One More Stop (6 page)

I remember, as a young child, I would sit on the pink piano bench, gazing at my mother’s fingertips as they traveled over the black and white keys of our Baldwin acrosonic piano. She played a lyrical Irish folk song over and over again. The first few lines go something like this …

In Dublin’s fair city

‘Sing my pretty baby.’

Where the girls are so pretty

I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone.

From the air, Nebraska looks like a dark brown on light brown farmers’ chessboard. In this country, in fact, it is the crop growers and grain givers who feed us and keep us alive. They are a dying breed. Their children cannot wait to get away from the cow dung and the prairie mentality.

When you arrive in Nebraska, you sense the dying-off of the farmer and his glory times. Archer Daniels Midland, the giant agricultural corporation, is no replacement for the real thing.

Before I arrived, all I knew about Nebraska was that Willa Cather, a gifted and prolific writer, grew up there. I know she eventually worked elsewhere; even though she apparently
loved Nebraska, she couldn’t wait to get the hell away. Yet Warren Buffet, a very successful businessman, has remained in Nebraska for most of his life. What attracts one person repels another. What is acceptable to some is rejected by many. It is both challenging and difficult to be in the minority, especially when the majority rules or shall I say makes the rules.

Midflight I untie my blue silk scarf. I lift it from around my neck, lay it on my lap, fold it into perfect quarters, unzip my knapsack, place it inside the sack, and zip it safely away.

The plane is three hours late. It is pouring. I walk in the rain from the plane to the gate, since the hydraulic gate mover is broken. But the baggage handlers are waiting anxiously to retrieve the bags from the final plane of the day. All is well with the world in Lincoln. I am an hour away from Beatrice.

I hope the Avis car rental lot is not in Omaha, which
according
to my map is many miles from Lincoln. I walk into the
terminal
. Maybe I can make it to Beatrice in forty-five minutes. Excitement runs through my veins.

A very adorable brunette woman, about thirty-five or forty, with a turned-up nose and a pouty upper lip, is holding up a sign. Next to her is a teenage girl with the reddest wildest hair I have seen since
I Love Lucy
. I read the sign. ‘Loli Greene’. Oh my God, someone has come to greet me at the Lincoln airport in the middle of a deluge. The grown-up with the pouty lip approaches. ‘Are you Loli Greene?’

I am so excited. And, she is … a-d-o-r-a-b-l-e. Look at that luscious upper lip, peaches and cream complexion, thick,
beautiful
hair. My nephew would give up the yellow race for her. She is magnificent; a little bit overweight. Who cares. Look at that sexy scar above her lip … and look at her … breasts. Beautiful. I wish Simone had breasts like that. Simone. What
about Simone? Slow down, Loli. Make contact. Say
something
. ‘Hello.’

‘I’m Maggie Malone. This is my daughter Molly.’

‘Nice to meet you both. What are you doing out here in the middle of such a soggy night?’

‘I’m the assistant head of the Beatrice Arts Council. We wanted to welcome you to Nebraska, and make sure that you got settled in at your hotel.’

‘That is so nice. I can’t believe that you came out here in this monsoon to welcome me.’

‘Oh, it’s just a little shower.’ A bolt of lightning, followed by a threatening clap of thunder, breaks a window in the terminal. The sirens roar.

‘Just a shower, Ma.’ Another sullen, stubborn, teenage hooligan.

‘Let’s get you to your car. You can follow us to the hotel. We are so excited about your coming to Beatrice. No one ever comes to Beatrice. We have so many plans for you and your troupe. Can’t wait to see the play. You do know that Willa Cather was born in Nebraska?’

‘I do.’

‘Molly’s going to be in one of your classes. They can’t wait.’

‘Right, Mom.’

‘And you are in which class of mine?’

‘Mr Willwrite’s English class.’

‘Is he any good?’

‘I guess for an English teacher he’s all right. He’s a little weird.’

‘Molly! Don’t be rude. Apologize right now, young lady.’

‘For what?’

How do parents do it? ‘Not a problem. Good to know the
lay of the land before I get to class. What have you been
studying
this semester?’

‘Willa Cather. I like the themes. I love her characters. I don’t understand why those people stuck it out here. Personally, I can’t wait to get the hell out; so boring.’

‘Molly Malone!’

‘I know, Mom. But it’s true. At least in those days they were busy farming or something. And the families, they were real families. I’m sure the kids could have cared less about the farms.’ Molly has touched a nerve.

Maggie is furious. ‘They
had
to work the farms! Do you think those children had a choice?’

‘Sure they did. They just didn’t know it. They could’ve walked away. Whatever.’

Can’t wait for class. Sexy woman. Those eyes, luminescent … I know those eyes, those hazel eyes are so familiar. My mother? No. They were brown, weren’t they? It’s been so long.

