Too Close to the Falls (5 page)

As the months went on I began to realize that the Indian who came to my house on RCA Victor was like the other Indians at Shim-Shacks on the reservation. Although I knew Indians were terrifying as a
group
, since they were trying to kill us for some reason I didn't understand or RCA Victor never made clear, I had a great affinity for them
individually
. The RCA Victor Indian was like the Bear Clan or the Turtle Clan when we played the bowling game or when I gave away the rifle to Black Cloud. I
knew
how they felt, even if they never showed it.

It made me nervous when people made some kind of brouhaha about their feelings, especially affection. I'd certainly rather be yelled at than kissed. Displays of that sort gave me the
jitters, and my heart would pound as though someone had scared me on Halloween. I hated it when Desi kissed Lucy or when Ralph Cramden became all mushy on
The Honeymooners
. I always left the room before Alice threw her arms around Ralph, forgiving him for his weekly indiscretion, like bowling with Norton on her birthday. Whenever I hadn't seen someone in a long time, like my grandmother or some visiting priest who was a relative, I was expected to kiss them, or say I'd missed them, or express some sentiment that I really dreaded. The Indians who I knew dealt with affection the way I did. They left things understood.

There was something comforting in the RCA Victor Indian's stoicism, and I became close to him, realizing that although he didn't gush with approval he never criticized, nor could I hurt his feelings. Because he was just
there
as a kind of emotional witness, for some reason I began telling him how I felt about things. He never reacted to anything I said, which gave me a strange sense of freedom. At first I looked for a reaction so I could gauge what to say next, and when it wasn't there I pushed on, telling secrets I didn't know I had.

Sometimes I told him all the things that worried me. I felt I wasn't like other people, which was in itself terrifying, since I had no idea why or what happened to people who were “different” when they grew up. Would I be a weird adult like Warty who ran the dump? I knew it was a fact that people who were bad burned in hell. I got yelled at for being bad more than almost anyone at school, certainly more than any other girl. What if I perpetually burned in hell and every day cursed my wretched soul for not being good on earth, which was such a tiny testing patch compared to eternity? I told the Indian that every day I turned
over a “new leaf” (a phrase often suggested by my mother) resolving to be a good girl, which I knew meant being a quiet one. Mary Alice Cary, the girl who wore a large bow squarely on the top of her head, was always quiet, even in the washroom lineup as she offered up “ejaculations” — the rhythmic repeating of religious phrases which become trancelike, such as “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph” said hundreds of times. I became determined to perpetually ejaculate or “offer up” my silence to God. (“Ejaculations” was a word that Dr. Small, the psychiatrist I was sent to see after stabbing Anthony McDougall, found interesting and he encouraged me to describe its meaning on repeated occasions.)

These “new leaves” never lasted more than ten minutes. They withered when the first chill of my normal personality blew in by 9:15 the next morning. I was either asking “doubting Thomas” questions (as Mother Agnese called my religious inquiries), or talking to my neighbour in the O through P aisle, or getting out of my seat. I would rather have been beaten or punished than be made to sit in my seat for four hours at a stretch. By twelve o'clock I felt as though I were in an iron lung. In fact I liked punishments, such as cleaning the lunch room or peeling gum off desks, far more than sitting there. I assumed that everyone wanted to talk and move around as much as I did, but all of the other girls and many of the boys were made of stronger stuff. They succeeded in “offering up their desires to the Holy Ghost,” as Sister Immaculata suggested. The devil started me fidgeting by 9:15 and by 9:30 I was up and moving. After I explained all this to the Indian I felt better and sensed his approval. I figured he wasn't bothered by any of this, since he still came back, and therefore, I must be OK.

It was definitely a give-and-take relationship. I also took great
pains to entertain the Indian as an audience. I felt that although he never actually beamed, he was internally warmed by my antics. His smile was like the Mona Lisa's. You had to look for a long time before you could detect it. Sometimes I staged acts from the
Ted Mack Amateur Hour
for him and let him be the applause-o-metre. Although his movements were infinitesimal and could be missed if you didn't know him well, I could tell his top choice was my rendition of Kate Smith singing “God Bless America.” His favourite part was when I belted out “Stand beside her and guide her.” I was sure that the Indian had been a guide before agreeing to come to my home on the RCA Victor.

