When Madeline Was Young (14 page)

Although I took it for granted that my parents loved each other without reservation, I naturally never thought about their sex life. Aside from Buddy's escapades at the lake, I'd never really witnessed anyone in love up close. But now, in my own house, even if I meant not to look, there was Mikey smooching away while Madeline halfheartedly pushed him off. Sometimes in the middle of the gaiety she'd suddenly get serious, a moment you'd hate to see. She'd seize his thick, ruddy neck with her white hands, or, before she kissed him, she'd pet his mouth with reverence, as if his lips were an adorable little animal. When she got like that, grave and full of industry, he'd open his eyes and bore into her with his magnified gaze. You felt like his soul was in his eyes--he was trying that hard to communicate. Without any shame, as if he didn't think anyone was watching, he'd put his hand to her breast, and she, on our sofa and in broad daylight--she'd arch her back. When that happened, I didn't break china or let a stack of books fall to the floor. The only thing I could think to do was bang out the front door, get out of the place that no longer felt like home.

Aside from our own hothouse, there were no signs that the sexual revolution was on its way. The Catholic girls in their plaid skirts an
d k
nee socks and loafers, their sprayed hair and black eye makeup, moved in an impenetrable herd on their way to school. None of the mothers could have been temptresses, none of them the type to have illicit sex leaning against laundry chutes or in commuter trains. No falling backward into swimming pools at a cocktail party for the squaws of 40
0
Grove. Our large, soft, graying mothers rang their bells and called one continuous name, KevinDorothyStacyPeterMichaeleenPatrickChrissySusan. It seemed to me that that was what most mothers lived for, to call and call, day after day. They'd sent their children out to play and wanted them back. They didn't seem to be reading The Feminine Mystique or The Second Sex out of curiosity as Julia Maciver was, weren't becoming enraged about their subjugation, raising their fists, and storming the streets like the women in New York City. They weren't inventing consciousness-raising, and they weren't either mending or cleaning or cooking. They were calling for us. Up and down the alley, they were so comfortably unattractive and worn that now, in my mind's eye, they have a sheen that is something like beauty.

Mikey's mother, Mrs. O'Day, was the ultimate Ober-mother, a woman Mrs. Maciver came to oppose, cursing her, going as far as to wish ill upon her. At the time of the birthday drum set, she was still in Julia's good graces, a woman who had gotten her son a present so lovingly suited to his interest and desire, even if the neighbors were losing their wits. The wild crashing rhythms from the next block went on for a week and a half or so, until there came, one morning, a silence. Nothing but the birds to wake us along with the milkman, the song of his bad muffler a sweet old irritation. It shouldn't have been hard to guess why the quiet. After all, everyone wanted those drums, including those of us who had been abjured not to covet things. Why wouldn't an enterprising boy in the neighborhood find a way to make the Ludwig display his own? Jerry Pindel had long shiny black hair that was always in his eyes, a hunch when he walked, his rounded shoulders to his ears, his neck short and tight. When he was twelve
,
he'd shut his sister up in an old chest freezer in the basement--a murderous prank the mothers never forgot, proof of one of Julia's maxims: "For Reputation lost comes not again." His teenage misery, that bottled rage, concerned some of the mothers. By lunchtime, the news had spread in its pathogenic way from house to house: everyone knew that Mikey O'Day was going to be the backup drummer--the star backup drummer, that is--in Jerry's band. During rehearsals, if Mikey could get away from the Dari-Dip, he was going to be allowed to sit, to have an actual seat behind the real drummer. He would have the privilege of being in the Pindels' loft, above the garage, where the group, The Spellbinders, practiced. It seems almost shameful now, that the neighborhood gangsters had such a clean, hopeful name for their band.

On the morning when Mikey rushed in the kitchen to tell Madeline he was going to be in The Spellbinders, a negotiation that must have been completed the night before, he neglected, in his excitement, to kiss her.

"Jerry's band?" she sniffed.

"I'm the drummer, the backup, the backup drummer! The star, the star backup drummer for Jerry, for Jerry--"

"You're too noisy," she snapped.

Russia happened to be having her breakfast, and she said, "Sit down here, Mikey, sit yourself down. What are you talking about? What's this about Jerry?"

