A few days later, my mother returned. Jessie and I were sitting on the mauve couch with the scratchy fabric, staring at Mr. Rogers through our scraped knees. The couch, which doubled at night as my bed, was actually a love seat, but we called it a little couch and leaned against each other as we watched our 30-minute allotment of TV each day. As soon as Mr. Rogers was over, we would inspect the palms of our hands for the odd patterns impressed on them by the couch fabric, and Jessie would declare one of us “the winner” for having made the deepest impression. That day, though, my parents would make the deepest impression, winning the contest, well, hands down.
Mr. Rogers was putting on his shoes and winding things up when my mother came in, having apparently spent the night back in the house. My father trailed in after her, and they both sat down on my mother’s steamer trunk, facing us. Jessie and I jumped up to hug our mom, and she smiled sort of politely. I knew this was it, and it wasn’t so terrible after they said it out loud.
“We don’t know how it will work, yet, but you’ll see both of us a lot,” my father added, putting his big, warm hands on my right knee and Jessie’s left knee. I got the hand with the big mole on it, which I took to have special – albeit hidden – meaning.
"The beach for the blacks?” I asked, knowing with absolute clarity that I was bombing back.
“What?” My father took his hand off my knee as he turned to face my mother. “What’s she talking about? Did you take them to Black’s Beach?” He stood up and yelled, “Who do you think you are? You don’t take children to a nude beach! Were there people there?”
“Well, Tom,” my mother said calmly, “Do you think there were people there?”
“You’re not taking the girls anywhere!” my father roared, backing away
and waving his arms as though he were frantically erasing something. “No,
no, NOOOOO! You go live with that woman, but my children will not be
raised in a homosexual household! They’re not going anywhere!” my
father screamed.
“Then you must have a baby sitter for tonight,” my mother said.
"What? You know I don’t have a baby sitter,” snapped my father.
“Then you canceled your lecture?” my mother asked sweetly. I had never
seen my mother look so happy in the middle of a fight before. I
turned to see if my father was happy, too, but his face was darker than
ever. “Girls,” my mother said, “Go get your p.j.’s, a sweater, and some
underwear.”
My father seemed to regain some of his composure and said simply, “We have more to talk about. Later.”
That night, Jessie and I drove with our mother to San Diego, about 30 miles south of our house. My mom seemed happy for a change, which made it easier to leave my father behind.
“Whose house are we going to?” I asked as she steered the car off the freeway toward a big hill.
“Judy’s house,” my mother answered as she coaxed the V.W. Bug up the hill. “Remember? She has two kids, Jenny -- who’s your age, Julie – and Nathan. He’s four.”
“Are we sleeping over?” I asked.
“Well, yes,” my mother replied. “We’re staying there for a few days. Then you’ll go visit Daddy, but I’ll stay with Judy. Here we are.”
My mother pulled the car into Judy’s driveway just as the sun was
setting. Toys lay strewn about a dusty front yard. It seemed odd to see
such overt evidence of children as we approached the house, and I
thought Jenny and Nathan must be lucky kids. Roberta Flack crooned sweetly behind Judy’s front door. I hurried ahead to push the doorbell, but my mother reached past me and let us in. Roberta Flack’s anguished chorus grew louder as we stepped over the threshold into Judy’s living room: Killing me softly with his song, killing me softly with his song.... I realized that Judy’s kids were singing along as they rushed to greet us.
“Hi,” Jenny said with a huge smile. “Come see my room.” She tugged at my shirt, and Jessie and I shyly followed her across the room, down a short hallway.
Jenny flung open the first door, saying,
“This is the bathroom.” We dutifully peered in and smiled. Just last week, I had trailed along with my mother as she looked at houses for us to live in with my father. Jenny
reminded me of the woman who had shown us the houses who had seemed so
surprised and delighted each time she unveiled a new room. Now, Jenny showed us her room with the same energy. The
room was unexpectedly large with two twin beds taking up the far corner
and a giant oval braided rug covering the worn hardwood floor. There
was a record player on the floor in the corner, and Nathan quickly
traversed the distance from Jenny’s doorway to the record player. As he reached down and roughly dropped the needle on the record, my sister and I gasped.
“What?” asked Jenny, looking at us curiously.
“Won’t your brother get in trouble for touching that?” I whispered.
“For touching what?” asked Jenny.
“The record player,” my sister said. In our own house, such things were for adults only. We weren’t to touch the record player, its speakers, or the records themselves. I’m not sure we were even supposed to hear the music that emanated from my father’s collection of Mahler, Beethoven, etc.
Nathan, who was only four at the time, ignored this discussion, turning
various knobs left and right as he tried to get the record started. Jenny
just looked at us quizzically, as though she must have misunderstood
our question, bent down and turned the power knob on the record player. Herb
Alpert suddenly blared out into the room with such ferocity that my
sister and I jumped. I looked at Nathan, assuming he would turn down
the volume. When he just stood up and started
running around the oval rug, both my sister and I glanced at the
doorway, certain a reproachful adult would be entering the room any
minute. When it seemed no one would be chastising Jenny and Nathan for
their outrageous behavior, we relaxed a little and sat on the floor to
watch.
Jenny was now running behind Nathan as they circled the oval rug in a sort of rhythmic run while Herb Alpert’s “Whipped Cream Delights” filled the room. The
song ended, and they collapsed in a giggling heap on the rug, swaying
back and forth and reaching out for each other as if they couldn’t see. My sister and I smiled at their silly behavior, not really seeing the fun in this activity.
After a few minutes, Nathan reached behind him and roughly moved the record player’s arm back to the beginning of Whipped Cream Delights. Jenny
groaned happily and lurched to her feet, shouting, “Come on!” in our
direction. I shook my head and smiled politely, but Jessie jumped up
and started running around the oval rug. When the song ended, all three of them flopped down onto the rug, laughing and swaying.
“Oooooo,” Jessie said happily. “I’m dizzy! Jul, it’s fun. C’mon!”
Reluctantly, I stood and walked toward them, sure I would crack my head
open by the end of the evening, as my father always predicted when we
weren’t nearly this rambunctious.
As the horns ignited
and overtook the drums, I merged into the lane of running children and
dutifully picked up my pace until I was running at full speed and the
braided rug was nothing more than a blur of greys and reds with feet
tromping around its frayed edges. As the song ended, I breathlessly collapsed behind my sister. I realized that I couldn’t help swaying because I was so dizzy, and it felt great. I felt euphoric as I laid back on the carpet, enjoying the sensation of my world spinning around me.
~
Recent Comments