One More Stop (20 page)

Simone was in Zurich brushing up on her philandering. It was seven a.m. Zurich time when I placed the call.

‘Hello.’

‘Simone?’

‘
Oui
, darling. Let me take it in the other room.’ Obviously, someboody’s in bed with Simone. When she picks up the other phone, someone hangs up the extension.

‘Simone, I have to leave New York on August 27th … for Nebraska,’ I say with a lump in my throat.

‘But darling, I will not be home ’til August 25th.’

‘I’m going to teach high school in Beatrice. They want me.’

‘Is it Maggie?’

‘No. How do you know about Maggie?’

‘How long have we known each other? I am not stupid. Please don’t go.’

‘We don’t talk, Simone. We’re never in the same city for more than five minutes. I feel like I’m missing something. So are you. We’re just habits.’

‘Please … don’t leave me. Come with me to Zurich. We’ll change our lives.’

‘We won’t change ourselves. It’s time. I wish it weren’t, but it is.’ I begin to cry. ‘I will never look at a flower without thinking about how you would look at it.’ She begins to cry. ‘Don’t cry. Please stop crying. Listen to me … We can’t do this anymore. It’s not good for either one of us … Go back to bed. Whoever is with you, in your bed, enjoy them. You don’t have to worry about hurting my feelings ever again. And, maybe I can find someone who won’t want to be with anyone else but me.’ We cry so hard, the telephone wires crackle.

‘My love. I promise I never slept with your …’

I interrupt. ‘It doesn’t matter, Simone. It just doesn’t matter anymore.’ It does, but I don’t want to know. ‘I’ll see you on the 25th … We’ll always love each other. Always.’

Mrs B. was delighted with my decision to leave New York.
She talked my sister through her separation anxiety, made her understand it was time for me to try on a new life. One night, Mrs B. presents me with a gift, all wrapped and sparkling in silver paper with a blue bow. She knows her colors. Doesn’t matter a bit whether she is blind. She loses her patience ‘Open it.’

My hands tremble with excitement. I pull the ribbon off, tear the paper, rip the box into a zillion tiny pieces. Mrs B. waits patiently as I get to the present. I look at her, hands resting in lap. She is
the
most beautiful woman in the world. Well, Maggie Malone is the most beautiful. And my mother was more beautiful than anyone. I fold back the tissue. There it is, waiting for me … Mrs B.’s aqua scarf … ‘I can’t take this.’

‘Yes you can. Give it to that girl in Beatrice. Give it to Molly Malone. She will love it.’

‘She’s angry with me.’

‘It will pass.’

‘My mother gave it to you.’

‘Time for it to be passed on to some young person in the next generation. In that scarf is the best of your mother. Give it to Molly. She’s your responsibility, whether she knows it or not. When you give it to her, tell her it belonged to your mother. It will mean the world to her.’

Mrs B. and I walk out onto her patio. The 9:01 arrives at the Beechwood station. She is right on time. Wonder why we think of trains as shes? Wonder why? Time to say good night. Take one last look at the house of broken … no, mending. We’re mending it now.

Dina needs me tonight. We are throwing away my
mother
’s dancing clothes … finally. Patty did not steal my mother’s clothes. Those shoes and dresses were sacrosanct, even for Patty.
Maggie meets me at the airport … alone. We embrace. Hearts race. Hard to let go. She holds me, so tight, I can hardly breathe, so tight, I feel lost in our longing. Look into her aching eyes. When she begins to talk, I press my fingers to her mouth. I say, ‘Don’t talk.’ We wait for my bag in silence, drive without saying a word, arrive at the Holiday Inn. She hands me the key to my room. It is my old room. I get my luggage out of the trunk, walk away from the car, wave. I do not turn around for fear of accepting the inevitable. She honks her horn, drives away. I register. Enter room, run a hot bath. Flowers on the dresser. A note. ‘Welcome home. Maggie.’

Holy shit! Another sea of vacant stares, yawns, crotch-
scratching
teenagers. What am I doing here? How am I ever going to last? Every single day … five days a week … Lord God Almighty please give me the strength to survive. Stop fidgeting with the scarf.

What would Mary Michelin say? What would Dina say or Mrs B? Breathe. Breathe. Be present. Make them feel you are engaged with them in a dialogue; a dialogue of ideas.
Acknowledge
your nerves. Acknowledge the first day of their senior year, the first day of their last year of high school. Make eye contact with Molly. She is your ally, even if she doesn’t know it. Do not be afraid of failure. You are here because you have been asked. So?! What are you waiting for? If you don’t get to it now, they will be sound asleep in a matter of seconds.

