New Moon (4 page)

Then there is a yellow miasma. It pours out of my gut, a field of daisies and insects, an ocean so thick I cannot swallow it, a spinning chamber, a tan Daddy driving the lining of a dizzy car, my own pee.

The miasma is Mott’s apple juice, a too-early moon, buttercup-do-like-butter? It is buzzing, but I can’t see a bee.

In the yellow dream I am trapped in industrial basements, toilets overflowing. I wade through wastewater and urine. Even standing in the shower I am knee-deep in it. The drain is clogged. Shreds of paper and crud cake about my legs. It is impossible to rinse them because the water itself is filthy.

The blue miasma is medicinal and bitter: the glow of my mother’s bedroom, Xtaby singing. But it’s also the background against which Christmas lights sparkled. Nanny called me to watch as men in trucks hoisted trees by ropes along the center strip.

They moved slowly along the avenue, mall by mall, redirecting cabs and cars.

At dusk these giants ignited in unison, all the way to the
clocktower. Their red, blue, yellow, orange were the most radiant colors I had ever seen. Stationary amid traffic signals and streams of lights, at nightfall they reminded me of who I was.

In the red miasma Dr. Hitzig arrives with his leather bag to examine Mommy. She wants him to look at me too. For all the years I have been truant I must have grown a fatal disease. She points to my head and there is a scar. The all-seeing Hitzig parts my hair and examines my scalp. I think, “It’s from riding my bike into that fireplug, but it’s healed.” He says that we have let a malignancy form through our inattention. A thing is rising in my skull, merging with flesh, infesting my cap and spreading downward. I pull away, but he holds me in his metallic grip. He is going to operate and dismember me.

Dreams take me back to that old ground-floor flat at 1220. I knock at the door. The present occupants let me in. I see the living room stretching like countryside to my right, the land of bureaus and statues. The hallway to my bedroom curls off beyond, blank now and invisible. Crumbling walls form foyers like rooms in a museum, their lengths draped in hieroglyphic tapestries, gold ornamental ceilings merging with sky.

These zones are in decay, hidden from current inhabitants. Yet I see through them into other habitations as well as vacant rooms without end.

I tell the people that something happened to me there once. I want to go back and find it. They direct me to the oldest sector (which they never use). I start down the hallway. I intend to see where the spell was cast.

I tell myself it’s just a dream. I push against its sides, twist, and propel my body backward through grains of fog. Finally I tumble into the room I shared with my brother long ago. It is an eddying, shapeless black.

Once, grotesque dolls with muttering wooden heads drove me out. More often the interdict is implicit … there is nothing at all, just space abandoned, its sterility and disuse marking quarantined dimensions, the closure of a zone of consciousness.

On at least two occasions gentle magi have intervened to
lead me up the elevator onto the roof where they demonstrated windmills of the future, drawing power from light.

Once, I forced myself down the hallway, expecting to meet the apparition, but all I saw at its end was Nanny and me on a couch reading together. The scene was bountiful and sunny and betrayed all my suspicions … until I turned and looked the other way and found myself staring into the black light from beyond existence.

Looking back at my earlier years I am seeing my substance at its far girth. There it is denser, brighter, its separate threads less accessible: truly a milky whey.

Life begins with an explosion much like the one we postulate for the origin of the universe. Everything is blown out of an original moment atomistically and settles in the tensility of space. I can see now at the beginning I was locked to my mother like a small satellite sun in a twin star system. It was not her exogenous presence that compelled me but her gravitation in the region of space from which I emerged. It was imprinted on everything I did. I was always shrinking from her, even when she was not present.

She watched my every move and pried into my thoughts. She was so close to me, so repellent, she wasn’t a person at all.

Although her life was removed from mine by a discontinuity of scale and kind, I understood our grim kinship. She was the exact mother to punish and correct me. I felt her bleak intimacy and was drawn to her—unerringly. I knew that her qualities in me made me repugnant too, a negativity passed through the blood: her skitteriness and treachery, her alarms and false smiles. It didn’t matter that I hated her, that she was beautiful.

As people often said, I was my mother’s “picture image.” So there was never the possibility of a clean escape.

