Acts of God

by Mary Morris

  “And I can still be concerned about you, can’t I? I mean, I am your mother.”

  She nodded, then put her pencil down. “May I say something?”

  “Of course you may.”

  “You know, Mom, you should get in touch with your sadness.”

  “My sadness?” My hands fiddled with a piece of paper on the table. “What do you mean, my sadness?”

  “There’s this big dark cloud hanging over your head. I can see it wherever you go. It really holds you back.” Gazing up, I pretended to look for my cloud. “I’m not kidding, Mom,” Jade said.

  “Just let me know where you’re going to be so I can reach you.”

  “Okay, I’ll try and do that.” She kissed me good-bye. I realized I had no idea where she was going or when I’d see her again, but it seemed as if this was how she needed it to be. Still, I wanted to reach out and grab her, hold her to me. She was still a child in her own way, a floundering child, and, though this was the hardest part to admit, I didn’t want her to go.

  When she left, I got into the shower, scrubbing my flesh, my hair, my nails, but I couldn’t get rid of the smell of dead fish and the sea. It permeated my hair, my hands. It reminded me of the stench in the air when I drove through Winonah on the night of the reunion. After the shower, I made myself a cup of peppermint tea. Jade was gone and an unfamiliar quiet settled over the house.

  I wasn’t sure what to do with myself so I decided to fill out the forms that had just arrived from the National Registry of Historic Houses. It was a huge packet, requiring all kinds of documentation and description. I began sifting through what needed to be done. I filled in the description of the house, the date it was built (which stretched over some twenty years), its materials, current owner information, and reasons for wanting it on the historic registry.

  I spent perhaps an hour or two going over the materials, to which I would have to attach the deed to the house and other notarized documentation. When I was finished, I read over what I’d done. Everything seemed in good order. But then I noticed the address of the house. I hadn’t written Box 406, Pacific Coast Highway. I’d written 137 Myrtle Lane—the address of a house I hadn’t lived in for a long time.

  28

  I knew when it was February because the tapping began. The steady tap, tap, tap. Coming from the basement. It was always the same sound, like a woodpecker down there. My father lined up all the tools he needed—the hammers, the chisels, the screwdrivers. From my bedroom I could smell the shellac, the glue. The workbench had been dormant all winter, but now the house was alive with the sounds of hammers and saws.

  He was building us a finished basement. Art had his Boy Scout troop now and I had the gang. It seemed kids were always tramping in and out. Though my father had stopped fixing things around the house, he got this idea in his head. Our father decided he needed to finish the basement so that we would have a place to play. A linoleum floor, bathroom, paneling, cabinets, even a bar.

  As our father was downstairs, hammering away, Lily, hands pressed across her ears, walked around saying, “Oh, God, I can’t stand this. I really can’t stand this noise.” Lily thought the upstairs playroom was good enough, but my father had his project and this occupied him for the better part of the spring.

  But my father didn’t seem to notice Lily’s annoyance with the sawdust and din. He was downstairs, renovating the basement. It was a decision he’d made during the winter as he’d watched the gang stomp through the house in their wet shoes to the upstairs playroom. One day he said, “I’m going to finish the basement. Then the kids can play there.” He drew up some preliminary plans, ordered some supplies. I have no idea how my father knew how to do this, but he did. Some afternoons he let me help him. He showed me how to hold a hammer, how to drive a nail. Straight on, keep your fingers away, hit the head, not your thumb. I held the paneling in place as he nailed it to the wall.

  The new basement was to have a laundry room, a recreation room with a Ping-Pong table, a bar, and a TV room. There would be a bathroom off the laundry room. It was a fairly elaborate project, but my father hired no help. It seemed he could do this on his own. Some days he got Jeb and Art to pitch in. “Okay, now, Squirt, hold that board in place.”

  Art would put his shoulder against the board while our father hammered it in place. Often Lily came downstairs with grilled cheese sandwiches, potato chips, Cokes. She’d comment on our progress. “Oh, that’s going to be very nice.” Or “I like the way there’ll be storage cabinets in the rec room.”

