Mackenna on the Edge

by Djuna Shellam

  Camille had heard enough and decided to take what seemed at the moment to be the risk of her professional life. Eve sounded legitimate enough and certainly didn’t come off like some nutcase who would do Mackenna any harm. After all, weren’t these times tough enough to warrant a little decency and compassion? What if she were in the same position… wouldn’t she want someone to trust her and help get her off the streets?

  “All right, Eve. You win. I may live to regret this, but I have neighbors who’re going through what you are and I can’t even imagine how hard it must be. Besides that, I’d do anything to not have to ever move in with my mom, so I can definitely relate to your predicament.”

  “Bless you, Camille.” Eve was again on the verge of tears. “You are truly a good person.”

  “Okay. Okay. You don’t need to pump sunshine up my skirt, though God knows I could use a little of that right about now. Just don’t make me regret this, all right? I’ll give you Mackenna’s number, but I swear to God…” Camille warned emphasizing every word. “…if I get fired… or killed, which is a distinct possibility… or if you’re not really who you say you are, I will hunt your ass down to the ends of the earth and you will pay dearly. Do you understand? I will have the motive and the desire to do it… and I will. And if I don’t get you in this life, I promise… I’ll follow you into the next. Got it?”

  Eve breathed a sigh of relief. “Absolutely,” Eve exclaimed. “And please don’t worry, Camille. Really. If Em—dammit!” Will she ever remember Em’s new name? she wondered. “Uh, Mackenna—is unhappy to hear from me, I swear to you… I’ll never call again and I’ll… I’ll even eat the phone number so that no one besides me ever sees it. I swear. Cross my heart. Can you hear that?”

  “What?”

  Eve held the mouthpiece to her chest as she made a deliberate crossing with her finger. “I’m crossing my heart, hoping to die…”

  “Oh good god, all right, you can stop now. Goodness, you’re so dramatic.” Camille was amused, but then added sternly. “There’s nothing worse than regretting a good deed, you know.”

  “You won’t regret it, and I’ll remember you in my next life where I swear,” she pledged, her voice quivering, “you’ll never have to come looking for me. And I know God will reward you for your faith in me.” Eve sniffed.

  “Oh lord… Okay, okay! Don’t go getting your hanky in a bunch, Eve. All I’m doing is giving you a phone number. I’m not guaranteeing you’ll find a place to stay.”

  “You mean she might not have any room for me?”

  “Oh,” Camille chuckled almost to herself. “I don’t think that’s a problem. No, Mackenna just may not be up for company right now.”

  “Oh really? Is there something I should know about? Is something wrong?”

  “That’s all I’m going to say on the subject… it’s none of my business and not my place to share Mackenna’s… er… um… life with anyone. I’m already going out on a real small limb giving you her number.” Camille was suddenly empathetic. “But, hey, if you aren’t successful with Mackenna, give me a call back and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “No, it’s okay,” Eve said with resignation. “If I’m not welcomed, I’ll figure out someth —”

  “No… what I meant was… if you end up without a place to stay after you talk to Mackenna… well…” Camille hesitated as she fought an internal battle. She sighed. “I might be willing to let you stay here. Maybe. If you’re really who you say you are. On a short-term basis, of course,” she emphasized. “And I’d have to talk to Mackenna to make sure you’re not a kook or something like that, but… I know how you feel about dying alone if the Big One comes…” She paused momentarily and then said softly, “I feel the same way. Anyway, good luck and be careful out there.”

  ~/~/~/~/~

  Bless that Camille, Eve thought—again—and smiled to herself as she slowly negotiated her car along the shaded, winding road. She stopped the BMW she lovingly referred to as “Bea” at the end of a secluded driveway and checked her directions one final time before committing her car to the narrow, heavily landscaped asphalt road.

  “This looks like the place. I guess I’ll know soon enough if it’s not. C’mon Bea, let’s see if this is indeed our yellow brick road.” Eve began to sing a rousing version of the Wizard of Oz classic as she and Bea the BMW slowly wound their way up the hill. “Follow, follow, follow, follow, follow the yellow brick—whoa!” Eve stepped hard on the brakes at the abrupt appearance of a small guard shack, prohibiting her from continuing any farther up the narrow road.

