One More Stop (15 page)

‘I pray for my darlin’ departed father, wherever his soul might be. My father, before he passed away, gave me two buttons from his one and only woolen jacket. I promised him that I would sew them on the first dress that I made after I reached my new home in America. That way he would still be part of the fabric of our family in the new world. These buttons are buried within a sack lying on the ground. My Daniel’s head rests on that sack, that sack made from an old burlap potato bag. It is filled with grain and those two buttons. It was sewn by my mother’s hand. This pillow might be the final resting place for the last two generations of our family.

‘I have no secrets to hide, no shameful lies. I am a young woman who has lost more than my share of family, that which matters most to me. I have no friends here. There are those who have been kindly toward me as I have traveled, but in this camp of many cultures, I do not feel safe. It is every man for himself.

‘My child is not a burden to me. However, there are those who feel that he should be left behind. They say, “Let the creatures of the night take care of his suffering. His soul will be set free.” That is what the foreigners say. We are all of us foreigners here. But, I will not abandon my boy. He is my responsibility until death. And I love him dearly.

‘The moon is full tonight. Because of its light, I can see many tiny spring flowers popping their heads up through the tired earth. It’s spring in Dublin. I wish that I were there with my dear mother Maggie. I wonder if she is still selling cockles and mussels. No matter how far away I am from her, I hope she can still feel my love. We will always be together. This I know for sure.

‘As the night creatures howl, I will sleep wakefully, all the time praying for my dear father’s soul, for my mother, my husband, for my sweet child, and even for myself. I do believe that God is with me somewhere here … wherever here is.

From the hand of Molly Malone.’

Molly Malone has been heard. The class is speechless.

I drive south on route 77 toward Lincoln airport. As I speed down the highway, I want to make sure that the Malone girls are close behind me. In my rear-view mirror, I catch a glimpse of two heads bobbing up and down. Molly’s head is the less buoyant. But, I notice an animation in her body like I have never seen before. She must be regaling Maggie with tales of her success in English class, and expressing her disappointment at Willwrite’s absence. But, Molly Malone has been accepted
by her peers. She is no longer the silent lazy girl in eleventh grade English.

I turn the radio up full tilt boogie, be bop my way toward the rental car return. I am filled with sadness; the tears build up in my right eye. I so do not want to leave. After a few moments of analyzing my feelings, I glance into my side-view mirror. I see a figure sitting in between the Malone girls. There sits my mother. She reads a
Mother Goose
nursery rhyme book. I wonder which rhymes she has chosen for the girls. What I am seeing is an impossibility. Rub eyes. When I look back again, she is gone.

I am not ready to leave Beatrice behind, or is it that I am not ready to face what lies ahead.

My blue scarf is wrapped around my neck, neatly tucked inside my polar fleece jacket. I see my mother in her glory days, young and enchanting. From a ‘somewhere in the Virgin Islands’ straw bag, she pulls out a thin, white cardboard box wrapped with a blue ribbon. She hands me the box. My hands tremble. I can hardly wait to find out what gift she has brought me this time. As I rip and tear at the package, she slaps my hands. I stop, look up at her. What did I do wrong this time?

‘
Take your time, honey,’ she says. ‘Life is short and sweet. Children need to chew life slowly. Treat each moment as if you were eating the best candy in the world; you want each and every mouthful to last forever
.’

‘Like an all day sucker?’ ask I.

‘
Like an all day sucker.
’ I take my sweet time. But when I see the scarf, I forget about my new life’s lesson. In a frenzy, I wrap it around my neck, like a diva making an entrance at a gala in her honor. I was not familiar with the famous dancer Isadora Duncan in those early years, but when I think about it now, that’s who comes to mind.

I return the car, thank the Avis lady, drag the red relic up the out-of-order escalator. There stand the Malone girls.

Molly reprimands me. ‘You drive too fast.’

‘It’s the music – makes me heavy on the metal. I’m just a teenage fool on a four-lane highway.’

Maggie hugs me hello. ‘Molly told me about class. Sounds exciting.’

‘It was.’ I turn to Molly. ‘She was brilliant.’

‘Ma! I asked you not to bring it up.’

‘I would have brought it up if your mother hadn’t. It’s something worth talking about.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it. It happened. It was fun. Mr Willwrite wasn’t there, so it really doesn’t matter.’

‘I left Mr Willwrite a note. When he gets back to school, he’ll be asking to see your paper. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘He’s not gonna grade me on it, is he?’

