I’m your Aunt Hanna, she would whisper to him later on. You have a cousin you’ve never met. It’s possible you never will.
The L-shaped Sofa
Reston, Virginia, January 28, 1986
GAIL HAD RECEIVED A BELATED Christmas card from Hanna, who never sent Christmas cards. On the front, Santa and his reindeer, all of them sporting sunglasses, were landing the sled on a beach. “Ho, ho, ho!” Hanna had written inside. “Guess who just spent six weeks at Cape Canaveral?” She went on to say that she’d helped with the programming for NASA’s upcoming Challenger mission and even met some of the astronauts.
Now, a voice kept repeating, “Seventy-three seconds after takeoff. No chance of survivors. Launch had been delayed for a week, due to bad weather.”
Gail turned the car radio off.
Nick had called her at work with the news. “The Challenger was headed up, and then there was a huge fireball.”
“I have to go to Reston,” Gail said.
“No, you don’t. Let Mel handle it.”
“Mel’s no good at stuff like this. Anyway, she’s my friend.”
“When it suits her, she is.”
“Please. Will you pick Allison up from school?”
Nick reminded her he was a realtor. He had clients. He had houses to show.
She reminded him he had a flexible schedule. “This one time, just flex.”
They’d argued. Finally, Nick had agreed.
So here she was on the Washington Beltway, inching toward Reston in rush-hour traffic, with the radio off and her feet freezing.
Maybe Nick was right.
How long had it been since she’d seen Hanna? PJ had left for Haiti more than a year before, so, two years? And how many times had Hanna said it? “I’m not your responsibility.”
Allison’s class would have watched the fatal launch at school. A teacher from New Hampshire had been aboard. Allison, who was definitely Gail’s responsibility, would be upset, too.
As would Sandy, who might call from Knoxville. The previous summer, Sandy had accompanied her grandparents on their long drive home, so as to help with Granny B. along the way. Then, without consulting either one of her parents, Sandy had managed, with the help of Bessie’s friend Charlotte, to register for tenth grade at West High.
Gail and Nick had argued about this, too. Give her some space, he’d insisted. Count your lucky stars.
Both of their children were alive and well, he’d meant.
Today, upon learning that the Challenger had exploded, Gail’s initial reaction had been to abandon her kids, to leave Nick to soothe the one still at home, as well as the one who’d run away but did occasionally call.
Still, she reminded herself, Nick was good at soothing. Far better than Mel would ever be.
But wasn’t she neglecting her own daughters in order to visit the very friend who had so often pointed out that she and Gail were not, nor would they ever be, sisters? Who might well ask, as she had that night at Casey’s in DC, “What are you doing here?”
By quickly stomping on the brake, Gail avoided slamming into the Porsche with Virginia plates that she’d been following, at ten miles per hour, for what seemed like forever. On the other side of the divider, the Beltway’s eastbound traffic was zipping right along.
Nearly four o’clock. Stuck in stop-and-go traffic. Contemplating a stop-and-go friendship.
Parallel lives. She’d once thought of Hanna and herself that way. Yes, they’d both been born in Knoxville and grown up there. They’d both gone to college, away from home. Both had waited tables during their college years. They’d both ended up in the Baltimore-Washington metropolitan area, each taking the first job she’d been offered after graduation, lucking out that the positions (both of them government jobs) suited them. Hanna was still with NASA. Gail, although she’d changed roles, was still with the Baltimore City government.
Friendships weren’t always smooth sailing. Like rush-hour traffic, a friendship could proceed in fits and starts.
Gail still heard from her other Knoxville friends. Deborah, married, with three children, was an attorney for the TVA. Nicole, divorced and childless, was a CPA in St. Louis. Marcie, after her hippie phase in San Francisco, had married an organic farmer in Oregon. Marcie and Phil had two children of their own, as well as a bunch of kids adopted from all over the world.
As for Davis and the twins, Gail had no idea where they were. For a while, Davis had managed a big hotel in Atlanta, but Gail hadn’t heard from her in years.
