She sighed, sighed again, deeply; and she coughed a bit. The river at the foot of the bluff imparted a smell to the rain even where we were . . . As a rule, Momma is an uneasy sleeper: troubled by message-bearing dreams. I am a heavy sleeper.
I take myself seriously . . . Don’t laugh at me . . . People live like animals but I say no thank you to that. Well, keep your powder dry—this isn’t a real good time to be lords of the manor. People say I’m pretty but that doesn’t give meaning. I would of liked to be a scientist. Or a nurse. But my mother didn’t approve. To tell you the truth, I never liked school—and the school I went to wasn’t so good . . . St. Louis has more Jews but I haven’t the confidence at the moment. A lot can be said for a small town—people know you have brothers. I have an interesting life all-in-all but there’s no rest for the wicked; I always say you might as well get hung for a sheep as a goat but I don’t mean it. I would like to be a nun—there’s more than one way to skin a cat. Nuns are smart. I get along with Catholics. I think Protestants are very, very smart people—scary. What can I say? I used to think a woman was a fool not to become a streetwalker—respectability is a fine kettle offish; it doesn’t come cheap. You know, there’s not a lot I can say around here that isn’t a case of I’m-going-too-far.
(Chapter 3:) Momma’s nervous stylishness of assault was a curious amalgam of playing with daydreams and melodrama, not always playing, of course.
As a child, I assumed the whole story was known to someone in its entirety; and back, then, in 1932, I was hardly aware that the story was not over; and when I heard the soft darkness in the voices among the cones of orange light and in the fluttering rain-shadows at the as-yet-unknown further edge of the future, I did not at all know what that meant.
Lila in the rainlight says daringly, I’m an example of someone who wants her own way. She is a heroine for the moment of a disobedient species. The presence in her voice of actually unknown possibility in the moments marks it as her real voice—I mean it is not a toneless medium my memory uses to constrain what I imagine her saying; it is not a voice solely in my own head. If I hear her in such a way that I know there-is-no-knowing-what-she-will-do-next (her phrase), then I am listening to her and not merely paying attention to my ideas of her and of a woman’s speech—one must make allowances for a mother’s lying and careful speech and imagine the person behind the speech, the woman who talks to other grown-ups her own age.
The gray electrical hush of the mind listening, running, hears her among the sounds of the rain and the other voices, hears the sounds, the inflections of her voice, the riding-on-the-breath thing—hears meaning happening in her voice as it goes along. I don’t want the darkness of the future to be subtracted from her actual voice. But I need the comfort of knowing how it all comes out—I give up an omissive and needful and silly omniscience for the sake of presence but then I believe falsely that the story is over. Know-it-all, aide-de-camp Memory has to be nice to my mother or I won’t pay attention to it.
In some ways, even back then, I like Lila best . . . I hear her the most easily. She is on duty at her party.
One thing I’ll say for myself, if I have to toot my own horn, I know how to toot it—I know how to toot my horn—shaking her foot at the end of the prettily silk-stockinged leg crossed over a knee: the foot in the air moves with as-if-desperate female decision. The lunatic color of an actual voice, its music of intention—at a party—its meaning is gripping. Her voice, her face are not opinion or example; they are real; she looks amused in the watery light. One hears her breath and one’s own—the weird mental echo of wonder. I am looking at her—in this crazy light. The other mother I had is dead. Lila Silenowicz’s body and her dress, her face, her partyishly combed hair on a rainy day: I am hidden and listening and not fully seeing her from inside myself. Nothing here can be proved with finality. Her voice overrides the electrical hush of my mind: Sometimes I like to lie, she says. The watery and show-off musics of young Momma at a party. I’ll answer your question, Moira, I’ll say first that I’m aware that not everyone concerned, and ones who it is not their business, too, do not approve of what S.L. and I have done. So what I want to ask is, we’ve always paid our way, and we’ve done our share of good around here, believe me, and I will say it, although I shouldn’t, who gives us credit? Who gives us the credit we deserve? Who says our character’s above reproach in the ways that count? Who comes right out and says we’re good people? Ask yourself why don’t people applaud when a woman like me takes a sick child into her house.
