One More Stop (7 page)

I jump on top of the nearest desk. ‘What is imagination? Where does it come from? How can you inspire yourself? How will you free yourself from the complacency of your life?
Creativity
will set you free. All you have to do is shut off your brain. Stop thinking! Have a good time, get out of your way and get out of the box. There is no testing in my room. You can’t fail in my class. If you don’t like it here, for all I care, you have my
permission
to leave the room. Is that all right with you, Mr Willwrite?’

‘As long as they read anything by Shakespeare … In the library. I will want a written report next week. But, they
can
leave the room.’

I remain perched on top of the desk. All eyes are upon me. Not one student has fallen asleep. Miracle. ‘Let’s do some breath work. Stand up … Come on, get up! Take three deep breaths … Slow down … Now close your eyes. Let yourself be in the wave of your fluid systems. Don’t ask what that is. Whatever it is to you is fine. Now touch into the universe that lies within you … that is you. Sit down slowly … Now, if you haven’t already, open your eyes.

‘Take out a piece of paper. So, you’ve been reading Willa Cather’s
O Pioneers
. That’s right. Isn’t it?’ Many nods. ‘Good. You are going to dialogue with your ancestors … those that came before you. You can dialogue with a grandparent, or great-grandparent. You can even dialogue with a character from the novel. It’s the past we’re tapping into. Write this down. First part: what do you want this character to know about you? Second part: what advice does your character have for you? Third part: as yourself, today, what advice do you have for somebody in the next generation. So, in the third part, you’re dealing with the future; future pacing. Be specific. Who are you talking to? I want names, locations, time of year, time of day … the works. Maybe a scene will come out of it. You might even encounter all three generations simultaneously. Check out the clothes. Who’s wearing what? Who are you? You can become anyone you want. You have twenty minutes for the entire exercise. That’s not a lot of time. Believe me, it’s all the time you need. Remember. Be specific!’

Molly looks somewhat perplexed. We acknowledge each other’s presence. She begins the exercise in earnest. The entire
class is writing. Not one person leaves the room. Willwrite pushes his homework aside. He too will explore the world of his ancestors. I am overjoyed. It is a great first day at Beatrice High.

After class, I pick up my lesson plan, peruse my notes. To my surprise, I have succeeded in following my own instructions. How lovely to have completed the assignment. Willwrite gives me the thumbs-up sign. Yes! I feel good about those
forty-seven
some odd minutes.

As I walk out the door, I see Molly engrossed in bubble gum blowing. She leans against what I presume to be her locker. The bubble bursts. Don’t they all?

‘Hi Molly.’

‘Hi.’

‘Now that’s what I call good conversation.’ Let’s try again. ‘Hi, Molly.’

‘That was a great class.’

‘Glad you had a good time.’

‘I didn’t really understand what we were doing, but I did what I thought we were supposed to do.’

More than I ever expected. ‘I have an hour before my next class. What are you up to?’

She shrugs her shoulders. ‘Hangin’ around.’

‘I see that.’

‘I’m finished for the day.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘No! I am. Honest. I have study hall.’

‘You want to take a walk?’

‘I don’t mind.’ That means yes. ‘Where you walking to?’

‘Anywhere you want – the road in front of the school.’

‘That’s fine.’ We stroll down the corridors of Beatrice High. Molly is somewhat embarrassed to be seen walking with an adult.

‘What happened?’

‘When?’

‘In class. What happened? Who’d you talk with?’

‘My grandfather.’

‘And?’

‘He died when I was very young. I didn’t really know him. I went back to some time before I was born, but I was a
grownup
, not like you, but my age grown-up. I think it was the Depression. I’m not sure … I felt the time. Does that make any sense?’

‘Definitely.’

‘We spoke to each other. He was with me in this time now, and I was with him then. Time got confusing.’

‘Time is confusing. What did he say?’

‘Wait. Let me tell you this first.’ She describes his navy blue suit, how his shirt sleeves stuck out from the end of his jacket, his little gold, square, shiny cufflinks. ‘He was handsome, like my father.’

‘Did he look like your father?’

‘No. But something about him reminded me of my dad. It surprised me.’

‘Surprises are good.’

‘I was afraid of him when I was little. I liked him so much more in this whatever you call it?’

‘Process. Where were you?’

‘In our house here in Beatrice.’

‘What room?’

‘My bedroom.’

‘What were you doing?’

‘Brushing my hair. I kept brushing my hair.’ She
demonstrates
. Her gestures have an other-timely feel to them.

‘What was he doing?’

‘Staring … at me.’

Be careful. Get back to the exercise. ‘What advice did he have for you?’ I stop at the driveway entrance, look both ways. A yellow school bus turns into the driveway.

She stops. ‘He told me that I must never grow old; stay young forever. It made me sad.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What else?’ I walk

‘Asked me to forgive my father? Said he couldn’t help himself.’

‘What’d he mean?’

‘I guess he meant the bimbo.’ She doesn’t move.

‘You don’t know that for sure. He might have been talking about something else altogether.’