‘No, nothing like that. I just want him to see your work – your writing. He’s never seen it before, has he?’

‘No. Ma, where’s the bathroom?’

‘Down that hall on your left. Hurry up. Honest to
goodness
, Molly Malone, you have the smallest bladder in the state of Nebraska.’

‘Ma!’ Molly runs to the bathroom.

‘She’s got a gift.’

‘I’m going to miss you so much.’ Maggie reaches for my hand.

I pull away. ‘Don’t. I’ll lose it. She needs your support.’

‘Will you call? Willwrite doesn’t like her.’

Fighting back the tears I say, ‘I’ll try. Why not?’

‘I’ll call you. When’s a good time? She got caught cutting class at the beginning of the school year.’

‘Depends whether Simone is home. Make sure he gets the paper. Tell her she has to participate in his class. I’ll never wash my clothes. You’re all over them.’

Maggie’s face lights up. ‘Kiss me,’ she says.

‘Are you crazy?!’ I look around for Molly.

‘Don’t leave.’

‘Maggie. I have to go home. I’ll be back. I promise. Thank you for …’

Once again, she places her fingers over my mouth. ‘Shh.’

I kiss her fingers. ‘I love you.’

Here comes Molly; eyes red with tears. Maggie pulls away. Molly runs into my arms. ‘I wish you wouldn’t go.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t cry.’ One teardrop falls down my right cheek, another down my left. Soon, I am crying from both sides for both Malones.

Maggie pulls out a handkerchief, reminding me of the piece of cloth Molly wrote about in class. I see the blind child Daniel. I see Molly Malone holding on for dear life, in the middle of a town with no name. Flashback. Life is a flashback.

Maggie hugs me. I can’t help but notice how buxom she is. After all, I am deeply infatuated. She whispers something in my ear, but I don’t hear it. Enough crying. I have to check
the bag
, go through the inevitable inept security check, during which time they will not find my nail file, because they do not know what the fuck they are doing.

One last hug, one last tear, one more word. ‘Molly … you were astounding today. I am very proud of you. I will never forget your story.’

Molly whispers, ‘Thank you for coming here and spending time with me.’

‘It has been an honor. I loved every single minute.’

The wistful Nebraskans cry: ‘We love you.’

And then I am off into the horizon. Torn between many lives, I peruse
The United Way
magazine. There is a longwinded article about Archer Daniels Midland. I skip it; not exactly, I squint, play a game with myself, look at the print so the ink blurs. Fun way of passing airplane time. All of the lettersruntogether. My airplane game keeps me occupied for quite some time. I smell my fingers. Maggie. Sigh. I will return to the house where
Beatrice
lived, still lives, might live forever, depending upon how long she is caught between these infinite planes.

Will Simone be waiting for me in my West 96th Street
apartment
? If she is, I wonder how our homecoming will be? Will I still love her, or will I be too full of Maggie to love anyone else?

I am anxious to unpack my feather pillow, change the
pillowcase
, lie my weary ass on that horsehair mattress Simone insisted upon years ago. She was right to make me spend five grand for that luxury. It is still the best night’s sleep in any town, anywhere.

Can’t wait to see Dina. Hope she’s holding up; not to worry. She is Dina. That is what she does best. Glad that’s not my role in the family tree … So many broken limbs. Do weeping willows weep for water? Or do they weep because they break so easy.

I guess Pop is sleeping downstairs full time now. Can’t even sleep in his own bedroom. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.

I’m quite sure Patty the maid is feeding him dog food,
pretends
it’s ground round, figures he won’t notice the difference, pockets the change … hope it’s not Alpo. I would love to know just how much silverware she’s stolen? I wonder if Dina keeps inventory?

When I get back to Beechwood, I am going to check on the monkey collection, see if you know who has moved Pop’s
precious
darlings.

I forgot to ask Dina about Mrs B. That woman has had a tough life. Burt was one strange guy. But, he was her son, family … Right now, this second, I kind of feel like, like I belong. It’s like those Robert Frost lines.

‘Home is the place where, when you have to go there,

They have to take you in.’

‘
Have I told you about the moon and the stars?’

Look who’s here! Hey Ma. Guess where I’m going? Home. First to 96th Street, then to our house in Beechwood. Maybe I’ll find something incredible there. Just like I found Maggie and Molly Malone in your home town. You know what happened there, Ma? They took me in. That place, those people, they took your daughter in, and made her feel loved.

