Lost in the Beehive

by Michele Young-Stone

  When my mother was growing up, Independence Day had been her favorite holiday. It reminded her of the years she’d spent at her grandparents’ estate in Connecticut. There had been rolling hills, a weeping willow to climb, and horse stables just east of the mansion where she took riding lessons. Her grandfather owned an Alfa Romeo and a Cadillac, and she told me how the chrome bumpers and wheels shone in the sunlight. There were parties. The ladies’ dresses were silk and sequined and shimmered beneath the stars, and she told me that she would watch from one of the willow’s branches as they danced.

  By 1939, the house, automobiles, and land had been repossessed. My mother was ten. She and her two sisters, her parents, and her grandparents moved into a two-bedroom tenement on the Lower East Side. She worked part-time at a dry cleaner’s, took care of her aging grandparents, and attended school. By the war’s end in 1945, she was sixteen, sick of asphalt and walk-ups, desperate for weeping willows and green lawns, some semblance of the American dream she’d glimpsed. But then she met the college boy, and he filled her head with subversive notions. “Run away with me,” he told her. “We’ll go west. We’ll live like gypsies.” This was the opposite of her dream. Her heart was set on a manicured lawn and shiny new appliances, the things she saw in magazines, the things she felt she deserved. If only the college boy would finish school and settle down. Get a job. Buy a house. Then she could be with him. But he didn’t. Rather, he went west without her.

  When she moved to the suburbs with my father, she got some of that American dream back. She got the green lawn, an automobile, a flowering dogwood, and her own bed. (Growing up, she’d slept on a pullout sofa with her middle sister.)

  It was in celebration of those magnificent parties from her childhood that she threw her own. It was the one night of the year when she really dressed up. She always wore a tight-fitting red dress with a plunging neckline, her freckled cleavage exposed. She wore her hair teased up in a bouffant. She could’ve popped out of one of her grandparents’ parties. She served finger sandwiches and pâté in addition to the more traditional hamburgers and hot dogs.

  The morning of this year’s party, the phone rang early. I heard my father whisper, “Not today. This isn’t a good time.”

  “Who was that?”

  “Nobody.”

  I sat at the bar, eating my cereal, while my father scanned the counter. He perused jars of pickles, olives, and sandwich spreads before opening a pickle jar and shoving a whole one in his mouth. Crunch …

  My mother opened the sliding glass door. “Frank, I could use some help with the folding chairs.”

  “Be right there,” he managed as he crunched his pickle. I heard the door slide closed. My father crunched and crunched, pickle juice dripping down his chin.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  He wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “It’s your uncle Eddie. He might be coming here tonight. Don’t say anything to your mother.”

  “How come?” I knew very little about my uncle. Occasionally, he called our house at some ungodly hour and my father would pick up in the bedroom and then take the call in the kitchen. My mother described him as shiftless. He lived in Oxnard, California, with his wife, Eleanor, and his son, Scotty, who was apparently around my age, but I’d never met any of them.

  That evening, Father was manning the grill while I delivered sundry highballs to our neighbors and helped Mother with the food. Our yard was framed with tiki torches. Red, white, and blue lights were strung crisscross overhead. There were aluminum chairs farther out on the lawn where partygoers lounged, smoking cigarettes, enjoying their drinks.

  I carried a Waldorf salad to my mother. “Put it on the table, darling,” she said, adding, “Oh, and could you grab a spoon?”

  When I went back inside, there was a man I didn’t recognize. His clothing was disheveled, his hair and eyes dark, his face sweaty. He walked purposefully toward the back patio. Instead of sliding the screen door open, he walked into it, his right leg tearing straight through.

  “Oh, shit,” he said, trying to right the door on its track, his leg caught in the frame. Disentangling himself, he hurled the door to the patio, where it caught a wrought iron chair, toppling it. “Motherfucker!”

  The party took a collective gasp. My father stepped forward. “Everybody,” he said, “this is my big brother, Eddie.”

