, then get some sort of infection and wake up later that night with a raging fever. Curiosity kills, indeed.

  In my detective work, I left no article of underwear unturned. But I didn’t find any illicit material, just cough drops (got to keep that voice smooth).

  At last I uncovered something, a black book. I imagined a listing of crimes. I flipped the book over and was disappointed. All that damn digging and all I found was a Holy Bible.

  I leafed through the pages and a few letters eased out. I picked one up:

  Dear Baby Sis:

  Or should I say, “Momma.” Congratulations! This is wonderful news! It’s the best news in the world. You will be a great mother, and you will have a beautiful little girl or handsome boy or both—remember Pop was a twin. Something tells me that you will have a girl, though; I can just feel it through the miles. Whichever, she or he will be a fine upstanding person that everyone will be proud of, just like you. Everybody makes mistakes—I understand that better than most. You did the right thing; you got yourself free. You didn’t wait for the red light to flash over and over; you left. He’s a very, very sick man, and I’m so proud of you for wriggling free before you really got hurt. He reminds me of some of the folks in here. All ego and as fragile as an egg. They never go for a fair fight; they like sneak a
ttacks. But that’s all behind you now, Karyn. I could go on and say, “Keep your head up,” but you always land on your feet. You’ll be a nurse soon, and you have a host of friends, and I suspect it won’t be long before you find some other guy who loves and cares for you and your baby. As you know, we’re not all bad. I’ll close as always, saying I wish I could be there to help. I know that’s what I always say, but time is so weird here. Some days go on forever and other days fly by. Often it seems like you and Peyton and Otis and Ma and Pop are so close. I guess that’s what comes from growing up with people—even when you’re gone from sight, you’re never gone from my mind or heart. Don’t spend one second worrying about me, Karyn. You got out of your prison, one day I’ll have the sense to get out of mine.

  All my love to you and my soon–to–be–born niece or nephew,

  Yours, Escalus

  Though there were other letters, I read this one repeatedly. As I did, it was like the planet shifted an inch or two. It was all so clear to me now. Uncle E didn’t have anything up his sleeves; he simply missed his family and wanted to see us again.

  How much neater things would have been if I’d found a boogeyman. Wouldn’t it be easier if Uncle E was un-reformed and packing or dealing?

  Like smoke up a chimney, my feelings of disdain dissipated. But what would replace them?

  So this was the real Escalus Upshaw: a guitar in the corner, slacks in the bottom drawer, and on top, underwear where my underwear used to be and letters to his little sister.

  There was no monster.

  “Charmaine,” a voice downstairs called. I quickly put everything back where it was.

  I tore down two flights and said, “Hi, Ma, just back from the fruit stand?” I sounded abnormal, even for me.

  Ma popped me an odd look, but I was used to that.

  Later, when Uncle E got home, I cracked a grin his way as we passed each other in the hall. He returned the expression, but I wasn’t sure he noticed the difference in me.

  What I wanted to say was What’s a grand between family members? but those were words I knew I’d never be able to utter. As tall as I was, I still wasn’t big enough.

  twenty

  The sky was white-gray, and I wondered when spring would get here. I hoped it wouldn’t rain on Tracy John’s first baseball game. Their uniforms were blue and yellow and baggy like the old-fashioned players’ from the twenties.

  During the warm-up, the team members tossed the ball around while the stands filled.

  When I turned to Ma to make a comment, I saw she was dabbing her eyes.

  “Ma, don’t,” I warned.

  The tears came down harder.

  “Don’t, Ma.”

  She fished in her purse for a new tissue.

  “Ma, everyone is looking at us.”

  She cried, “It seems like only yesterday.”

  “What seems like only yesterday?”

  “He was so young.”

  I did a double take at Tracy John and then a triple take at Ma. “He looks the same age he did yesterday.”

  “He’s growing up right before us” was all she was able to get out before more trickles came from her eyes.

  Next thing I knew, Tracy John came off the field. “What’s wrong, Auntie?” he asked.

  She touched his face lightly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  I glanced about us. Before, I was just talking, but now I could tell—people were staring.

  Basil waved at Tracy John, and the coach blew his whistle for him to return to the field.

  Just then, Uncle E strolled up.

  “Uncle E, you made it!” Tracy John cheered.

  Uncle E opened up his arms and gave his nephew a big hug. “I promised you I would. Now go out there and do your stuff.”

  Tracy John stormed the field. After the game was under way, Uncle E placed his hand on Ma’s knee.

  “Lela Mae, you got to let him go,” he told my mother. “I know it’s not easy, but you got to let him go.”

  Suddenly, Ma managed to collect herself.

  Even without his magic guitar, Uncle E had a magic quality.

  As we watched the game, it occurred to me that my little cousin wasn’t getting old. Who was Ma kidding? Everyone was young that day.

  A fly ball was hit out in center field, and Tracy John got right underneath it, bracing it with the other hand so it wouldn’t fall.

