One More Stop (8 page)

The very thought of Dr Dot had impaired my ability to dress and ready myself for the much anticipated evening with Maggie Malone. Right sock, left sock, which sock, right shoe, left shoe, tie shoe, boot or …? Put on the socks and shoes already!!!

With one blue sock, one black sock, untied shoes and
blithering
mind, I jump into my all-American, undented,
hunter-green
Ford Taurus and head toward downtown Beatrice. I pass the American Chinese Cafeteria on my right, O’Brien’s
Chiropractic
on my left. I drive by the Whopper, Wimpy, or whatever burger place on my left. There is a Cellular One store on the right with an oversized cellphone dangling from the antenna.

I locate Sixth Street, turn right, park my automobile on the south side of the one-way street that has no arrow to inform the uninformed that it is in fact a one-way street. In an empty parking lot a black cat crosses my path. I spit over my right shoulder, and shoo it away. It parks itself under my car. I look for number 5 Sixth Street. I walk a few feet due north. There, as big as a Broadway billboard, is a neon sign …
EURIPIDES FOLLIES
.

I am prepared for my question-and-answer evening with the local theater group. More than that, I am ready to feast my eyes on sweet Maggie Malone.

I open the yellow door, lift a torn burgundy velour entry
curtain, proceed down a narrow dimly lit hallway, enter through the rear right of The Follies Theater. It is a quaint, somewhat claustrophobic forty-five-seat house with a small proscenium stage.

Seated onstage is the Q and A cast of characters: Bill and Mike (two mild-mannered, middle-aged, Caucasian males), Claire and Debby (two, blowzy, middle-aged, Caucasian females), Jess (very young boy, approximately six years of age, also Caucasian), Peggy (very young girl, approximately the same age as young boy, Caucasian, playing with cut-outs). Seated in the front row of the audience is Maggie, her hair gleaming. My heart pounds. Out from behind the upstage scrim, with megaphone in hand, prances a handsome,
light-in
-the-loafers, middle-aged man (Peter Pieter). But … the star in our cast of characters is panting on the floor downstage right … a large black and white definitive Dalmatian, chewing on a dog bone. Its name, I am to find out later, is ‘Sushi’.

Praying that no one has seen me, I step back into the shadow of the dimly lit hallway. Why don’t I call in sick? I fumble for the curtain. ‘Where’s the fuckin’ exit.’ I whisper ‘fuckin’ exit’, when from behind me I hear: ‘You must be Loli Greene?’ Caught, I turn around. There in front of me stands the most gorgeous man I have seen since my first viewing of Cary Grant in
The Philadelphia Story
. ‘Hello.’

‘I’m Maggie’s brother Bill O’Brien. I saw your picture in the
Daily Cryer
. Honey, that picture doesn’t do you justice. Why are you standing out here? Come on in. We’re waitin’ for you.’ I melt like soft butta on a hot cross bun. ‘We’re not cannibals out here. No one bites. Sushi had her rabies shot last week … Peter on the other hand, I can’t vouch for him.’ He takes my hand. I’m thinkin’, this family certainly has sex appeal.

‘Hey everybody … Look who’s here.’

Maggie turns around. Her eyes are even more familiar than when last I saw her; the shape, the size, the color. If only, if only?

‘If ifs and ands were pots and pans.’

Not now, Ma. Please.

As if in a Sheridan restoration farce, Peter Pieter claps his hands together. In a high-pitched Gracie Allen voice, he shouts into his megaphone, ‘Let us have a warm welcome for Loli Greene. Move down centerstage … P-l-e-a-se! … You too, Sushi. If you are going to be in the theater you had better participate … P-a-r-t-i-c-i-p-a-t-e! I don’t care if you are a dog. Pick up your bone and greet Ms Greene.’ On cue, Sushi stands up on her hind legs and howls. ‘That’s a good dog.’

Like a well-rehearsed bunch of lemmings, the gang moves down centerstage; different sizes, shapes, genders,
generations
, two-legged, four-legged, single, divorced, gay, straight, delightful, and certainly endearing. Sushi passes wind. After this joyful noise, the supporting cast of two-legged players shouts, ‘Welcome.’

The Q and A begins. They ask me if I always wanted to be a writer. I tell them that I wanted to join the circus, travel the world. I don’t tell them that my father didn’t approve. ‘I became a singer. I might as well have joined the circus. One thing led to another. I became a writer. I’ve come to realize … life is a circus.’

Molly asks, ‘When did you start writing?’