  Eve whistled softly to herself at the sight before her. “Holy shit,” she uttered under her breath. Awed by the looming mansion beyond the decorative metal gates, she barely noticed the guard appear from within the modest structure and cautiously approach her car.

  “Yes, ma’am?” The meticulously uniformed guard leaned onto the car door with both hands, surveying, rather squeamishly, the apparent yard sale on wheels that had just cast a blight upon his post.

  “Oh, hi. I… I’m here to see Em… uh… Mary-Mackenna.” Shit. “I mean Mackenna. I mean, Mackenna Martín.” Eve stammered nervously, suddenly self-conscious of her rather motley appearance and desperately hoped she wasn’t emitting foul odors as well.

  “Are you expected?” he inquired, his musical Irish accent laced with suspicion.

  “Yes. I just spoke to Em about thirty minutes ago—I was told to come right up.”

  His nose wrinkled. “Your name would be…?”

  “Oh… Uh, Eve—Eve Magnusson.”

  “Oh, right!” The guard snapped upright. “Of course, Miss Magnusson. I apologize most sincerely. Just go through the gates, Miss, and park in front—I’ll alert Miss Martín of your arrival.”

  “Thank you.” Douche. Eve was not in the mood for attitude of any kind, justified or not, but immediately forgot the guard as the stylish iron gates slowly pulled apart to allow her and Bea access to the grounds. She eased the BMW through the gates and drank in every detail of the estate as she drove across the cobbled drive to the front of the Italian Villa-styled mansion. She parked behind a blue late model Jaguar convertible with plates that read MMM3.

  Jesus. Nice car, Em, Eve thought to herself as she sat staring at the main house. She didn’t know what she should make of the opulence before her and couldn’t quite figure out why Em was staying here of all places. Eve knew Em was experiencing a modest level of success as a writer, but certainly not to this degree. This was… really loaded.

  Eve contemplated Em’s living arrangement for several minutes before she finally disembarked from her car and headed for the exceedingly large front door. Many, many years had passed since she last spent any time at all with Em, and just the idea of seeing her again was providing for some pretty significant flip-flops in her stomach. Personally, she was really fond of Em—at least as fond as a person can be when purposely kept at a distance—but there was some rather unpleasant history between them that they had never really fully explored together. It was that very history which usually started the butterfly races in Eve’s stomach—fresh races were signaled to begin as she pressed her finger against the doorbell button. As if the button itself was responsible for the firing of a starting pistol, Eve experienced a subsequent release of at least a million frothing, fluttering butterflies.

  ELEVEN

  Betrayal

  The middle of June finally came, and my year as a first-grader finally ended. Despite the fact that I was awesome in arts and crafts and equally shining in drama class, my overall grades hadn’t improved much, and Papá and Mother had quite a bit to say about that. I wasn’t positive I would give a stellar performance as Doc when we finally performed Snow White later in the summer, but it didn’t matter. My unspoken love for Abigail grew to the point I thought I would absolutely burst whenever we sat together in drama class rehearsing our lines.

  I lived for those times. Though I was still somewhat quiet and shy around her, over the next
several months, we eventually formed a friendship that was mostly sibling in nature. Had I not been so hopelessly in love, I would probably have looked upon Abigail as a beloved older sister. Looking back with a clear head, that’s how she probably saw herself and why she was so kind and loving toward me. It didn’t matter to me why—my tender age prohibited me from understanding what I was feeling—I just knew I couldn’t get enough of her.

  By the time Summer Day Camp began, I was often scribbling my adoration for Abigail in my notebook and even on the inside of my copy of the play during rehearsals when Abigail was otherwise engaged. Though my days of marrying Xavien and all subsequent wedding plans were far behind me, I began to fantasize about someday marrying Abigail. I always got stuck on the attire portion of the fantasy, and spent a great deal of time trying to figure out a solution. Even though Abigail would probably look simply stunning in a veil, I was clearly more accomplished at wearing it. Obviously, my seven-year-old mind was not equipped for such a complex dilemma.

