Misfit (2 page)

“Don't be scared,” he says. “I told you you're welcome here.”

“I'm not scared.” What else could you possibly say?

“Oh, I bet you have a touch of your mama's nerves in you.”

“I'm not scared,” you repeat with a whisper, staring straight at the crack in the door. Maybe Mrs. Martin will come by for one more look.

“Don't you worry,” he says. “This is a normal house. My grandmother makes sure we're protected by God.” He reaches over and squeezes your shoulder. For a moment, you have the feeling he has the strength to lift the bone straight out.

“We're normal too,” you say.

“You're going to have to speak up. I can barely hear you.”

“We've just hit a streak is all, me and my mother. A streak.” You shrug your shoulder with a little jolt, but his hand doesn't move.

He says, “A
streak
,” and laughs in a kind of annoying way. Slightly pious. And mostly mean. “Well there's no streaks here,” he says. “We're all even-steven.”

“I'll be going home soon enough. Once my mother's able to return to work.” You scoot a little closer to the edge of the bed. Part of you hopes you'll just tumble off. “She works in Hollywood, you know. On the pictures.”

He moves in closer.

“She cuts films. Edits them. But she knows lots of movie stars. Been right in the thick of it. So we're going to be fine.”

His hand moves from your shoulder and slopes down your front; only the cotton of your dress separates his palm from your skin. Your chest has just begun to form, and you've barely put your hands there yourself. It hasn't yet seemed like your body. But his hands are there. Without thought. And at first it's as though you're watching it, like you're floating up above, but then you start to feel forced, locked down, and you get real cold, like a sheet of ice is making a glacier over your skin, yet you're burning up so much inside that before it can form, the ice melts into a thick stream of cool sweat; and your stomach is tumbling and churning and you're afraid you might throw up at any second. But creepiest of all, and what makes this have almost no sense whatsoever, is how sincere Buddy looks, as though there's not a creepy bone in his body, only charity. And when his hands slide down
over your belly, all you can think about is how you just want to be home, but you can't picture any one place as home, and so you try to inch yourself away, just bit by bit, until there's no more bed, and you could just tumble off.

 

On Sunday Mrs. Martin dresses you, and you no longer look eleven, but instead like a smaller version of an old churchwoman, with no shape or form or sex. Stockings up to your thighs. Black shoes too heavy to walk in. The outfit is appropriate because church is where she's taking you. She says you need it. She doesn't like how withdrawn you've been the past couple of days. (You suspect that's a veiled remark about your mother more than any inkling that something horrible has happened under her roof.) Then she amends her statement to say we all need it. It's our only path to goodness. (So maybe she does have an inkling.) You ask if Buddy is going, and she mutters he's not, he's had a conflict with his mother's schedule, and you don't ask what, and she doesn't bother to explain, and you're relieved because you know that if he came you'd be forced to sit next to him in the pews.

You know you ought to tell her. Tell her the truth about what Buddy did. But you don't know how. And you wonder if she knows by the way she acts as though she doesn't.

Sitting beside you in the pew, she leans over and barks in a sharp whisper that you should cross your legs. “Send the invitation,” she says, “and you'll get
the RSVPs.” And she directs you to lower your head when you smile. And when walking through a crowded area keep your gaze focused on either the ground at your feet or an object in front of you. Eye contact can send the improper message. She says not to be fooled just because this is a church. Temptation is everywhere, and it thrives on testing, and what better place to test temptation than in a house of worship. When you look up at her and nod, indicating you understand, she slaps the back of her hand against your knee. Her jaw is clenched. “Didn't I just tell you to keep your head down?”