I remember my wild teenage years. I pause. ‘When I was much younger, a teenager, I wrote on napkins, matchbooks, receipts, anything in sight.’ I fucked anything in sight, too. ‘Whatever it was, I put it inside my pants pocket.’ Christ, I was
horny. ‘My pants ended up in the washing machine. My ideas got washed away.’ Drank so damn hard, hardly remember my senior year. ‘I bought a spiral notebook, but I never used it.’ Hated condoms. ‘I liked writing on scraps.’… No
commitment
necessary … ‘Eventually, I wrote in that notebook.’ My father was apoplectic that school night when I came home drunk at four a.m. no longer a virgin. He yelled, ‘Where the hell have you been, young lady?! Your mother’s been worried sick.’ I replied, ‘Not now,’ as I ran up the stairs, ‘Not now!’ He chased me up the hall stairs. I slammed the bedroom door in his face. He shoved it open, came after me, was ready to slam me hard, then right before contact, he stopped. He nearly cried. I swear, there were tears in his eyes. ‘What’s the use?’ he said. He turned around, closed the door behind him, walked back down the stairs into the den, turned on the television. I soaked for hours upon hours in a hot bath. My mother cried until the next school day. She cried … like it was the end of the world.

They ask me, ‘When did you start teaching?’ I reply, ‘I’m not a teacher. I’m a teaching artist. The real teacher is left with the work long after I’m gone. I can’t do anything every day. It’s a commitment issue.’ They laugh. I am aware it’s not a joke. Next question is, ‘What’s it like on the road?’ Where the fuck is Simone? … Speaking of commitment issues. Wonder what Maggie’s husband looks like? God she is beautiful. What was the question? Oh yes … The road. ‘The road is difficult, lonely, exciting, stressful, expansive … I visit towns that I never knew existed. I say, “Hey this town is completely different from that town.” The next second I realize, this town, that town, the next town … they have a lot in common. It’s about the people.’ I look at Maggie. Imagine that mouth on my … ‘I never leave
any place behind. They’re all in here.’ Touch my heart. Heart is there, mind is racing. ‘Fortunately, I deal with the creative world … wherever I go. So, I perceive a community and its schools by the creative work that we do together. The need to dream, to create, to inspire others. It is as important as food, water, or love.’

Peter chimes in, ‘How many times have I told you this is serious business!?’ He asks, ‘What are your goals when you teach?’

I notice Maggie Malone looking my way. ‘Let me see …’ Drift. Return. ‘I’m here to help open a door.’ I think she’s looking at me. ‘Once in a while the door is locked. I can’t do a damn thing. But, what I can do is … I can help the young adult find some way, some access into … the creative self. I don’t have goals … never know what’s going to happen.’ I hope, I hope, I hope … ‘I had some remarkable teachers. They inspired me. I’d like to do the same for others.’ Can’t wait to be alone with her.

In our dialogue, we agree that life and art do not lead or follow one another, but are in fact the soul of one another.

Why aren’t folks in big cities friendly like these folks?
Alienation
, survival tactics, too busy keeping up … Simone. Isn’t she sick and tired of working with rich, arrogant, assholes? To be so gifted, so committed … We haven’t spoken for nearly three weeks. I should call. No. She should call. She has no idea where I am. I’ll call.

The gathering ends on a jolly note. Peter has the gang gather around an old acrosonic upright piano. There it is again. The past memory of those black and white keys, only my mother is not playing them … They sing ‘One’ from
A Chorus Line
. After which, Peter performs the entire score. His rendition of
‘Music in the Mirror’ is of show-stopping quality. He has got the desperate chorus girl thing down pat. The kids run after the dog, and do that kid thing; grab tail, pull ears, pretend dog’s a horse, ride, hit each other, just because they are kids.

Maggie and Bill saunter over my way. Maggie asks Bill to join us at Enzo’s (the local Italian joint). I am deeply disappointed.

Enzo’s is swinging, not an empty table in the joint. To my delight, Enzo has good taste in music. Frank Sinatra sings … as only Ol’ Blue Eyes can …

‘Fly me to the moon

And let me play among the stars

Let me know what spring is like

On Jupiter and Mars.’

Drink down a perfectly mixed martini, take in the beauty of brother and sister, listen to the lyrics of the song. Look at those open faces. He so male, chiseled face, strong hands; she so female, soft skin, smiling eyes. I would like to paint their faces and hang that work of art inside my belly. That is where it belongs. Then I too would be complete.

