by Lois Walden
She stops. ‘He told me that I must never grow old; stay young forever. It made me sad.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘What else?’ I walk
‘Asked me to forgive my father? Said he couldn’t help himself.’
‘What’d he mean?’
‘I guess he meant the bimbo.’ She doesn’t move.
‘You don’t know that for sure. He might have been talking about something else altogether.’
‘I doubt it.’ We walk due east, down a little country road that leads us to a bigger country road, that leads us to the biggest country road of all. An oversized dump truck rumbles by at breakneck speed. It kicks up a life-load of dust. I cough. Molly stops in her tracks. She has something on her mind. ‘Do you love what you do?’
‘I do. I love a lot of things, even what I don’t do.’ I laugh.
‘Do you make a living being a writer?’
‘Sometimes yes, sometimes no.’
‘Is that why you teach?’
‘No. I have to teach because … I just have to teach. And … I have to write. I don’t know why.’
‘Are you successful?’
‘Did you stay in the room?’
‘Yeah.’ She laughs.
‘Did you discover someplace special?’ She nods yes. ‘Do you want to go back there?’ She nods yes again … ‘Knowing that it may never be the same, that place, are you absolutely sure that you want to go there again?!’
‘Oh yes.’
‘I am very successful.’
‘Because of me?’ She doesn’t understand.
‘You got it.’ Such sweetness. Mustn’t say too much. Have to maintain some sense of grown-up rank here. We cannot be friends. Maybe we can? What if I’m trying to get to her mother through her? Keep it on the creative level. Maybe I can help her? I don’t want to impose in any way. Man oh man would I love to be her age again … It is a terrible age. Poor baby. Maggie has her hands full.
‘Are you married?’
‘I am not married. Enough on that subject. I want to get back to you. I want you to go deeper into that exercise. Tonight, at home, go back to the scene with your grandfather. Talk to him. Listen to what he has to say. Put it on paper. Ask him what he meant about forgiving your father. Would you do that for me?’
‘I guess. If I have time. I’m having dinner with my father tonight.’
‘If you have the time.’ We turn around. The garbage truck rumbles by us one more time.
‘I hate him.’
‘Your father?’ She nods a definitive teenage yes. ‘I know that one. I’ve hated my father for years.’ Too personal.
‘Is he still alive?’
‘He is. He’s terminally ill.’
‘Do you ever talk to him about how it feels?’
‘No. It’s a long story.’ Stay under that radar of hers.
‘That’s terrible. Maybe you should speak to him while you still can.’
‘Maybe.’
‘I speak to my dad, even if I do hate him.’
‘That’s a good idea.’ Isn’t it about time that I forgave the old man?
‘That’s a good girl.’
‘Even if you hate someone, it’s a good idea to talk it out. That’s what my mom says.’
‘I agree totally.’
‘Me too.’
‘You’re very smart, Molly Malone.’
‘You think so?’ She lights up from ear to ear.
‘I do.’
‘Did you ever want to be somebody else?’ she asks.
I wonder who she wants to be. ‘Yes.’
‘Who did you want to be?’
‘Mrs Crouse, third grade, she was the best teacher I ever had. I worshipped her.’ More moist dreams about her … Always been horny. ‘How ’bout you?’
‘I dunno. You’re pretty different, maybe you.’
‘Thank you.’ I am touched.
We say goodbye and return to our respective school rooms; I to a rowdy history class; she to a quiet study hall. I am enriched from our walk. I hope that she is enlivened from it.
Before history class, I remember once I had asked my mother, in a childhood conversation, if there was anyone in the world she could be, who would it be?
‘You, honey. You.’ She wanted to be me.
I teach the next two classes with a certain unfamiliar ease. Willwrite’s class has paved the way for newly improved extemporaneous teaching methods. While the students are talking (on paper) to their ancestors, I cannot stop thinking about my father. At present I can hardly remember why I hate the old goat. I just know that it has become another all-consuming habit; much like my subscription to Vanity Fair. It comes in the mail once a month. I read it, and it stimulates all that I hate about myself and the world. So isn’t it time to cancel the subscription? Where do I begin? Call Mary Michelin. Maybe she can help me with the evolutionary exorcism of life’s nasty problem?
After school I return to my Holiday Inn home away from home. I dial Mary Michelin’s number.