‘Welcome to the first day of your senior year, and my first day of your senior year. For those of you who did not work with me last year, my name is Loli Greene. I am delighted to report that Mr Willwrite is recuperating with flying colors. If you would like to send him a get-well card, he is at home.
He would love to hear from you. During the fall semester, I will be referring to his lesson plan.’ So what if it’s not entirely true. Never hurts to get their trust. ‘We will be studying Mark Twain, the major themes and ideas of much of his work. I need you to feel, sense, and understand these themes, as if you were living in Huck Finn’s or Pudd’nhead Wilson’s time, the time of slavery. Imagine being owned by another man. Imagine you have to ask permission before you take a piss.’ Quite a bit of tittering in the room. ‘That is in fact what you have to imagine. Imagine your master, a white man, with platefuls of food on his table, while you go hungry. Your wife is sold down the river, your son is sold down the river. What does the river look like? How do you make peace with the loss of your loved ones? How does it feel to be without rights? No rights! None! You are a black man in a white world. You polish the master’s shoes, pick cotton, sleep on a pallet, a bed made of straw, live in the barn with the livestock. Why? Why are you with the pigs in the barn? Because you are no better than they are. You are an animal! You are the property of another man! You are black! Have you ever heard of anything more absurd?!’ Blank, blank stares. Mouths wide open. I have failed. I mustn’t fail. I have to make them understand! ‘Can you white folks imagine being black?!’ I bang my fist on the desk. ‘Put yourself in the black man’s shoes; living your life without having the freedom to think freely, live freely, walk freely, in constant fear of losing your loved ones, your family, your self-respect. Imagine that world … Damn it!’

Molly gives me the thumbs-up sign. I am relieved. But, I have to keep it moving.

‘First exercise of the day. Write a paragraph about what it feels like to be enslaved. Be specific. Know who you are. How
did you get here? Let’s say here is somewhere in Mississippi, near a river, in a small town. It is 1862. You have five minutes.’ Christ! ‘Yes?’

‘I don’t understand the exercise?’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Burt.’ I should have known. ‘Burt, there is nothing to understand. What you have to do is imagine yourself during a time when one man owned another. You are the man who is owned. How does that feel? Who are you? Where are you? That’s the
exercise
. Are you with me?’

‘Kind of. But …’

‘Burt, there are no buts here only asses.’ The class roars. Burt picks up his pencil, begins the process. He will do the exercise. He will try to think it through, but that won’t work. In the end, his imagination will take over.

Instead of five minutes, I give them seven. What the hell, give the kids a break. ‘Time! Let’s hear from someone in the room. How ’bout you, Burt?’

‘But I’m not …’

‘No buts, Burt. Remember.’

He swallows hard, looks around the room for approval. He ain’t getting it from me or his classmates. He has no choice. The poor guy is cornered. He stammers.

‘Burt. You can’t do anything wrong. I promise. Someone has to get the class going.’

He reads. ‘My name is Daniel. I once was a free man. When I was free, I took my freedom for granted. I believed no one, nothing would ever own me. One day, while I was walking in the Mississippi woods, a white man captured me, tied me to his horse, dragged me away from my family, locked me up in his
world of hate. He
tried
to kill my spirit, my faith. God knows, being a slave can kill the spirit of any human being. But, I will have my freedom! And when I have it, I will never take that freedom for granted … Never! I will fight until I am free. I will not be a slave forever; no matter what I am told. I will not be held down by any man who calls me nigger. In God’s eyes no man can own another. Therefore, I am free. No one owns me but God. And God don’t need to own me, because he knows I am his servant of my own free will.’ Burt is a free man.

And so begins the first day of school in Beatrice, Nebraska.

Molly waits for me after class. We don’t say much. As Molly and I stroll down the halls of Beatrice High, the vice principal walks out of his office. ‘I had a feeling I’d be seeing you again. Welcome back, Ms Greene. Beatrice High is delighted to have you with us.’

‘I’m delighted to be here.’ Molly and I walk outside, into the parking lot. ‘What the hell is his name?’

‘William Brody. He’s so cute.’

‘You’re a senior in high school. Anything that wears pants is cute.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘Right.’

‘I believe this is yours.’ She pulls out a blue sock from her knapsack. ‘My mother put it in my drawer … after you left town. I don’t know why I kept it.’

‘Must have missed … Look … I’m sorry.’

‘Let’s not talk about it, please.’

‘Thank you for being so supportive in class. I was scared.’

‘You seemed a little nervous, but you got over it. Why be scared? It’s only high school.’ We walk and talk, like people
do when they’re finding their way back to familiar territory. At a certain point, we laugh at ourselves, at the world at large. Molly has come to the astonishing realization that she is a Democrat. I inform her she is in the minority. I congratulate her on her choice of party.