‘Rock-a-bye baby on the tree top.’

I am so proud of you. If it were my choice, that’s the opening line I would have picked. Bravo.

‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, you know?’

No, it doesn’t. Does it?

When I arrive home, Simone is not waiting anxiously in the apartment. I am both relieved and disappointed. My
disappointment
affords me the opportunity to sashay over to the freezer, open the door, grab a thinly rolled joint I had hidden from myself before my teaching escapades; Maui wowie, sound asleep in a lovely English lemon drop tin, ready to lift my spirits high.

Two hits later disappointment turns into despair. Why did I leave Maggie? Simone is never home. True, over the last double plus decades, we have had an understanding. ‘If you need me, I’ll be there.’ I need her. I need to know that we are real. I drop my broken bag on the floor, march over to the
answering
machine, two messages, press play, take another hit, listen. Maggie whispers, ‘Hi. Miss you so much. It’s been raining
nonstop
since you left. Molly’s locked herself in her room. I’ve suddenly taken up drinking Scotch. It helps. Please call soon.’ And I left her standing at the airport. Second message: ‘Darlin’, I am so sorry I am not there. I had to stay in Zurich for business. A gallery is interested in my work. We meet tomorrow. If you are already home, please forgive me for not being there …
Je t’adore, mon amour
.’

And where the hell are you when I need you!? For God’s sake, my father’s dying. I just got off the road, and you are off fucking some gallery owner in Zurich. And Maggie is in my hair. I feel her right here … in my heart, my crotch. Conflict.

‘
My little maid is not at home;

Saddle my hog and bridle my dog
.’

‘I don’t need advice right now.’ I’ll unpack in the morning. I fall into bed, pull the comforter up over my head, wiggle my toes, roll my head from side to side, take many deep breaths. Feel myself feeling Maggie. I cannot fall asleep. Rock and rock and rock some more. I hear a voice inside my head. A child screams. ‘HELP!’ I curl up into a small ball underneath the comforter.

The horsehair mattress speaks. ‘Hold on, girl. Remember those open spaces. You have been there, before they were named. You are part of them always, no matter where you are. That prairie is yours. It is your home. Tomorrow will remind you of what it is you need to understand about yesterday … Happy trails to you.’

Laundry has a rhythm. Laundry has a deeper meaning than simply being wash, especially after Maggie. Must pick and choose what goes in, what stays unclean. I sort carefully, place my favorite Maggie-scented items in my closet. The rest of the laundry is ready for Whirlpool. When you wash dirty clothes, it is a healing event. I will bet you all of the money I have made from my teaching engagement in Beatrice (not a hill of beans) that when the soaked clothing circles inside the machine, wrapping its arms and legs around itself, in one wet and wild holy
experience
, it forms a mandala of cleanliness. The shock comes when the wet wash is ripped away from the water, thrown haphazardly into the dryer, a vacuum where holy water is sucked out of the laundry’s dripping limbs. Laundry is of vital importance,
especially
after one month on the road without a decent laundromat.

When I yank my favorite white jeans from the dryer, ink has
seeped through the rear right pocket; a note meant to remind me to remember an idea that is now washed away forever. I spray Zout, pour Clorox, soak the white jeans in cold water. No time to wring and towel dry. I am already late for my
leftover
luncheon with Dina.

The 96th Street cross-town bus speeds by. I will walk through the park. New York is beautiful in May. The park has that
pretourist
, post-winter, present-spring glint to it. The grass
shimmers
, birds sing, squirrels look perkier than any other time of the year. Fortunately for them, they do not suffer from
allergies
. They have no need for a HEPA filtration system.

Visit Pop tomorrow. Dina will advise me on ‘ideal topics’, so as not to agitate him. On Monday, first appointment with Mary Michelin. Can’t wait to find out about Dr Dot. No time for jet lag. Got personal business needs attending.

Fred the doorman greets me. ‘Hi Loli. Where you been?’

‘Nebraska. How are you, Fred?’

‘Nebraska? Isn’t that where Warren Buffet lives?’

‘Yeah. He lives in Omaha. How’d you know that Warren Buffet lives in Nebraska?’

‘Everybody knows Warren Buffet lives in Omaha. At least anyone who owns any Berkshire Hathaway.’

‘You own Berkshire Hathaway?’

‘I do. My sister gave me one share thirty years ago.’

‘Congratulations. How much is the stock worth?’

‘Ninety-six thousand the last time I checked.’