  Then she’d go back upstairs. I’m not sure when I noticed, but my parents didn’t seem to speak to each other during these brief visits she made into the construction area. My mother moved like a marionette when she came downstairs, as if someone else were pulling the strings.

  * * *

  One afternoon in the summer Margaret asked me over to play. She said Vicky and some of the gang would be over and did I want to come as well? I rode my bike, parked it on her lawn. I noticed that the porch looked painted and spruced up. Clarice Blair must be doing better in the world, I thought. When I walked in, something was different. “You’ve changed things around here,” I said.

  Margaret and the gang sat in the living room, eating chips and plates full of M&Ms. The Little Rascals were on. “Oh, just a few touches,” Mrs. Blair said. She came around the corner with a plate of cookies that made my mouth water. The living room looked freshly painted and the small den off the living room seemed darker. It had nice wood paneling too.

  “Our basement is paneled like this,” I said.

  And Clarice Blair, putting down the plate, smiled at me. “Yes. I’ve heard it is.”

  29

  Traffic was heavy on 280 as I drove into the city through patchy fog. I didn’t like this kind of weather or this kind of driving. It slowed me down, made me stop and start, think too much. And it was stop and start all the way to Chinatown. Nick had phoned and said he was coming West. He wanted to meet at Fisherman’s Wharf again, but I balked. I told him to meet me at my favorite dim sum place.

  He was sitting in a booth in the back, wearing a blue workshirt and jeans. He looked disheveled, his hair not quite combed, like someone who’s had a bad night. He rose when he saw me, wrapped his arms around me, buried his face in my hair. “I’m so glad to see you,” he muttered against my neck.

  He smelled of aftershave and a smoky smell that was all his own. “I’m glad to see you too.”

  He had never had dim sum before so as the trays came by, I began to point at things I thought he might like. Soon our table was filled with shrimp dumplings, rice noodles, spring rolls, mushrooms with pork. Nick ate heaping portions. “This is so good. Can I have more?”

  “Just point at what you want.”

  He pointed at me. “That easy, huh?”

  I gave him a scolding look. “Not quite.”

  “You know how to show a guy a good time.”

  “Well, I’m glad you think so.”

  “I do.” I sat back, watching him enjoy the dumplings and noddles. “Things haven’t been going very well,” he said softly.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I’ve had a terrible time,” he said. “My father was right about her.”

  “Your father?”

  “He begged me not to marry her. He said she wasn’t ‘our kind.’ I hated it when he said that. And sometimes I think I hated him. He was so big, so powerful. Everybody knew him. He was famous. I wanted to stand up to him. I think I wanted to do something he didn’t want me to do. He was a hard man to stand up to, you know.”

  “I’m sure he was.”

  “I made a big mistake when I married her. I was infatuated. I thought she was beautiful. She was a free spirit. And perhaps I knew that it would gall my father. That he wouldn’t be able to stand the fact that I’d married a girl of unknown origins whose mother had been our tenant. I don’t know what I was thinking…”

  “We’ve all made our mista
kes.” I put my hand across his. “God knows, I’ve made mine.”

  “You know,” Nick said, “sometimes even now, and he’s been dead awhile, I can hear my father say, ‘Oh, you missed that easy shot,’ or ‘There was a hole in the center; you should’ve run for that.’ Do you know what it was it was like all my life to hear my mistakes rattled back at me? It’s as if he’s still shouting from the sidelines and I’m never sure which way he wants me to go.”

  “Which way do you want to go?” I asked him.

  Nick put his hands under my chin, lifting my face toward him. “Ever since we were kids, I’ve wanted to kiss you.”

  “You have? Well, maybe that’s another mistake,” I quipped. Even though it seemed inevitable, I wasn’t comfortable with this turn in the conversation. “Anyway, if you’ve waited this long, you may as well wait a little longer.” He gave me a hurt look. “I think we should wait … until things are resolved. Settled between the two of you.” I was trying to be logical, but the fact was I wanted to kiss him. I hadn’t wanted to kiss anybody in a long time, but now I did.

