by Rhoda Lerman
“Uh, pardon me, missus. I can’t hold on the phone no more. Me hands be in me pockets.”
“Glued. Ride, mother, ride. I dun it wi’ the missus. A yardman, that’s what I’m wanting. Oh, my Ishullanu, let me taste of thy vigor. Bring me your fruit. I’ve never had a descent gardener. A yardman with a mustache. ‘Hi, there, sweet potater, dig ya now, plant ya later.’ Listen, I adore the Farmers’ Market with the sweating Italians selling lettuce and ruby red plums and cantaloupes. Yardmen give you throat cancer. We get uterine cancer because we have lost the teeth from our vaginas and can’t defend ourselves. Do you happen to know a good dentist? You’re more than welcome. Until next week? If my line is busy find a tree with a knot hole. Glue your thirteen wisps of goat hair around the knot hole. It is your mother. Christ returned to the holy wood of his mother’s arms and the log of the cross became a magical bridge over which the Queen of Sheba would not walk because of its holiness. When you are finished with your libation, place stamps or coins in an envelope and mail to the Psychedelicatessen Venus Church. Sathergate Station, Berkeley, Cal. It’s the only church we have left. S-a-t-h-e-r-g-a-t-e. Right Thank you. Of course I love you. Don’t forget a return envelope. You’ll receive a feather and a chant which can be chanted in groups, not necessarily in unison. Bye. Oh, no. I have to be at the dentist’s glory hole quite soon. Call back. Oh, sorry. P O Box 5673. Zip 92801.
“Hello? Oh, perfectly all right. Are you tapping my line or his? Of course. S-a-t-h-e-r-g-a-t-e. Whatever it was worth to you. No, don’t send anything to me at all. On Mondays before noon. Yes, you can abbreviate his middle name. Next week then.”
I sat on a hillock of trefoil in the school yard. My son was up at bat. He and the team members wore maroon caps and shirts. The other team wore green. My son’s team, sponsored by a dentist whose own son played a poor outfield, had their shirts emblazoned in white. Clean Tooth Team. There was a score. I did not know what it was. Other mothers knew but I sat apart from them and their inattentiveness, which I considered inexcusable. I was attentive. Robert Moses stood behind the pitcher’s plate as temporary referee. My son was up at bat.
Previously the catcher’s older brother had explained the rules to the emblazoned children. My son had difficulty in understanding a rule and the older brother, massaging my son’s nicely combed hair in a rather insincere gesture, explained once again. “If the pitcher hits you, you take a base.” This of course makes no sense and I could read my son’s confused face under his now unkempt hair. If the pitcher hits you, you hit him back. If the pitcher hits you, you hurt. I understand my son. First base is not a just reward for being mutilated by a hurled ball. But it is in this way in which goals are established in this country as they were in Sparta, and here, from my trefoil hillock, I understand and he understands that first base is a reward for either hitting or being hit by the ball. So be it.
It was not surprising therefore with the goal of the muddied pillow established, that my son, after witnessing in distress his own father calling two strikes and three balls against him as I tore trefoil from the hillock as if it were my own hair, declared that the final fastball hit him.
“It hit me.”
The mothers of the green team hissed. The coaches and my son’s father looked to the pitcher, who was smaller than my son and had a ferret-pinched face.
“I did not hit you!” the pitcher yelled. The green team cheered for him.
“The ball did, stupid. It grazed me.”
“Yeah, I heard it graze him,” said the green catcher, impressed with the new word.
“He’s not even on your team,” I heard the catcher’s coach admonish the catcher. “So don’t defend him.”
My son’s father and the two coaches walked to the base of a triangle toward each other, my husband down the bisect of the triangle in the setting sun. They met at home plate over my child.
“It grazed me. Slightly.”
The two coaches looked to the boy’s father for a decision.
“It wasn’t even near him,” yelled the pitcher.
The catcher shuffled his feet uncomfortably.
“Well,” said my son’s father, a Solomon he isn’t, “I’ll have to go along with the rules. If he says it grazed him, he must know. Take a base,” he muttered to my son, and returned to his place behind the pitcher. “Let’s play ball!” he called out heartily. The triangle dispersed. The game continued.