The preacher stands before the congregation, and he howls out the word
salvation
. He lets it just hang there; he won't talk again until the word has faded from the sanctuary. He is small, and he is slight, but he looks a million feet tall, rising through his tan coat into the rafters, high above, while his blue tie points down at the floor. “Salvation,” he finally says, “is the only chance we've got.” He's got a bellowing voice. And he paces back and forth, floating side to side. But no matter where he is, his voice seems aimed right at you. And you take it all inside you. “We all need to think about how we can correct for the missteps we take. And how do you know when you misstep? Because your feet get weary. Tired. And they start to burn, and we all know that burning that you're feeling is coming from below. That's right. Every misstep you take is a step closer to the devil. And the only thing that can pull you back?
Salvation. It's right there in Psalms 24: 4–5:
He that hath clean hands, and a pure heart; who hath not lifted up his soul unto vanity, nor sworn deceitfully. He shall receive the blessing from the Lord, and righteousness from the God of his salvation
. Or as our friends in Acts tell us,
To open their eyes, and to turn them from darkness to light, and from the power of Satan unto God, that they may receive forgiveness of sins, and inheritance among them which are sanctified by faith that is in me.
” And you feel your body tingling. He knows just what you're thinking, but also how you can be freed. And you have the strange compulsion to slip out of the costume Mrs. Martin has dressed you in and just sit there naked, letting all this possibility wash over you, and, in a way, kind of love you. “There's only but one place for you to go for eternal salvation, and you're all going to have to walk right through those gates on your own. But you will not be able to do it with the devil burning at your feet, and so you all are going to have to trust me on this—there is no one who can wash your feet but yourself. And that's a fact.”

Filing out of the church, you feel inspired. Finally there is a sense of right that you understand, and there is muscle behind it to back you up. The preacher is standing by the doors, shaking hands with the congregants. It's bright outdoors. But the sunlight stops at the doorway, not spilling into the nave, where the only light is a sparkle from a stained-glass window, making diamonds on the dark wood. The preacher takes
your great-aunt's hand. “A pleasure to see you, Mrs. Martin,” he says.

She responds, “Such inspiring words.”

“And who do we have here?”

She introduces you. Makes sure to explain that you're staying with her out of need, just for a short while, only until the mother is healed. And you're not clear if her emphasis on the temporary is because there is something about you that she finds embarrassing, or if she's underscoring her sense of charity. The preacher takes your hand as a welcome. And a blush comes on so warm and fierce you can feel it boring down into your toes. It's as though he's spotted your desire to be naked, and even saw you as such, maybe X-rayed you with the power that he has. All you can do (and remembering what Mrs. Martin said earlier) is look down.

Mrs. Martin smiles at the preacher, and she puts her hand on your shoulder, squeezing in the exact spot where Buddy did earlier in the week. She's talking to you but looking right at the preacher. “Don't you have something you want to say, my dear?”

You flounder for words. Search as though language is something new, while they both wait. She squeezes again, and, like a reflex, the words push out: “Thank you.”

“I'll pray for your mother,” he says, “but I'll expect you to take the reins of your own life, honestly and truly . . . Remember, the power of God will guide
you as long as you live righteously.” And then he turns to your great-aunt. “And bless you, Mrs. Martin. Keep spreading the word, and living by it.”

“Amen,” she says. “Amen.”

The ride home is silent. You look out the window at the orchards going by, rehearsing how you're going to tell her about Buddy. You'll do it right when you get home, while Buddy and his mother are still gone, and Mrs. Martin is at her most pious. Your mouth goes a little dry thinking about it. Your head a little foggy. But you have the power of God behind you. And you're obliged to have clean hands and a clear heart.