Wonder how many shares his sister has? ‘Don’t buzz her. I’ve got the keys. I want to surprise her.’

‘Nebraska, huh? How’d you like it there?’

‘I liked it, lots of sky. People are nice. You know, Fred, people are nice everywhere. If you’re nice to them, they’re nice back.’

‘That’s not true in this building. But your sister, she’s a gem. You girls are lucky to have each other. How’s your old man doing?’

‘Not so good. I’m going to Beechwood tomorrow.’

‘Send him my love. He’s a great guy, your father.’

‘I’ll tell him you said so.’

I open the door to 8D, throw my belly bag on the gray satin chair, stroll into the beige kitchen. Why she chose that color, I will never know. My sister walks out from the pantry.

‘Oh my God! You scared me to death!’

‘I’m here. Aren’t you glad to see me?’

‘Why didn’t you call to let me know when you were coming?’

‘I told you the other night.’

‘I can’t remember that far back.’

‘Too many wine spritzers.’

‘Too much stress.’

We hug. She gives me a perfunctory peck on the cheek. ‘I hate when you do that.’

‘Do what?’

‘Never mind. I missed you.’

‘Let me heat up the vegetables.’

‘Please, no microwave.’

‘I forgot.’

‘No, you didn’t. Let me do it.’ I open the refrigerator to find some undercooked eggplant, overcooked zucchini, burnt cauliflower and canned pickled beets. Dina is no Alice Waters. We take out the All-Clad pots. I try to revive the vegetables, ask for some raw carrots, to save the ratatouille from further ruination. Dina grabs a bunch, rinses them, cuts the tops off with a sharp knife.

‘Oh shit!’ The blood drips down her index finger onto the
carrots. Nonplussed, she sits down on the kitchen stool. She looks at her finger like a baby discovering its shadow on the ceiling. The blood drips onto the cutting board. Dina does not move.

I beeline it for the guest bathroom, open the medicine cabinet, find the Band-Aids and iodine. I close the cabinet, head back to the kitchen. Dina sits staring, as the blood runs down onto each one of her fingers. I grab a dish towel, wrap it around her index finger, get some ice from the freezer, unwrap the towel, place the ice on the cut. Dina does not blink. I run back to the bathroom, find the Q-tips, race back to the kitchen, dab the iodine onto the wound. I slide the Band-Aid out of the wrapper, wind it around Dina’s finger.

I turn her head toward me, stand her up. She is like a rag doll. I hug her. I stroke her hair. I dry her eyes with my index finger. I know where she has gone.

We were here, together, in this very same kitchen when she cut herself. It was raining. Nearly twenty years ago. She answered the phone. It was a brief conversation. Come to think of it, I don’t even know who called that day to break the news.

From that Band-Aid to this Band-Aid. ‘Dina. Dina.’

‘What?’

‘Let’s hang out in the bedroom, read
People
magazine. Do you have the new issue?’

‘
Vanity Fair
.’ She points. I grab the magazine off the kitchen table.

‘Fine. Just as trashy, even worse. Come on. Let’s be stupid.’ We get on the bed, open the magazine.

‘Would she have liked it there, in Beatrice?’

‘Would she have liked it anywhere? She would have loved the Malone girls. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I can’t
stop thinking about Maggie. Let’s read about Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy’s final hours.’

‘It feels like then,’ Dina says.

‘It is kind of like then … before she …’ Now is the right time; tell her my secret. ‘She told me she was going to kill herself.’

Dina laughs. ‘She told everyone.’

‘She told you?’

‘She told me. She told Mrs B. She told Pop.’

‘She made me promise.’

‘Me too.’

‘We all knew?’ I kick off my shoes.

‘She might have told the Good Humor man for all I know.’ Dina laughs again. ‘She even told Ralph.’

‘I can’t believe it. All these years I thought …’

‘She was getting us ready. It was inevitable. You would say that it was her fate.’ Dina kicks off her shoes.

‘No. I would say that it was our fate to have her as our mother. It was her fate to marry Pop.’ I get under the covers with magazine in hand. Dina gets under the covers. ‘They were each other’s shadow.’ I throw off the covers. ‘Didn’t you say that once?’ I examine the Band-Aid on her finger.

Dina pulls her hand away. ‘Did I?’

I flip through the pages until a Calvin Klein underwear ad catches my eye. ‘You shed your snakeskin on my kitchen floor.’

‘Nothing’s changed, different kitchen.’

‘We have.’