When the game was over, the sun set, the packs of Teaberry gum distributed to my son’s winning team, my husband, silent and stern, drove us home in the moist evening, and as I cleaned the soil from my fingernails in the living room, he beat my son in the bedroom.
I do not know if he beat my son for lying, for being hit by a hurled ball or for humiliating his own father. It matters not. After beating my son, his father considered himself vindicated and correct. My son, his dirt-smeared face plowed deep with tears, advised me, unconvinced by the power in his father’s hands, that he had really felt the ball.
I shrugged. I did not know what else to do except to make them both chocolate pudding, which they ate warm. My son ate with his eyes closed. My husband said to my son, kindly now, “Why don’t you open your eyes so you can see what you’re eating, Buddy?”
“It’s chocolate pudding,” my son answered. “I can taste it.”
“Well, Buddy, why are your eyes closed?”
My son rimmed the empty dish with his forefinger. “I can’t open my eyes because my father is blind.”
My husband left the table.
My son licked his fingers clean.
I myself wished to partake of my own heart.
Peter Lupus, from Mission Impossible, uses gingseng root, he reports, “as a rejuvenator, an invigorator, a reactivator and an aphrodisiac.” He interests me. Once, I and my Druids gained wisdom and power by magnetism, drawing the celestial fires, the astral fires, through the sensitivities of such items as mistletoe, mandrake, gingseng, three-colored cats (my cats were three and colored but not three-colored) nine needles. Beyond all, my Druids used eggs. I was the magnet superior, of course.
The author then expresses himself of the opinion that the Druidical eggs were almost certainly artificial and of various color, some blue, some white, some green and other variegated with stripes of these colors. Serpent eggs were believed to be impregnated directly from the solar ray and the preparation of these mysterious eggs represented the process by which the body of the Druid was caused to generate within itself the serpent of wisdom. The Druids themselves were called snakes as they were masters of the serpent power. The serpent power was not evil, but wisdom. You remember what Patrick did for my religion.
It is this manner of gaining wisdom, this immaculate conception, in which woman draws into her body the powers of the planets by means of the cats, metals, drugs, plants and produces … well, your New Testament disguises the alchemical work as the Son of Light. We didn’t have children. We produced power. We had children only when it was necessary to populate the fields or recreate ourselves. The process of stimulating and fascinating the powers was the same process we used to stimulate and fascinate men. That process was reduced to the laboratory as an alchemical marriage and all the knowledge was lost.
Almost.
The womb was a glass casket, a vessel in which the Brothers of the Rosy Cross were buried alive. It leaves little to the imagination to redefine the Rosy Cross. The womb was properly called the Philosophic Egg and suggests Snow White as a vestigial tale. Aah, to have a tail to flip and swing in anger or in passion to curl around a sleeping lover. The cave was in Brandberg, South-West Africa. At regular intervals the philosopher, breaking the shell of his egg or womb, took up the concerns of life, later to retire once more into his shell of glass.
This son prefers poptarts to eggs. The poptart box reads slip thumb under tab and lift gently. It is the way to treat all syconiums, which are collective fleshy fruits in which the ovaries are borne within an enlarged, more or less succulent, concave
or hollow receptacle. Gently.
There was a night when Robert was in Canada. I needed terribly to run in the fields. I neglected to pick up the babysitter, driving past her home. I ran and returned much later, burning with new energy, to find I had abandoned my son. My son, though, was eating simultaneously, happily, from four boxes of poptarts. Chocolate-vanilla Frosted, Concord Grape Frosted, Strawberry Plain and Brown-sugar Cinnamon Plain. The more anxious he became, I assume, the more he ate. It helps, you understand, eating. My mother lies dead/bleeding/both in a ditch and has abandoned me. What shall I eat now? He was rather pleased that I had forgotten him and had, as so often these sons do, gotten into the secrets and blamed his stomach ache and pain on me. Literature will later have it that I opened the boxes of poptarts and forever after the world suffered, gripped with colitis. It is the way men twist our truth because of their own guilt. I was Pandora, as you may have surmised by now, the Woman of One Thousand Names and One Personality, the All-Giving.
It was my box.