We of the RCA Victor coterie observed one another's privacy. John Cameron Swayzee never yelled at me and was always polite, even if it took me a few extra seconds to find a product; in fact he covered for me by pretending not to notice. The Indian never looked at me straight on. He always remained in profile, as though he were saying to me, “It's enough we share space, let's not crowd each other with dew-eyed expectant stares and fawning approval.” I too tried to give them their space. I was careful never to look behind the RCA Victor as I felt it was not part of viewing protocol any more than it would be acceptable to enter the projection booth when I went to see
Rear Window
with my grandmother, nor would I wander backstage when Gramma took me to see
The Nutcracker
at Christmas. I felt it was rude for Dolores to go behind the RCA Victor to vacuum and I became agitated when she refused to follow simple audience etiquette.

Within a year there was other “news” and other “programs” or “shows,” but I was mostly attached to John. (We were on a first-name basis within a few months.) That's when what my mother
called my “strange behaviour” began. I was the only one in Lewiston that John was addressing. He was always extremely friendly, had all kinds of news, and visited at the same time daily. He shared a number of products with me and actually asked me directly what I thought of his favourites. I knew that since I saw him, he must therefore see me. I had no intention of ignoring him as my mother so often suggested. After all, I felt I should break the news to her that he hadn't come to see
her
. When he asked if we had Spic & Span or when the cigarette girl bellowed “John Phillip Mo
rr
is” or when John held up Camel cigarettes, I tore to a cupboard where I had all my RCA Victor products stored, and presented the correct one to John. Once he saw me display my product, he returned to the news. It got to the point that I couldn't leave the house for fear John would ask
me
if I had Camels and I would have to run and get the product and hold it in front of the RCA Victor where he smiled back approvingly.

I was living proof that television was not a passive form of entertainment. I was jumping around all the time, lining up my products, and answering all questions asked. John asked me if I could stand the sight of built-up wax, if I wanted to know about the weather, and several other adult questions. Actually, I was quite flattered when he addressed me as “the lady of the house.”

As advertising caught on, my RCA Victor products began to fill the living room. After I had a fit of rage one day when Dolores moved my 20 Mule Team Borax, my mother finally consulted the “the media guru of Lewiston” — Dr. Laughton, the pediatrician who had already placed me into forced labour. Dr. Laughton asked me incredibly stupid questions, such as, did I think Cinderella was talking to me in the Walt Disney movie. Why
would I think Cinderella was talking to
me
when I'd seen it in a theatre where there were hundreds of people in the audience?
Strange.
He asked why I thought that John Cameron Swayzee wanted to see
my
products. As if I'd have any idea why John Cameron Swayzee had chosen me. Why had the Virgin Mother appeared at Lourdes instead of Niagara Falls? How would I know?

I was sick of Dr. Laughton wasting my time, but since I was the one sitting on the examining table in my underwear and he wore the stethoscope, I felt some pressure to comply. I tried to explain the obvious, that John was in
my
living room and that he, unlike Cinderella, asked
me
questions about household products. Cinderella never spoke to me directly; she expressed her longings for a better life with the prince and we, the audience, listened in. The doctor then asked me if John Cameron Swayzee ever called me by name. I informed him that no, he hadn't, and then I caught him at his own game. I said, “Dr. Laughton, did you say to me, ‘Do you think Cinderella is talking to
you
?' or did you say to me, ‘Do you think Cinderella is talking to
Cathy
?'” I think that little linguistic dilly let him know that although he might be a good doctor, he was in the bush leagues as far as the media was concerned.

Dr. Laughton, realizing he was out on a limb, quickly scampered to safer ground. Changing topics, he asked me if I ever heard other things talking to me. Did he mean when the trees talked in
Snow White
? Suddenly I got it. Dr. Laughton was trying to see if I was crazy. I guess he wondered if I would stab people like Elder Mad Bear did and then never move again, or sit in front of the post office like ol' Jim and yell out swear words to no one in particular.