  I knew I had to get out of there or I never would. “Look,” I told him, “I’d love to see you. When you break up with Margaret, when you really leave her, why don’t you give me a call?”

  “I’m not going to be married much longer,” he said thoughtfully, “and you don’t have to live here.”

  “No,” I said, “I don’t, but for now I do. And this is my home. My children are here and I don’t want to be responsible for breaking up someone else’s family.”

  “You are not responsible,” he said with a little laugh. “I absolve you.”

  We left the restaurant and as we walked down Grant toward Union Square, where I’d left my car, he kissed me. Not a gentle, tentative first kiss, but a hard one, his mouth pressed firmly against mine. I felt the strength of his arms, his tongue moving between my teeth. He kept his arms around me as we wandered back to his hotel. “Come up to my room. Have a drink with me.”

  In his hotel room, he poured two scotches from the minibar. He put on the radio to the best jazz station in San Francisco. Stretching out on the bed, he listened to the soft horn. I sat across the room until he said, “Why don’t you come and sit here.” Then I walked over and he pulled me against his chest.

  I wanted to nestle there, to feel safe, but then I felt his mouth hot against my mouth, his tongue working its way between my lips. I was conscious of every moment, each gesture, and at the same time I was swept up in it. For all his bulk, he was gentle as he unbuttoned my blouse, slipped his hands on my breasts. Finally I found myself pulling away. “You know,” I said, “I’m really not going to do this.”

  He sat up, his face flushed. “But what harm would it do?”

  I didn’t want to leave, but I knew I had to. “I’ve got to go,” I said. “You’re still living with her. It’s not right.”

  “Tessie, please…”

  “It’s not just about her; it’s about me. I’m already finding myself thinking about you. Wanting you. This isn’t what I should be doing. Not now. Not yet. When you leave her, give me a call.” Nick lay back, arms folded behind his head. He closed his eyes as if he were going to sleep as I opened the door.

  I drove fast along the highway, taking turns faster than I should have. At any moment I could careen off the cliffs or have a head-on, but I still drove fast. I don’t know what the rush was. I returned to an empty house. There was no message or note from Jade. There were several messages on the phone machine, including one from Charlie’s lawyer, informing me that his client was ending his child support since neither child was in school. This didn’t surprise me, but still it was another blow. But my thoughts were far from support payments and bills and how I was going to make ends meet. And then, there were several hang-ups, some of which lasted a long time.

  When the phone rang, I was sure it was Nick and I rushed to answer it. “Hello,” I said, “who’s there?” but no one was. Wondering if it was another crossed wire, I listened for a long time to the breathing at the other end, as if somehow I would be able to recognize it.

  * * *

  In the morning I was awakened by the ringing again and once more no one was there. But this time the person was slower to hang up and I heard the breathing more clearly. “Who is this?” I asked insistently this time. “Is anybody there?”

  And then I heard her speak. “Tess, it’s me, Margaret. I need to talk to you about Nick.”

  “What about him?” I asked her.

  “It’s just that I know he’s in San Francisco, but I haven’t been able to reach him. He’s not staying at the hotel where he said he’d be. Danielle is worried and so am I. I thought he might contact you. Do you know where he might be staying?”

  “No, I don’t. I haven’t seen him.” I wasn’t sure why I felt the need to lie to her, but I did. Even as I lied, I wondered what Nick had said. Did she know if he’d seen me?

  “Well, he was depressed when he left and I’m worried about him.”

  “He was depressed? Well, I’m sure he’s all right.”

  There was a long pause. “Yes, he probably is. But if you hear from him, would you have him give me a call?”

  Later when I phoned Nick at his hotel, he said she knew where he was. He’d spoken to her that afternoon. “She’s just trying to trick you,” he said.

  “But why would she do that? Does she know anything?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “It’s just the way she is.”