‘Hickory, dickery, dock!

The mouse ran up the clock. Having a good time, dear?’

Here she is. Breathe, Loli. Breathe. Remember Dr Guttman. Deeper. That’s better. Got to get out of here. The ceiling is spin, spin … turn, upside down …

‘Here we go round the mulberry bush,

The mulberry bush, the mulberry bush.’

Maggie touches my shoulder. ‘Are you … Is there something wrong?’

Molly almost acts like she cares. ‘Yeah. You sick or something?’

‘Hotel room for days. Airports. Airplanes. I haven’t had any oxygen in my lungs for at least one solid week; got to take a few deep breaths.’ Keep up the cover. ‘First acting teacher taught
me how to breathe like this.’ Leave me alone, Ma. Leave me alone!!!

Maggie rescues me. ‘You studied acting?’ She cares. I breathe better.

‘And singing … and … writ …’

Young Molly gets excited; an unusual event for a teenager. ‘You sing?’

I nod. Enormous effort. Need to get on the road. ‘My mother’s name was Beatrice. It’s not pronounced the same as
Be-atrice
, but it’s spelled the same. I’ve been dying to get here.’

‘Me too, honey. Me too.’

I cringe. ‘Oh no.’

Molly and Maggie chime in: ‘What?’

‘My scarf.’ They are trying so hard to follow my thought process. ‘I … I … stuffed … inside my knapsack. It’ll be creased.’

Maggie makes it better. ‘They’re sure to have an iron in your room at the Holiday Inn.’

‘The mulberry bush.’

Molly’s still excited. ‘Singing, wow! You know you’ve got a jacuzzi in your room. You must be someone real special.’

‘That’s me. Real special.’

‘That’s my baby … and the dish ran away with the spoon.’

I cover my ears. Groan out loud. Mom, meet me in the car!

She whispers.
‘Sure, baby.’

Molly whispers to Maggie, ‘She is weird.’

Maggie whispers under her breath. ‘It’s jet lag, sweetie. Let’s get her to the hotel.’

My red bag arrives. Maggie grabs it. Molly chews gum, a sure sign of teenage inertia. Maggie hands me the keys to my hunter-green Ford Taurus.

My heart is full of Maggie Malone. My head is full of mother. I take one more deep breath. Let’s swing the conversation toward the personal. ‘What’s your husband doing tonight?’

Molly answers. ‘His bimbo girlfriend.’

‘Molly Malone! Excuse us.’ Maggie pulls Molly aside. They have a heated debate. On return Maggie explains: ‘We’re in the middle of a divorce. Molly lives with me. She’s with her father on weekends.’

Bingo! ‘I’m so sorry. Are you on good terms with each other?’

‘Not right now.’

‘That’s a shame.’ Good news.

‘It sucks, if you ask me.’

Maggie shoots her daughter the dagger look. ‘We’re not asking you, honey.’

I keep things moving. ‘I’ll follow you. You sure you don’t mind?’

‘It’s the Midwest. This is how we do it out here.’ Mother and daughter get into Maggie’s Jeep Cherokee. Maggie puts her arm around Molly. Molly fiddles with her hair. Molly turns around. Looks at me. Through the raindrops, I see her. She turns away, body stiffens. She moves away from Maggie. Mothers and daughters. I slide into my Ford Taurus, fiddle with the mirror, turn the key and off we go. We travel down Highway 77 toward Beatrice. I follow the red tail lights. The rain lets up. The wind whistles through the crack in my open window. How I love that sound. ‘Don’t you love that sound, Mom?’

She’s divorced. Wonder why? Never thought people got divorced in the Midwest? Never thought much about the Midwest. Wonder if Midwesterners think about the east? The east coast is where the world wants to be, especially New York.
I don’t want to be anywhere. Sometimes I do. Right now I want to be right here following Maggie Malone. My mother would like Maggie. ‘Don’t you, Ma?’ Pop would want to fuck her. Dina would like her. Who’s gonna move? I don’t want to live in Nebraska. She’s got Molly. Molly’ll be graduating soon. We could live anywhere in the world. I love Italy. England’s nice; no the weather sucks. I don’t like the United States any more. I wonder if she’s a Republican? I couldn’t live with a Republican. Oh shit I’m losing them. No, there they are. Wonder what the dad is like? Probably a pig. Who wanted the divorce?
Everybody
wants a divorce. I don’t know if I love Simone anymore. Been so long. Sex is everything. No, love is everything. I never loved anyone. Maybe I do love Simone. I loved my mother. ‘I still love you, Mom. Now, don’t forget your seat belt. Would hate to see anything happen to you again.’