  Picking up the screen door, Eddie carried it between our stunned partygoers, across the patio and summer lawn to the pines, where he chucked it under a canopy of trees. He walked back toward the party, wiping his hands down the front of his shirt. “That’s a real piece of crap, Frank. I would’ve bought something better made. Not that crap.” Mother, flushed and sweating, her mouth partway open, stood at Father’s side. Uncle Eddie made a finger-gun, pointing it at her. “You look good, Red!”

  Red! The college boy had called her Red. She looked like a deer in headlights.

  He pulled a pack of Lucky Strikes from his shirt pocket. “What’s a guy gotta do to get a drink around here? I thought this was a party!”

  My mother said, “I’ll make you a drink, Eddie.” She turned back toward the house.

  “Thanks. I’ll have scotch. No ice.”

  My father said, “He’ll have coffee.”

  My uncle’s hair was blue-black by tiki light. My father took him by the arm. “You had to show up drunk?” He guided him into the kitchen. I followed.

  Eddie sidled up to my mother. “It’s so good to see you.”

  “We haven’t seen you in a long time.” Her voice broke.

  “Seventeen years,” my father added. “You haven’t met Gloria.”

  Uncle Eddie set his drink on the counter before looking me up and down. Then, he embraced me like we were long-lost friends. There was desperation in the way he held me, in the way he didn’t let go. I was still in shock that this was my mother’s college boy. Did my father know?

  Mother said, “That’s enough, Eddie.”

  He said, “Scotty’s sixteen. You’re about sixteen, aren’t you?”

  “Seventeen now,” I said.

  “My wife is screwing a movie mogul.” Uncle Eddie wiped his face with his shirt sleeve. “So I decided to head east. The West Coast is overrated. The wife is a bitch.” No one in my house said screwing or bitch, certainly not in public, certainly not in my presence.

  Father said, “Language, Eddie.”

  Mother said, “We should get back to the party, to our guests. It’s almost time for the toast.” She poured herself another drink. “Come on, Gloria.” I followed her outdoors while mosquitoes, gnats, and all manner of bugs swarmed our kitchen.

  Every year, she climbed a red, white, and blue crepe-paper-strewn ladder and made an elaborate toast to her Irish immigrant grandparents. It was tradition to celebrate the grandparents and the American dream, but this year the toast was shorter, and she seemed forlorn, closing with, “My grandparents lost their American dream.” Stepping down off the ladder, only Eddie was clapping. Then my father and the others hesitantly joined him.

  Maria Montefusco noted, “The toast was a little different this year.”

  My mother said, “Thanks a lot,” and went for another drink.

  In the cul-de-sac, my father lit bottle rockets. They popped and burst, stars raining down over our house. My mother went up to him. My uncle trailed. “I want to light one, Frank,” she said.

  “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Jesus, Frank. Let her light one,” my uncle said.

  “Please,” my mother added. She pleaded until Father handed her the Zippo and a rocket, at which point she flick-flicked the lighter, putting the flame to the twisted thread. It sputtered out. She relit the fuse, and this time it crackled.

  “Back up, Molly,” Father said. Mother clapped her hands together, but she didn’t back up. The rocket exploded, soaring through her bouffant, her hair aflame. I ran toward her, as did Father, but Uncle Eddie clobbered her like a
linebacker before either of us could get to her. My uncle the college boy was on top of my mother. Orange and green whirligigs filled the sky. The fire was out.

  “It was probably her hair spray that caught,” my uncle said. “She’s fine. Aren’t you fine, Red?” They were on the ground, laughing hysterically. My father kicked his brother’s shoe. He kicked it again, and my uncle slowly got to his feet, putting his hand out to help my mother up.

  Uncle Eddie didn’t even know about the twins. With him, two decades had been erased. There’d been no depression, no car accident, no Belmont. My mother could be the high school girl on the roof again. I felt sorry for my dad. I would never know if he knew. I only knew that my mother had loved his brother before him. My mother had done what she was expected to do. I wondered if she would make that same choice if given a second chance.