A real echo fattens the watery music of her company voice.
It is Momma talking.
We went to six adoption agencies, religious, unreligious, Jewish, Gentile—we even went to the Catholic one. No one would give us a child; they didn’t approve of S.L.—don’t ask me why. Maybe they didn’t like me, but I had pull and they were afraid to tell me I wasn’t to their taste. I made scenes; they couldn’t stop me from getting a child—maybe they thought we had too much on the ball. We weren’t like a picture book, or maybe we were, the wrong picture book. I can joke now; I was upset then. Who knows what they thought? I’m not home enough. I’m not homely enough, if you ask me. S.L.’s too opinionated . . . he didn’t finish college. Who knows why people think the things they think? The world is full of crazy people and the worst are the bureaucrats—they want us all dead, if you ask me—well, they’re only human. People want everyone to be like them; they have to feel important—I don’t want to take that away from anybody. God knows, I always voted Democratic. But most people don’t care about people’s feelings; we just didn’t make a good impression. But, if you ask me, they were very small people who judged us. Jealous people. The rain hisses steadily. Who knows? Maybe they didn’t mean any harm, but they upset S.L., who blamed me. He always blames me—I’ve had more than my share of blame, believe me—and he left me because of those fools—those mean fools, I’ll be honest; the story’s out and around; he left me and Nonie; he went to live with some woman, some trashy woman; she’s left town now: it’s always that kind. I admit I took in a crippled child so S.L. would see I had a good heart. The child hasn’t turned out to be crippled but who’d have known that then? Give me credit. I’ll tell you the real truth, even if it does toot my own horn. I always wanted that child; I could tell he was unusual. People said it wasn’t right to ask his mother for him but she died. Listen, even then people said it wouldn’t work out, he’s a different blood, blood can be too different even in a little child; they thought I wouldn’t be a good parent for a child. I had Nonie; she was thirteen, and no one admired her; S.L. wouldn’t stay with me for her sake. We’d had two little boys who’d died, infants: they died—that does something to a man: I was good and scared: no one gave me credit, but I was trying. Maybe I should’ve stayed home more—who knows about fault? Casting the first stone is not my idea of a smart thing to do. I don’t look very far ahead, I don’t approve of worrying something to death before I do it; with me, it’s a case of strike while the iron is hot—I have to, or I won’t do anything. I’m decisive, I’m the executive type, I make up my mind and I move, I move at once or I won’t move at all. I live with the consequences: I know myself: I’m good at human nature.
Listen, what was I saying? I’ll tell you something—I expect the worst, but that doesn’t keep me from doing my best. I’d seen that child with his mother, I knew it would work with S.L. When S.L. came to see me—“Just once,” he said—to see the child I’d taken, come and see, I said; I knew what made him tick; a woman has to use her wits; the child was so sad and even looked a little like him and the child was barely alive—S.L. never had real charity, you know; he helped people but he would get tired of them. S.L. was selfish, but he needed to do charity, he was proud, and there I was, there it was. Listen: Wiley was very pretty but he was half-dead; he was a cripple, all marked up from a beating; the woman taking care of him was a drunk; his mother was dying; it isn’t a pretty story, but what is? I’m a realist.