As the ride continues, I travel my brain; left brain to right brain; cerebral cortex to cerebellum. I travel down the crowded highway of multifarious metaphors. God is my only witness.

The Holiday Inn is a Holiday Inn. The Malone girls show me to my room. There is, in fact, a jacuzzi in the living area. I am afraid to look at Maggie. I finally do … look at her. ‘Thank you so much. Molly, I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘If I show up.’

‘Honey!’

‘Maggie, do you …?’

‘In Dublin’s fair city.’

‘Do you know what time my classes are?’

‘You have an eleven a.m. Then you have a one-hour break. Your next classes are at one and two; two English one history.’

‘Which class are you in, Mol?’

‘Molly! I don’t like nicknames … Eleven a.m. English.

‘See you at eleven … Molly.’

Maggie starts to leave. ‘Oh, Loli, our theater group would like to have a Q and A with you tomorrow night. We meet at seven p.m. We could have dinner after?’

I am dying. I am definitely dying. ‘Sure.’ Too quick a response. I am usually much cooler. I am not cool at all. Those eyes.

‘Where the girls are so pretty.’

‘Night, Loli. I’ll see you tomorrow night. Molly will see you in the morning. Say goodnight Molly.’

‘Night.’

‘I first laid my eyes.’

‘Night, Maggie.’

‘Night, Loli.’

I run a steaming hot jacuzzi into which I pour some lavender bath oils. Perhaps the bath will calm me down.

I place my meditation beads on the night stand. I notice a small basket of daisies on the living area bureau. There is a note. I open the envelope. ‘Welcome to Beatrice – Maggie Malone.’

I writhe, undulate and soak. I touch myself. My warm wet hand reaches inside. So wet … Hot … I twist. I turn. I erupt. Pounding waves … fire … heat …Oh fuck … Yes. Take it … Come on. Suck it. Harder. Harder! Oh yes. Take it! Let me come inside you. Deep ache … Hand deep inside … Feel me. Feel it … Open up … Again and again … and harder and faster and take me again, yes … Again … Feel it … Now … Maggie Malone … Ecstasy … Maggie Malone.

I realize that I am in danger. My hand is getting the better of me. My imagination’s getting the best of me. I will use these
feelings when I stand before that eleven a.m. English class. I will use it all. No. I have to save some of it for tomorrow evening … for Maggie

‘On sweet …’

‘Maggie Malone, Mom! Her name is Maggie Malone!’ I dial Dina’s number. It is way past her bedtime. I do not care. ‘Hello.’

‘I’m sleeping.’

‘I’m in love.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘I do.’

‘Pop’s been asking for you.’

‘Night.’

‘Wait! Don’t hang up. I forgot to tell you. Burt died.’

‘Mrs B.’s son?’

‘He shot himself in the head. You should call her.’

‘Poor Mrs B. … Sorry I woke you.’ Life isn’t fair.

After a fitful night’s sleep, I wake at eight thirty a.m. I am nervous, nauseated and giddy. I can’t stop thinking about Maggie Malone. I must stop thinking about Maggie Malone. I iron my lucky scarf. Lovely. I listen to the morning silence.

‘Not a creature was stirring …’

Her voice punctuates most of my inner thoughts. I try to meditate. It is an impossible task. I give up the ghost (so to speak). I brew my gunpowder green tea, stir my protein drink, wrap the scarf around my neck, leave the hotel.

At school I am met by the assistant principal. He leads me into the brand new auditorium; stunning contemporary design, cool dark-blue padded seats, full light grid above stage, professional soundboard in the back of the house. It is a beauty;
a stage filled with pride, possessing the power to present any of the performing arts in all of their splendor. After the dressing room tour, he ushers me into Willwrite’s room, introduces me to a fastidious man wearing a bow tie, and leaves us to
hopefully
enjoy each other’s company.

‘We’ve been studying Willa Cather’s O
Pioneers
.’

‘That’s what I heard.’

‘They’re good kids. We only have a few problem students in the class. When it comes to manners, I am a real stickler.’ He coughs as he straightens his tie. ‘The Bard rules the room.’ He points to a series of Shakespeare posters that grace his classroom walls. The bell rings. Molly straggles in. He whispers, ‘
Problems
at home. Lazy. Needs special attention.’ He addresses the class. ‘All right, ladies and gentlemen, I want you to meet Loli Greene. She has come to Beatrice to enliven your imagination. Therefore, there will be no grammar this week.’ Shouts of joy. ‘But, you will be graded on your manners. Remember the three B’s … Be polite … Be attentive … Behave. I will be grading term papers during the week. I will be watching every move that you make. “What shall I say, more than I have inferr’d? Remember who you are to cope withal.” The king leaves you to your fate.’ As he heads gallantly with ruler on shoulder toward his desk, the class applauds Mr Willwrite.