Dr. Laughton's technique was a little more obvious than Dr. Small's, the psychiatrist I visited after I stabbed Anthony
McDougall. Dr. Small had little cards with a dog named Blacky who did really disgusting things. At least Dr. Small asked me my opinion about Blacky's shenanigans. Dr. Laughton never asked my opinion on anything. I realized I had to get out of there, so I slid off the examining table, licked my Tootsie Roll Pop that I got for being cooperative, took another one for the road, and said I had to get back to work. As I hightailed it out of there, next door to my father's store, I was relieved on several fronts: first, I was thankful my mother wasn't with me so I wouldn't have to explain anything to her or see her upset, bewildered face; second, I gave myself a little credit for keeping the lid on my relationship with the Indian. What no one knew about, no one could attack. But just when I thought I was out of the woods, thinking Dr. Laughton was accepting defeat like a man, he pulled out the big enchilada. He referred me to the priest. Dr. Laughton was one of the first media gurus who realized that addiction to television was a moral and not a medical problem.

Why a doctor and a priest presumed to be authorities on RCA Victor I had no idea, but I wasn't falling for it. When you think about it, I took the theory of germs on faith from Dr. Laughton, and God on faith from Father Flanagan. Neither of them was willing to acknowledge that I was the authority and knew a tad more than they did about John, nor were they willing to take anything about his motives on faith from me.

Of course neither of these “experts” had an RCA Victor. No one could deny the existence of John Cameron Swayzee or the fact that he was in my living room and in no one else's. Both these men shared the misconception that you were supposed to sit in a chair, not move one muscle, and silently
watch
RCA Victor. I couldn't
imagine
anyone
who would want to do that. I really felt that same kind of agitation I felt in the presence of the nuns at school. As usual, what was purely virtuous was silence and sitting still — for me two unattainable “virtues.”

Father Flanagan and I lit a candle and knelt together at the communion rail, saying five Hail Marys to our blessed Virgin to deliver me from John's clutches. The good thing about Father Flanagan, and most priests, from what I could see, was that he left most of the work to God. After finishing our prayers, no more was said about the RCA debacle, and he and I strolled over to Helms's Dry Goods Store for a Three Musketeers and talked about who would win the World Series. When I told him I was a Dodgers fan, Father Flanagan seemed far more appalled than he was about the RCA Victor case, passionately stating that although he was born in Ireland, County Cork, the good Lord shone his favour upon him and carried him on the blessed wings of St. Patrick to the United States to be a Yankees fan.

The one person who brutally disrupted my black-and-white relationships was Dolores. She accomplished what Dr. Laughton and Father Flanagan had failed to do. She reduced what I once called “joining the RCA Victor” to the common phrase “watching television,” something I did very little of after her successful deprogramming. Her method was ruthless, nearly soul-destroying, but it did force me to realize that John was no more than electrons firing away, and the correlation between John's smiles of relaxed satisfaction and my interactive participation with his commercials was, in fact, random.

The day of Dolores's exorcism began with a tirade on how fed up she was with my messy bedroom and dishevelled playroom.
Pointing to my collection of jars of caterpillars that would have turned into monarch butterflies if she'd only let them alone, and to my Coke bottles from every state in the Union, she accused me of making her job impossible. She ranted that my collections had spread from room to room and were now infecting the living room with my RCA Victor–untouchable products which I had encircling the set. I pointed my .45 at Dolores, calling her a “dirty rotten double-crosser,” a phrase I'd picked up from
The Cisco Kid
. She warned me that I'd pay for my snippiness, repeating her usual refrain about how I thought I ran this house, but that I was heading for a comeuppance.

I'd heard this vitriolic monologue before, so after firing one more bullet at her from under my bed, I dashed down to the RCA Victor to catch Mr. Manners, a tiny man in a finely tailored suit. He often spoke to me from under a table, politely inquiring if I purchased napkins that had the embarrassing habit of slipping off my lap. Since he lived under tables he had a bird's-eye view of those who bought clinging napkins and those who did not. In an effort to be prepared for his next visit, I'd scoured Helms's aisles until I found the familiar face of the tiny yet authoritative British Mr. Manners on the box cover and quickly charged it. My mother thought it was an odd purchase since we never ate at home, so errant crumbs, or for that matter crumbs of any kind, were never a problem in our home. However, anything that smacked of “manners” was in my mother's mind a turn in the right direction.