We saunter over to her car. She beeps open her mother’s Jeep Cherokee. I remember a night, late last spring, in the car with Maggie Malone. Molly gets into the car, rolls down the window.

‘I’ve got a therapy session with my parents today.’

‘How’s it going?’

‘Hard.’

‘Therapy is an unforgiving process.’

‘Even though I’m still angry at you, if I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anybody?’

‘Who am I going to tell? The vice principal?’

‘Remember the exercise I did last school year; the one about my grandfather? … In the bedroom?’

‘I certainly do.’ Do I ever.

‘Remember I told you … he touched me?’

‘I do. You caught me off guard … To say the least.’

‘My grandfather. In the exercise, he touched my breasts.’

‘So you said.’

‘In real life that’s not what happened.’

‘What are you trying to say, Molly Malone?’

‘My father was abused by his father … When he was a little boy.’

‘Oh no.’

‘He’s so ashamed.’ She cries.

‘Your poor father. To live with a secret like that all these years.’

‘I had to tell you.’

‘I’m glad you did. I won’t say a word. I promise.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You better get going now. Always best to be on time for a therapy session. Say hello to your parents.’ She turns on the ignition, and waves.

‘I love you, Molly Malone.’

‘I love you too. You’ve changed my life.’

‘And you, my dear, have certainly changed mine. Go on now! Don’t be late.’ Molly guns the engine. She leaves me in the dust. I scream. ‘Wait! Come back!’ Molly slams on the breaks, shifts, drives fifty miles an hour in reverse. ‘Jesus! You could kill somebody driving like that.’

‘I didn’t want you running after me … at your age.’

‘Very nice. I have a present for you.’ I unzip my backpack, pull out an imperfectly wrapped box, hand it over to Molly. Molly rips it open just like I would. She yanks the scarf out of the box. Her mouth drops open. Her eyes fill with tears. ‘You’ll catch flies like that … One of my father’s favorite lines.’

‘It’s your lucky scarf.’

‘No …
I’m
wearing
my
lucky scarf. That is
your
lucky scarf. It belonged to my mother. She would have wanted you to have it.’

‘It’s so beautiful.’

‘From one generation to another generation to another
generation
. It will bring you luck. It will bring us all luck.’

‘Thank you! Thank you so much!’ Molly wraps the scarf around her neck, much the same as I have wrapped it around mine. She opens the door, jumps out of the car, squeezes me within an inch of my middle life.

‘You better be careful. People might talk.’

‘They already are.’ She winks. ‘I’m the luckiest girl in the world.’ Molly kisses me on the mouth. Then, off she goes to uncover the many hidden secrets in the attic of her family tree … Better her than I. I need a break. Oh no, I have another class to teach today … and tomorrow … and the day after … and … Dear me … a full time job. How did that happen? Look, Ma. We’re free. No more secrets. No more lies. Just a life.

Alive, alive oh!

Alive, alive oh!

The bird fish is out of the bag …

Beechwood, Friday, November 28, 2003. Early morning dream.

Franklin Willwrite appears at the foot of the bed. He is naked. He holds a red object in his hand.

‘Hey, Franklin! Never thought I’d see you in that getup.’

‘Wonderful, Ms Greene. Very liberating.’

‘Loli. Remember?’

‘Sorry. Loli.’

‘What you got in your hand, Frankie?’

‘My old heart.’

‘That’s real special, quite a feat.’

‘When you are in Galaxy, there is absolutely no need for this worn-out machine. Organs are obsolete.’

‘I bet. So, Frankie, what’s it like?’

‘Indescribable, Ms Greene. I am without language on the topic.’

‘Have you run into my folks?’

‘Your mother is planting the most colorful garden.’

‘You sure it’s my mother?’

‘Oh yes. There is no mistaking her. Lovely orb, she is.’

‘How ’bout Pop?’

‘Seeding. The man is a master seeder.’

‘Nothing’s changed.’

‘When will you be arriving?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Soon enough. We’ll let you know. Your sister will be first up on the docket …’

‘Oh no!’ I gasp.

‘Dear dear Ms Greene, your heart … it appears to be
breaking
. I am so sorry. That heart of yours … quite a beating. One thing you can be sure of, as long as you are alive …’

Wake up! Now!

I will never again sleep in our Beechwood home. The house is on the market. Dina has hired Moshe’s Moving Company. How she intends to fit one more object in her Park Avenue apartment is beyond me?