‘I doubt it.’ We walk due east, down a little country road that leads us to a bigger country road, that leads us to the biggest country road of all. An oversized dump truck rumbles by at breakneck speed. It kicks up a life-load of dust. I cough. Molly stops in her tracks. She has something on her mind. ‘Do you love what you do?’

‘I do. I love a lot of things, even what I don’t do.’ I laugh.

‘Do you make a living being a writer?’

‘Sometimes yes, sometimes no.’

‘Is that why you teach?’

‘No. I have to teach because … I just have to teach. And … I have to write. I don’t know why.’

‘Are you successful?’

‘Did you stay in the room?’

‘Yeah.’ She laughs.

‘Did you discover someplace special?’ She nods yes. ‘Do you want to go back there?’ She nods yes again … ‘Knowing that it may never be the same, that place, are you absolutely sure that you want to go there again?!’

‘Oh yes.’

‘I am very successful.’

‘Because of me?’ She doesn’t understand.

‘You got it.’ Such sweetness. Mustn’t say too much. Have to maintain some sense of grown-up rank here. We cannot be friends. Maybe we can? What if I’m trying to get to her mother through her? Keep it on the creative level. Maybe I can help her? I don’t want to impose in any way. Man oh man would I love to be her age again … It is a terrible age. Poor baby. Maggie has her hands full.

‘Are you married?’

‘I am not married. Enough on that subject. I want to get back to you. I want you to go deeper into that exercise. Tonight, at home, go back to the scene with your grandfather. Talk to him. Listen to what he has to say. Put it on paper. Ask him what he meant about forgiving your father. Would you do that for me?’

‘I guess. If I have time. I’m having dinner with my father tonight.’

‘If you have the time.’ We turn around. The garbage truck rumbles by us one more time.

‘I hate him.’

‘Your father?’ She nods a definitive teenage yes. ‘I know that one. I’ve hated my father for years.’ Too personal.

‘Is he still alive?’

‘He is. He’s terminally ill.’

‘Do you ever talk to him about how it feels?’

‘No. It’s a long story.’ Stay under that radar of hers.

‘That’s terrible. Maybe you should speak to him while you still can.’

‘Maybe.’

‘I speak to my dad, even if I do hate him.’

‘That’s a good idea.’ Isn’t it about time that I forgave the old man?

‘That’s a good girl.’

‘Even if you hate someone, it’s a good idea to talk it out. That’s what my mom says.’

‘I agree totally.’

‘Me too.’

‘You’re very smart, Molly Malone.’

‘You think so?’ She lights up from ear to ear.

‘I do.’

‘Did you ever want to be somebody else?’ she asks.

I wonder who she wants to be. ‘Yes.’

‘Who did you want to be?’

‘Mrs Crouse, third grade, she was the best teacher I ever had. I worshipped her.’ More moist dreams about her … Always been horny. ‘How ’bout you?’

‘I dunno. You’re pretty different, maybe you.’

‘Thank you.’ I am touched.

We say goodbye and return to our respective school rooms; I to a rowdy history class; she to a quiet study hall. I am enriched from our walk. I hope that she is enlivened from it.

Before history class, I remember once I had asked my mother, in a childhood conversation, if there was anyone in the world she could be, who would it be?

‘You, honey. You.’
She wanted to be me.

I teach the next two classes with a certain unfamiliar ease. Willwrite’s class has paved the way for newly improved
extemporaneous
teaching methods. While the students are talking (on paper) to their ancestors, I cannot stop thinking about my father. At present I can hardly remember why I hate the old goat. I just know that it has become another all-consuming habit; much like my subscription to
Vanity Fair
. It comes in the mail once a month. I read it, and it stimulates all that I hate about myself and the world. So isn’t it time to cancel the subscription? Where do I begin? Call Mary Michelin. Maybe she can help me with the evolutionary exorcism of life’s nasty problem?

After school I return to my Holiday Inn home away from home. I dial Mary Michelin’s number.

‘Hello. This is the voice of Mary Michelin. I am on holiday until April 15th. I will be calling in for my messages. Please leave your name and number. I will get back to you as soon as possible. If it’s an emergency, you may call my colleague Dr Dot at 212 …’

‘Here we go round the mulberry bush,

The mulberry bush, the mulberry bush.’

Past tense meets present tense with me in the middle. There can only be one Dr Dot in the world; that Dot I knew so well. How did he end up on Mary Michelin’s referral phone list? He’s subbing in April?! He must be a dreadful doctor. I had my doubts about him twenty years ago.

What about her? Is she the shrink for me? After numerous psychological adventures and misadventures, my theory is why not take one more acid trip into the quagmire called memory.

The very sound of Dr Dot’s name has me hankering for a neon trip to Wal-Mart: I want edibles: not egg whites and sugar. Haven’t I come a long way, Dr Dot? I need sustenance. You see, I got a date tonight with Maggie Malone. How I love the sound of her name. Mommy … I have a date tonight. Please don’t ruin it.

