And while we were having our soup, the roles got reversed. I made my confession and he forgave me.
I told him how I’d swindled mother that time at Western Union and how I must have made her suffer by doublecrossing her and not even writing to explain.
Mr. Kaminski was as brilliant in my behalf as I had been in his. He said he’d learned something from the Menninger people that might be of interest to me. They told him he wouldn’t be allowed to visit his daughter for a few weeks because she needed, “for her mental health,” an experience of separation from him. Parents and their young need such periods, he said. And perhaps cutting myself off from my mother for a while, cruel or not, was the healthiest thing I could have done.
Mr. Kaminski went on talking, maybe for a full five minutes, but I didn’t hear much of what he said because my head tripped out on him.
Something had touched off my fantasy button. I started imagining things: Instead of going directly to New York, I drive on to Detroit with Mr. K. and check out the Belle Woods scene. My mind played out six or seven full-blown confronting-mother movies. In one of them, she’s icy-cold and gives me the silent treatment. In another, she’s super-civil and deftly hides her hurt to make damn sure I see it. In still another, she’s genuinely loving and dear and everything’s wonderful between us. In version #4, she just lets herself go and beats the shit out of me. Etc.
But I knew for certain the real meeting would be nothing like any of these. You can never ever guess how a thing is going to be. You just have to go and see.
Mr. Kaminski was delighted. Even though he himself was going to Dearborn, he offered to drive me all the way to Belle Woods, which would be roughly three million miles out of his darling sweet, generous way. Naturally I couldn’t let him do it. The poor man looked tired enough to begin with, but by the time we got to the Ambassador Bridge, crossing over from Windsor, it was rush hour, the air was pure carbon monoxide, and I had flashes of Mr. K. having a full-fledged coronary right there in the front seat. So I told him I had scads of taxi money and could manage beautifully. Which wasn’t strictly accurate. But I did have bus fare.
When we said good-bye, his eyes got wet. So I told him I’d always remember him. And it’s true of course. I’ll always remember Mr. Kaminski.
Detroit had some snow, too. Lots of it. The weather wasn’t quite cold enough to keep it together, so the half-mile walk from the bus stop to home was pure slushville.
The sky was heavy as lead. No, it wasn’t. It was dusky silver and quite beautiful. But it felt heavy as lead. And weird, too. Nothing, virtually nothing, looked the way it was supposed to. Everything had changed in sneaky surrealistic little ways that you weren’t supposed to notice. The streets had gotten wider. Houses had changed shape. And color. And most mind-blowing of all, everything was real. I suppose I’d come to feel in the two months away (is that all?) that Belle Woods was just a remembered place, something that had dissolved along with my childhood. What a wild conceit! To be surprised that the old neighborhood had survived my departure from it!
Finally, trudging along through the slush, I rounded the bend where Warrington Drive meets Fisher Circle, and at that point I knew I’d arrived. I was a hundred yards from whatchacallit. The word, I believe, is home.
The house wasn’t visible yet, but there was that preposterous stone arch, designed, I suppose, to make you think you were about to approach the Taj Mahal. I walked over and leaned on the hideous thing and looked up the driveway to the house.
Putty-colored stucco with black shutters. Just as big and handsome and chic and grim and grotesque as ever. And the grounds were like a sad, deserted park. Lots of gorgeous soft blue evergreens and vast snow-covered lawns. No gangs of screaming children. No dogshit, no litter, no old ladies with lumpy legs crowding together on benches. No homeless blacks sleeping on newspaper pillows. No fuck-yous scrawled on the pavement in chalk. Nothing had changed at all, it was just as useless as ever, a lovely, haunted wasteland presided over by Mother.
For a few minutes I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to go through with it. In fact I actually heard myself saying so out loud. “I can’t, I can’t, I simply can’t do it.”
And then, whoops! Who can’t do it?
