“You got this all figured out, have you? Do you realize you’re the only kid in the family—and a girl at that—who ever planned on college? Let alone, God help us, medical school?”
“Daddy, Frankie junior always wanted to be a cop. And Patrick is happy working for the phone company. And Elizabeth is no great scholar and with her looks … and … well, she’ll be married right out of high school, I can bet on it.”
“We’re here to talk about you, not your brothers and sister.”
“Okay. Look, Dad, it would be a really good deal. See …”
“A deal? Is that what we’re talking about? Well, then, we know what your end of it is, but what’s my end, since you’re talking about a deal?”
She was ready for him. She spoke about free tuition for four years. The money he’d save could be used for medical school. And then he’d have a doctor in the family. Free medical advice for life. And she’d be independent and self-supporting. A burden to no one.
Finally they came to a compromise. Not what she wanted, but better than she’d actually expected. She could go to Hunter. She could take all the science courses she needed for premed. But she had to agree to take all the teaching credits she’d need to qualify as a teacher. As a backup.
And she had to agree to one more condition. She had to get straight As in all her premed courses. Nothing less, or the deal was off.
Megan leaned back. She studied the ceiling for a moment, then took a chance. “Okay, Dad. And what’s my part of the deal? If I do get straight As, like you said, then what? Do I get to go to medical school? Is that the quid pro quo?”
Frankie Magee was stunned. His reaction was first anger, then astonishment; he burst out laughing, and smacked the top of his desk with his open palm. “Well, I’ll be damned. The quid pro quo? Well, my God, girl, who’s your mouthpiece, then? Sounds like you’ve been talking to your lawyer. I bet I can guess who, if I give it some thought.”
“Well, you told me your requirement, Dad. And if I do meet it, will you see me through med school?”
“Well, the deal, as you put it, kiddo, is that then we shall see what we shall see.”
Which, for Frankie, was as good as a yes.
“Okay, we got a deal.”
She stood up, walked around his side of the desk, thrust her hand out at him. Frankie took her hand solemnly, shook it, then grabbed her in a bear hug, ruffling her unruly red hair.
“Jesus Christ, kiddo, you are some piece of work, you are. G’wan now, you’ve taken up enough of my time. I’ve got important business to take care of here.”
He held the door open and watched, his heart breaking for her earnestness, her determination, as she hauled herself along, clumping the heavy steel-braced leg up the stairs rapidly.
Ah, jeez, Frankie Magee thought. That one was a winner all right. Damn shame she hadn’t been born a boy. Even with the leg—hell, look at old FDR, that one would have gone right to the top. Top of the line, and he’d have been there supporting her progress all the way.
But she was a girl, and a crippled girl at that. Ah, well, let her have her ambitions. At least for now.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
FOR ALL THE YEARS OF HER LIFE, MEGAN heard so many different versions of what happened that day. It had happened so quickly, she wasn’t sure what she really remembered.
President Franklin D. Roosevelt, campaigning for his unprecedented third term, was going to ride in an open car right down the middle of the Grand Concourse on his way to Fordham University. And La Guardia, the Little Flower, would be in the car, right next to the President. Her uncle, Captain Tom O’Brien, had arranged for all his family to have front-row seats in the reviewing stand built up in tiers across from Loew’s Paradise. They could watch the whole July Fourth Parade right up close, but best of all they could snap pictures of old FDR himself.
The Grand Concourse was lined on both sides of the center lanes with cheering people, thrilled by the entourage headed up toward Fordham Road. They had all seen him in newsreels, heard him in his fireside chats, seen photographs of him. He was as familiar as any loved grandfather, and now he was about to appear, in the flesh, right in front of them. It would be a lifelong memory.
Megan felt a special thrill, because she knew her father had been on the planning committee, making arrangements for the police escort, the traffic clearance, the exact timing of an exact route. He’d been part of the team to arrange for the right welcoming committee, lining up the right power guys for the presidential handshake, the photographs, the quick interviews with the press guys, who weren’t to flash their cameras at random—don’t take the Chief by surprise.