It seemed that the earlier in life a friendship began, the more likely it was to last. She and Hanna had known each other since before either one of them could walk or talk.
And yet. Why should a friend sit in traffic when her own daughters might need her? Hanna didn’t even know Gail was on the way. What difference would it make if she simply got off the Beltway, got back on, headed in the opposite direction, and sped home to her family?
The reason for the untroubled eastbound traffic quickly became apparent. An overturned dump truck had brought all lanes on that side of the divider to a complete standstill; police cars, ambulances, and fire trucks, sirens wailing, added to the congestion.
That decided it. Gail was unfamiliar with the local roads. By trying to rejoin the Beltway somewhere east of the dump truck, she would surely become hopelessly lost.
However, she did know her way to Reston.
“The social worker,” Mel said when he opened the door, seeming only slightly surprised to see her.
“The mathematician,” Gail greeted her greeter. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Not at all. Come on in. She’s with her therapist.”
“Then I won’t stay. Just wanted to check on her.”
“But you’ve had such a long drive.” He stepped back, motioned for Gail to enter.
“Sophie and Del just called. She wouldn’t speak to them, so I doubt she’ll speak to you, either.”
From the living room came the sounds of a tennis match. “Let me take your coat,” Mel said. “We got cable, just so she could watch ESPN. She says tennis is therapeutic, much better than hypnosis for taking your mind off your troubles.”
Wearing a lavender sweatshirt, matching sweatpants, and fuzzy black slippers, Hanna was seated on the lounge-chair section of the L-shaped sofa. Beyond her, through the living room’s picture window, lights twinkled on the opposite shore of Lake Anne.
“Gail’s here,” Mel said softly.
Hanna didn’t so much as turn her head. Beside her was a box of Kleenex.
“Would you like more wine?” Mel asked her.
Hanna inclined her head toward Gail and held up two fingers.
“Pinot noir okay?” Mel said to Gail.
Gail nodded. She sat down at the other end of the sofa, opposite the fireplace to the left of the TV. The framed print above the mantel—a woman playing a guitar—had been there on previous visits. But now, instead of logs and brass andirons, there was a ship in a bottle on the floor of the fireplace.
A blond man was leading five to three in the first set. By the time Mel returned with two glasses of wine, Frank Perdue was urging folks to buy his tender chicken.
Hanna muted Perdue and blew her nose.
Thirsty after the long drive, Gail tasted her wine. Not bad. She took a bigger sip, then another.
Mel reappeared with a plate of Ritz crackers and rectangles of pale cheese. He set the plate on the coffee table, halfway between Gail and Hanna and therefore equally difficult for either one of them to reach.
The blond man won the set six to four. Edberg was his name.
Again Hanna muted the commercials. She closed her eyes. Then, at the exact moment when the tennis match resumed, she refreshed the sound.
Gail set her wineglass on the coffee table, scooted toward Hanna, retrieved a cracker and cheese, and scooted back.
Tennis was indeed hypnotic. Thwack-thwack, thwack-thwack. Sometimes a voice yelled, “Out!”
H
ad Nick remembered to collect Allison from school?
Thwack-thwack. Of course he had. All was well.
Now Edberg was behind two to one in the second set. As a Nabisco ad played silently, Hanna blew her nose again. She clutched her throat. “I have a really bad cold,” she said. “Better keep your distance.”
When the score was two to two, it occurred to Gail that Hanna might not even know what had happened at Cape Canaveral. Mel could be keeping the Challenger disaster a secret from his sick wife.
During the next, muted commercial, Hanna’s eyes stayed open. She seemed to be in a trance.
Mel came in with another plate. Tangerine sections arranged around a bowl of pecan halves. Without a word, he refilled their glasses and left the room. Whatever was going on with Hanna, her husband seemed more than willing to let Gail deal with it.
“What the hell are you doing here?” Hanna demanded when Edberg was trailing three to four.