I like myself, remember? I am beautiful. I can do anything that needs doing. I’m the girl that brought tears to Mr. Kaminski’s eyes when he said good-bye. I have beloved families all over North America. I have a love-cross around my neck. This morning I was nourished by oatmeal cooked by a pioneer. I have friends to call up and think about and remember. And powerful Zaps coming at me all the time. John says if I ever forget who I am, I should call him up. Well, I don’t have to. I remember me well. I’m one of the faces of God, that’s who I am. I’m always futzing around with what to call myself, but it’s very simple, really. I’m Gloria God. And now it’s time to go ring the fucking bell.
Thus, with my motor all nicely revved up, I walked up the driveway, trying not to guess what would happen next. And it’s just as well, because I couldn’t have, not in a thousand years.
Maude Dangerfield opened the door. That meant there was a crisis in the house. How did I know? Very simple. She wouldn’t be caught dead in a place where there wasn’t one. (Scorpio, moon in Aries, I forget what rising.)
Mother, who has this fantastic faculty of turning friends into servants and making them like it, acquired Maude back in the days when they were both secretaries at Random Hogan Random and Hodge. But I don’t think they got really thick until I turned up—in the form of a troublemaking little foetus. My hunch is that she tried to get Mother to abort me, but I have no real evidence. Also, I could be wrong about this. Let’s face it, I’m here. But Maude is so efficient and sensible that she sometimes gives me the chills. Her natural habitat is funeral parlors (death really turns her on), but she can also be found in courtrooms, hospital corridors, and in homes where tragedy has struck. Her specialties are whispering, tiptoeing, administering dope and liquor, keeping her cool, knowing things nobody else knows, and seizing telephones on the first ring. I’m not putting her down for all these talents either. She’s a fantastic woman. When I was small, she was kinder to me than anyone I can remember. And I suppose if I ever got busted or fell out of an airplane or something, I’d be really glad to have a Maude Dangerfield around to help get the pieces together.
What else do I know about her? She’s 50, maybe 55, married but has no kids, lives in Palmer Woods, and has a husband who bores her so radically she gasps every time his name comes up. He’s an executive at Detroit Edison, so of course he never gets busted or falls out of airplanes or anything, and I guess that’s pretty rough on poor Maude.
So: There she is standing at the door in a flesh-colored jersey suit looking like a plucked grouse, with pearls.
“Well, my God in heaven, I do not believe this,” she said. Her voice is a flat, utterly surpriseless drone. I suspect she knows this and cultivates it. It’s the style she’s taken on for her part in the movie.
She looks me over thoroughly, from muddy boots to unbrushed hair, clocking every detail. Then she purses her lips, smiling an eyes-only smile, and nods. “I told Irene she’d be hearing from you one of these days. Now get in here and take off those wet clothes. And whatever you do, don’t make a sound.”
“What’s happening?” I sat on a bench in the foyer and pulled off my boots.
“What’s happening, she asks. Nothing, girl, nothing at all. Oh, God. The irony. This is going to be really cute to handle.”
“What is? Where’s Mother?”
“Oh, she’s fine. Irene is just fine. Everything is under control. Will you be here long? What are your plans? But never mind now, I’ve got to think what to do.”
“About what?”
“About you. You’re not supposed to be here. Nobody is. Irene’s in hiding. She’s had an operation, among other things, but it was nothing dreadful, so don’t panic. She just doesn’t want anyone to see her, I mean visit her, for a while. It’s b
een ten days and somehow I’ve managed not to murder her in cold blood, isn’t that amazing? No, it’s not amazing at all, I love her to pieces and she’s been good as pie. Are you confused? So am I. Listen, Gloria, you and I were always good buddies, weren’t we? I think I’d better take you into my confidence. Promise not to betray me?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Because I’m not sure how much of this she’d be telling you herself, so what I’m actually doing is taking one hell of a liberty. Are you ready, or do you want to get comfortable? I’m having a teensy in the sun room, what about you, will you join me? No, you won’t. You prefer marijuana. I know all about it. Would you like to smoke some now?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Because I’m not opposed to it. I’ve smoked it myself once or twice, it doesn’t do a thing for me, but you go ahead and light up. She’ll never be able to smell it up there. Oh, but I don’t know about her. Irene’s got an uncanny nose. Better wait’ll we get into the sun room with the door closed. I’ve got a gas log burning in there and it’s terribly cheerful. How are you anyway? You haven’t said a word.”