I was afraid, not as it might have seemed, of her anger or spankings. I accepted that I was inordinately bad. I was afraid of who she was—
who she really was.
Her room was a catacomb of shrouds, homunculi amidst garments on the floor, hints of a pigeon knocked dead by a car, a dried-up goblin. When I was taken to visit her propped in her bed in her chamber I saw the haggard but adorned
ruler of a nation at war, and I was proud to be associated with her.

In the fall of 1951 I was sent to P.S. 6 at a new building on 81st Street between Madison and Park. Each morning Nanny laid out my clothes and made breakfast. While I ate, she prepared carrots, celery, quartered tomatoes, and a sandwich, wrapped them in wax paper and arranged the wads in my Howdy Doody lunchbox. Then she took me outside to wait for the van, a vehicle they called the “wagon.” As I got in, a place was made for me in one of the rows. Then the driver collected other kids at their awnings, packing us in like sardines (he said), so that we had to negotiate each other’s elbows, legs, lunch boxes, and smells. Then he drove to P.S. 6 and dispatched our rumpus into the yard.

At the sound of the bell we hurried in and found places, our chatter stilled by a loud buzz. My classroom was on the first floor facing the street. From her position beside the flag Miss Tighe led us in the Pledge of Allegiance. Standing in aisles, our hands on our hearts, we recited the words automatically in singsong, “One nation, indivisible, with liberty and justice….”

I sat in my combination desk and chair watching words spelled and simple sentences sounded out. Our picture book was about Dick and Jane, their dog Spot, a cat Puff. We made the sounds of the letters as a group: “This is Jane. See Puff jump.” After recess in the yard, addition and subtraction were demonstrated on the blackboard.

I became restless. My mind was occupied with adventures in which
I hunted for treasures and escaped from enemies. I drifted between daydreams and drones of planes changing pitch, shadows of window casements as they bent from near rectangles to rhomboids and diamonds and crept across the room, pigeons against far rooftops.

I drew penguins playing trumpets with musical q’s rising into double-u birds. I wound two pencils in a rubber band and then into a knot so that they danced weirdly to come undone. Kids at desks around me giggled. I looked at unintelligible combinations of letters in the back of the reader, trying to guess from the pictures what they were.

I was delighted when the single-letter word “a” appeared on an upcoming page. I had been looking ahead to it, wondering what it meant, Miss Tighe not forewarning us. A faint image of that “a” has stood before untranslated text ever since.

During that year our family moved across 96th Street to 1235 on the northeast corner. There, on the sixth floor overlooking a narrow alley, my brother and I shared a room again, our beds contiguous along one wall, Nanny at the opposite corner.

Relatives gave Jonny and me a black globe with a light in it to put stars on the ceiling and a wood-burning kit that released industrial smells as it heated up. We sat on the rug, etching lines on blocks while Nanny warned us about nipping ourselves with the coil.

We got a painted turtle in a plastic bowl, a track for him to walk on, a parasol at its center. Somehow Timothy escaped. We found him only after pulling up carpets and lifting cushions. He had made his way to a corner where his legs plowed against the wall as his head twisted. We returned him to his bowl and poured in dehydrated insects, almost suffocating him. But he left again, and after three weeks Nanny found him dried up under the radiator.

A three-year-old in cahoots with a first-grader, Jonny and I launched more escapades than our nurse could handle. We hid in closets and behind beds and played pranks on her, rearranging her clothes, putting plates and silverware in her dresser, and hiding her medicines. She yelled at us, took our toys and cap guns away, and made us drink our dinner disgustingly in our milk as punishment. She told our mother
we were the worst kids she had ever minded.

One morning my brother and I decided to save our BMs as a joke. We stored them under his bed. After just a few days the room stank, but the bed was low-slung, disguising the source.

Our mother collared Mr. Borrig, the superintendent, and he appeared with a plumber in tow. After checking the toilet, the handyman worked his way into the bedroom, yanked the bed forward, and announced, “There’s your problem, lady.”

She stared at me in disbelieving horror. I shook my head in denial.

“It was him,” Jon insisted. “It was his idea.”

My brother was Mommy’s favorite. She boasted to relatives how handsome and spunky he was. Compared to such a boy I was not worth mentioning.

As Jonny got larger he became a real nuisance, strutting and boasting in front of me, appropriating my things, claiming my trucks and boats were his. He had an ornery energy about him, a chippiness, plus a sour, powdery smell that I associated with his banditry. We would shout names and then begin hitting.

