I wrote the following in about 90 minutes, sitting down at
my laptop, trying to picture what happened, and applied some fancy
imaginations, but tried to capture the essence of those years when my mother
met my father. She wouldn’t talk with me about him, and I didn’t really think
about him much until my mother called the police one day when I was in second
grade, living in San Mateo, and told the policeman that her ex-husband was
walking up and down the street looking for our house. My father told me later
that was bullshit and laughed. Your mother really got delusional when she
drank, Jim. He shook his head and laughed again.
I had asked my Aunt Phoebe and Uncle John about what life
was like when they were growing up with my mother. Why do you want to know
that? they’d say, and on more than one occasion. I didn’t press it, but I felt
like they were hiding something that they didn’t want me knowing. No, your
mother didn’t have to get married. Get that out of your mind, Jim. They got
married because they said they loved each other and you were born a year later.
Priscilla was the black sheep of the family. It was kind of
a known thing, and people pretty much accepted the fact that she didn’t fit in the
round peg, so to speak. She went to college in the south, a community college
at that, and a year at Connecticut College. Then toward the end of the war she
joined the Red Cross and spent several months in England. When she returned,
she moved to Pittsburgh, I’m assuming because she had a girlfriend from college
or the Red Cross there who could help her get a job or have her stay with them
until she could get settled.
***.
When she lit the fourth cigarette, sitting with her back
against the pillow and her husband rolled over on his side, back to her, that
she asked him if he loved her.
“Damn it, Cilla, I’ve told you – how many times is it now? –
dozens of times, I swear to God, yes, I love you.”
But she could tell from the tone of his voice and his
expression. when she would look him in the eyes, that he was lying to her. No
matter how many times he said those magic words, not magic to her apparently
because she never believed him, she didn’t believe him. Something in his eyes.
I can tell, she repeated to herself and lit another cigarette.
“What did you say? You can tell? You can tell what, for
Godsakes? Will you please go to sleep now? I can’t sleep with the light on and
I do have to work tomorrow – unlike you who gets to stay home and be with the
baby all day. All day you’re home, we see each other barely over dinner,
because you’ve got that damn t.v. on even when we eat and I hate watching the t.v.
when I’m eating dinner and….”she didn’t hear anything else he was murmuring before
he fell asleep.
Well, she did hear it all and now it’s all clear to her.
She’d pack tomorrow, call a cab, take her son to the airport in a cab and that
sonofabitch Stew will come home tomorrow night and I’ll be long gone, and he’ll
be mad at himself at what he said. Just you see. Just you see. Just you see.
She put out her smoke. I’ll go stay with my sister Wallace for a few days and
sort things out about what I should do.
She couldn’t admit to herself that she’d made a mistake
marrying Stew, whose name was really Carlisle but his friends all called him
Stew, and since she became his “friend” after a couple of weeks at secretarial
school where he was one of the teachers. They went to dinner after class one
afternoon and hit it off pretty well, she thought. So handsome, tall, brunette,
big strong hands – she’d like to see what those hands could do for her, naughty
girl to think about that on their first date, if this is a date; word has it
that he dates about every pretty girl in any of his classes.
What she really wanted was a husband, not a date. All her
sisters were married and already had kids, dammit, and all the letters she got
from them were about the children, and their husband’s promotions, and they had
grand houses in Hinsdale, a train ride from downtown Chicago and the
“promotions.” She wanted to write back with some good news! I’m getting married! And his name’s Stew!
He’s a teacher, uh, (damn, he’s not a stockbroker and he doesn’t run a bank or
sell real estate or make money – he barely had a savings account for that
matter, but she wasn’t going to tell her sisters that and give them something
else to bitch about her behind her back. Those witches, always rubbing it in
about their successful husbands, beautiful homes, dear dear children.)
