One More Stop (13 page)

After my conversation with Pop, sit down on bed, cry, look at mess in room, kick off shoes, take nap. I am awakened by the phone. It is Molly. She wants to thank me for the afternoon walk. As I am about to hang up, there’s a knock on my door. ‘Wait one second,’ I say. Throw the phone on the bed, trip over some socks, open the door. It’s Maggie. It’s Maggie!? ‘Wait one second,’ I say again, close the door, try to clean up the mess, run back to the phone. ‘I have to get that.’ Molly wants to know who’s at the door. ‘The janitor,’ I say. ‘One second,’ I scream to Maggie. ‘Thanks for the call. See you tomorrow.’ Hang up. Oh my God, now what do I do? Don’t leave her standing in the hall. Look around room. ‘Oh shit.’ Beyond sprucing up. I open the door.

Maggie is carrying a cardboard box. She enters the minefield, sits down on the sofa, opens the box, places a series of
reception
cards on the table. ‘What do you think,’ she asks. ‘About what?’ I say. ‘Reception cards for the opening-night party of
O Pioneers
,’ she says. ‘What about them?’ I ask. ‘Do you like them?’ she asks. ‘It’s four o’clock in the afternoon. What are you
doing here?’ I ask. ‘I don’t know,’ she answers. ‘I was driving through town, I passed the hotel, thought you might be in, so I decided to say hi.’ ‘Oh,’ I say. ‘I’m glad you did. Sorry about the mess.’ I don’t know what else to say. ‘It’s not messy.’

She crosses her legs, folds her hands in her lap. She has
beautiful
hands. ‘What did you mean when you said you had
ulterior
motives?’ she asks. ‘When?’ I ask. ‘Last night,’ she replies. ‘Oh that.’ I don’t know what else to say …

A million thoughts run through my mind: Pop is dying, Simone’s hurt me, I hurt her, Molly would hurt if she knew how I wanted her mother, why do I want Maggie, my mother, this town, its name, mother is watching, Dina, poor Mrs B., mother is watching, Maggie, here … there, mess in room, mess called life, breakdowns, recoveries, fears, failure, ssssex … but, I am at a loss for words, can’t speak, trapped in the fear of losing what has already been lost.

Maggie takes her hand and places it on my heart. ‘Your heart is racing.’ ‘You should hear my mind.’ ‘Shh,’ says she. ‘Shh.’ She touches my lips with her fingers. I see my mother’s fingers on the black and white keys. I close my eyes. She kisses me. I kiss her back. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she says. I say, ‘I do.’ But I am not so sure … I do. Never been sure in matters that matter. Never.

We make our way through the rubble to the bed, undress
ourselves
, undress each other, explore. I explore Maggie Malone. She explores me. One stop at a time. Journey into each other; touch skin, smell skin, walk skin, ride skin, swallow sweet sour juices, breathe her, breathe me, taste her, taste me, devour me, devour her, mouths open, tongues deep inside, longing travelers, long, slow, wet roadways, slippery shoulders, finger fucking, sucking, blind curves, nails dig trenches, tits hard,
spread wide prairies, wild rivers, mouth to mouth, mouth to nipple, mouths, tongues, clits expand, contract, open, close, hard, inside, backside, tongue up ass, roll over, easy, hold, release, coming, home, take me, home, one more stop, one more stop. Hold. Stop. Again. Once more. Don’t stop. Stop! Breathe. Can’t breathe! Can’t … Help! Help! ‘Help!’ I scream. Maggie’s startled. ‘What’s wrong? Loli! What’s the matter?’ She takes me in her arms; rocks me back and forth … back and forth. I barely get the words out. Gasping. ‘Can’t breathe. Asthma. Can’t … water, please …’

Maggie runs to the bathroom, wets a wash cloth, runs back to the bed, wipes the sweat from my forehead, places wash cloth on forehead, runs her fingertips through my hair. ‘Breathe,’ she says. My eyes roll back inside my head, tongue goes dry. She squeezes water from rag into my mouth. ‘Drink.’ One drop at a time drips into my parched mouth. ‘Drink,’ she says again. I swallow. Maggie runs to the bathroom, brings back a glass of water, lifts my head off the pillow, places glass to my lips. I grab her wrist, wrap mouth around glass, swallow water. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘Shh,’ she says, as she strokes my hair again and again.

Three days until I leave … every morning at eleven: Molly at school. After class she says, ‘I love you.’ Every afternoon between four and six, Maggie in my room between the sheets says, ‘I love you.’ Every night she whispers in my ear, ‘
I love you
.’ Without sleep, each and every day, start the cycle over again: Molly, Maggie, and she.