‘We’ll never change, never.’ She thinks out loud. ‘Not until …’

‘Don’t even think that thought.’ I think the thought. ‘Too many perfume ads in this shit magazine – smells like a French whorehouse.’

‘How’s Simone?’

‘Nice segue.’

‘Sorry. What time are you going to Beechwood?’

‘Afternoon. What should I talk about?’

Dina smirks. ‘Ask him how Mom’s doing?’

‘Does he know I know?’

‘He knows about the nursery rhymes.’

‘What’d he say?’

‘He doesn’t say much these days. He’s too busy remembering.’

‘She’s busy reminding him. How’s Mrs B?’

‘She’s at Beechwood Manor.’

‘The old age home?!’

‘Assisted living. I visited her. It’s not such a bad place. That’s a lie. It’s pretty depressing.’

‘What isn’t depressing?’

‘Us. We’re not depressing. We might be depressed, but we have good reason to be. We are about to become orphans.’ She pulls the covers over her head.

‘I never thought about it like that.’ I crawl under with her. ‘So Oliver Twistish.’

Dina throws the covers back. ‘I’m making myself a wine spritzer.’

‘I’ll have one too.’

‘You don’t drink.’ She heads for the kitchen.

‘All the more reason.’ I follow her … ‘Will it be over soon?’

‘For those of you who believe in the hereafter, it is never over. For us, yes it will be over soon. He probably has a month … maybe.’

‘Not very long.’ I watch her mix the spritzers.

‘I’m sure for him, it will feel like an eternity.’ She hands me my drink.

‘Is he afraid?’

‘No.’ We toast.

‘Are you afraid?’

‘No. But I’ll miss him.’ She starts to cry. ‘I will miss that old goat.’

‘You will? I wonder if I’ll miss him?’

‘He is so wonderful with the kids. He’s been a fantastic grandfather.’

‘Finally got something right.’

Driving up the Saw Mill River Parkway to see Pop. Early evening. The road cuts right through a thick forest of trees. I ask myself, do trees have secrets? No. The beauty of a tree is that it’s just simply there for us to love, something we cherish because of its beauty. Maggie’s like that.

I park Dina’s car in front of the house, climb up the front steps two at a time just like I did when I was, oh I don’t know, six years old, maybe seven. Before opening the entry door, I stop, turn around, glance at the hopscotch playing field of my youth. It is intact, waiting for one more game.

From inside my jeans pocket, I dig out a temporary
permanent
good luck penny. Damn. I meant to give it to Molly. I throw the penny onto the flagstone walkway. I play: hop, skip, jump, balance, both feet hit ground simultaneously, and hop, skip, balance, bend forward, pick up … freeze in place … reconnect with …
the little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her
…

I am prepared to enter his world, her world, our world, the world that none of us left behind. I flip the coin. It comes up heads. I win. I toss it across the street. It lands inside Mrs B.’s overgrown front yard. Wonder who’s living there now? Patty,
the maid, will tell me. Patty will tell me more than I want to know.

The front door seems smaller than it was once upon a
childhood
. The house, the windows, the white wooden siding, the green shutters have all shrunk.

‘Glory be to God. Look who’s come a callin’.’ Patty has lived in the United States for more than twenty years. She has been employed and stealing from my father for almost all of those twenty years. Why does Pop keep her? He never liked the china in the first place … Doesn’t want to be alone. She fusses over him. She never knew my mother, therefore she does not remind him of my mother.

Patty whispers. ‘It won’t be long now. He’s turnin’ yellow. And she’s in the bedroom. He talks to her all the time. I’m afraid to clean in there. Lord knows what might happen if I run into her. I might not get out alive.’

One less room to clean. ‘Where is he?’

‘In the television room. He loves his new hospital bed: pushes the button, goes up and down, up and down. I swear on my dear departed uncle’s life, God rest his soul, she’s awaitin’, whisperin’, showin’ him the way. She scared Mrs B. blind, killed Burt, now she’s after him. The Lord is watchin’. But mercy, it ain’t the Lord doin’ the work here. The Devil’s come a callin’.’

‘Patty! The devil is not in the house.’

‘Oh yes, and it is your mother’s soul that the devil’s got a hold of.’

‘Patty! That’s enough. She was my mother. You never even knew her. Don’t talk about her like that. Understood?’

‘I didn’t know you were so sensitive about her.’

‘Now you know. The TV room?’

‘Probably sleepin’, he is, like a baby. He’ll wake up when he hears your little footsteps.’