‘Hello. This is the voice of Mary Michelin. I am on holiday until April 15th. I will be calling in for my messages. Please leave your name and number. I will get back to you as soon as possible. If it’s an emergency, you may call my colleague Dr Dot at 212 …’
‘Here we go round the mulberry bush,
The mulberry bush, the mulberry bush.’
Past tense meets present tense with me in the middle. There can only be one Dr Dot in the world; that Dot I knew so well. How did he end up on Mary Michelin’s referral phone list? He’s subbing in April?! He must be a dreadful doctor. I had my doubts about him twenty years ago.
What about her? Is she the shrink for me? After numerous psychological adventures and misadventures, my theory is why not take one more acid trip into the quagmire called memory.
The very sound of Dr Dot’s name has me hankering for a neon trip to Wal-Mart: I want edibles: not egg whites and sugar. Haven’t I come a long way, Dr Dot? I need sustenance. You see, I got a date tonight with Maggie Malone. How I love the sound of her name. Mommy … I have a date tonight. Please don’t ruin it.
U Turn
’84
Dina’s last night in Los Angeles is almost as eventful as the Lindt chocolate caper evening. Sis retrieves a stack of letters from the bottom of her steamer trunk. They are vintage, ripped, torn, tattered letters. Some are stuffed in yellow stained envelopes. Most are barely legible. ‘Read these.’ She hands off the stack of relics to me. I follow her instructions. After all, I am the younger sister.
‘Please come to get me. I hate everything. I hate everyone. I want to go for a ride. Could we do that soon? I promise I won’t cry. Promise. I’ll be good if you take me back home with you.’ As I decipher the scribbles on each ancient page, I am reminded of a time from my past without road signage or map quest.
Dina hands me another letter. ‘Now read this.’
‘There was a little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead; When she was good, she was very, very good, and when she was bad she was horrid. Be a good girl now.
love me (she).’
‘She did know nursery rhymes! I am vindicated, even if I am younger.’
Dina swears on her life that my mother never read either one of us a nursery rhyme; at least not when we were of nursery rhyme age. ‘You were ten when she wrote you this ditty – a little old for an introduction to Mother Goose, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Remember, they sent you off to Camp Clydesdale: The Camp for Young Horse Lovers.’
‘Wasn’t that the summer I stopped eating solid foods?’
‘Certainly was. You tried your best to starve yourself to death – what a lovely little girl you were. We, your mother, father and I, drove up to the Catskills, yanked you out of the infirmary. The ride back home was a veritable yell fest.’
I keep reading. ‘Dr Guttman’s coming back th
e week after next. I’ll miss Dr Dot, even if he is a psychiatrist in training … Where did you find these?’
‘In the attic. She saved your letters, and made copies of hers. You should have her originals.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Of course not. God forbid you should have any memorabilia from your past. Do you have a photo of any one of us?’ I think about the question; hard. Shake my head in disgust with myself. ‘It’s not normal. Everyone has a scrapbook.’
‘Well, I don’t. Why remind yourself of something you love that’s … no longer there.’
‘Anyway … You came home, suddenly a soft-food eater. Next thing, right after you arrive, she’s in some hospital for some new ailment. We weren’t supposed to know.’
‘I didn’t know that she was hospitalized then?’
‘You didn’t know a lot of things. You were ten. What does a ten-year-old know about anything? Besides, you were busy having your unique food drama.’ Dina continues her story. ‘On the nights that Pop came home for dinner I cooked for him. He worked late … some merger. As soon as he walked through the door, he’d change his shoes and go out again. He took endless walks around Beechwood by himself.’ As she remembers Pop, her face softens, eyes smile. ‘That was the summer Pop started smoking Cherry Blend … I remember, when he came back after his walks, he would sit in his easy chair, pack the tobacco into his pipe, light it up, draw the smoke down into his belly, blow out the match, and blow perfect smoke rings into the air; his nightly ritual, along with watching Jack Parr or Johnny Carson. Mrs B. cooked for you; vats of oatmeal. You were such a misery. The maid quit. The house was upside down. Keep reading.’
It was clear from the letters that my mother was versed in the language of nursery rhymes. Clear I did not want to go to Camp Clydesdale. My father had made the unilateral decision. Evidently, my mother did not want me to go, and I did not want to leave her. But we had no say in the matter.