  There was a chant of “Go, Dardon, go.” People had their arms up, pumping hard. Tracy John took his glove off and his friends high-fived each other.

  Uncle E, Ma, and I stood up and clapped. Uncle E leaned into me and said, “He’s following right in his mother’s footsteps. You know, her team went all the way to the state championship.”

  “Really?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  This time we shared a real smile. He did have a nice smile. It was like Daddy’s, wide—it lifted his whole face.

  In the fifth inning, Tracy John got a base hit, but there were already two outs and the next player on his team fouled.

  Game over, as this was Little League and we were cheated out of a few innings.

  “My mommy made it all the way to the finals?” Tracy John asked. He still had his loose-hanging uniform on when he came to the table.

  “We saw it with our own eyes,” Uncle E told us over dinner.

  “Those West Philly girls were playing some ball that day,” Daddy said. “Did you tell him the best part?”

  “No, you tell him, Peyton,” Uncle E told Daddy.

  “You go on and say it,” Daddy said.

  “Will somebody tell me!” Tracy John asked.

  “Well, I nearly fell out the stands when I saw Karyn hit that home run,” Uncle E said.

  “Get out!” Tracy John exclaimed as if he’d just received the shock of his life.

  “Uppercase E is serious, Tracy John,” Daddy said.

  “Was it a girl home run or a regular one?” my cousin asked.

  I smiled. Auntie Karyn would be tickled by her son’s question.

  Uncle E went on to explain that it was by no means a “girl home run,” it was a legit one. It had nothing to do with anyone being afraid to run for the ball; the ball actually traveled over the fence.

  Tracy John’s eyes sparkled when he heard that.

  “I remember it like it was yesterday. She swung and did her usual hustle, but by the time she left first, she could tell she had it, and she broke into what they call the second-base trot.”

  I could imagine the great amphitheater of the grandstand. The crowd buzzing while the vendors hawked their wares. Everyone going wild with excitement. All shouting our family name—“Upshaw! Upshaw! Upshaw!”

  “I’ve seen that,” Leo said. “That’s what Hank Aaron does. Once he knows he has it, he jogs and waves till he gets back home.”

  “She did that?” Tracy John turned to Daddy and Uncle E.

  “You better believe it,” Uncle E said.

  twenty-one

  I still had Raymond’s book, which gave me hope. Not so much about finding my way to the silver screen, but I held on to the aspiration that Raymond would one day break down and ask for his book back. As one day tripped into another, it dawned on me that that time might not be soon. It might be years from now, way in the future, like 1993 or something. Someday, he’d long for the way he kissed my palm. He’d pine for me.

  In the meantime, I passed some time going through the curious case of Peg Entwistle. Who, you ask? Exactly. In the 1930s, she committed suicide by leaping from the Hollywood sign. The book said she had gotten some work, but only small parts. Since she couldn’t be “somebody,” she chose to be nobody. Imagine the determination that took. I bet if she’d hung around a little longer, she could have channeled that ambition and become an astronaut.

  Instead she chose to jump from the H. And why not jump off one of the Ls? Why not the Y? I’d never studied the topic of suicide, but from my layman’s knowledge, I surmised that people don’t really want to ki
ll themselves. They just want to be that H-word—happy. In symbolism, everything can be explained as a front for something else. But since the meaning of this woman’s act was so facile, I had other questions:

  First, how did this untrained woman get all the way up there? Did she have scaling apparatus or hiking boots? Did she bring a ladder?

  Second, didn’t she attract attention? Where was security? And if there were no night watchmen guarding this world-famous landmark, whose bright idea was that?

  Third, what was she wearing during this, her final act? I knew it didn’t get that cold in California, but I would think she’d at least have had a jacket draped about her shoulders. Underneath, I bet she had one of those beaded evening gowns. Maybe it was mauve colored, or a softer shade. Was it strapless? Or, my favorite, one-shouldered?

  The real tragedy was that she wasn’t famous for the why of her suicide, but for the how. As far as suicidal people go, I guess, I don’t empathize either way. I consider all the people in hospitals fighting off diseases, and I dwell on all the starving children in the world, but most of all I think of beautiful, wonderful Auntie Karyn. Not only was she an aunt but she was a mother, sister, daughter, friend, nurse, honor student, award-winning essayist, community activist, and (as I’d learned as of late) champion softball player. She would have been twenty-seven now, twenty-eight on June 12 if she hadn’t been taken. And I got so angry at Peg Entwistle. I was as angry at her as I was at that imaginary Kino for hitting his imaginary wife.

  Tearing up, I smeared the ink that told of Entwistle. Anyone looking at the book after me would think her story moved me that much.

  The moon hung between two heavy clouds. I wanted to stay up late. All night if I had to, just to get something else but dislike in my brain.

  Then the phone rang, and I waited suspended in air, as I thought, Let it be for me.

  “Maine, it’s for you,” Leo told me.