Her father wouldn’t be at the podium with FDR and the mayor and the president of Fordham University and all the pols who ran the Bronx. But he was the man behind the men, and Megan had learned how important Frankie Magee was.
The open car was preceded by ten motorcycle cops, all straight and military in their uniforms, riding two by two and perfectly coordinated. Then came a closed car; then, a ways behind, the black car carrying FDR and the Little Flower.
A wave of sound traveled along the Concourse, starting far down from the crowd that had already seen them, moving quickly to those still anticipating, then bursting with the cheers of those suddenly faced with the reality: Here was the man they had heard about all their lives. FDR, the President of the United States.
Megan stood away from the bleacher benches, clicked a few shots of the motorcycle cops, prepared her camera, ready for the best shot of her life. Standing next to her was a thin young woman, no more than a girl herself, clutching a crying baby against the left side of her body, her right hand trailing, resting lightly on the shoulder of a platinum blond girl of about five, who was holding the collar of a boy about three. As the entourage approached, the young woman was caught up in the excitement. It was really happening; behind the motorcycle cops was a closed car, and then …
The young mother raised her right hand to wave, enveloped by the cheers and excitement. The little girl released the hand of her small brother and stood on tiptoe, crying, “I wanna see too, I wanna see.”
The small boy, lost in a forest of legs, surrounded by large, excited people who frightened the daylights out of him, pushed forward and ran, with short, clumsy steps, right into the path of the long black escort car.
No one noticed him except Megan, who dropped her camera and, with a sudden burst of energy and speed, flung her body headfirst at the small boy, knocking him clear.
The left front wheel of the heavy car rode over Megan’s strong left leg, breaking the femur with a crisp cracking sound, then thumped over the heavy brace, bending it, snapping it, forcing a jagged edge into the polio-withered leg.
Megan remembered nothing of that moment, or the moments that followed.
She woke up in a clean-smelling, starchy bed in Fordham Hospital, dreamy and floating, surrounded by people.
She saw the faces in a quick blinking sequence, the way you riffled a thick wad of photos with your thumb to make them look like a movie:
Her father, a nurse, her mother, a doctor.
And then, the moment she would remember for the rest of her life.
He was a large man with strong shoulders; his big hands rested on a pair of canes. His face was so familiar, so known. An uncle, a grandfather, haggard but handsome, with a sad, tired, kind face. His eyes, behind those frame-less eyeglasses, were steady and gray. His hand, relinquishing one cane, which someone caught immediately, lifted her hand, squeezed it hard.
“Young lady, you are the bravest girl I have ever seen in my life. And I’ve seen some brave ones. You keep up the good fight now, Megan Magee. You’ve made your family very proud. By golly, you’ve made me very proud. You’re a strong, tough young girl. Now you just hold on there. You’ll do, you certainly will.”
He squeezed her hand again and nodded at her. He knew. He understood. There were flashes of light and flashes of pain and noise and then her father and mot
her and people taking more pictures and voices and then everyone moved away and it became quiet and she felt floaty again and dreamlike.
She dreamed—or did it really happen?—that her father stood beside her, leaning over, and kissed her forehead and said something he had never, ever said to her before in her entire life.
“Megan, I am so proud of you, kiddo. God, I’m proud of you, Red.”
And she saw tears running down his face. Or so she seemed to remember.
There were pictures of Megan, not only in the New York papers, but throughout the country; and her family made a collection and started a scrapbook. Her father framed two editorials, one from the Journal-American—“Megan’s Little, But Oh My!”—and one from the Daily News—“Never Underestimate the Power of a Girl Like Megan.”
