COMMUNE OF WOMEN

by SUZAN STILL

  “A car alarm? For Chrissake! BERNIE! HEY! BERNIE!”

  Angela turns on Bud in a fury. “Don’t you yell at him that way! You know he can’t help it. How can you treat your own son like that?”

  “Like what? He don’t even know I’m talkin’ to him. Make him stop, Angela. Just make him stop, for Chrissake. I work all night and then wake up in a loony bin. Men in skirts and a son who thinks he’s an electronic device, for Chrissakes!

  “I’m gonna do what Don Wilmer did and run off to Mexico. I swear. Make him STOP, will ya, Angela?” Bud throws himself down in his recliner, forgetting that Bernie broke it last week, and almost capsizes himself when it goes over too far backward.

  Angela knows she has to do something before he gets to ragging about the chair, too. So she yells back, “And what do you think I should do? When he was two, I could put him outside in a playpen. At twenty-six, he’s a little beyond that. What do you suggest I do?” Always best to go on the defensive with Bud before he blows sky high.

  Bud now has the L.A. Times Sunday Edition, very fat, over his head and he is still lying angled slightly head downward in his chair and listing a little to starboard. He groans from under the paper, “Just do something, or I swear to God, I’m gonna get Don Wilmer’s address from Gus and I’m gonna go to Mexico. Then he can be a car alarm, or a fire alarm, or a godamn fog horn, for all I care because I’ll be hauling in blue fin in Baja.”

  Then he went quiet, very still, under the paper. And with Bud, this is always a very bad sign.

  So Angela turns off Oprah, very reluctantly, because after the break, the men are going to tell their beauty secrets. But when Bud goes quiet, you sometimes have to make sacrifices.

  Angela first learned this when Bernie was about five or six. Bud was reading her this article in the Times about how leaded gasoline was dumping twenty tons of lead on the L.A. freeway system every day. Angela said she didn’t believe it. If that were true, their house, which is only five blocks from the San Diego Freeway, would have heaps of raw lead lying around on the lawn. It would be lying in layers all over everything – the car, the patio furniture, the concrete in the driveway. They’d have to bring City trucks and those machines with blades, like snow removal equipment, and be scraping the streets day and night, just to keep people from bogging down in lead. That’s what she said.

  But Bud said that was stupid; that it all went up in the air and they breathed it. And it did fall in layers and that was what that weird sticky black stuff was that collected on the backside of the Venetian blinds in the bedroom. He said it was like you took a five-pound box of laundry soap and you spread it all over the house. You wouldn’t really know that there were five pounds of it because it would be laid out so thin. You’d just think it was a little here and a little there.

  Well, in just a couple of minutes, Angela saw something out of the corner of her eye which turned out to be Bernie going down the hallway with a box of Tide, seeding it into the shag. That’s the way Bernie shows his Dad how much he loves him – when he listens and then responds.

  Well, that was the very first time that Bud went quiet. Only, since it was the first time, Angela didn’t know what it was, so she thought he’d just gone to sleep in his chair.

  “The green plaid chair, not the blue one he has now,” Betty digresses for clarification. “Bernie destroyed the plaid one with lighter fluid – but that’s another story.”

  By the time she’d wrestled the box of Tide from Bernie – who started screaming and rolling on the floor – and vacuumed the carpet, Bud was still in his chair and still quiet. But he had his eyes open, so then she had this moment of horror that he was dead. But, as it turned out, he was just in that place where he goes when there’s really nothing left to say – or maybe he’s ready to start screaming, himself.

  So, Angela shuts Oprah off and goes into the kitchen and there is Bernie smearing peanut butter on Rye Crisps and stacking them up in long columns on a plate. He’s making that sound, which is like no other sound, of a car in distress. He really is good at this. Really, if it were another circumstance than his father getting ready to run off to Mexico, you might even admire how well he does it. But obviously, now is not the time.

  Now, with Bernie, he is impervious to the human voice when one of these things is upon him. He is so deeply involved with his discovery, whatever it may be, that he just doesn’t hear. So, from the time he was a little baby, distraction was the name of the game.