I’d forgotten how pretty the sun room was, with its enormous windows opening on the woods, and several great fat ferns hanging from the rafters. Maude and I sat facing each other on bright yellow fireside chairs. Her cocktail was on the table between us, and just as she reached for it, a bell started ringing. It wasn’t the phone and it wasn’t the door.
“That’s your mother. I brought her a bell last week. What a blunder. Excuse me, would you, I think I’ll run up and smash it.” On her way out of the room she said, “I assure you this won’t take long. I’ll be back in one minute. For godsake, don’t make any noise. I’m not telling her you’re here, do you understand? Not yet!”
One minute later she returned. “The television set was doing its little horizontal flip-flip-flip madness, but everything’s peachy again. Why aren’t you smoking your marijuana, sweetie?”
“I don’t have any.”
“Well, then for godsake have some brandy.”
“No, thanks.”
“No thanks in your own house? Don’t be silly! Do I have to tell you to make yourself at home?”
I said, “No, but you said she’d had an operation, and I’d like to know—I mean, what was it?”
“Officially? A tumor. In cold fact? She’s had her face lifted.”
“Face lifted! You’re kidding!”
“No I’m not kidding and I wish I were. Because we’re none too certain how pleased we are with the results. The doctor told her not to even look for a month. It’s been ten days and all she does is stare at the mirror and cry. I said, Irene, I’m sure the operation would be a dandy success if you’d just please refrain from crying yourself all out of shape. But she doesn’t listen. Yesterday I took the mirrors away from her and made her promise faithfully not to look for at least another week. That lasted three hours. I’m going to be frank with you, Gloria, she’s driving me up the wall. If I didn’t have my little six-o’clock Manhattan, I’d be in a rest home by now. I’m not angry with her, I’m really not. She’s been through absolute hell. As you can well imagine. After all, she had no warning whatever, not even a glimmer of suspicion, nothing. And whoppo, he’s gone, like greased lightning.”
“Who?”
“Your father, that’s who! Oh, but of course you couldn’t have known that. You haven’t been in touch at all, have you, you naughty thing. Don’t you know how to write a postcard? Oh, now don’t be angry, I’m not chastising you. But you see, things have been happening. Glamour boy has flown the coop. Did you know he had a double life? Does that shock you? What am I saying? Of course it doesn’t, nothing shocks you kids. And more power to you, I’m right behind you, every inch. Yes, a double life, sweetie, and quite an extensive one. I’m not betraying anything either, because I know you can handle a confidence just beautifully. Besides, he’s your mother’s husband and you have every right. Listen, do you want to hear the rest? The woman is only twenty-nine, and what’s he, fifty? Which is all right, of course, May and September can be perfectly beautiful. But she’s very lower class. I mean very-very. And that could be all right, too, I suppose, but my God, she looks like something the cat dragged in and she has three children. Oh! Did I mention she’s Puerto Rican? Well, she is. And this, in my opinion, is what’s killing Irene. Do you know what she says? She says Fred must have had some sort of sexual perversion he’d been hiding from her all these years. Isn’t that touching? She’s trying to justify things, you see. It’s sweet, actually. Do you know, Gloria, I’ve always found your mother very appealing. It’s true, I have. That’s probably why I haven’t murdered her. She’s just a little bitty girl, that’s all she is. She’s about eight, I’d say. Maybe nine. And innocent? She wouldn’t know life if it hit her in the face—and of course that’s precisely where it’s been hitting her! Oh, God, did you think I was making a pun? Because of the operation? Well, I’m not. I wouldn’t joke about that. I couldn’t. When something breaks my heart, I can’t make jokes about it. And listen, now that we’re talking about it, I may as well lay it on the line. A face lift is major surgery. She’s got to be quiet and completely non-active. Any sudden movement could cause the stitches to pull and if that happens, the whole thing goes flump. Also there’s some swelling and she’s sort of black and blue. Or was. Now it’s sort of green and yellow. And of course the bandages are still on, so naturally she isn’t anxious to be seen. In fact, she made me swear on my eyes I wouldn’t let a living soul come near her. And here you are. Quel dilemma. Any ideas?”