When the excitement finally died down, what she was left with was pain. Not the same kind of pain as the polio, although her brace had broken off and gotten embedded in her withered leg. She felt the pain of broken bones, something she’d been through before. The throbbing, pulling, screeching ache of helplessness. She couldn’t even look forward to getting up in a few weeks, hopping around on crutches, knowing it was all temporary. What the hell could she hop on, her heavy, newly braced, healing, weak, shriveled little leg?
And then there was the prospect of Warm Springs, Georgia. At first it sounded great, exciting. A special guest, in a way, of old FDR. Away from home, no parents to bother her—a whole new world.
And she wouldn’t miss out on her first year at college. Frankie Magee had worked it all out with Hunter College; all her freshman textbooks would be sent down to Warm Springs. There were professors from Emory University who monitored college students at Warm Springs.
Yeah, it would be tough, but she was the one who wanted college, right? Or did she want to chicken out?
She had gotten cold feet; she was scared. It was a long time to be away from home. She hadn’t really been prepared for anything of this duration. Camp was a short-time deal. This was for nearly a year.
She had a couple of teary confrontations with her mother, who tried to convince her that Warm Springs would be wonderful for her.
“You just want to get rid of me, right? I’m too much trouble, right?” She prodded her mother, exasperated her, until her mother finally said, “Yes, damn it. Yes, it would be easier for me. But it would be better for you, and that’s the main thing.”
“Fine. Then I’ll go,” Megan said bitterly.
What she had expected to be the worst year of her life turned out to be one of the best.
It began with the trip by train to Warm Springs, in a special compartment, modified to make her as comfortable as possible; she rode supine, her head and shoulders propped up to face the windows. Best of all, her Aunt Catherine accompanied her on the two-day-and-two-night trip, and it was the longest, most private time they had ever spent together.
Among the things she had always loved about Catherine was that she was never patronizing, never spoke to her in a special grownup-to-kid voice, as though she were a simple-minded imbecile. Catherine was Catherine, and she treated Megan as though they were equals. And friends.
There was one topic that Catherine guarded, revealing only what she wanted to reveal; and she never apologized for omissions. That was about her life with Mr. Albert William Harlow. There were private parts of it that were no one’s business but her own, but she did tell Megan about their travels and how they lived. They had been to Europe, to China, to South America—to wherever Pop (that’s what she called him) had business interests, or just curiosity. They lived in the summers in Providence, Rhode Island, in a large house by the water; in the winters in Florida; at other times in a large apartment on Riverside Drive.
Megan knew the “old man” was a widower, much older than her aunt; he had grown sons he hardly ever saw. She knew her aunt seemed happy; she never felt she had to explain her situation to anyone. It was her life. Period.
Relaxed, lulled by the rhythm of the train, the sound of the rushing wind outside the windows—her pain alleviated at its worst by pills Catherine gave her sparingly—Megan finally, in the safety of this private world, was able to talk to her aunt about her own deepest worries.
“Do you think I should have been a boy?” she asked her aunt.
Catherine put down the bit of tatting she worked on from time to time, the little clicking ivory gadget that miraculously spun thread into lace. She dropped her work into her needlepoint bag and frowned. Considering.
“Well, I’m not sure. I think the question is, more, do you wish you’d been born a boy?”
Without hesitation, Megan answered, “Absolutely.”
“Well, then. And why would you rather be a boy?”
“Aunt Catherine, did you ever know a boy who wanted to be a girl?”
Surprisingly, Catherine said, “Yes, as a matter of fact I do. One of Pop’s sons. But that’s another matter altogether, for another time. Let’s talk about you. Why in the world would you want to be a boy?”
It was so obvious, how could she even ask? For all the advantages. Boys had everything, could do anything, be anything they wanted. It was even expected of them to be leaders, achievers, successful, ambitious. No one judged them on all their energy and dreams, telling them, “It’s not normal; it’s not proper; it’s not the way to behave. You’d better wise up and change before people begin to talk.”
And boys were better friends to each other; they trusted each other; they remained friends; they didn’t turn on each other for someone else; they didn’t rat on each other, betray or hurt each other.