  Meanwhile, “The Toad” was becoming quite a pain, constantly complaining about being my understudy, and went to great pains to play practical jokes on me. He was ruthless. Several times, Abigail stepped forward to rescue me, but even she was not immune to a wiggling, live garter snake thrust in her face or large spiders thrown on her hair. For that matter, neither was Miss Michaels. Were I not so attached to Abigail, I probably would have stepped aside, despite loving the part of Doc. But I couldn’t, and so I suffered—immeasurably. I suffered until Sister Mary Gabriel got wind of The Toad’s abhorrent behavior. She immediately put a stop to it and punished him by dismissing him as my understudy, making him work on the scenery instead.

  It probably wasn’t the wisest punishment for a future ax murderer. I felt terrible, but more than that, I felt a little afraid. I saw Larry’s face when Sister admonished him in front of everyone, but more important, I saw how he looked at me when he thought no one else was looking. He had revenge oozing from his pores, and I knew I was in for something. Predictably, I didn’t have to wait long before I found out exactly what he had in mind for me.

  The day before our first dress rehearsal, while I was on-stage doing a run-through with the rest of the cast, “The Toad” managed to steal my copy of the play and all of my scribbled notes about my love for Abigail. Before the day was through, he had shared my secret with every kid in Day Camp and I became the helpless object of their cruel and vicious torment. To this day, more than thirty years after the fact, I still get slightly queasy in my stomach when I think of how the joy in my young life was so quickly destroyed by something so innocent as a school-girl crush.

  He was cruel and encouraged the other children to join him in taunting me with sing-song chants of Mary-Mackenna is a ho-mo, Mary-Mackenna is a queer… Mary-Mackenna is a faggot… Mary-Mackenna is a lezzy… Mary-Mackenna loves Ab-i-gail… Mary-Mackenna is a ho-mo… Mary-Mackenna’s going to He-ell… and so on.

  As a little kid, I didn’t know what those words meant, but I knew that they must be horrible based on the hate and venom evident in the children’s voices and faces—children who only days before had been my friends. In as short a time as one day, I couldn’t walk about by myself without kids throwing things at me—pencils, erasers, pebbles, spit wads, marbles and just about anything they could get their grubby little hands on. If they were close enough, I would endure kicks to my shins or anonymous fists slugging my arms or my back.

  But what hurt more than any of the physical attacks and the taunting from the other children was the sudden retreat by my beloved Abigail. It was more than I could bear, that she would or could abandon me in my time of need. Though Abigail didn’t join in on the taunting, she may as well have by turning her back on me. That first night I cried myself to sleep and was afraid even to pray to God because I actually believed the kids at school who said I was a wicked sinner. I was certain that God hated me.

  The second day of the scandal, I found myself standing before Mother Superior, summoned by her to determine what on earth was the commotion around Day Camp. She waved my copy of the play in front of me and scolded me soundly—I brought all of this unseemly behavior upon myself by engaging in such sinful thoughts, she bellowed, and now my parents would have to be called. The part of Doc was unceremoniously taken from me and given to The Toad’s replacement. It seemed there was too much of a disturbance whenever I was on stage, so just like that, I was replaced.

  To say I was devastated would be an understatement of epic proportions. After my parents’ humiliating meeting with Mother Superior, needless to say, I did not return to Summer Day Camp. Instead, I spent the rest of the summer playing by myself at home, mostly in the sanctuary of my room. Mother and Papá were very upset after the meeting with Mother Superior, but they never said anything about the incident at school. It was as if Summer Day Camp never existed, and therefore, the unpleasantness never happened.

  As the summer progressed, however, I overheard several hushed conversations between my parents that revolved around the subject of sending me elsewhere in the fall. Little did I know how far away elsewhere would eventually be.