I didn’t have any ideas about anything. I was too busy taking it all in.
I said, “Maude, please, what did she go and have her face lifted for? It didn’t need it, did it?”
“No, not at all, she was pretty as a picture. Maybe a few crow’s feet, but what’s that?”
“Well then, why?”
“Very simple. Fred takes off with a woman of twenty-nine. So the next day she’s looking up plastic surgeons. Perfect menopausal logic, don’t you think?”
I didn’t answer. And silence makes Maude uncomfortable.
“What’s the matter?” she said.
“Nothing. I’m just thinking about it all. You said this woman is Puerto Rican?”
“Or Negro. I’m not sure which. The name is Spanish but she’s involved in Black Power, so take your pick.”
“Black Power! Wow! Where did he meet her?”
“At the office. She worked in the mail room, been there for months apparently and Fred didn’t even know her. Oh, he might’ve seen her at the water cooler, you know, just a face. And then somehow the word started going around that she was involved with Black Power and next thing you know there’s a bomb threat coming in over the switchboard. Isn’t this frightening? Anyway, this woman’s immediately under suspicion. But nobody’s got anything on her. So Fred takes her to lunch. You know—espionage. Lord knows what happened from there. I suppose he asked a few questions and she must have come up with some terribly beguiling answers, wouldn’t you say?”
“And he’s moved in with her?”
“Isn’t it amazing? Fred Random! I didn’t know he had it in him. Listen, I’m thawing some beef stroganoff. Why don’t I go out there and double it up with a little rice or something. You must be famished.”
“No! I couldn’t eat.”
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“My stomach. It’s upside down.” I stood up. “Maude, Maude, listen. I’m leaving.”
“Right this minute?”
“All I need is some dry stockings. I’ve got some in my bag.”
“Where will you go?”
“Back to New York.”
“Oh, Lord Jesus, what a situation!”
I walked over to the door and opened it just in time to see Mother scurrying through the front hall toward the stairs. It was like a scene from some spooky movie. Her head was all bandaged, except for some hair showing in the back,
and she was wearing a gray chiffon wrapper that trailed behind her as she ran.
It was obvious she’d been listening at the door, and when I’d said I was leaving, she must have decided to split. I guess I spoiled her getaway by opening the door too soon.
As she started up the stairs she glanced over her shoulder. We saw each other, and there was nothing to be done about it. What could I do? Become invisible?
She let out a little cry and kept running—right up the inside of her wrapper. And fell.
The fall wasn’t violent. She’d reached out with her arms to break it, and it was obvious she hadn’t been physically hurt. But of course Maude went right into action just the same. She tried to push past me, but I didn’t let her. I said, “Maude, could you leave us alone?” And amazingly enough, she did.
Even though Mother hadn’t injured herself, I knew there was something important about the fall. I knew it because she didn’t get up. She didn’t even try to. She just lay there on the stairs in a shapeless little heap, weeping gently. That’s what wrecked me, the gentleness of it. She wasn’t at all hysterical. Just defeated.
I went up and sat next to her, just close enough for her to know I was there. I was sort of afraid of crowding her, and yet I had the feeling she was going through something pretty heavy and could use some company. After a minute she stopped crying and one of her hands moved toward me. So I took it and held it. Then she cried some more, but not hard. Just soft. Soft and easy. It was as if the fall had caused some tiny leak way inside and now all the sadness of her life was flowing out of her as soft as breath. It must have been a fantastic relief for her. And I was enjoying it, too. It was really nice, being there with her like that. I think it was the first time she’d ever let me love her.
Season of the Witch Page 31