“I thought you might like some company,” Gail said. “I’ll leave if you want.”
“My mother was your mother’s maid—that’s all.” This brought on a coughing fit. When it was over, Hanna closed her eyes. “You were supposed to hate me when you grew up. Me and her both. It’s what white people do.”
Gail was too shocked to respond.
“Mama and I lived down in your crappy basement,” Hanna said during the next commercial break. “The bed wasn’t big enough for two people. We had to use that tiny little shower with thin metal sides that rumbled like thunder whenever you turned around. There were mice. A mouse trap would ping, waking us up at night, and in the morning we’d find no cheese, no dead mouse.”
“I never knew,” Gail said. “You never told me.”
“Did you know who ironed your sheets and made your bed and cleaned your toilet?” Hanna drained her wineglass. “Washed and ironed your clothes? Or were you oblivious to all that, too?”
Gail wondered what Mel had done with her coat. Where were her pocketbook and car keys?
When Edberg finally won the second set, it was time for the six o’clock news. One click of the remote, and the Challenger would explode all over again.
Hanna muted the commercials and, very slowly, stood up. She headed for the bathroom off the entry hall and returned with a fresh box of Kleenex.
During the next commercial break, when Edberg was leading two to one in the third set, Hanna said she’d received a letter from Sandy.
“She’s in Knoxville,” Gail said.
“I know where Sandy is. She apologized. For not telling me PJ was planning to leave.”
“It was never Sandy’s fault that he did,” Gail shot back. “She was just being loyal to a friend.” Was this true? “Keeping a secret for PJ, the way you and I used to do.”
Edberg began the next game with a double fault, and Hanna muted him. “Gail,” she said. “Will you just listen?”
Gail listened.
“It was my fault he left. PJ asked me to take him to Haiti to find his father. I refused.”
“As you had every right to do.”
“That’s what Mama said. I didn’t want him to have his feelings hurt. But hurt feelings would’ve been a whole lot better than what happened on that cargo ship.”
“Hanna. It wasn’t your fault PJ left. You were only trying to protect him. It’s what mothers do.”
“Tell me one thing.” Hanna paused. “Why didn’t you like PJ?”
Why indeed? It was more that she hadn’t wanted Sandy to like him, even as a friend. Had she simply been an overprotective mom, remembering the ugly comments she herself had received back in Knoxville?
While Edberg struggled to win another game, Gail searched for an acceptable truth. “PJ worried me,” she said finally. “The Pierre in him. That in-your-face belligerence.”
“PJ wasn’t belligerent.”
“Throwing Sandy into Lake Anne when she had her clothes and shoes on? She couldn’t swim.”
“Okay, what else?”
“‘One thing,’ you said. I don’t know what else.”
“Of course you know,” Hanna said. “Dig a little deeper. Peeing in the snow? Having a crush on Sandy? Lay it all out for me.”
Gail kept quiet. Finished her wine. Nick had been right. She should’ve stayed home.
When Edberg won the match, Hanna set down her wine glass. She raised both arms, fists clenched, in a silent hooray, then turned the TV off.
As Mel continued to supply them with more wine and food—guacamole and chips, slices of pizza—they sipped and nibbled in an uncomfortable silence. Guess I’ll head home now, Gail was about to say, when Hanna spoke.
“Those mornings your father drove me to school, I always sat in back. Not because we coloreds weren’t supposed to ride up front, but so I could pretend I was some rich celebrity and your father was my chauffeur. I always wanted to say, ‘Thank you, Charles,’ when he dropped me off, but I never worked up the nerve.”
Hanna blew her nose, dabbed at her eyes, and stood up. From a drawer in the desk supporting the TV, she took a large envelope.
“Here,” she said, handing the envelope to Gail. “Some poems PJ wrote for his English class. Just before he left. The assignment was to write a poem about your family. One poem. PJ wrote six. His teacher sent them to me.”
Inside were pages of lined notebook paper. Gail recognized PJ’s handwriting.