  So without a word, Angela walks into the kitchen, goes straight up to him at the counter and grabs the last peanut butter Rye Crisp from the top of the stack and shoves it into her mouth.

  Bernie stops wailing like a vandalized car and shouts, “HEY!” very loud. He looks at her, outraged.

  Angela smiles at him, chewing the dry, sticky mess as best she can, and mumbles, “Good!”

  Suddenly, his round face, all puckered with concentration and anger, relaxes, and he gives her this smile that from the time he was a baby made all the rest worthwhile.

  “I can vouch for that because I used to babysit for Angela, when she’d had enough and really needed a break,” Betty explains parenthetically. “If it hadn’t been for that smile, there might have been one more child homicide in Reseda. Not really, of course. But you just can’t imagine how that child could push you to the limit!”

  She looks around, is gratified to find that she has the undivided attention of the group, and continues.

  “Yeah!” Bernie says. “Good!” And he holds out the plate to her, to take more.

  Of course, he does it too fast and the columns of crackers, already pretty shaky, just topple over and smack to the floor, exploding peanut butter and cracker crumbs over every inch of her freshly waxed tile. But at least, while he’s scrambling around on the floor picking up the biggest pieces and smearing in the rest with the knees of his jeans, he’s quiet. He’s forgotten he was formerly a car alarm and has become, for a few minutes, Angela’s sweet boy again, worried because he’s made a booboo.

  So they are both cleaning up the mess for a few minutes before she notices a big silence, like a Black Hole, over near the refrigerator – and there stands Bud watching them with a look that, in all thirty-one years with him, Angela has never seen before. Then, he just turns, walks through the living room, grabs his Rams hat from the hook by the door and leaves.

  Even Bernie is impressed. He doesn’t ask, like he does twenty times each time it happens, “Where’s Dad goin’, Mom? Where’s Dad goin’?” Even Bernie is afraid to ask and that can’t be good.

  So she goes straight in and calls Betty, who says, “Maybe you should call Madame Zola?”

  Madame Zola has a place down on Reseda Boulevard with a big plywood palm and fingers, painted pink, the Life Line in black and MADAME ZOLA – FORTUNES in red underneath it. Her front windows always have the drapes closed and it seems like secret things are always going on in there behind those red curtains.

  Betty first spotted the place years ago when she went to get a prescription for Bernie when he had allergies to grasses one spring, so bad that all he did was sneeze, one right after another, day and night, for three weeks straight. Poor Angela was so exhausted that she didn’t want to drive.

  Since then, Betty’s been going to Madame Zola for years, even though Kathy Petersen’s cousin, who was visiting from Tulsa, went to her and swore that she was actually a waitress who used to live in Oklahoma. She said that she was absolutely certain that Madame Zola used to work in a truck stop, nights, and was caught early one morning with the Methodist minister in the back of his car – “in flagrantee,” as she said.

  Kathy’s cousin also claimed to know that the president of the bank said that when Madame Zola, whose name was Kim Something then, left town, she took a cashier’s check for half of the minister’s bank account with her. Kathy confirms all this – not because she ever knew Madame Zola before, but because she says Madame Zola had Oklahoma license plates on her car when she first arrive
d in L.A. Well, that may be, but even so, Betty thinks it’s a pretty tall coincidence, and that Kathy and her cousin were just bored and it was a case of mistaken identity.

  Even if she was once Kim, the truck stop waitress, Madame Zola gives good readings. Sometimes, she reads Betty’s palm but more often, she pulls a long deck of Tarot cards out of a red silk brocade bag, thumps them importantly on the table and cuts them with the ease of a Las Vegas card sharp.

  Her long red nails flick through the stack like little knives, cutting out the cards she knows psychically to be the ones for Betty. She always has some piece of advice or some warning about the future or some remark about somebody who’s doing Betty wrong, that always turns out to be true.

  Once, she saw a woman with red hair stabbing Betty in the back, like in a vision. Within two days, Betty found out that Dora Johnston, who dyes her hair the color of ripe tomatoes, had told her next door neighbor that Betty was on Prozac, which was a complete lie.