  30

  In eighth grade Margaret began to dress like me. It was fall, a bright September day. The first day of school. In just a few weeks Kennedy would be elected president and his Thousand Days would begin. The Cuban missile crisis would follow and Vicky and I would sit, spellbound, clasping hands in my finished basement, listening as the handsome young president told us we might be going to war. Soon I would know that there was a world that was not of my making. That the safety of our homes, the quiet little niches our parents had created, were just that—small corners tucked away from the real world.

  But for the moment what mattered most was that I had my books in a bag and a new outfit. A red cardigan, a blue-and-red-plaid pleated skirt. A white shirt with a Peter Pan collar. New saddle shoes. I loved the first day of school. Number 2 pencils, sharpened to a fine point. Pads of paper, erasers, the sound of cracking book spines.

  The halls smelled freshly painted, the floor slick and newly polished. Everything about the school and its smells and my new outfit was filled with promise. The gang gathered in the hall. Ginger was lamenting the fact that she got Mr. Green’s homeroom and that Lori Martin, Maureen Hetherford, and I were all in Miss Olden’s, who was known to be easy. Samantha told Ginger not to worry because she was in Mr. Mitchell’s and there wasn’t anybody she liked in that homeroom.

  We were looking at our class lists, peering into our new books, when I saw Margaret. She too wore a red cardigan, a blue and red pleated skirt. A Peter Pan collar. I put my hand to my mouth, but Margaret smiled at me. I had planned for weeks to wear just what I was wearing. Now Margaret stood in front of me wearing the same thing.

  “It’s not possible,” I shrieked.

  Margaret laughed. “I can read your mind, Tess. I can read your mind.”

  Our teacher, Mrs. Chilford, gave us an assignment: Describe the person you’d most like to be. I wrote about Jackie Kennedy because I wanted to be married to the president and live in the White House. Vicky did Jane Addams and the rest of the girls did Eleanor Roosevelt, though a few did their mothers, not thinking it meant they’d be married to their fathers. A few days after the assignment, Mrs. Chilford stopped me in the hall. “What a nice tribute to you from Margaret, Tessie!”

  “What’s that, Mrs. Chilford?” I asked.

  “Oh, don’t you know? For some reason I thought you would. Margaret said that out of all the people in the world, living or dead, she’d like to be you.”

  * * *

  Samantha
Crawford invited us to a party in her basement. There’d be Cokes and boys. It was one of our first parties like this, but now that we were thirteen, it would happen more and more. Samantha Crawford had some records. Bill Haley and the Comets, Del Shannon, Frankie Avalon. Motown was just getting going and one of the boys had brought a new record by the Miracles. Then the lights went dim and Johnny Mathis came on. “Funny you’re a stranger who’s come here; come from another town.”

  We chose partners and we were dancing. But there weren’t enough boys to go around. The girls who were left began pairing up. “So dance with me,” Margaret said.

  “I will not.”

  “Dance with me.”

  She pulled me to her, swept me into her arms. I felt her breath against my ear, her hand on my back as we moved slowly through Samantha Crawford’s basement. She pressed her hips into mine. In my ear she sang along, “I’m a stranger myself, dear, small world isn’t it.…” I was relieved when Chubby Checker came on and we could do the twist.

  A few days later we were sitting in Mr. Whitcomb’s class. He taught math and was very strict. You had to sit straight in your chair. You had to have your paper and pencil neatly on the top of your desk. You could never be excused. No matter what.

  Margaret raised her hand. She had to go to the bathroom. Mr. Whitcomb said he was sorry, but there would be no bathroom privileges. No one was allowed to go before the bell. “But Mr. Whitcomb,” Margaret said, her voice pleading, “I really need to go.”

  “You’ll have to wait like a big girl.”

  Margaret sat there staring straight ahead at him. As Mr. Whitcomb went on at the board about multiplication of fractions, she sat even as the mumbling began and someone pointed. “Look,” I heard a voice behind me say. We turned and stared. A small puddle of blood like a crime scene had formed at the base of Margaret’s desk. Blood ran down her legs, pooled on the floor. Even as Mr. Whitcomb, a shocked, flushed look to his face, told her she could now be excused, she just sat there, not moving, staring straight ahead.