  10

  A WEEK AFTER OUR FOURTH of July party, Uncle Eddie started coming to Sunday dinner. Even though my mother insisted that it was rude to discuss politics at the table, Uncle Eddie talked about the war in Vietnam. He’d fought in Korea. “I never should’ve walked into that recruiter’s office.” He drank his scotch and, bleary-eyed, told gruesome stories about his own time in Asia. One minute he was talking about a bomb exploding, and the next, he was talking about his wife, Eleanor, how she wore her hair long down her back, how her boyfriend wore a toupee. “He has one of those in-ground swimming pools. My son, Scotty, smokes pot.” Then, back to Vietnam, back to Korea. “Eleanor kicked me out,” he said, “and the fucking dog wouldn’t even come with me. In Utah, I got robbed by a prostitute named Virtue. Now that’s irony.”

  I couldn’t help but laugh.

  My father said, “Can we not do this in front of Gloria?”

  “Why not? She’s practically grown.” He continued, “Operation Rolling Thunder is a fucking disaster. We need to stay out of Vietnam.”

  “But we’re having Sunday dinner, Eddie,” my mother implored.

  “Sunday’s no different than any other day of the week.”

  I liked Uncle Eddie. He made Sundays more entertaining. The rest of the week, we had Walter Cronkite on the evening news, telling us, “And that’s the way it is,” and it didn’t sound good, any of it.

  In late July, Eddie came to my room after helping my mother with the dishes. “You doing okay?” he asked. “Your mother told me about your girlfriend and that institution.” When had my mother told him these things? I wondered. When had they been alone together? Why had she told him?

  “I’m doing all right.”

  “All the best philosophers were queer,” he said. “Nothing wrong with it.”

  “What about you?” I asked. “How are you doing? You never say. Have you talked to your son?”

  He lit a cigarette. “I’m all right, I guess. The kid doesn’t want to talk to me.”

  “How come?”

  “His mother hates me. I was a shit dad, I guess. They don’t want me, and I can’t say that I blame them. I’ve had some issues with mental stability.”

  “Oh, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, that’s all.” He lit a cigarette. “You want one?”

  “Sure.” Isabel and I had smoked together. I pulled one from his pack, and he lit it with his Zippo. Then, I said matter-of-factly, “You used to date my mother.” If he was putting his cards on the table, I’d show mine too.

  He flicked his cigarette ash in my windowsill. “Did she tell you that?”

  “Does my dad know?”

  Uncle Eddie brushed his bangs back from his face. “We were just friends. It was a million years ago.”

  “Did you go to Columbia?”

  “Before I dropped out. Look, Gloria, your mom and dad are good people. Your dad was always a good guy. He took care of our mother after I split town.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Our father left her and us when I was fifteen and Frank was twelve. Left us for another woman. Got an annulment and made me and Frankie bona fide bastards.”

  “He never told me.”

  “It was more than our mother could take, but he was the good guy who didn’t run out on people. If you’re looking for mental stability, your dad’s got it in spades.”

  I flicked my ash on top of Eddie’s. “I like my dad.”

  “You should.”

  One week later, I got a letter from Sheff: I’m having a gay time in New York. Write to me. I’m waiting! Finally! Had his pop kept him at Belmont this whole time, or had he been busy with his Sal Mineo?

  It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t feel slighted by some Sal Mineo look-alike. I wrote back immediately:

  Dear Sheff,

  I’ve really missed you. I need a couple weeks to make arrangements. I have seventy-three dollars saved from birthdays and Christmases. I’ll write soon.

  Love,

  G

  I thought that since Uncle Eddie was a rogue adventurer, he’d agree to take me to the train station. I was mistaken: “Are you insane? You’ll break your mother’s heart, Gloria.”

  We were sitting on the back patio after Sunday dinner. Hundreds of fireflies blipped on and off. “It’s just a ride. No big deal.”

  “Where are you going? Are you going to see that girl?”

  “No. I don’t care about her anymore.”

  “Then, where are you going?”

  “I’m seventeen. I’ll be eighteen in seven months. I’m going to see a friend who needs me. It’s important.”

  Uncle Eddie slipped off his loafers, resting his bare feet in a chair. “Where does your friend live?”

  “I don’t want to say.”

  “No can do.”

