When Madeline Was Young (21 page)

"What!" I said, at a volume beyond a whisper, I guess, because Buddy elbowed me hard in the ribs.

"You, you, you're my girl," Mikey called out.

Madeline turned on him. "You're not supposed," she hissed, "to talk during the fashion show!"

Fashion show? The dress was misshapen, a garment she would never have chosen for herself. The shirt-type thing, a full skirt, buttons all the way down, had probably belonged to Mrs. Pindel, the rag too broad in the shoulders for Madeline, too big in the hips, and too short. At one time it had been molded to a dumpy body, and because it was missing the belt there was no possible way for it even to begin to fit my sister. Why had she allowed herself to put it on, and how? Had she changed her clothes in the closet? Had Jerry been in there with her, or had he waited outside? Had she put it on willingly?

Jerry began to talk, a strangeness in and of itself. "Isn't she lovely?" He spoke in a loud voice over the radio but in sincere tones, the word "lovely" so odd coming from his mouth and in that freakishly lit room, the dark center, the glowing edges.

"Madeline, Madeline's my-my girl."

"Wait," Jerry said, yanking at the hem. "Let's see if we can fix the droop." He gave another tug, as if that single motion could make the costume fit. "Okay, turn around, Suzy Q, so we can see."

"My name isn't Suzy Q!" Madeline said through her giggles. Her heels were too small, and she was having trouble walking.

"My, my girl, my girl is always, she's always b-b-b-beautiful."

"Don't you know it, bowzer." Jerry followed Madeline back and forth in front of the sofa, pulling at the skirt once more. "We want this to fit you like a dream."

Right then I did reach out, as if from that distance, as if
I
, weeny Brains, could smash Jerry's face. Buddy's reaction was immediate, his viselike grip on my arm: Don't move until I say. He was as alert to the possibility of my making a blunder as he was to the drama in front of him, the old order, general and soldier, ineluctably in our every movement.

"You could be a model, you know," Jerry was saying. "Easy. Life-magazine spreads."

"She, she, she's b-b-beauti--"

Madeline turned on Mikey again. "I said quiet! I'm with Jerry, you, you big fat dodo!"

There was snickering from the wall by the sofa, or I finally noticed it in a still spot of music, the peanut gallery assembled.

"No, Maddy," I whispered.

She was rotating slowly, pausing as models do to give a full view to everyone in her audience. The shadow over her head was a hat with a veil, what the mothers wore to mass.

"You could catch a man, a husband, in this outfit, Suzy Q. You could walk out into the alley and knock a bruiser--"

"I'm her, I'm her husband!" Mikey called softly. "I'm, I'm the--"

"Oh, right, I forgot about Mr. Music here, the breadwinner. Your wife, then, Mr. Music, with her looks, she could have a lover man." Jerry was taking an old fur from a box and draping it over her shoulders. "On a cold night, Suzy, when you're sneaking away from your husband to meet your lover man, a cold, cold night, this will protect you. Brr! Brr, button up, doll, it's freezing."

It was the dusty, thick heat of the room, the fact that all of us were drenched, and the way Madeline eagerly clutched the coat around her throat that made the boys on the floor, from the sound of it, roll sideways. They were probably holding their stomachs, mouths wide open. The gentleness of Jerry's instruction made them laugh, too, the exaggerated kindness, the fatherly affect. Kenny Lemberger lurched into view, the white squares of his plaid shirt catching the light. There were six or seven boys, a few Lombardos and Van Normans, a Pilska, a Gregory. "What about this?" Kenny said, taking from the box what looked like a girl's gym suit from our mothers' era, the one-piece monstrosity, the knee-length uniform with starchy bloomers.

Jerry nodded thoughtfully, holding it up. "This, this prize, i
s w
hat Miss America is going to wear next year for her swimsuit competition. I'll bet there's a crown somewhere out there for you, Suzy Q."

The boys whistled when Madeline, as any seasoned model would do, dropped the coat to the floor. "What do you say, Miss Illinois?" Jerry was still showing off the gym suit. "Isn't it great? Isn't it you?"