By reading these letters, I understood what drove me into Bovar’s grip in the first place. His demon lies offered me a way to bury her inside of me … forever. She and I would always be connected through a web of symbiotic symmetry.
In the entire universe, there was only one person left whom I could trust … my sister. From my auspicious beginning, Dina had been present and accountable … for all of us. She had been witness to the hospitals, the shock therapy, the numbing drugs, and the final horrendous defeat.
‘I can’t read anymore,’ I said.
Dina replied, ‘I’ll take them home.’
I’m not ready to let them go. ‘No, let me keep them here.’
‘Loli, maybe you should get involved with something a little less drastic next time? What about meditation? Yoga? While you’re working with Dr Guttman, you could do all sorts of creative things … spiritual things. When you get your life back on track, you’ll be fine. You’re so much better already. Aren’t you?’
‘I still hear her. I don’t know if I want that to stop. I like hearing her voice.
‘Hush little baby.’ I shiver.
Dina sighs. ‘You’re so talented. You know so much about music and writing … You would make a great teacher! You’re great with people.’
‘I’m not bad with demons either,’ I laugh.
‘I’m serious. You have great people skills. You should use them.’
‘I’m gonna miss you.’
‘You can always come back east.’
‘I’m not ready … not now anyway.’
‘We’re ready for you. Ralph adores you. The kids would love it!’
‘Pop and I aren’t ready.’
‘Give it time.’
‘We’re talking an eternity.’
‘It’s been hard on him too, Loli. He loved her. He did what he could.’
I try to explain myself. ‘When I hear her voice, I miss being young … very young. Back … maybe before I was born. I have always been hungry for the past … afraid of the future.’
‘It’ll get better,’ my sister replies.
I want to believe her.
Maggie Malone
Yield
’03
The very thought of Dr Dot had impaired my ability to dress and ready myself for the much anticipated evening with Maggie Malone. Right sock, left sock, which sock, right shoe, left shoe, tie shoe, boot or …? Put on the socks and shoes already!!!
With one blue sock, one black sock, untied shoes and blithering mind, I jump into my all-American, undented, hunter-green Ford Taurus and head toward downtown Beatrice. I pass the American Chinese Cafeteria on my right, O’Brien’s Chiropractic on my left. I drive by the Whopper, Wimpy, or whatever burger place on my left. There is a Cellular One store on the right with an oversized cellphone dangling from the antenna.
I locate Sixth Street, turn right, park my automobile on the south side of the one-way street that has no arrow to inform the uninformed that it is in fact a one-way street. In an empty parking lot a black cat crosses my path. I spit over my right shoulder, and shoo it away. It parks itself under my car. I look for number 5 Sixth Street. I walk a few feet due north. There, as big as a Broadway billboard, is a neon sign … EURIPIDES FOLLIES.
I am prepared for my question-and-answer evening with the local theater group. More than that, I am ready to feast my eyes on sweet Maggie Malone.
I open the yellow door, lift a torn burgundy velour entry curtain, proceed down a narrow dimly lit hallway, enter through the rear right of The Follies Theater. It is a quaint, somewhat claustrophobic forty-five-seat house with a small proscenium stage.
Seated onstage is the Q and A cast of characters: Bill and Mike (two mild-mannered, middle-aged, Caucasian males), Claire and Debby (two, blowzy, middle-aged, Caucasian females), Jess (very young boy, approximately six years of age, also Caucasian), Peggy (very young girl, approximately the same age as young boy, Caucasian, playing with cut-outs). Seated in the front row of the audience is Maggie, her hair gleaming. My heart pounds. Out from behind the upstage scrim, with megaphone in hand, prances a handsome, light-in-the-loafers, middle-aged man (Peter Pieter). But … the star in our cast of characters is panting on the floor downstage right … a large black and white definitive Dalmatian, chewing on a dog bone. Its name, I am to find out later, is ‘Sushi’.
Praying that no one has seen me, I step back into the shadow of the dimly lit hallway. Why don’t I call in sick? I fumble for the curtain. ‘Where’s the fuckin’ exit.’ I whisper ‘fuckin’ exit’, when from behind me I hear: ‘You must be Loli Greene?’ Caught, I turn around. There in front of me stands the most gorgeous man I have seen since my first viewing of Cary Grant in The Philadelphia Story. ‘Hello.’