You had to feel sorry for that child. And S.L. did. He stayed. I’m not a fool. I don’t think you can tell you did the right thing. I was very good-looking, and I like to get my own way what’s wrong with that? We bought this house; it cost too much money; all these houses are overpriced; people want to live on the bluff; that’s one thing, and these places have good workmanship, that’s another, but if it makes you happy, that’s something else, then something’s cheap, no matter what it costs: it’s a bargain if it makes life worthwhile; then it’s a big bargain, I’ll tell you: I know. I wanted a nursemaid and a nice house, I knew I wasn’t good with children—I can make myself cry if I go on about that. But I don’t like to cry, I’m not a crier, not many people ever will see me cry, no matter what happens to me. My mother pays for the nurse. We live very well but we owe a lot of money, we owe a lot of people: we’re typical that way. Anne Marie is wonderful to us; we’d be nowhere, we’d be nothing, without her. I know about some things. We have to put on the dog for Anne Marie, because she doesn’t want to work for pennypinchers, she doesn’t want to give her life away for a song—I don’t blame her. She’s a wonderful person, even if she does lack imagination. We do a lot of entertaining—some women won’t do that anymore; I do it every day; I run myself ragged. I’m the one who knows people. I had some wonderful opportunities while S.L. and I were separated: I’m probably a fool to say it, but some people think I’m an outstanding person. I’m not a piker.
Well, I’m not as vain as I sound. But I am vain. I have my little conceits. S.L.’s not a calculating person but don’t worry: I can be smart enough for two. Never underrate a woman like me. But the thing about being good-looking is that you can face things; it’s not easy to get people to keep investing in you if you’re a woman. I admit I can’t do things on my own: I’m not the type. S.L.’s a help. Anne Marie helps. Some days, I’m not afraid of anything. I have to encourage S.L. to spend money; you have to keep your nerve: if we look good, then it’s easier to make money. He can make good money if he keeps his head; I have a good business head, I’m a good wife for him—not if you’re talking about the—you know, the Ideal, but who’s ideal? I’m a good wife if you’re being realistic about what he can get on the open market. We’re good people; we’re good citizens—are you a well-wisher?—I know you are—if you’re a well-wisher, wish me luck . . . I’ve got my sights set high . . . That’s absolutely all I can say for the time being . . .
Something in me booms and bangs—a childish heart: it’s louder in a child’s chest than a grown-up’s heart is in a grown-up.
Momma says, Remember Eve in the Bible? Well, I’m Madame Trouble myself in my own little way. I’m trouble just like her, me too, if I do say so myself. I don’t like the Bible. I don’t think it’s good to women. I think women are better than men—I’m Mrs. What’s-his-name who stole the fire, but I did it, not him—Old Thingamajig—a vulture ate his gall bladder—well, I’ve got a little gall bladder trouble myself—Madame-Troublemaker-on-a-rock . . . I have big ideas; want to hear some big ideas? Want me to put on fresh lipstick and tell you a few of my big ideas? I intend to have a good time in my thirties like I had in my twenties . . . Don’t wish me luck if you’re one of the ones who disapproves of what I do: just don’t talk cheap about what I do . . . Money’s not MY life’s blood—I’ll always get by. I’m someone who gets things done. If you sneer at me, I’ll sneer right back at you; I’ll say ha-ha and then some—the world won’t come to an end if I say I’m optimistic now that we’ve stepped in . . . I’ll tell you something: I will never say to him, Watch out, you might kill somebody—I think that’s the wrong training for a Jew. She breathes. It is almost a ha-ha.
Momma. She has a breathtakingly illiterate, numbed look she has when she lyingly tells some of the truth: this other narrator has her own techniques and her own soul—runaway or not.
The Real World Addresses the Baby Boy
Back, ten, fifteen, twenty minutes—I had a faulty sense of time in 1932, to say the least—S.L., upstairs in my room, said, “Pretty world, isn’t it a pretty world?” S.L. said that. “Pretty world, pretty, pretty little boy: cat got your tongue?” And he lifted me out of my crib bed: “Look, it’s raining but we have company, nice people, they’ve come to see you. And look who’s here, you’re here.”
The child who lived on after his mother’s death is awake—and is in his father’s arms—against his father’s chest—in gray rain-shadowed air.
The popping noise of summer rain, the spatter, the spattered fire of voices downstairs (my memory has its own light; it has its own air inside the air of the room). A child big-eyed and mute, the watery ooze of rain, mirror-inset (a mirror is on the wall), sickly, unambitious child and a present moment and the seeming curtains around it that make itself. The warmth of Daddy’s flesh, his presence, and his voice: “Are you okay? Are you fine? Are you sitting on top of the world?”