  So you see, Madame Zola is a good person to turn to in a pinch – which Betty had been telling Angela for years. But Angela’s a good Catholic and didn’t want to risk it.

  But on this occasion, Betty talks her into it and Angela calls and sure enough, Madame Zola has time that very evening to see her. Even though she doesn’t usually work Tuesday nights, she says she’s always available in an emergency.

  So Angela takes the car and drives down to Reseda Boulevard to Madame Zola’s place, near the Stop’n’Shop Center. It’s a little house right on the edge, where the commercial district meets the residential district. Betty supposes it is a great location to catch people as they come and go, and put the idea of a little metaphysical intervention into their heads.

  So, Madame Zola is waiting for Angela in the doorway, smoking a cigarette, holding it elegantly way out at the end of her fingertips, pinced in those long red nails. Madame Zola, who has never been familiar enough with Betty to reveal her first name, claims to come from Romanian gypsy stock. With her hooked nose, thin face, loose silky pants printed with roses and her long black hair in a gypsy shag, with layers of curls from her ears almost to her waist, she sure looks like it might be so.

  And she drives a big 1960’s Cadillac, white with a tuck and roll interior in red leather that must have been custom done across the border in Tijuana. Everybody knows that’s the kind of car gypsies prefer.

  So Madame Zola chooses her cards and slowly turns them face up but close to her, so Angela can’t see them. She looks at each one for a long time and then lays it back down again. After she’s looked at them all, she closes her eyes and is quiet for several minutes. Finally, she opens her eyes and says to Angela, “Bernie needs to get married.”

  It was winter, down around 68 degrees outside, and Madame Zola had the heater on, so maybe that was why Angela broke into a sudden sweat. Her whole body was hot and cold at the same time.

  Angela sputters for a second and then shrieks, “Married? Are you crazy? Bernie, married? He’s twenty-six years old and he still can’t tell the hot from the cold water in the shower – and you think he should get married?”

  Madame Zola just sits there looking at her like a big cat tracking a panicked mouse. With the tip of one red fingernail, she slowly scratches her thigh through a big pink cabbage rose. She has that look of infinite wisdom and patience, like an Egyptian queen or one of those silent film stars playing Mata Hari. It’s a look that says, Sooner or later, you’ll see it my way.

  When Angela calms down, Madame Zola says it again. “Yes, Bernie needs to get married. And...” she looks at Angela very cold, very commanding, because she’s starting in with it again, “and I know the name of the girl... Myrna.”

  “Myrna who?” Angela asks weakly.

  “Just Myrna. That’s all I know.” And then, Angela realizes that Madame Zola didn’t know this Myrna personally but she had had a vision or heard the name whispered by her guides or however it works for her.

  Myrna. It was a start.

  “So how many Myrna’s do you suppose there are in L.A.?” Angela asks, not really being flip, just a little overwhelmed is all.

  “It’s not as bad as you think,” Madame Zola says kindly. “Bernie will meet her at the youth group at St. Patrick’s church.”

  “Bernie hasn’t been to church in 12 years,” Angela says. “Not since the visiting priest told him his brother in Ireland had a German shepherd named Bernie, and Bernie barked all through the service every time he was supposed to respond. He was an altar boy, you know...at least, up until that day he was. When he sat up and begged for a communion wafer, that was the end.”

  “What happened?” asks Madame Zola, lighting up a cigarette and leaning back in her pink armchair.

  “The priest broke one in two and threw him a piece. Bernie caught it in his mouth. The whole parish was scandalized. That poor young priest was sent up to the Sacramento diocese in disgrace...which was too bad because he seemed like a nice young man and at least he smiled all the time, which is something old Father Foley never did. He always had a cloud of gloom and guilt riding on his shoulders.”

  “It’s a typical story of patriarchal religion,” Madame Zola says harshly, blowing out a streamer of smoke and surprising Angela with her tone of authority. “In my belief, the Divine Mother is central. She would never deny a poor boy just because he thought he was a dog. These priests and their Father God have got to go.”

  Well, to Angela, this was blasphemy – even though she hadn’t set foot back in St. Patrick’s since the day she led Bernie out, whining like a punished pup and trying to lick people’s hands as she dragged him along. But Madame Zola was not going to be denied.