"I like it," she said.

"No, no," I moaned under my breath. "Buddy--"

He put his fist to my mouth. "Not yet," he growled.

From the box Jerry pulled out a pair of saddle shoes. "How about--? Hold it!" He handed her one white go-go boot. "What do you think? How much do you love these boots? How much?"

Madeline had her hands at her face as she nodded. Those most fashionable boots, what must have been mistakenly relegated to the old clothes box, were, even from my vantage point, items from a girl's fantasy. "I want them," she said. She threw her head back and laughed. "I want them!"

I suppose Buddy knew that at some inevitable point we would see Mikey O'Day's penis, the last statement in the fashion show. Buddy had to know that Jerry would opt for the ordinary cruelty a person expects from the neighborhood bad boy. Even though we were behind the sofa and would not have been able to see Mikey's lap, in my memory I am suddenly in front, witness to the radiant sprout, as dazzling as the birds and flowers, as if it, too, had been slathered in fluorescent paint. Mikey had been away for two weeks, and maybe it was general longing coupled with the idea of Madeline in those bloomers that popped his tool through his open zipper.

One of the boys noticed, calling out, "Miss Illinois gave her husband a boner."

"Well!" Jerry said. "Well, well, well." He took Madeline by the hand. "You'll want to say hi to the happy fellow. I'll bet you've seen this happy fellow before--'course you have." He knelt down with her in front of Mikey. "Don't laugh like that," Jerry said to him. "Yo
u d
on't have to get hysterical. She's not going to hurt you. She knows how much your willy likes a sloppy kiss--come on, Suzy Q--"

Although at that stage I didn't idolize Buddy, or not much, still he did appear to fly down upon them, alighting by the sofa soundlessly, as if on a wave constructed for his own travel. Surely that was how the others saw it, and if they told anyone later, if they felt compelled to dress Buddy for the story in cape and codpiece and tights, I would not have blamed them. He grabbed Madeline by the elbow and in the same motion kicked the radio; the thing went dead. "Nothing to worry about, honey," he said. "Go on downstairs. Go with Mac." He turned to Mikey. "You get home, too."

Mikey was scrambling up off the sofa, trying to zip up his jeans and tuck his shirt in, neatnik that he was, and leave, all at once. He was babbling again about Madeline being his girl. "The party's over, pal," Buddy said, nudging him toward the door. Without needing to, as the neighborhood gang was slipping away, he added, "You assholes-in-training might want to get out of here, pronto."

By then Louise and the others had climbed the stairs and were hovering in the anteroom. Madeline was blubbering and trying to shake me off. "Let go, let go!" With some effort I handed her into the arms of Lu, with Stephen to steady them, and Mikey close behind, squealing he was talking so fast. When I came back into the room, Buddy had Jerry by the blanket chest. He was holding the unfortunate ringleader by the shoulders, speaking to him with a quietness that was menacing. I wondered if Buddy's teachers at the academy talked to him like that, or if Arthur had ever used such a tone. Buddy was older than Jerry by two years, as good as a man. My cousin alone would have been impressive, but add to the glory the fact that Cleveland was standing by.

"You think Madeline is like that queer?" Buddy was saying to Jerry, his voice going higher. "That what you think? She's a retard, too?" He shoved Jerry against the wall so hard his head banged against the stud.

Mikey, a queer, a retard? I hadn't thought of him in those words for a long time. It was startling to hear them.

"What kind of pervert are you, anyway?" There was the dull thud of Jerry's head again. "You get thrills from watching a beautiful woman blow a goof? A woman more beautiful than any little twat you'll ever hope to screw."

What did "blow a goof" mean? Jerry was whimpering, maybe because he didn't know what Buddy was talking about, or maybe because he understood that it was useless to struggle. Next Buddy would surely clobber Jerry for the fashion show: he'd say so, naming it, one satisfying wallop that would serve him right. We'd go home, justice dispensed.