“Dumb brat!” I yelled as he showed off his boxing style, dancing from atop his bed to mine.

“Pee face!” he retorted wickedly. His mouth sprayed spit.

It seemed as though he always made his elbows jab, his knees butt on purpose. He never gave ground or let an advantage by me go by, no matter how meager. If I got a step ahead of him in our progress to the door, he had to restrain me by a hard push and get back in front. If I danced around a piece of furniture, he had to dance around it too. So I teased him, leading him in pied-piper chases. By indicating he was a baby or stupid, I riled his quick temper. He charged me and initiated fisticuffs.

Screams and thuds brought Nanny or our parents. They pulled us apart.

“A born instigator,” Daddy said, glaring.

“He put my trucks with his toys! He stuck out his leg and made me trip.
On purpose!”
I was the picture of righteous indignation. But I knew my dark motives. I wanted to pummel him.

Jonny shook his head and grinned. To this day I can picture him, forcing tears, telling on me, innocent as a lamb.

“You’re older,” Mommy said, “and should know better.”

During one tussle Jonny and I wrestled to a stalemate. I refused to let go, and I couldn’t budge his death grip. Suddenly his fingers caught hold of my ear; he tugged without mercy. I shrieked in pain and bit his forearm as hard and deep as I could. Howling, he reached for a pair of scissors. “I’m going to get you for that,” he shouted, voice quavering. “I’m going to kill you.”

I dove at him, tried to grab away the scissors. By the time our parents arrived he was bleeding from a cut on his cheek. We were both crying. The weapon lay beside us.

I wanted to tell my side of the story, but Mommy socked me on the head—a hard, painful club. Then she smacked with her fists, crouching over and kicking me as I squirmed along the floor. Daddy joined her yelling: “He’s an idiot. Let him crawl into his hole.”

I pulled away, slithering into the closet under the coats.

“You’re the lowest form of creature alive,” Daddy called in, “picking on a harmless child.”

I sat there in a forest of wool and flannel, fascinated by the cadence of my sobs, staring into the patterns inside my eyes, calling for my Nanny. Inside me a strange, dry voice heaved all by itself.

I learned to cry long and deep and sing my own symphony.

Mommy thought if she spanked me and sent me to my room often enough I might change. She didn’t mince words either; she called me “Hitler’s boy” and “the devil incarnate.” I deflected these slanders into nonsense syllables: “Dev-ill, in-car-nate.” Even though I understood (more or less) what the words meant, how unthinkably vicious for a mother to say to a child, I didn’t relate to them; it was more random noise aimed at me.

I may have tuned out her disparagements, but I breathed their field of attraction. The identity of a “knave” blended into my life: I became ugly Richard, diabolic Richard, prankster Richard, conniving Richard, Richard the rogue. “R” was the foulest, sneakiest letter, while “ch” scrunched up my cheekbones into a quailing mask. To this day ancient voices compel me to don it.

Grandpa Harry, a tiny man with a foreign voice, showed up on occasional Sunday mornings with his chauffeur, Joe. His accent and rapid garble made him unintelligible and he always was in a hurry. His sole purpose was depositing boxes of cookies, lox for Daddy, and the same set of fancy chocolate silverware in a flat box covered with cellophane. This included not only knives, forks, and spoons of different sizes, but pushers with sharply bent chocolate ends. Having presented his gifts, he was waving goodbye despite Daddy’s protests that he should stop, break bread, and say a Sabbath blessing.

It was a major victory if he took off his hat and progressed out of the hallway to the nearest chair and occupied it briefly.

At the most unlikely times Uncle Paul, a fat, jolly man, would appear at our front door, exchange greetings with Daddy, and sometimes give Nanny a hug. Best of all, he took me out alone. No one said why, but I assumed it was because I was older.

At F.A.O. Schwartz, the toy emporium downtown, he stood alongside while I picked a wriggling fish from the pool of battery-operated toys. “How about that?” he pointed to the rear of the store. I could scarcely take my attention from the fish; then I did.

Two trains in motion wound through villages on opposite sides of a giant table, past people in cottages. Roving waitresses delivered food to autos, as miniature logs were loaded onto flatbeds. There was a sudden puff of smoke, a light through a tunnel, the engine entering, caboose last. I watched enthralled until, at Uncle Paul’s prod, we returned our attention to the pond where he plucked the electric fish and bought it for me.