  “I see Myrna in the St. Patrick’s rec hall,” she says, closing her eyes to slits and staring through a cloud of cigarette smoke at a scene only she can see. “She’s dancing the polka. She has brown hair and she’s quite petite. She has set her cup of punch on the edge of the table and the tremors from the dancing are about to jar it loose. Ohhh...there it goes!” Madame Zola shakes her head in sympathy.

  “Just what I need,” Angela mumbles. “A daughter-inlaw who’s a klutz. That should be good for the destruction of what’s left of my house and marriage.”

  Madame Zola shakes her head to disperse the vision and looks at Angela sharply. “This is not about you,” she says, kind of rough but not unkind. “This is about Bernie. The poor kid has raging hormones. Just because he’s simple, doesn’t mean he doesn’t have natural desires. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t dream of being loved. Snap out of it, Angela. Bernie needs your help.”

  So they talk awhile about it and then, just as she’s getting ready to go, Madame Zola begins tidying up the cards and Angela gets a glimpse of the last card as she’s returning it to the deck. It’s the Ten of Swords, all dripping with blood. Angela’s heart freezes.

  “What’s that?” she shrieks. “What’s that card? That’s the Death card, isn’t it? I know it is. What are you hiding, Madame Zola? What aren’t you telling me?”

  Madame Zola is so cool she’s almost cold. She shoves the card deep into the deck with one thrust of her long red nail. “That card is none of your business,” she says, so icy it almost shocks Angela. “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, Angela. You just have to trust me in this,” her voice a little gentler, now. “Bernie will be fine. If there’s going to be a death, think of it as the death of an old way of life as Bernie takes on a new life all his own, that he shares with Myrna.”

  So that evening, instead of going straight home from Madame Zola’s, Angela drives to Sears, which stays open until eleven on Tuesday nights, and buys Bernie a new pair of navy blue slacks, a blue and white striped long-sleeved shirt, a red cotton pullover sweater, navy socks and a new pair of penny loafers.

  She takes them home, hoping Bernie will try them on. But he’s already asleep, his arms wrapped around Burt, his big stuffed bear. Bud, of course, is at work – if he isn’t already across the border, heading for Cabo San Lucas. So she pi
les the shopping bags under the kitchen table, goes into the living room, turns on the TV and falls asleep on the sofa, watching Jay Leno.

  Sometime late, Bud comes in with beer on his breath, so she knows he’s stopped in for a quick one at The Spot with his buddies on the way home from work. But at least he’s home. He comes into the living room, and sitting gingerly on the edge of the couch, he gently rocks her by her shoulder. “Angie,” he whispers. “Angie...are you awake?”

  “Mmmmmm,” she murmurs.

  “Angie, honey, I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry. I was a jerk. I know Bernie can’t help it, okay? I know it’s not your fault. I was a jerk, okay?”

  Angela opens her eyes and looks up at him, so tired and sweet and helpless-looking, there in the blue light of the TV.

  “Oh Buddy!” she whispers and bursts into tears.

  Slowly, awkwardly, he just gathers her up and mounds her into a limp heap on his lap.

  “Angie, honey. It’s okay, Baby. I’m home now. Everything’s gonna be okay.” He pets her hair. He bounces her with his knees.

  Silly big galoot!

  Angela’s just an itsy-bitsy thing and he carries her into the bedroom just like Scarlett O’Hara, and she remembers all over again why she married him instead of that dope, Craig Matthews, who both her mother and Betty’s thought was the biggest catch of the century.

  In the morning, after Bernie goes off to see if they’ve turned on the TV’s yet in the window of the appliance store down on Reseda, Angela makes a pot of coffee. Pretty soon, the smell draws Bud out of the bedroom. He doesn’t meet her eye, but he’s smiling and that’s always a good sign with Buddy.

  So she starts right in. “I went to see Madame Zola, the psychic, last night,” she says.

  “Yeah? What about?” Bud is busy doctoring his coffee – two heaping teaspoons of sugar and two of Cremora. It always makes Angela shiver.