Authors: Anne Tyler,Monica Mcinerney
Was it about that time that the music began? Loud music, with a hammering beat. One day it just flooded the house, as if Jesse’s turning adolescent had opened a door through which the drums and electric guitars suddenly poured in. Let him merely duck into the kitchen for a sandwich and the clock radio would start blaring out “Lyin’ Eyes.” Let him dash up to his room for his catcher’s mitt and his stereo would swing into “Afternoon Delight.” And of course he never turned anything off again, so long after he’d left the house the music would still be playing. Maybe he intended it that way. It was his signature, his footprint on their lives. “I’ll be out in the world now, but don’t forget me,” he was saying, and there they sat, two stodgy grownups and a prim little girl, while “When Will I Be Loved” jangled through the emptiness he left behind him.
Then he stopped liking what his classmates liked and he claimed the Top Forty was dentist music, elevator music. (“Oh,” Maggie said sadly, for she had enjoyed that music—or some of it, at least.) The songs that filled the house grew whining and slippery or downright ill-tempered, and they were sung by scroungy, beatnik-looking groups dressed in rags and tags and bits of military uniforms. (Meanwhile the old albums filtered downstairs to line the shelf beneath the living room hi-fi, each new stage Jesse entered adding to Maggie’s collection of castoffs, which she sometimes played secretly when she was all alone in the house.)
And then he started writing his own songs, with peculiar
modern names like “Microwave Quartet” and “Cassette Recorder Blues.” A few of these he sang for Maggie when Ira wasn’t around. He had a nasal, deadpan style of singing that was more like talking. To Maggie it sounded very professional, very much like what you might hear on the radio, but then, of course, she was only his mother. Although his friends were impressed, too; she knew that. His friend Don Burnham, whose second cousin had come this close to being hired as a roadie for the Ramones, said Jesse was good enough to form a group of his own and sing in public.
This Don Burnham was a perfectly nice, well-raised boy who had transferred to Jesse’s school at the start of eleventh grade. When Jesse first brought him home, Don had made conversation with Maggie (not something you would take for granted, in a boy that age) and sat politely through Daisy’s exhibit of her state-capitals postcard collection. “Next time I come,” he’d told Maggie out of the blue, “I’ll bring you my
Doonesbury
scrapbook.” Maggie had said, “Oh, why, I’ll look forward to that.” But the next time he came he had his acoustic guitar along, and Jesse sang one of his songs for him while Don strummed beneath it.
Seems like this old world is on fast forward nowadays …
Then Don told Jesse he ought to sing in public, and from that moment ever afterward (or so it seemed in retrospect), Jesse was gone.
He formed a band called Spin the Cat—he and a bunch of older boys, high-school dropouts mostly. Maggie had no idea where he’d found them. He began to dress more heavily, as if for combat; he wore black denim shirts and black jeans and crumpled leather motorcycle boots. He came in at all hours smelling of beer and tobacco or, who knows, maybe worse than tobacco. He developed a following of a whole new type of girl, crisper and flashier, who didn’t bother making up to Maggie or sitting in her
kitchen. And in the spring it emerged that he hadn’t attended school in some time, and would not be promoted from junior year to senior.
Seventeen and a half years old and he’d thrown away his future, Ira said, all for a single friendship. Never mind that Don Burnham wasn’t even part of Jesse’s band, and had passed smoothly on to senior year himself. In Ira’s version of things, Don’s one piece of advice had landed with a
ping!
and life had never been the same again. Don was some kind of providential instrument, fate’s messenger. In Ira’s version of things.
Shape up or ship out, Ira told Jesse. Earn the missing credits in summer school, or otherwise find a job and move to his own apartment. Jesse said he’d had a bellyful of school. He would be glad to get a job, he said, and he couldn’t wait to move to his own apartment, where he could come and go as he pleased, with nobody breathing down his neck. Ira said, “Good riddance,” and went upstairs without another word. Jesse left the house, tramping across the porch in his motorcycle boots. Maggie started crying.
How could Ira imagine Jesse’s life? Ira was one of those people who are born competent. Everything came easy to him. There was no way he could fully realize how Jesse used to feel plodding off to school every morning—his shoulders already hunched against defeat, his jacket collar standing up crooked, and his hands shoved deep in his pockets. What it must be like to be Jesse! To have a perfectly behaved younger sister, and a father so seamless and infallible! Really his only saving grace was his mother, his harum-scarum klutzy mother, Maggie said to herself. She was making one of her wry private jokes but she meant it, all the same. And she wished he’d taken more from her. Her ability to see the best in things, for instance. Her knack for accepting, for adapting.