So when he looked at her, she gave him that absolutely
gorgeous smile and twinkle in her eye, and crossed her legs, and raised an
eyebrow a little bit – “the look of flirtation” that she learned when she was
in England in the Red Cross, mainly serving coffee and donuts on a cart rolled
around the hospital or dancing with the least likely to succeed kind of guys in
the evening, but she was there to make the troops happy, and happy she made
them, at least she thought she did happy really well.)
In class she was Miss Burr, but after class she was Cilla
and never was she called Priscilla except by people who didn’t know her. But as
soon as someone would hear her nickname he or she would use it and she wouldn’t
have a clue who that person was when she was greeted on the street.
She was demure, sweet, pretty, asked lots of questions to
find out all about him, which wasn’t much and he sounded like he had a pretty
boring life, except he’d been married before but that was several years ago.
I’m not going to ask how old he is, but there is a little grey at his temple
and pretty serious crows feet. Maybe he’s 40. Maybe he’s older. In any case, he
was a good looking…hmmmm….I wonder what he looks like without a shirt on
or…Well if I work this right I’ll find out.
And so she worked it right. He was really a gentleman and
liked to splurge on her and sometimes he could barely talk when they were
together because his hands were so busy. One dinner led to a second dinner led
to a third dinner, and then coming to her apartment for a drink, and then
another dinner, and another drink and before she knew it….
Three months later he told her he loved her. I’ve never
loved anyone like this. Cilla, you’re so full of life and spirit and God you’re
pretty, really pretty, a real find, that’s what you are, and I’d be crazy not
to…not to…(But the last one didn’t work out, but I’m getting older, 49 last
week and she’s almost 20 years younger, but we get along so well and I’ve never
been so happy) marry you.
Their wedding was in town, Pittsburgh, exactly, in a chapel
off of the Congregational church, and Cilla invited her sisters and brother,
John, and they all came. I would have liked a bigger wedding, but this is
Stew’s second marriage, and they seemed to accept it, but they felt sorry for
her because they’d had weddings with abundance and dozens of friends, huge
cakes, dazzling wedding rings. But, thank God, she’s married and how happy Mama
and Pop would be to see their youngest daughter finally married. How happy they
would be! Cilla felt the same way, but
no one said anything. Cilla had chances before the folks passed away, and his
fellow can’t be the first to propose. She had an abundance of boyfriends. We
were all jealous, of course, as sisters would be, but we were dating steady and
talked about marriage. Someday, sweetheart, someday.
Oh, and something else that Cilla had that they all had,
something that made each of the four girls very popular indeed, and a lot of
people in town knew about it, too. They had an inheritance. They weren’t rich,
I mean really rich with servants, but they could afford nice clothes and the
best cosmetics. As a young woman you don’t think about ways of spending your
money in other ways, at least not in the ‘40s, single women that is. Stew had
something in common with many of the other suitors: he liked money. He needed
money, just to pay the rent and Cilla’s stash will help, we can just sell a few
stocks and we’d have a new car, something he had wanted for ten years.
***.
When Stew left for work the next day she was still in bed.
Jimmy was asleep next to her because he’s been crying and he seemed to like to
come to bed with her after Daddy left for work. There aren’t many groceries, I’ll
have to go shopping and, wait wasn’t I going to leave today? That’s right, pack
and take a cab to the airport. I won’t call Phoebe or any of the sisters, I’ll
surprise them and then cry and they’ll feel sorry for me and let me stay in one
of their extra bedrooms of the “grand houses” they keep talking about.
Jimmy remembers the ride away from the two-story apartment
with the blue awning. Cilla could never believe that he could remember that.
You were only six months old. How could you remember? I can’t even remember
what color the awning was. Okay, it was blue. I believe you! He was looking out
the back window of the cab, she was holding him against her shoulder and he was
wrapped in a blue blanket, his blankee, and looked back at the apartment. A
fuzzy memory, but it stuck, at least he says he remembers it.