On my last night in town, Peter Pieter rounds up as many parents and children as he can fit on the Euripides Follies stage.
He thinks improvisations based loosely on my ancestral
explorations
will be an interesting way to bring families together.

Somnambulistic, I dress and ready myself. Maggie is on my clothes, in my hair, on my fingers, imbedded in every corner of my road map. How will I deal with seeing Molly and Maggie tonight? How will Maggie deal with me? I lie down on the kitchenette floor on my stillpoint inducer contraption trying, to no avail, to still myself. I’m late. I get up from the floor, get dressed, wrap scarf around neck in that Martha Stewart stalwart way, head out the door smelling like Maggie Malone.

Take a deep breath, enter the theater. It’s packed. Stage lights on, house lights on, people milling around, chatting, waiting for me. David Lincoln’s father, who looks like a
basketball
player himself, sits with David. Sandy Caulfield gabs with her mom, who’s wearing a Lilly Pulitzer dress. Bill laughs with or at his daughter Rachel, who looks like a teenage Maggie; beautiful. Bill, Claire, Mike and Debby from the first Follies evening chat with daughters Jenny and Sharon. Maggie and Molly sit huddled up in a corner of the theater having a very serious tête-à-tête. Maggie does not look up. Peter Pieter waves.

‘Loli, I’d like you to meet my “friend” Sterling Silver.’

Sterling is fair, delicate and very southern. ‘Peter has been ravin’ about you.’ Sterling gushes. ‘It is always … fascinatin’ to improvise on life.’ With that Sterling and Peter take their places on stage. The rest of the group join Sterling and Peter.

Maggie and Molly pry themselves away from the corner. Molly meanders my way. She hugs me. Maggie smiles politely. But no hugs.

‘Alright, folks … Please bear with me while I set up my CD player.’ As I plug in, I set the tone for the evening’s
exercises
. ‘Each parent and child … in the same family … will
stand directly across from one another. I’m going to play music from different periods … on the prairie. When you hear the music, you will place yourself in a certain situation, as parent and child, spouses, or siblings, appropriate to that time. You can do tableaux. Does everyone know what that is?’ Vacant stares. ‘You have a feeling. Let the emotion rise up inside you, partner responds, then both of you freeze in place, revealing your feeling state. At any time a parent may become a child or vice versa. Of course you will have to cue each other as to when you’re reversing your role. Don’t think about what you’re doing. Do it. Let the music become your script. Use it in a very specific way … If I see that you’re stuck in a predictable moment, I will shake things up a bit.’ Look at me, Maggie. ‘Lord knows we all get stuck.’

Molly and Maggie steal a quick glance. Bill looks at Maggie. Maggie looks at me. I look at the floor. ‘Let’s begin.’ I turn on the CD player. ‘Can you see those wounded soldiers limping home from the bloodstained battlefield? Ladies, do you feel your crinolines crunching. I better stop those boys; fanning and curtsying … Don’t go for the obvious. Relate to one another.’ Peter and Sterling stare into each other’s eyes. Gracefully, they move toward each other. Without touching, they look over their shoulders; flared nostrils, flushed cheeks. Finally, their shoulders meet. Locked gaze, stunning movement, deep bow. ‘There you go. Much better. Next piece of music. Listen to that fiddle.’ The crowd dances. It’s prairie gone autistic; hands clap, heads bob, feet stomp, jump, jump … I hate to stop them but … ‘Come on! Specific! Where are you? Who are you?’ Maggie and Molly switch roles. Maggie pouts, mutters something about running away to the big city, defiantly blows bubbles (which I doubt they did in those pioneer days). Molly
irons, pins up clothes on an imaginary clothesline. ‘Good job, Maggie and Molly. Not so sure about the gum.’ Maggie and Molly’s role reversal inspires the rest. Soon every child in the theater attempts to imitate the parent, every parent becomes the child … How like life.

‘Alright, you dancing fools … you older folks will remember this one from 1955, a year before I was born.’

‘One two three o’clock four o’clock rock

Five six seven o’clock eight o’clock rock

Nine ten eleven o’clock twelve o’clock rock …’

‘Do you remember Bill Haley and the Comets’ “Rock Around the Clock”? Do you?’ The room goes berserk. Maggie jumps so high, when she lands the floor shakes. And I love this woman. Go figure.