But no. Slit-eyed and wary, all his old light-heartedness gone, Jesse prowled the city in search of work. He was hoping for a job in a record store. He didn’t even have pocket money (at this point that band of his still played for free—for the “exposure,” was how they put it) and was forced to borrow bus fare from Maggie. And each day he came back glummer than the day before, and each evening he and Ira fought. “If you showed up for your interviews dressed like a normal person—” Ira told him.
“A place puts that much stock in appearance, I wouldn’t want to work there anyhow,” Jesse said.
“Fine, then you’d better learn how to dig ditches, because that’s the only job where they
don’t
put stock in appearance.”
Then Jesse would slam out of the house once again, and how flat things seemed after he left! How shallow, how lacking in spirit! Maggie and Ira gazed at each other bleakly across the living room. Maggie blamed Ira; he was too harsh. Ira blamed Maggie; she was too soft.
Sometimes, deep down inside, Maggie blamed herself too. She saw now that there was a single theme to every decision she had made as a parent: The mere fact that her children were children, condemned for years to feel powerless and bewildered and confined, filled her with such pity that to add any further hardship to their lives seemed unthinkable. She could excuse anything in them, forgive them everything. She would have made a better mother, perhaps, if she hadn’t remembered so well how it felt to be a child.
She dreamed that Jesse was dead—that in fact he had died years ago, back when he was still a sunny, prankish little boy, and she had somehow failed to realize it. She dreamed she was sobbing uncontrollably; there was no way to survive such a loss. Then she saw in the crowd on deck (for she was taking a boat trip, all at once) a child
who resembled Jesse, standing with his parents, whom she had never seen before. He glanced over at her and looked quickly away, but she could tell that he thought she seemed familiar. She smiled at him. He glanced at her again and then looked away again. She edged a few inches closer, meanwhile pretending to study the horizon. He had come back to life in another family; that was how she explained it to herself. He wasn’t hers now, but never mind, she would start over. She would win him to her side. She felt his eyes alight on her once more and she sensed how puzzled he was, half remembering her and half not; and she knew it meant that underneath, he and she would always love each other.
Now, at this point Daisy was nine years old, or just about to turn nine—enough of a child still, you would think, to keep Maggie fully occupied. But the fact was that at that very moment, Daisy took it into her head to start growing away too. She had always been a bit precocious. In her infancy Ira had called her Lady-Baby, because she was so mature and reserved, her small face a knot of opinion. At thirteen months she had undertaken her own toilet training. In first grade she had set her alarm for an hour earlier than anyone else in the household and slipped downstairs each morning to sort through the laundered clothes for a proper outfit. (She could iron better than Maggie even then, and liked to look neat as a pin and color-coordinated.) And now she seemed to have leapt ahead to that stage where the outside world took precedence over family. She had four very serious, like-minded friends, including one, Lavinia Murphy, whose mother was perfect. Perfect Mrs. Murphy headed the PTA and the Bake Sale and (since she didn’t work) was free to drive the little girls to every kind of cultural event, and she hosted wonderful slumber parties, with treasure hunts. The spring of ’78, Daisy practically
lived with the Murphys. Maggie would come home from work and call, “Daisy?” but all she found was a silent house and a note on the front-hall bookshelf.
Then one afternoon the house wasn’t silent after all but murmury and conspiratorial, she could sense it the moment she entered, and upstairs, Jesse’s bedroom door was closed. She knocked. After a startled pause, Jesse called, “Just a second.” She heard rustles and whispers. When he came out he had a girl in tow. Her long blond hair was rumpled and her lips had a bruised look. She sidled past Maggie with her eyes downcast and descended the stairs behind Jesse. Maggie heard the front door open; she heard Jesse saying goodbye in a low voice. As soon as he came back upstairs (unashamedly heading straight to Maggie), she told him that the mother of that girl, whoever she was, would be horrified to know her daughter had been alone with a boy in his bedroom. Jesse said, “Oh, no, her mom lives in Pennsylvania somewhere. Fiona stays with her sister, and her sister doesn’t mind.”
“Well, I do,” Maggie said.
Jesse didn’t argue with that, and the girl stopped coming around. Or at least she was out of sight when Maggie returned from work each day. Though Maggie had a feeling; she picked up certain clues. She noticed that Jesse was gone more than ever, that he returned abstracted, that his brief spells at home were marked by long private conversations on the upstairs telephone and it was always the same girl’s voice—soft and questioning—when Maggie happened to lift the receiver.
He found a job in an envelope factory, finally, something to do with shipping, and started looking for an apartment. The only trouble was, the rents were so high and his paycheck was so puny. Good, Ira said. Now maybe he would have to face a few hard facts. Maggie
wished Ira would just shut up. “Don’t worry,” she told Jesse. “Something will come along.” That was toward the end of June. In July he was still living at home. And one Wednesday evening in August, he caught Maggie alone in the kitchen and informed her, very calmly and directly, that he seemed to have got this girl he knew in trouble.