Stew will be surprised when he finds the note. I just
couldn’t tell him to his face because he might get mad again and when he got
mad he got that look in his face that made me feel like he was going to do
something violent, but he never did, but it always looked like that. He’ll be
mad today. Hooboy, will he be mad because I have the money and the rent is due,
and I forgot to pay the utility bill last month, well I forgot to remind him to
pay the bill. He’s so bad with money. I’ll miss him. I’ll miss him, but I can’t
cry. I can’t!
If she’d seen what happened when she got home she wouldn’t
have left him. She wouldn’t have left him then, anyway, at least not that day,
or week. But even with the flowers he brought home to her – day old, who could
tell? – and seeing Jimmy, laughing with him, talking to him, helping him eat,
holding him in the air above Stew and
pretending he’s a plane and make the noise of a plane’s propellers and hearing
him laugh. That got tiring, Stew’s arms got tired – big baby, all the kid does
is eat and shit, I swear I’ve never seen anything like it – so we lie down on
the floor and he sits on my stomach and he goes up real fast and then, plop,
down back on my stomach. When it’s light out after dinner we go for a walk in
the stroller, me with Cilla on my arm, and pushing Jimmy in the stroller, he’s
always holding his blanket. It’s sweet, really, and he looks like I did when I
was a baby, at least from my baby pictures. It will be fun to see him grow up,
all the things we can do together, and teach him all the things my dad taught
me, and some things that I learned that I never want him to learn. I bought
some ice cream, too, because he likes ice cream and it’s a hoot to see him try
to eat it with his hands, the ice cream pushed across the tray, but he doesn’t
want anyone feeding him to help him eat it so he’ll lick his fingers for hours
if we let him, but then he gets quiet and turns a little in his seat, and fills
his pants and then, whew, it’s time for Cilla to come to the rescue and change
this rascal. What in God’s name have you been eating to poop so much? I say to
him as mom pulls him out of the tray, hand still in his mouth. Yes, he loves
ice cream and I love to watch him eat it. Then will come the chocolate sauce
one day and he’ll be eating with a spoon. Someday we’ll walk to the park and
then stop and get an ice cream cone and the two of us will sit on the swings
and we’ll play “I see a…” and we’ll have to guess what the other person is
seeing, a game my sister Caryl and I used to play, a game she taught me and now
I’m going to be able to teach it to Jimmy and…
He tries to open the door, but it’s locked, so he gets out
his key, it’s almost never locked when I come home, strange, oh well, she’s
probably in one of her moods. And is she moody. My God, one day she’s up up up
and one day she’s morose, really down, and can’t explain it and refuses to talk
about it, so I think it’s something I’ve done. Is it something I’ve done?
Something I’ve said? Let me give you a hug. Okay, when you’re done giving Jimmy
a bath. Okay, when you’re done with your shower. Okay when you have your
nightgown on, and Jesus, what, you’re not coming to bed? What’s so important on
t.v. that it can’t wait, I just want to give you a hug, dammit. I can’t figure
you out, Cilla, and you won’t talk to me. Please, let me hug you. God, you make
me so mad. So mad. I’m going out. For a walk. What difference does it make if
you’re just going to watch t.v.? I’ll lower my voice. For a walk! I don’t mean
to slam the door, but God, what’s going on? Just gotta breath.
The apartment’s dark. Are they asleep? Cilla? Cilla? Where
are you? And where’s Jimmy? Where’s Jimmy? No, not Jimmy, he’s not gone, too.
They’ve just gone for a walk, or she’s at a girlfriend’s house. Maybe there was
something wrong and she had to go to the hospital. She would have left a note,
whatever. But there’s no note. No note! There’s got to be a note.
He finds the note on the pillow on the bed, empty bed. Empty
crib.
***.
I don’t see my father again until I’m 18. Stew called one of
my aunts in Chicago and asked her to relay his number to me, that he’d like to
meet me, or talk to me. He remembered your birthday, can you believe it? said
Aunt Phoebe. I called my father. It was coincidence that I was making a trip to
San Francisco this summer and, yes, I’d like to meet him and his wife Muriel.
Very much.