"I'm the d-d-drummer. I'm the drummer for Jerry, for Jerry's, for Jerry's band."

"I told you, you're noisy." Madeline crossed her arms on her chest and moved her chair away from him.

"You make sure you have time for your girl," Russia said. "Don't you go leave your girl behind for an old drum set."

Mikey, to his credit, stopped in his tracks. "Leave? Leave my girl?"

Madeline was starting to cry. Already a drum widow. No longe
r w
ould she be able to sit at the Dari-Dip like the First Lady, prim and admiring. No longer would Mikey say, "This song goes out to my girl, goes out to my girl, my b-b-b-best girl." Never again would the regulars clap and call out, "Yay, Madeline!" She was sobbing into her eggs.

"No! No, no, no, no." He knelt at her chair, he tried to lift her head, tried to catch her hand. "I'll never, I'll never, never leave my girl." It went on, as this particular sequence always did, her tears, his pleading, more tears, his promises. Eventually, she'd turn to look at him, such a sad sight, her blotchy face, her runny nose. He'd hold her, rocking her, until he was forgiven. Pretty soon she'd tell him where and how to sit, what to eat, she'd lick her finger and try to flatten his cowlick. He'd close his eyes, throwing his head back, breathing easy, smiling with satisfaction, as if he'd just finished the long race. They were in love, all right.

It must be said that Mikey used every one of his fifty-two IQ points for all they were worth. He was clearly able to acquire practical knowledge, learning to read Madeline's humors and figuring out how to butter her up. In addition to his facility, his temperament seemed to be ideally suited to hers. I have always found the idea of the noble savage and the joyful idiot suspect. It's true, however, that one of Mikey's greatest assets was his inclination toward happiness. He seemed to have a neurological inability to be downcast for more than a minute
o
r
so
.

"So you're going to be in Jerry's band," Russia said after the storm had passed. "You be sure Jerry's good to you, you hear me?" "Jerry, Jerry's nice, he's nice to me."

"I like Jerry!" Madeline pronounced.

In the olden days, when we'd only had Madeline at table, she didn't speak up too much. Now that Mikey was around, she was either bossing him or expressing herself. She'd found her voice, which we are all supposed to strive for, but I missed the ancient times when could better imagine, in her quietude, what she was thinking.

"I pray for Jerry," Russia said, "you know that?
I
pray he come t
o s
ome use, just like I pray for our Buddy. Two bad boys who need the Lord. Two such bad boys."

That Buddy and Jerry should have an encounter two years later was right there foretold--the hoodlums on Russia's hit list, united by prayer. That Buddy would visit and beat Jerry up and all for good was a story Russia, even with her narrative gifts, couldn't at that stage have prefigured.

My mother had been on the telephone upstairs, and when she came into the kitchen Russia said, "You hear the news, Miz Julia?" "What news?"

"I'm the drummer," Mikey cried. "Jerry, Jerry needs me for the drummer, in his band, in his band."

"Does he need your drums, too?" I was finally able to get a word in.

Russia cackled into her napkin. "They don't call you smart for nothing, Timothy."

"He's using my drums, using, using my drums, so I can be the star, the star backup drummer."

"Ah," my mother said.

"Uh-huh," Russia said, "uh-huh."

Louise had made her entrance at that point, and she said, "Those drums should be repossessed. Jerry Pindel is such a lousy little jerk." "I like Jerry!"

"No, Maddy," was all I could think to say.

"Why?" Louise said with disgust in her voice. "Why do you like him?"

"He watches me walk," Madeline said.

We all turned to stare. Even Mikey looked momentarily startled. She hung her head. "I like him!"

"Of course you do," my mother said. "He's a fine boy. He's going to men out just fine."

Louise grabbed a piece of bread, tore it from its crusts, and made the dough into one meaty ball. "If Jerry comes around asking for m
y c
ello, you give it right to him, because he's a fine person." She popped the whole thing in her mouth and left the room.

Every Wednesday morning, Mrs. O'Day took Mikey to the record shop uptown so he could buy his one 45 of the week. He'd spend much of his energy for the next six days committing the songs, front and back, to memory, as well as anticipating his next purchase. It was what he called his work. Madeline was in on the routine, and shortly after Louise exited, the swain and his armpiece departed for their outing to Little's Music Shop.