  In August, Mother, Papá and I went on a short holiday to Europe to visit Papá’s family in Spain and then to Ireland for a family gathering of Mother’s family. I, however, did not return with them. Not exactly. Back in the States, they enrolled me into a private girls’ school in Boston where I would stay for what seemed in my little mind like an eternity, but in actuality proved to be only three years. I think it seemed much longer to me because I only saw Mother about once every six weeks, and Papá perhaps every three months or so. When I did finally see them, they always seemed distracted.

  At the time, I believed it was because I had been such a bad girl. I was evil. I had had unnatural thoughts about another girl and, as a result, humiliated my parents. My behavior was so sinful it probably damned them to Hell as well. I felt certain God was punishing me by sending me away and making my parents hate me. It wasn’t until much later in my life that I discovered the real reason for our move to Boston.

  My parents were involved in the election efforts for Senator John F. Kennedy. After the election, my father was still involved with the Kennedy family, but in what way I was never privy. I only knew that after the assassination, Papá returned home a very sad man—almost as sad as Mother. Prior to that fateful day, I had never seen my mother cry.

  Politically, they were shaken to the core by JFK’s death, but they seemed to recover some of their fire when Bobby began to run for president. His assassination five years later killed whatever passion they had in politics for good. They hung every disappointment of JFK’s assassination on the hopes that Bobby would carry his brother’s torch and ultimately fulfill their dreams with his own vision. After great involvement in Bobby’s presidential campaign, their fire was extinguished and they simply remained politically uninvolved the rest of their lives.

  I don’t remember much from those years, and aside from fragments of some random event that will occasionally pop into my head, I’ve never had a strong sense of familiarity with that time. It’s possible they were just three very uneventful years, but who knows? There are other times later in my life that remain just as vague, but did not seem to have the impact as my three “lost” years in Boston. What I do remember from that time—that is perhaps more of an understanding than a memory—is this penetrating, or more of an overwhelming, feeling of shame and awkwardness that seemed to develop into a painful shyness that, after all these years, has managed to stay with me to some degree.

  Upon the conclusion of fourth grade, my parents removed me from the Boston school and we spent the summer at a beach with lots of other children. It seemed as if there were many families and lots and lots of children who appeared to know each other. There always seemed to be someone to play with—children of all ages as well as adults—and there was never a dull moment with them. I remember all of them being something I didn’t quite understand at the time becau
se they wanted to win everything so much. Their passion for every single game we played I learned later was known as being competitive. That they were. The word ruthless also should be thrown into the mix because they were certainly that.

  Several times that summer, I remember lots of activity surrounding the arrival of one family in particular, but I never really paid attention to all of the hoopla. At that time in my life, I had an attention span of about three minutes before my focus shifted elsewhere. Now, of course, I regret not being more alert because I have come to realize we were in the company of the Kennedy clan, and the whirlwind of activity was caused by the First Family’s arrival at Hyannis Port. As a child, however, those powerful people did not seem to have any importance to me except that they were friends of my parents and the parents of my friends, or more accurately, my acquaintances.

  Growing up, I had met so many people of distinction: princes and princesses, dukes, duchesses, kings and queens, and even presidents. I dare say, it was nothing out of the ordinary for me to be in the presence of another dignitary, even if it was the President of the United States. I wish I’d realized then how fleeting childhood is. Perhaps I would have paid more attention to the events around me.

  Nonetheless, the idyllic summer continued, accented by wonderful interludes with my parents. For three years prior, I had felt like a stranger, and was finally beginning to feel comfortable with them—and I actually felt loved by them again. I felt forgiven, redeemed and without guilt for the first time in so long. But as with anything, all good things must end, and the summer certainly ended for me.

  Before I knew it, we were on a train bound for Los Angeles. Mother didn’t enjoy flying and thought I should see our country, so it was the cross-country train for us. Papá remained behind on business and I harbored a gnawing fear about what my fate would be in regard to school upon my return home. Despite the impending adventure ahead of me, all I could think was that summer was over and the future for me held little promise.