‘I’m Maggie’s brother Bill O’Brien. I saw your picture in the Daily Cryer. Honey, that picture doesn’t do you justice. Why are you standing out here? Come on in. We’re waitin’ for you.’ I melt like soft butta on a hot cross bun. ‘We’re not cannibals out here. No one bites. Sushi had her rabies shot last week … Peter on the other hand, I can’t vouch for him.’ He takes my hand. I’m thinkin’, this family certainly has sex appeal.
‘Hey everybody … Look who’s here.’
Maggie turns around. Her eyes are even more familiar than when last I saw her; the shape, the size, the color. If only, if only?
‘If ifs and ands were pots and pans.’
Not now, Ma. Please.
As if in a Sheridan restoration farce, Peter Pieter claps his hands together. In a high-pitched Gracie Allen voice, he shouts into his megaphone, ‘Let us have a warm welcome for Loli Greene. Move down centerstage … P-l-e-a-se! … You too, Sushi. If you are going to be in the theater you had better participate … P-a-r-t-i-c-i-p-a-t-e! I don’t care if you are a dog. Pick up your bone and greet Ms Greene.’ On cue, Sushi stands up on her hind legs and howls. ‘That’s a good dog.’
Like a well-rehearsed bunch of lemmings, the gang moves down centerstage; different sizes, shapes, genders, gen
erations, two-legged, four-legged, single, divorced, gay, straight, delightful, and certainly endearing. Sushi passes wind. After this joyful noise, the supporting cast of two-legged players shouts, ‘Welcome.’
The Q and A begins. They ask me if I always wanted to be a writer. I tell them that I wanted to join the circus, travel the world. I don’t tell them that my father didn’t approve. ‘I became a singer. I might as well have joined the circus. One thing led to another. I became a writer. I’ve come to realize … life is a circus.’
Molly asks, ‘When did you start writing?’
I remember my wild teenage years. I pause. ‘When I was much younger, a teenager, I wrote on napkins, matchbooks, receipts, anything in sight.’ I fucked anything in sight, too. ‘Whatever it was, I put it inside my pants pocket.’ Christ, I was horny. ‘My pants ended up in the washing machine. My ideas got washed away.’ Drank so damn hard, hardly remember my senior year. ‘I bought a spiral notebook, but I never used it.’ Hated condoms. ‘I liked writing on scraps.’… No commitment necessary … ‘Eventually, I wrote in that notebook.’ My father was apoplectic that school night when I came home drunk at four a.m. no longer a virgin. He yelled, ‘Where the hell have you been, young lady?! Your mother’s been worried sick.’ I replied, ‘Not now,’ as I ran up the stairs, ‘Not now!’ He chased me up the hall stairs. I slammed the bedroom door in his face. He shoved it open, came after me, was ready to slam me hard, then right before contact, he stopped. He nearly cried. I swear, there were tears in his eyes. ‘What’s the use?’ he said. He turned around, closed the door behind him, walked back down the stairs into the den, turned on the television. I soaked for hours upon hours in a hot bath. My mother cried until the next school day. She cried … like it was the end of the world.
They ask me, ‘When did you start teaching?’ I reply, ‘I’m not a teacher. I’m a teaching artist. The real teacher is left with the work long after I’m gone. I can’t do anything every day. It’s a commitment issue.’ They laugh. I am aware it’s not a joke. Next question is, ‘What’s it like on the road?’ Where the fuck is Simone? … Speaking of commitment issues. Wonder what Maggie’s husband looks like? God she is beautiful. What was the question? Oh yes … The road. ‘The road is difficult, lonely, exciting, stressful, expansive … I visit towns that I never knew existed. I say, “Hey this town is completely different from that town.” The next second I realize, this town, that town, the next town … they have a lot in common. It’s about the people.’ I look at Maggie. Imagine that mouth on my … ‘I never leave any place behind. They’re all in here.’ Touch my heart. Heart is there, mind is racing. ‘Fortunately, I deal with the creative world … wherever I go. So, I perceive a community and its schools by the creative work that we do together. The need to dream, to create, to inspire others. It is as important as food, water, or love.’