 

First she slaps you across the face. Then she tells you you're disgusting. And she says she will tolerate no such talk in her house. She says maybe you talk that way with your mother, but not in this house. You stand there in the living room, face tingling and on fire. She paces around you, hands opening and closing, and you can hear her breath as though you're deep inside her lungs. Then she stomps into the kitchen, but comes right out. Circles you. Three times around. You're almost too dizzy to stand, but too light to fall. And you do everything within your power to make yourself invisible (clench your fists, squeeze your eyes, summon all your will), but when you glance down you still see your hand sticking out of the cuff of the dress she put you in. And then she disappears to her bedroom. And you're alone in the living room (maybe the
first time you've been alone anywhere in this house other than your room?). For a moment your shoulders drop. Your head clears. And you draw in a breath, inflating some life back into yourself. It will be okay. The shock has passed. You tell yourself that over and over again. But then you hear her footsteps coming out of the bedroom. And they're not just squeaking the hardwoods; they sound as though they're breaking them. You shoot your eyes to the floor. Don't dare glance up. Hope she'll only pass on through. But again she circles. Round and round. And then she stops behind you. She's mumbling. Over and over. An incantation. And at first the words make no sense. But as she keeps repeating them, you pick up the rhythm, and you start to find the words,
For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you
. . .
For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you
. . .
For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you
. . .
For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you
. . . Soon you're chanting it over and over in your head, as though it's the only sound in the entire universe, with the words becoming almost nonsensical. The first blow drops you to your knees. Across the back and between the shoulder blades. It's something hard, like a cane, whistling by your ear when she pulls it back. And you brace. Prepare for another blow. You want to say
no
. You want to say anything. But you have no voice. There are no words inside you.
For if ye forgive
men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you
. . .
For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you
. . .
For if ye forgive men their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you
. . . She doesn't stop. Even for a breath. And then it smacks down on you again. But you don't fall off your knees until the fourth blow. And as you lie on the floor, being beaten from the back of your thighs up to your shoulders and back down your rear, all you can think of is crawling away, climbing into your suitcase, somehow magically snapping the latches and locking yourself inside, holding on to Clark Gable, both of you stowing away into another life where this one will become nothing more than a pitiable story.

In the old Timm Aircraft plant at Metropolitan Airport, movie actor Reginald Denny set up a manufacturing shop. In the early thirties, his acting career in full bloom, Denny, a former RAF pilot in World War I, opened a model-plane store on Hollywood Boulevard, initially calling it Reginald Denny Enterprises but soon recasting it as the Radioplane Company. The crown jewel was the remote-controlled plane that he and his team developed: the Dennymite. Initially built in 1938 with the hobbyist in mind, Denny's plane garnered interest from the army. A radio-controlled model airplane
would be perfect for training antiaircraft artillerymen. Now he produces the OQ-2 drones. Daily, by the hundreds. Located in Van Nuys, about twenty miles outside of Los Angeles, Metropolitan Airport is an industrial center surrounded by farmland. Once the airport to the stars, and later auxiliary soundstages for the pictures, the airport was bought in 1942 by the military, which then converted many of the buildings into manufacturing centers for defense while still maintaining the soundstages. At one end, aircraft was being assembled; at the other, scenes from
Casablanca
were being filmed. Now, in the midforties, production is in full swing. The civilian workers, mostly women, are dedicated, faceless in our anonymity, with a posture that conveys a sense of pride in its stoutness. We build the drones. Measure the balsa. Cut. Assemble and glue. Some paint the parts. Stretch fabric over the frame. Others make miniature parachutes, which, down the line, are folded inside the fuselage. Some of us inspect for quality control.

 

We're all orphans in here. Seated at tables along the perimeter of this giant warehouse, forming the production line. It's a home for girls. It's an income. And it supports the war effort. But more than anything it's something to do. Something to keep your mind off being a bride who has lost her footing since her husband was shipped away. All of us may be alone, but at least we're alone together. Most of the time we're all
thinking the same things, and carrying the same worries, and while at times it can feel good to say them out loud as some kind of verification or reminder that you're not alone with these feelings, the truth is that most of the time giving voice to any of your thoughts usually makes you feel more alone. Like you wish you'd never said anything. There are a lot of us girls in here, but it still feels hollow and distant, maybe on account of us being in a hangar, where the ceiling lifts high above us and the metal beams are crisscrossed, exposed, and the reminder of the room's true function only makes you feel smaller, and lesser, and fewer.