"It ain't right," Russia said when they'd gone. "Jerry taking over those drums."

"Well," my mother said slowly, "I think there's a nuance, maybe, that we should consider."

"Nuance, Miz Julia? What do you mean?"

Miz Julia began by stating the problem: Jerry had in fact stolen Mikey's drums--yes, yes, he had. However. The fact that he'd invited Mikey to be part of the band should not be overlooked. We had all seen with our own eyes that Mikey was standing taller. He was proud and happy and excited-

"Mikey is always proud, happy, and excited," I said. "It's not possible for Mikey to be happier than he already is. Mikey has a continuous peaking point of happiness. In case you hadn't noticed." The morning's drama was making me feel satisfyingly high and mighty. "You know as well as I that Jerry is not going to let Mikey play his own drum set, his very own drums, in the band."

"I'm not sure that matters." My mother hacked away at her cold bacon with a knife instead of picking it up and eating it. "He's involved in making music with other people, even if he's standing by. He'll love that. He'll be thrilled. I think there's actually a nugget of generosity in Jerry--he's doing what he can to include Mikey."

"Generosity?" I said. "A nugget?" Even though Jerry cut through our yard every morning on his way to St. Rita's, we had never done more than grunt at each other. As little as I knew him, I was certai
n t
hat if he in fact had some goodness within himself, it was far smaller than a nugget.

Russia agreed. "You are not of this world, Miz Julia. Not of this world."

"Aside from the flagrant injustice of it," I went on, "all of Grove Avenue will thank Jerry for grabbing the drum set. Now we only have to worry about The Spellbinders playing too late into the night, but that's probably better than Mikey splitting our heads open at sunrise. So, Mother, you can feel good about that. I'm sure most people will bow down before Jerry in thanks."

Russia laughed, wiping her eyes, shaking her head. "Ain't that the truth," she said.

It was my mother's practice to let a tangle work itself out, to be patient in conflict. Since there were remarkably few incidents through my childhood when she lost control, I remember them with a fair degree of clarity. You wondered, when you saw the eruptions, how she managed to comport herself with any serenity for months at a time. About the drums she remained true to her ideal. She did mean, eventually, to talk to Mrs. Pindel and Mrs. O'Day about the seizure of the instruments, but before she got around to it Cody Rockard was killed on the train tracks. The neighborhood went quiet. How was it that Cody couldn't take back the dare, playing up on the tracks, couldn't rectify the error of touching the third rail? Wait, wait, didn't mean it! We went to the wake to see the ten-year-old's powdered face in the white casket. Madeline and Mikey came along, too, leaning in to each other as if they'd been married for fifty years, as if they had only each other to depend on in a time of sorrow. Outside of the funeral home she cried into his neck, taking big sniffly breaths. It seemed to me that she was enjoying the tragedy, that having a padded shoulder--Mikey in a suid--to weep on in public made the death worth her while. And her man, while subdued, managed to keep the sun shining through the bitter gloom: "Hi, Mrs. Van, Van Norman, hi, hi, Mr. Mr. Van Norman, hi, Mr. Rockard!"

We went on that summer behaving as if the old concerns were still important. We went on without speaking of Cody, but thinking of the boy we hadn't really known, carrying the implausible idea of his being dead, the idea that trumped everything else we knew. We went on as if we were preoccupied with the question--the pressing question--of whether or not Mikey O'Day was going to come with us to Moose Lake for all of August. Mrs. O'Day did not want to let him go fora month, and he probably, when it came down to it, didn't like the thought of missing the Dari-Dip in season. For the record, Joan O'Day never invited Madeline on any of their vacations. After several phone calls, it was decided that the O'Days would drive Mikey up and drop him off fora long weekend. Mrs. O'Day spoke about time alone with her husband as if it was a great inconvenience, as if there was nothing more disruptive to her schedule than having to pass seventy-two hours with him in a rental cottage in Door County. On our end, since Mikey was an unmarried male, a virtual boy, he'd have to sleep in the boathouse. My only consolation was that Buddy wouldn't be there, that I would not have to endure Mikey O'Day in the presence of my cousin. Buddy had been sent to a wilderness camp, another effort to whip him into shape.