“Well, now you’re talking in some very broad terms. Generalizing. Some boys are pretty great. Some are not. Some are absolutely loyal and dependable, others not. But do you mean no girl can be any of those things you admire so much? What about you yourself?”
“Well, I am like a boy. I’m always being told that. Be more like a girl. Whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean.”
“I think it should mean whatever you want it to mean, Megan.”
How could she explain? She had gotten her period last year—late, at fifteen, but there it was. And her body had changed. Her breasts, though small, were defined; her hips, though still narrow, had taken on definition compared to her slender waist. But nothing, really, had changed. No magical transition. She was still Megan, regardless of her changing body. In her head, in her very essence, she was still exactly who she had always been, the same Megan.
“Then be the Megan you are, sweetie. That’s the best thing to be. Not whatever you think other people decide you should be. Be yourself, for your own reasons. For your own integrity.”
She took a deep breath and tried to approach the really hard thing, what she had never articulated before, found hard to face, tried hard not to think about, though it was always there.
“Aunt Catherine, what if, I mean—there are such things as … you know. Queer girls. Girls who should have been boys. You know. Freaky girls.”
Very quietly, Catherine asked her, “Is that what you’re worried about, Megan? That you might be that kind of girl?”
Megan shrugged and gnawed on her thumbnail.
“Well, then answer me this. Do you like boys?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you think, if you were a boy, you’d like girls? The way boys like girls? Do you understand my question?”
Megan wrinkled her nose. “Ugh. No way. I just like to be with boys. To be myself with them. I know they like me, and it makes me feel … like myself. I don’t have to pretend to be someone else. But me, like girls the way boys do? Oh, Aunt Catherine, no!”
Catherine smiled. “Well, now let me ask you this. Is there one boy you like, in a special way? Different from how you like others?”
Megan grinned. “Dante. Danny D’Angelo.” She felt her face become hot and flushed. “He kissed me once.”
“And did you like it?”
“Yes. Oh, God, it made me feel … I d
on’t know. It made me feel so good.”
“You’re okay, baby. Don’t think about any of that stuff anymore. You’re absolutely okay. Just be the very Megan you are. Those who like it, fine. Those who don’t, the hell with them.”
Her aunt told her things about men that Megan had never imagined, things that finally, in spite of her ambiguity and resentments, made her realize for the first time that she was glad to be a girl.
“They are afraid,” Catherine said. “Almost all the time, they are afraid. They worry about not measuring up; they worry about their genitals. This seems to be one of the most overwhelming concerns. The size—constantly bragging, comparing, worrying, teasing, commenting, ridiculing each other, and hoping to God no one will say anything about their own particular ‘family jewels,’ the most precious and burdensome possession each man has. And I’ll tell you this, sweetie. Maybe you’re not old enough, but what the hell, you’re smart enough to know this. A woman, during the sex act, can always fake it, pretend it was wonderful even if it was awful. But a man has to get an erection. God, no matter what, he has to ‘get it up.’ It’s his measure of manhood.”
Megan knew the mechanics of sex. She’d been told, not very explicitly or accurately, but functionally. But nothing like this—this, which she could understand and wonder at. No one had told her things in the calm, matter-of-fact way her Aunt Catherine did.
“If they can’t get hard, they blame the woman. Always, toots, the woman is to blame for their every sexual failure. And believe me, they have them. Their whole lives revolve around their sex, Megan; their sex organs rule them. And they are so threatened by women. They are scared to death of us. My God, what if a woman is actually smarter, more competent, can do things they can do, what only a ‘real man’ is supposed to do? They have to constantly put down a bright woman, a ‘fresh-mouthed woman.’ And if a girl is smart, and not smart enough to hide it, they compliment her in sexual terms: ‘She’s got balls.’ And then they try to hurt her: ‘She must be queer.’ ‘What kind of girl acts like that?’ ‘Who the hell does she think she is?’
The Ryer Avenue Story: A Novel Page 17