  “Come on. I’m just asking for a ride to the train station. If you won’t take me, I’ll hitchhike there.”

  He shook his head. “No.”

  “I have a friend who lives a block from the train station. Can you give me a ride to her house?”

  “Is she a real person?”

  “Sure.”

  He sighed. “You’re doing this no matter what, aren’t you?”

  I nodded.

  “Will you promise to write and let your parents know that you’re all right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Promise.”

  “I pinky swear.” I thought of Sheff.

  “Come on, then.” Uncle Eddie and I latched pinkies.

  “I’ll send a postcard as soon as I get there.”

  “But I don’t know anything about any of this.”

  “Of course not.” I added, “You’re a softie.”

  “I’m something.”

  A week later, while my dad was at work and my mother was shopping, Uncle Eddie picked me up. On the way to the station, we passed St. Catherine’s Parochial School, the marble statue of Our Lady of Perpetual Help, the Maryville Theater, Edith’s Bakery, and Gino’s Italian Restaurant. As we drove farther on, the boxy houses, narrow streets, and green lawns expanded into industrial sprawl. I had second thoughts but kept them to myself. I was going to see Sheff. We would live how we pleased. That was all that mattered.

  When we pulled into the station depot, Uncle Eddie said, “Are you sure about this?”

  “I am. I have to go see him.”

  “Your friend’s a him?”

  “My friend’s a him.” I grabbed my suitcase and leaned in through the passenger-side window to say thank you.

  “Don’t make them worry. Did you leave a note?”

  I nodded.

  “And what does it say?”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “I hope it said more than that.”

  It did. I’d written:

  Dear Mother and Father,

  I love you both very much, but there’s a friend I need to go see. I’m nearly eighteen, and I’ll finish school in good time. Don’t worry about me. I’ll write to you.

  Love always,

  Gloria

  I thanked my uncle, and he shook his head. “Be careful, please.”

  “I wi
ll.”

  An hour and twenty minutes later, I emerged in Grand Central Station, with its vaulted ceilings, crystal chandeliers, immense columns, and pedestals topped with golden bees. I was breathless. When I was twelve, Mrs. Babineaux had taken me to New York to see Mary Martin play Peter Pan, but we’d taken the transit train to Penn Station. It wasn’t golden like Grand Central Station. There’d been no golden bees.

  Stepping onto East 42nd, I spotted Sheffield waiting for me. I smoothed my red pants and checked the buttons on my sleeveless blouse. My suitcase was the same red as my outfit. It was the same suitcase I’d taken to Belmont. I figured it deserved a good time.

  Sheff wore a mod blazer, the collar upturned, a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip. I slipped between the tourists and commuters, sneaking up behind him, tapping his shoulder. Seeing me, he proclaimed, “We did it! We fucking did it!” He pulled me in close, then blew a plume of smoke over my head as he released me. “I missed the shit out of you, G.” He picked up my suitcase.

  I said, “Same here,” and ran my hand through his coarse blond locks. Overhead, a jet plane passed through the late-summer sky. The sun was low, blocked by skyscrapers. Sheff’s eyes matched the remaining light. It was one of those rare moments in time—the blond-haired boy, the smoky blazer, the crape myrtles and verbena in bloom, the jet plane overhead, the pretzel vendor, a violinist playing for change, everything converging—that felt so tangible, everlasting, that I could hold it in my hand, slip it in my pocket, and pull it out to remember whenever it suited me: whether a week, ten weeks, a year, even ten years later. I could keep it forever.

  On the way to the hotel, we stopped in front of the New York Public Library, the library lions just above us. I said, “My mother used to talk about the library lions, about Patience and Fortitude, the qualities the city needed in order to survive the Great Depression. Her grandparents and parents lost everything.”

  “My pop says that we Schoefflers never lose.”

  “Speaking of your pop, what happened? I thought he was keeping you at Belmont until you turned eighteen.” Sheff pulled a pair of sunglasses from his jacket pocket and pushed them up his nose.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I just kept telling that fucker Dr. Belmont everything he wanted to hear. I confessed until he believed every word I said.”