At the Penny Arcade we played Skee-ball and got fortune cards from a glass-enclosed gypsy doll. With cork rifles we knocked down prizes and collected our booty in my uncle’s bulging pockets—gum drops, tiny boxes of Oriental cards, puzzle rings, packages of miniature books.

To win coupons, we slid a metal puck down a saw-dusted surface beneath bowling pins that lit up scores on an overhanging screen as they collapsed upward with the passage of the puck. Then, together in a recording booth, out of harmony and tune,
we sang my children’s songs into a microphone imbedded in the wall—me and Uncle Paul doing “Frosty the Snowman” and “The Thanksgiving Squirrel.” I alone knew the words, so he slurred syllables to catch up.

Afterwards, we got to hear ourselves through a scratchy speaker; then a record with our voices dropped out a slot for me to take home.

Uncle Paul always concluded our visits by buying me a new game or a boat. He heralded the moment by asking me questions that implied our decision was a serious matter: “How many tugs you got? How many barges? how many canoes? any in drydock? any rafts? any ferryboats?”

One time, he honored my pleas to buy a hard plastic man with answers to questions floating in liquid inside him and visible through a plastic window. Another time, he picked out a game with presidents’ faces on gold coins like real money. The most special present, though, was when he purchased a red motorboat with batteries at F.A.O. Schwartz. I was beside myself with how jealous Jonny would be, that I got it and he didn’t.

After each visit I asked Mommy when Uncle Paul was coming next, but she didn’t want to be bothered by questions about him and, if pressed, got angry. His appearances were so far enough apart that I almost forgot about him each time. He had become a vague memory of something wonderful when suddenly he was back at the door to claim me.

At P.S. 6 Miss Tighe set aside a period each day to practice with me while the other kids were doing lessons. I wanted to stay good and reward her kindness, but, back at my desk, daydreams took over. Then a trickle ran down my legs. Kids smirked, giggled, and hooted, holding their noses when they passed me.

At lunch a boy purposely spilled his juice on me, then yelled, “Wet pants!” I shoved him. He socked me. Soon I was the center of a circle, everyone pointing and teasing.

“Just get up and take this,” Miss Tighe said, pointing to the bathroom key on the wall. “You don’t even have to raise your hand.” What she didn’t realize was that I had no sensation of pee starting,
so day after day I disappointed both of us.

One morning, without notice, Mommy packed our suitcases. We were going to Texas, she said, to visit Grandma Sally. In the train Jonny and I kneeled on seats by a window, watching buildings sweep by. Soon it was countryside … then lights in the dark.

We spent the whole night and next day on the train and, when we awoke in Dallas, everything seemed old-fashioned and warm like summer. We had strapped on our holsters and guns but spotted no cowboys in the streets.

Grandma and Uncle Tom’s home was two storeys; it had a yard with a small brambly jungle leading to other yards. Using string, boards, and sticks I arranged a fort from which I spied on activity in all directions. I befriended a stray kitten I named Katey after my Little Golden Book, but she scratched me and I kept my distance after that.

“She feels as bad as you do about it,” Grandma said, and she urged me to make up. I tried, but Katey didn’t want to.

On his way to work, Uncle Tom drove me and Jonny to a school for little kids. No more numbers and letters, it was back to building block villages and painting on easels. At naptime the class lay on fold-out cots, and the teacher read to us from
The Wizard of Oz.

Late-afternoon yolk flickered on the wall, as a Lion, a Scarecrow, and a Tin Woodman travelled an enchanted forest: a Scarecrow who had been made only yesterday, a Woodman whose joints creaked because he needed oil, a sad, meek Lion. I adored these characters and was so concerned for the outcome of their quest I could barely wait between installments. Since I was older the teacher took me outside during naptime and read to me under a tree: the jabbering field mice, the winged monkeys and—“Richard, today we meet the Wizard himself!”

One evening Grandma put a surprise at our place settings: look-and-see straws so we could watch our milk spin in spirals around Goofy and Donald Duck. For days Jonny and I found juices, sodas, and punches to sip and watch their colors swirl. Then we sucked Kool-Aid out of a pitcher and began spraying each other. Uncle Tom reclaimed the straws on the pretext they harbored germs.