Though I am fond of Bill, I am thrilled when he leaves us ladies to dine alone. He, like many men in the United States, has a standing poker game on Tuesday night. I have only three more days in my mother’s town, then I head east, after which I head west, after which I head east again; home to New York, my final destination. As I contemplate my travel plans, Maggie swings her hair in that Rita Hayworth heaven-sent Hollywood way.

Wonder how Pop’s doing? Maybe I do care. As Dina says, ‘He’s your father. You only get one.’ How does it happen? Do we pick them? Do we give our parents the idea to have us. And then they do … have us.

Maggie leans forward. She whispers. ‘My husband’s sitting in the front booth.’ I turn around. ‘No, don’t turn around.’ I turn back. ‘Molly’s with him.’ She spills her drink on the table. ‘Oh dear. Here he comes.’ She wipes. He walks. She looks up, forces a smile.

He takes her napkin and cleans up the mess. ‘Hi, ladies. Hi, honey. I hear you’ve been giving Ms Greene the Beatrice royal treatment?’ He smirks.

‘Loli, meet Molly’s father Mike Malone.’

‘My daughter has been telling me all about that exercise. Heard she talked to my old man.’

I do not like him one bit. ‘She’s a very creative young lady.’

‘I bet the old bastard said some nasty things about his son.’

‘Mike!’ Maggie is clearly agitated.

‘Excuse me, Ms Greene. Maggie doesn’t like that kind of talk.’

‘That’s enough, Mike. Molly’s waiting. Aren’t you being rude to your daughter?’

‘What do you expect from me, hon?’ Hon. There’s that word again.

‘Mike!’

‘I’m so sorry, Ms Greene. Maggie is convinced that I don’t know how to behave. Right, Maggie?’

‘This is not the time or the place to talk about your behavior or … about … whatever you’re talking about. Please get back to Molly.’ Maggie nervously plays with the wet tablecloth. Mike salutes. ‘And Mike, could you try to get Molly home at a reasonable hour. She has an early day tomorrow.’

‘No problem. Night, Ms Greene. Keep up the good work. Night, Maggie. Oh by the way, I have some papers for you to sign. Ms Greene, let me tell you a secret. There was nothing nice about my father.’

‘Mike! If you don’t have …’

‘Anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.’ How on earth did she ever put up with this creep? ‘A pleasure meeting you. I’m sure you had a swell evening with Peter Pieter at his theater.’

‘Peter Peter
…’ Mother’s impeccable timing.

I shut them both up. ‘I did. Beatrice is lucky to have him.’

Maggie clears her throat. ‘Mike, Let’s talk tomorrow. Loli and I have got to set up the reception schedule for the actors. Please get back to your daughter. Be a good father … for a change.’

‘Yes, Mom.’

‘Night Mike.’ Maggie waves him on his way.

‘Ms Greene. Hope to see you at some of the hotspots around town.’

‘Nice meeting you.’ He is one of the most despicable men I have met in quite some serious time: cold, condescending, arrogant asshole … like Pop. A man like that has a stone buried inside his heart. That is a lonely man, just like Pop. He must have broken her heart a gazillion times over; probably abused her, confused her. Undoubtedly a mediocre lay. Wonder if she still loves him?

Maggie whispers, ‘I feel so sorry for him. He has made such a mess of his life; gambling, screwing around. The whole town knows he can’t keep it in his pants. It makes me so sad.’ She asks, ‘Have you ever been married?’

‘No.’

‘Are you involved with anyone?’

‘I am.’ Here it comes.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Simon.’ There it goes.

‘What does he do?’

‘He’s a photographer.’ Again.

‘Do you live together?’

And again and again and … ‘Yes. But, we spend a lot of time apart. I’m on the road. He travels to Europe … We have an open relationship.’ How refreshing, an honest answer.

‘Mike and I were never apart. I loved it. He hated it. Then he started catting around … and –’ Maggie stops mid-sentence.

I feel her immense disappointment. ‘I haven’t heard that expression in such a long time. It was my mother’s favorite; catting around.’

‘Is she still alive?’

‘No. She’s long gone.’ That’s the biggest lie of all. ‘Yours?’

‘They’re both gone. Daddy died during a terrible drought. He died while he was plowing his favorite cornfield. He adored that piece of land. It was the first field he ever plowed … when he was a little boy. It was his parents’ farm. His brother and his brother’s sons run the place now.’

‘Have you lived in Nebraska your whole life?’

‘Born and raised. Went to college in Lincoln. I’d like to go back to school, study political science, foreign affairs.’