"What does that do for you?" Buddy was saying. Another thud. "Was she going to perform the favors all around, or were you saving some of the boys for yourself?" He paused, standing back, so that Jerry thought the punishment was over. As if they were seasoned gangsters, a bank-robbing duo, as if they had choreographed the move, Cleveland reached out, hooked Jerry by the elbow, and passed him to Buddy.

"Jerry's got the message," I said. I may not have figured out what was going on exactly, but I knew enough to think of concussion, of hematoma. "You should stop. It's time to--"

"Shut up." Buddy whacked Jerry's head to the stud once more. "If you ever. If you ever try to pair Madeline up with that yo-yo, I'll punch your brains out."

"They go," Jerry croaked, "they go together."

"My ass they do." And then Buddy socked Jerry in the nose with such force my hand went straight to my own face in sympathy. "That knucklehead will seem like a rocket scientist compared to you. The dogs won't even let you fuck them."

There was one last good crack before Buddy and Cleveland sauntered past me. I did start to follow them. I was halfway down the ladder before I wondered if Jerry might be hurt enough to have trou-

ble getting out of the garage and into his house. He could die in the loft, choking on his own blood. He could pass out, and Mrs. Pindel, with all her children, might not miss him for a few days.

"You all right?" I said, when I got back up to him. He was on his stomach, his head in his arms. I could barely hear his muffled "Fuck off."

I hadn't, as I said, understood what Jerry had expected Madeline to do for Mikey O'Day. His idea for Mikey was a pleasure I had never considered; I didn't know that such a thing had been imagined by anyone, that it existed in the world. I had thought of Madeline as mine while I'd watched her in the hands of Jerry, but in the moment, it was he, Jerry Pindel, blood streaming from his nose, who seemed to belong to me. That is, we were left over to be with each other. Since I had failed to fly to Madeline's rescue, this was the place where I could be heroic, even if my ministrations were something only I would ever know about. I remember being that self-conscious about my good deed. I remember thinking, too, that when I became a doctor I would have to heal people I hated.

"You're bleeding," I said, kneeling next to him.

"Genius." He had the wherewithal to say so snidely.

"Sit up, why don't you?" I pulled a little, on his arm. Although I was unsure if making him move was sound medicine, it was the only action I could think to take.

"Fuck," he said again. If I hadn't heard him speak at such length moments before, I wouldn't have known he was capable of saying much of anything but that one word. I wouldn't have known that in his own way he had what might be called, in today's parlance, "leadership skills." As the fashion show MC he'd been both relaxed and animated, as if he'd been onstage, an actor removed from his usual self. I rested my hand on his back. It felt like a mature gesture, a placement that might make us able to understand each other. I didn't have any idea who Jerry was, but I wondered, not only if his secret talents would be part of the future Jerry Pindel--the painting, th
e p
ublic speaking--but if everyone had hidden strengths, artistry it was best to keep private.

"Put--put your arm around me," I said. "If you stand up I can help you get out of here." I think he knew that he had to, that if he didn't he might really be in danger. The blood started to gush from his nose, and he must have thought, as I did, that you could die from a leak like that. I spotted him in a coachlike way, arms out in front of him as he got himself, half sliding, half stepping, down the ladder. It was frightening, how weak, how floppy he was. When we were on firm ground, I leaned him against the rungs. "I'm going to get a rag over there by your dad's workbench." I handed him the oily cloth, asking as casually as I could if his parents were home.

"Fuck you." He pressed the old T-shirt to his face and weaved out the door into the yard.

I watched from the garage window, standing by until his mother came onto the porch. "What's the matter with you?" she yelled, thinking, no doubt, that he was drunk.

When I got back, Buddy was in the kitchen throwing open the museum cupboards, one after the next. He'd changed his shirt, whereas mine, I realized, was spattered with blood. For the first time since his arrival, he was noticing the labels on the drawers: "Look inside!" "A Hittite lunch." "Spoils from a lost city." "Discovery from a river bed." All of our food was in boxes on the back porch, so it wasn't nourishment he was after. He reached for a clay jar with a stony bit of meat rattling around on the inside, a dried-up onion, a red curd of what may once have been a fresh tomato. It was as if nothing unusual had happened, as if his heart weren't still beating wildly.