What a dream. Can’t shake it. Hope I go first. Stop
thinking
. Pay attention. Listen to the Rabbi. Look at Ralph, Dina and the kids. Isn’t that a family portrait? And Mrs B. She is luminescent. Brrr. It’s fucking freezing here. Sharon Gardens Cemetery, where the Jews are buried. One more example of discrimination. Really. I bet Dina is plenty pissed off. She
actually
convinced herself they would be open on Thanksgiving. I told her the place was going to be closed. Christ! It’s a national holiday, the great American Dream Day. No wonder Pop loved it. Oh nice. What a pretty headstone. Her stone on the other hand needs some work. Cemeteries! Obsolete if you ask me … Like Willwrite’s heart. No. No heart is obsolete.

Glad that’s over. Stand here for one more minute. Let the others leave first. I’m not having a good time. What was I expecting? Stand-up comedy? Dina’s crying again.

She grabs my hand. ‘Wasn’t that a beautiful ceremony?’

‘Moving. Very moving.’

‘Aren’t you glad you came home?’

‘I am.’

‘I miss you so much.’ There she goes again. ‘You don’t know how much I love you. You’re my family. You’re inside here.’ Dina points to her heart. ‘Forever.’

Her love breaks me apart. For the first time in months, I hyperventilate. Dina is frightened.

‘Breathe, Loli. Come on now. Breathe.’

‘I am. I … I had … dream … this … morning … I … don’t want … to … be here … without you … I don’t.’

‘You won’t. You won’t.’

‘Everybody dies. Everybody you love … Please don’t die. Please.’ I sob like Susan Hayward in
I’ll Cry Tomorrow
.

‘Have I told you about the night you were born? Grandma …’

‘… I am so sorry … I … I’m so sorry she got sick. I didn’t mean for her to get sick. It just happened. And you loved me anyway. You always loved me … always.’

Dina cradles my face in her hands. I look deep into those close-to-the-bone blue eyes of hers. ‘Loli. Listen to me. I didn’t always love you. I hated you. I hated you so much, that … after you came home from the hospital …’ She can hardly speak. ‘You cried and cried and cried so loud. No one knew what to do with you. She didn’t know what to do. I remember her on the bed with you. Your face, the sheets. You were suffocating.’ She shrieks like my mother must have done. ‘
Dina!!! Dina!!!
’ I ran into the bedroom. She was rocking back and forth in the bed, like a crazy person. She had you turned upside down on your stomach, sheets over your head, on the bed; suffocating, you were suffocating, screaming at the top of your lungs. You kept screaming. She kept rocking. You wouldn’t stop. I put my hand over your mouth, so you would finally shut up … I
wanted you to go away forever and ever. I kept my hand over your mouth. I knew you couldn’t breathe. ‘Like this, Mommy? Like this? Is this what you want?’ And I pushed your face into the sheets, so you couldn’t breathe, so she would be happy … again.’ Dina becomes hysterical. ‘She stopped rocking … saw what I was doing to you.
Dina! NO! Bad, bad, naughty girl!!! … very very naughty girl!!!
I dropped you on the rug, ran out of the room, heard her get out of bed. She picked you up. You wailed. She moaned as she sang
Rock-a-bye-baby! Hush-a-bye-baby! mm-mm-mm-mm-mm!
Over and over, again and again. It was so horrible. After that, she never let me hold you. She told Pop on me. He hired round-the-clock help to make sure you would both be taken care of.’ Dina turns away. ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.’

‘Dina. Turn around. Hold me. You can hold me as tight as you want. I won’t die. I won’t scream. You are so silly; silly girl carrying a rock inside your heart. You know, a secret like that could kill you?’ I whisper in her ear, ‘Guess what? It’s not your secret anymore. I know about it now.’

‘I’m so ashamed.’

‘You had a million reasons for hating me. But, look at us. We’re together. We’re alive. Look around you. Look at the thousands of gravestones. Generations of secrets, lies, shame, misunderstandings. If only we could forgive ourselves for being human. Wouldn’t that be a relief?’ We gaze at the graves of our parents, their parents, and all of their parents before. ‘You know something?’

‘What?’

‘All these years … You have been so nice to me. Now, I understand why. Nothing like a little guilt to make a big girl feel like she’s responsible for an entire family. Man oh man, it
is time for someone else to take over that thankless role … Are you looking at me? Absolutely not!’ … Dina hugs me, really hugs me. ‘Come with me. Over there, by that footstone. Take my hand. Step on a crack, break the pattern’s back. Come on now. We have no time to waste. Time enough has been wasted.’

 As it turns out, my mother was, and still is the only one without a secret. Maybe she had one. She might have been jealous of Mrs B.’s garden after all. Wouldn’t that be the living end?

My secret is no secret. I never wanted to say goodbye to my mother. By keeping her alive, she would always be with me. By letting her go, she would, we would, be free. Goodbye Mom. I have a lesson plan to put together for next week.

The End