The child’s smile is speech—is child speech . . . I was never innocent—except by comparison to others.
Social voices rattle, mumble—cry out. “Look at him, he has secrets—look in his eyes . . . aren’t those secrets, what I see there? I see secrets and pretty eyes . . . Tell me, little charmer, do you speaka-da-English?—smile once for yes, twice for no . . . Don’t give a kiss to anyone but me.”
All-in-all is a chaos as is an all. The all is a true abyss of nothingness, all-there-is bound into a single meaning is like a burial of me, too. I prefer an all that is an All-but-me, little bandit of Mother-loss, Father-blaming.
“Us philosophers,” Daddy said: “We don’t mind the rain . . . We like this a-here . . .” He seats me on the potty. . . . “We are here today . . . We’re here: we lived . . .”
My mother has not been the same person . . . The other one sometimes wore sensible shoes . . . Each mother has different laughs that depend on her moody purposes. The other one was steadier in appearance: she inhabits parts of me but I have no guarantee of further, or future, presence of that sort . . . A feeling comes from the flow of sounds from downstairs among the flow of moments up here. The sounds are like flying birds that draw shadows across my face.
The marshland downriver stank in the rain . . . I smell it . . . The wind in the waterscape tickles my skin—fine drops of water come through the mesh of the screen . . . Daddy jokes about the rain: “There’s a lot of water out there . . . all-in-all . . . A flood everywhere just like in the Bible . . . what do you think of that? And we’re safe in our ark—and it isn’t even Arkansas . . .”
A universal water . . . all-in-all . . .
What I think can’t matter to an All . . . Time itself can’t matter to it. You can’t set boundaries, even of interest, to an All . . . Or you can but then you are in a desert of an extended vocabulary of will—the force of fear . . . The mind is conceited. It cannot bear itself as an uninterrupted pulse of time for a while . . .
An All and A Nothingness are related in a grand way as in a legendary marriage of some famous king and a famous queen—the Immense is without kinship—only cunningly—only surrenderingly can it come near us . . .
The river was green that day . . . What day? The green of not-an-example-of-itself over a thousand days but gray and lurid with the rainstorm, gray and dateless. We can see it from the hall, through a bedroom, out a bedroom window.
Perhaps to be invented and misremembered is to be timeless and fine—but I believe otherwise . . . Here is the blue and sagging light from the stained glass window on the landing of the stairs, Daddy’s noisy descent of the confusion that stairs are to me still . . . It is, as I said, after a nap, and the wet, frail light, and the mind hunting for a sense of things like an immense, scuttering, obstinate spider but a pale one, an ill-informed one—attempting to know the actuality—well, it’s 1932 but I didn’t know that then either—actually, I knew some things clearly . . . I already clearly knew that pain existed.
Downstairs. The party . . . The rooms: orange light, electric light, cones of orange light, some cone
s going up, some going down . . . But it is daytime.
“Hello. Hello.”
“Isn’t he adorable?”
In that separate air, the sounds are painted whispers, intricately intimate although they come from far away—downstairs—at a great distance from me: they are almost like a fiction. I am independent from the immediacy of pressure they have when they are real, in their intentions—in their being beyond me . . .
I am not entirely well yet . . . I half like being here. I see out the window over the flesh (of Dad’s shoulder) the rain outside strike a cobblestoned street. Puddles, pocked and echoing . . . In them dark water leaps up, fish-mouth-like, and scares me slightly—again in mistaken immediacy.
“Hello, hello, hello. I’ll just sit here with my precious freight.”
Someone, a woman, says, “Oh . . . oh . . . oh . . . He is precious. He is adorable.”
S.L. in tones like rocks stirred by hand in a partly water-filled porcelain basin says, “The rain has the right idea: it falls on the adorable and the not-so-adorable alike . . .”
The Runaway Soul Page 9