The air in the room grew oddly still. Maggie wiped her hands on her apron.
She said, “Is it that Fiona person?”
He nodded.
“So now what?” Maggie asked. She was as cool as he was; she surprised herself. This seemed to be happening to someone else. Or maybe she had expected it without knowing. Maybe it was something that had been heading their way all along, like a glacier bearing down on them.
“Well,” Jesse said, “that’s what I needed to discuss with you. I mean, what I want and what she wants are two different things.”
“What is it you want?” Maggie asked, thinking she knew.
“I want her to keep the baby.”
For a moment, that didn’t register. Even the word itself—“baby”—seemed incongruous on Jesse’s lips. It seemed almost, in an awful way, cute.
She said, “Keep it?”
“I thought I’d start hunting an apartment for the three of us.”
“You mean get married?”
“Right.”
“But you’re not even eighteen years old,” Maggie said. “And I bet the girl isn’t, either. You’re too young.”
“My birthday’s in two weeks, Ma, and Fiona’s is not long after. And she doesn’t like school anyway; half the
time she skips class and hangs out with me instead. Besides, I’ve always looked forward to having a kid. It’s exactly what I’ve been needing: something of my own.”
“Something of your own?”
“I’ll just have to find a better-paying job, is all.”
“Jesse, you’ve got a whole family of your own! What are you talking about?”
“But it’s not the same,” Jesse said. “I’ve just never felt … I don’t know. So anyhow, I’ve been looking for a job that pays more money. See, a baby takes a lot of equipment and such. I’ve written down a list from Dr. Spock.”
Maggie stared at him. The only question she could come up with was: “Where on earth did you get hold of a Dr. Spock?”
“At the bookstore; where else?”
“You went into a bookstore and bought a baby-care book?”
“Sure.”
That seemed the biggest surprise of all. She couldn’t picture it.
“I’ve learned a lot,” he told her. “I think Fiona ought to breast-feed.”
“Jesse—”
“I found these plans in
Home Hobby Journal
for building a cradle.”
“Honey, you don’t know how hard it is. You’re children yourselves! You can’t take on a baby.”
“I’m asking you, Ma. I’m serious,” Jesse said. And he did have that sharply etched look to his lips that he always got when he felt strongly about something.
“But just what are you asking me?” Maggie said.
“I want you to go and talk to Fiona.”
“What? Talk about what?”
“Tell her you think she should keep it.”
“You mean she wants to put it up for adoption,” Maggie said. “Or else … um … stop the pregnancy.”
“Well, that’s what she says, but—”
“Which?” Maggie asked.
“The second thing.”
“Ah.”
“But she doesn’t really want that. I know she doesn’t,” he said. “It’s just that she’s so stubborn. She expects the worst of me, seems like. She takes it for granted I’m going to, like, ditch her or something. Well, first off, she didn’t even tell me about it—can you believe it? Hid it from me! Went through weeks of worrying and never breathed a hint of it even though she saw me every day, near about. And then when the test came out positive, what does she do? Asks me for the money to get rid of the baby. I say, ‘Huh? To do what? Now hold on a sec.’ I tell her, ‘Aren’t you skipping over a few of the usual steps here? Whatever happened to “What do
you
think, Jesse?” and “Which decision are we two going to settle on?” Aren’t you going to offer me a chance?’ I ask her. She says, ‘Chance for what?’ ‘Well, what about marriage?’ I ask her. ‘What about me taking on my proper responsibilities, for God’s sake?’ She says, ‘Don’t do me any favors, Jesse Moran.’ I say, ‘Favors? You’re talking about my son, here.’ She says, ‘Oh, I have no illusions’—that is how she talks when she gets on her high horse. ‘I have no illusions,’ she says. ‘I knew what you were when I first laid eyes on you. Footloose and fancy-free,’ she says, ‘lead singer in a hard-rock band. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.’ I felt I’d been, like, stenciled or something. I mean where did she get this picture of me? Not from anything that happened in real life, I can tell you. So I say, ‘No, I will
not
give you the money; no, sir, no way,’ and she says, ‘I might have known to expect that’—purposely misunderstanding. I hate when people
do that, purposely acting so wronged and martyred. ‘I might have figured,’ she says, ‘that I couldn’t count on you for the simplest little abortion fee.’ Says the word right out, kind of like she cracked the air with it; I honestly couldn’t speak for a second. I say, ‘Goddammit, Fiona—’ and she says, ‘Oh, fine, great, just cuss at me too on top of everything else,’ and I say—”