Hanna sank back down onto the sofa. “Read them.”
Myself
Perhaps you think oceans are blue or
Even green. OK. You’re right. Now
Try to come up with a word that’s more
Expressive, maybe one dating back to
Roman times.
Just think about all that agua
Ebbing back and forth with the moon.
Remember where boats tie up at night
Expensive yachts, yes, now
Make the connection and
You’ve got it! Aquamarine.
My Mother and Stepfather
Have you ever known
A mother who’s
Naturally perfect?
No one’s perfect, but hey
At least I know she loves me.
Math is his thing
Equations, differentials, etc.
Laps that stuff up like gravy.
My Grandparents
Soft voice
Old hands
Philly’s finest
Human being
I love
Everything about her.
Doesn’t say much
Except with his fingers, just
Listen to that piano talk.
My Real Father
Dear Dad, I wrote
Again and again, but he
Didn’t ever write me back.
My Friend
So what if she’s white
And her mother doesn’t like me?
Nothing’s ever easy.
Do we love each other? Wouldn’t
You like to know!
For Extra Credit
Not only have
I been called it, but
Guess who said it,
Guess where.
Even in fairy-tale
Reston it’s said out loud.
PJ wrote poetry? Had Gail been completely wrong about him? Had he loved Sandy? Did Sandy love him back?
She read the poems a second time. “These are very good. Clever.”
“PJ nearly failed Algebra, just couldn’t get it.” Hanna was crying again. “Well, no wonder. He was going to be a writer, not a mathematician. I shouldn’t have bugged him so much about the math.” Again she went into the bathroom, this time returning with a roll of toilet paper.
“Do you ever think about writing songs?” Gail said.
“Me?” Hanna blew her nose.
“Yes, you. Billie Holiday wrote lyrics. And didn’t you tell me she couldn’t read music? You could write the words and the music.”
“Lyrics, maybe. But I kn
ow absolutely nothing about composing music. I’d have to take some classes.”
“Well? Come up to the Peabody. You can stay with us.”
“Get a master’s degree in music? The way you got an MSW? Sometimes, Gail, you can be so damn dense. Any extra money I have goes to Philly. Your parents don’t need your help. Mine do.”
A scholarship? Not the time to suggest it, Gail realized. This was a night for keeping her damn mouth shut.
“The reason I like Stefan Edberg?” Hanna said a little later. “He plays serve-and-volley tennis. His matches have a syncopated beat.” She covered her face with the hem of her sweatshirt and began to sob.
“I’m so very sorry,” Gail said. “About the mice in our basement and everything else.”
“It’s not any of that.”
Gail waited.
“The explosion today. The Challenger. Blown to bits. He’ll never call me. He’s dead.”
Who? Gail nearly asked. Had Hanna been seeing one of the astronauts?
“A huge spaceship, a small boat. Doesn’t matter. No one survives a fiery explosion. Not even a good swimmer like PJ.”
All this time, Hanna had thought PJ might still be alive? Gail was close to tears herself. For Hanna, the Challenger disaster had been a double whammy, personal as well as professional.
Gail took a closer look at the ship in the fireplace. You weren’t supposed to wonder how someone had succeeded in squeezing a tall ship into a bottle. You were supposed to wonder what a small cargo boat was doing in a fireplace.
She scooted down to the other end of the sofa and put an arm around her friend. “Did you watch the launch here?”
Hanna nodded. “Weather was risky today. They should’ve waited.”
Gail squeezed Hanna’s shoulder, patted her upper arm.
“At least the police didn’t get him,” Hanna said between sobs. “Or a bunch of rednecks.”
“No,” Gail said. “PJ almost made it to Haiti. He must’ve been so happy, and so proud of himself, just being on that boat.”
“If only I’d taken him. He would’ve been disappointed, but he’d still be alive.”
“You can’t blame yourself,” Gail said.
“You and Mama. Singin’ the same song.”
Beginning with Cannonballs Page 12