David Lincoln’s father catches an imaginary basketball. David cheers from the bleachers. Bill combs his thick curly black hair with one hand, straightens out his bow tie with the other; a consummate multitasker. Rachel gives him a quarter. She sends him on his merry way. Looks like young Bill has got himself a hot date on prom night.

And I am … I am in the living room … again. No … no … She is here. Right there dancing between Maggie and Molly … The meanest jitterbug on two feet. She is downstage left … downstage right … centerstage … on the light grid … her shadow in the lights. She is every single person in this room: Molly, Maggie, Bill, Rachel, Peter, Sterling, Sandy, David, all of them. My mother inhabits everyone. I close my eyes, but, there she is; her energy ignites the inside of my brain. The music has set her off. She is a fandango apparition, her voice is loud and clear.

‘Pat a cake, pat a cake
…

Baker’s man!

Pat it and prick it

And mark it with t

Put it in the oven

For Loli and me.’

Turn her off! Push click … Gone … Thank you … Next track. Everyone dances cheek to cheek … Sit down in front row. Breathe, baby, breathe. Close my eyes. Open … Look … For now I am alone. That is to say … She is no longer in the room.

I look at the parents and their children. Do they realize how fortunate they are to be in the same room, present and accounted for, in life’s dance. She and I will be in the same room again but one of us will not be present and accounted for … not ever.

The evening is a smashing success. After much discussion about sound scapes, role reversal, family dynamic and life, Maggie, Molly, Bill and I head out the door. Rachel heads home. She is desperate to try out her version of tonight’s games with her mother. She is even more desperate to drive her father’s new Infinity SUV.

‘Please?’

‘Don’t tell your mother.’

‘I’m going to drive it home, Dad. That’s kind of silly, isn’t it?’

Bill mopes. ‘How will I get home?’

Maggie, of course, offers, ‘We’ll take him.’ Damn those family obligations. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?’

‘I am so sick of Enzo’s. I’d rather play with the goldfish.’

Bill is none too thrilled. ‘Here, take the keys.’

‘Thanks, Dad.’

‘Tell your mother how good I was tonight.’

‘I will, Dad.’ Keys are handed off. Rachel leaves the group in the dust, we each head for our cars, before which Maggie squeezes my hand. No one notices … I do.

Enzo’s is packed, but Bill had the good sense to reserve a table. To nobody’s surprise but mine, Mike Malone is seated at the bar. The man is drunk … like Ray Milland,
The Lost Weekend
. Maggie and Molly march over to say hi to daddy. Enzo himself escorts Bill and me to our cozy corner booth. ‘Fly Me to the Moon’ is still playing.

‘A tape loop,’ I say.

‘He sure is,’ says Bill.

‘I mean “Fly me to the Moon” was playing the last time I was here.’

Bill asks, ‘Do you think people can change?’ He doesn’t give me a chance to respond. ‘Mike’ll never change.’

I look at Mike. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The man has always been a drunk. He will always be a drunk. It’s a sin.’

‘No, it’s not. It’s a shame, not a sin,’ I say, ‘There’s no sin in a man’s pain.’

‘His father was a drunk. He up and left Mike and his mother. Now Mike’s a drunk and … I hate it. No one cried when that man died, least of all Mike.’

Grandfather was a drunk. Mike’s a drunk. Poor Maggie. Poor Mike. Molly doesn’t hate him. Doesn’t understand. What about the grandfather?

‘If all the world were apple pie,’

She has sat down in the booth. I feel her breath on my hair.

‘And all the sea were ink,’

‘And all the trees were bread and cheese,

What should we have for drink?’

Bill asks me if I want a drink. ‘No thanks. Sparkling water. How long ago did Mike’s father die?’

‘Molly was just a little girl.’

‘What’d he die of?’

‘Drank himself to death. Mike was the only family member who showed up at the funeral. Even Mike’s mother refused to pay her respects. The townspeople hated his guts.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s a long sordid story. I’d rather not. I don’t want to ruin your impression of Beatrice.’

‘You couldn’t if you tried. I love this place.’ He should only know.

‘We love you too. Molly’s crazy about you.’

‘I’m crazy …’ And the girls return from their brief but
sorrowful
visit with Mike Malone. Maggie is agitated. Molly is pissed off.

Maggie whispers to Bill. ‘I’m at my wits’ end.’

‘Nothing you can do, baby, absolutely nothing.’

Molly throws her napkin on the table. ‘Could we please not talk about him! I want a drink!’

‘You’re not old enough to have a real drink,’ Maggie says.

‘Mom! What do you think we do at parties? Drink Diet Cola and Dr Pepper?’

‘I never thought …’