Dina’s last night in Los Angeles is almost as eventful as the Lindt chocolate caper evening. Sis retrieves a stack of letters from the bottom of her steamer trunk. They are vintage, ripped, torn, tattered letters. Some are stuffed in yellow stained envelopes. Most are barely legible. ‘Read these.’ She hands off the stack of relics to me. I follow her instructions. After all, I am the younger sister.

‘Please come to get me. I hate everything. I hate everyone. I want to go for a ride. Could we do that soon? I promise I won’t cry. Promise. I’ll be good if you take me back home with you.’ As I decipher the scribbles on each ancient page, I am reminded of a time from my past without road signage or map quest.

Dina hands me another letter. ‘Now read this.’

‘There was a little girl who had a little curl right in the middle of her forehead; When she was good, she was very, very good, and when she was bad she was horrid. Be a good girl now
.

love me
(she).’

‘She did know nursery rhymes! I am vindicated, even if I am younger.’

Dina swears on her life that my mother never read either one of us a nursery rhyme; at least not when we were of nursery
rhyme age. ‘You were ten when she wrote you this ditty – a little old for an introduction to
Mother Goose
, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Remember, they sent you off to Camp Clydesdale: The Camp for Young Horse Lovers.’

‘Wasn’t that the summer I stopped eating solid foods?’

‘Certainly was. You tried your best to starve yourself to death – what a lovely little girl you were. We, your mother, father and I, drove up to the Catskills, yanked you out of the infirmary. The ride back home was a veritable yell fest.’

I keep reading. ‘Dr Guttman’s coming back the week after next. I’ll miss Dr Dot, even if he is a psychiatrist in training … Where did you find these?’

‘In the attic. She saved your letters, and made copies of hers. You should have her originals.’

‘I don’t.’

‘Of course not. God forbid you should have any
memorabilia
from your past. Do you have a photo of any one of us?’ I think about the question; hard. Shake my head in disgust with myself. ‘It’s not normal. Everyone has a scrapbook.’

‘Well, I don’t. Why remind yourself of something you love that’s … no longer there.’

‘Anyway … You came home, suddenly a soft-food eater. Next thing, right after you arrive, she’s in some hospital for some new ailment. We weren’t supposed to know.’

‘I didn’t know that she was hospitalized then?’

‘You didn’t know a lot of things. You were ten. What does a ten-year-old know about anything? Besides, you were busy having your unique food drama.’ Dina continues her story. ‘On the nights that Pop came home for dinner I cooked for him. He worked late … some merger. As soon as he walked through the
door, he’d change his shoes and go out again. He took endless walks around Beechwood by himself.’ As she remembers Pop, her face softens, eyes smile. ‘That was the summer Pop started smoking Cherry Blend … I remember, when he came back after his walks, he would sit in his easy chair, pack the tobacco into his pipe, light it up, draw the smoke down into his belly, blow out the match, and blow perfect smoke rings into the air; his nightly ritual, along with watching Jack Parr or Johnny Carson. Mrs B. cooked for you; vats of oatmeal. You were such a misery. The maid quit. The house was upside down. Keep reading.’

It was clear from the letters that my mother was versed in the language of nursery rhymes. Clear I did not want to go to Camp Clydesdale. My father had made the unilateral decision. Evidently, my mother did not want me to go, and I did not want to leave her. But we had no say in the matter.

By reading these letters, I understood what drove me into Bovar’s grip in the first place. His demon lies offered me a way to bury her inside of me … forever. She and I would always be connected through a web of symbiotic symmetry.

In the entire universe, there was only one person left whom I could trust … my sister. From my auspicious beginning, Dina had been present and accountable … for all of us. She had been witness to the hospitals, the shock therapy, the numbing drugs, and the final horrendous defeat.

‘I can’t read anymore,’ I said.

Dina replied, ‘I’ll take them home.’

I’m not ready to let them go. ‘No, let me keep them here.’

‘Loli, maybe you should get involved with something a little less drastic next time? What about meditation? Yoga? While you’re working with Dr Guttman, you could do all sorts of
creative things … spiritual things. When you get your life back on track, you’ll be fine. You’re so much better already. Aren’t you?’

‘I still hear her. I don’t know if I want that to stop. I like hearing her voice.

‘
Hush little baby
.’ I shiver.

Dina sighs. ‘You’re so talented. You know so much about music and writing … You would make a great teacher! You’re great with people.’

‘I’m not bad with demons either,’ I laugh.

‘I’m serious. You have great people skills. You should use them.’

‘I’m gonna miss you.’

‘You can always come back east.’

‘I’m not ready … not now anyway.’

‘We’re ready for you. Ralph adores you. The kids would love it!’

‘Pop and I aren’t ready.’

‘Give it time.’

‘We’re talking an eternity.’

‘It’s been hard on him too, Loli. He loved her. He did what he could.’

I try to explain myself. ‘When I hear her voice, I miss being young … very young. Back … maybe before I was born. I have always been hungry for the past … afraid of the future.’

‘It’ll get better,’ my sister replies.

I want to believe her.