I was willing then to share, as I am now, the mysteries, when man is ready. You might explore the obscene connotations. There is more truth in fairy tales and obscenities than all of your written histories. It was Epimetheus who opened the box. From the damage, you know he wasn’t ready. His name translates to Afterthought, which he was. I was first. I had warned him steadfastly to stay away from my mysteries. Hands out of the cooky jar, Afterthought, I warned him. I stopped baking then and there. He became a Jew or a Christian, something modern and disconnected, I do not recall which, and lay all the guilt on my shoulders, changed the story and blamed me for both hunger and pain. By the by, while Afterthought was into my cooky jar, Prometheus, or Forethought, was playing with matches and stole the sacred fire. Kids are not to be trusted. My sons have been a source of great disappointment to me and the world. But I keep trying.
11
OF COURSE I KNOW THEY ARE WITH EACH OTHER.
Claire sits in Mack’s lean red Corvette, twisting yellow and blue wires together. The wires hang loose under the dashboard. Claire is self-conscious as I warned her not to let Mack touch her. Mack is cool because Robert warned him to stay away from Claire. Claire feels very large in the small car and wishes to be smaller. Often she squeezes her knees with those hands or draws that cape over herself. In her lap lies my notebook. I have given her some incidental information along with directions for the slaying and dedication of a pig in preparation for a particular event I am planning in relation to Cupcakes. They are now driving toward the Agway Experimental Farm. They there have a plethora of cleanly and clinically bred pigs. There are other things I have told Claire. She wears that cape still. Rain threatens the afternoon.
The car speeds along a narrow state road. They have talked sporadically, distantly, about record charts and new bookings. Mack has questioned Claire about her music. Claire has offered to jam with him. He has answered without enthusiasm. He fears Robert. Claire hums. She doesn’t know what else to do. I understand. There is so much deep within Mack that can be sensed, one begins to feel that mundane conversation is not valid.
Claire pushes the glove compartment closed. “There. Light’s fixed.”
“Much farther?” Mack doesn’t thank her.
“She says take a left on Route 20, drive a mile and a half to an Exxon station, and look for an Agway Farm sign. Do you want to hear her lament for killing of a suckling pig? Or would you prefer the proper sanctification for the act of plucking the puffball mushroom?” This is wrong of Claire to do. I do not like her contempt.
“That’s really there?” She has aroused Mack’s interest at my expense. It is one of the least attractive aspects of modern woman—to sacrifice one’s sisterhood in order to snare a man.
“Where do you think she finds this stuff?”
“You believe in it?” Mack asks.
“I saw the light show. And, you know, what can I lose by believing?”
“Yeah.” Mack considers that. He has much to lose. “Yeah. You know, I never told this to anybody but my mother is kind of like Ishtar. Evil eye and that kind of stuff. Counts acorns for good luck. When my father died, she went and told the bees.” He rubs his forehead. “I mean, she comes home from the hospital and says in this strangly voice, ‘Kid, pop died,’ and runs out to the hives and tells the bees. Then … then she comes back and it’s okay to cry. She cures headaches with water glasses. All that kind of stuff.” Interesting. Etruscan, I imagine.
“Where does she get it from?”
“Her mother. She said her mother owned a bakery in the old country and they grew up baking and praying. My mother, she prays in front of the oven when she puts something in. Hey, you know what? She’s Cook of the Week next week. Watch the Sunday paper.”
Claire is not impressed. She is struggling to turn the conversation toward herself. I am, however, very impressed.
“I guess they both got something.” Mack says.
“It’s crazy, though, you know. Ishtar takes a can of pork and beans, and she shakes her head …”
“Were you over there?”
“She’s … she’s teaching me some stuff.” Claire smiles mysteriously. “She shakes her head. ‘Pork,’ she says, ‘sacred to the Goddess, eaten only on Her days. Beans contain spirits. Flesh of redemption. Spirits of redemption.’ ‘This is a sacred dish,’ she says, ‘and now, packed in tomato sauce.’ And then she throws out a half dozen of them that she just bought. I think she’s nuts. I mean, why did she buy them?”
“Jews don’t eat pork.” Mack shrugged. “Who knows? I dig her.” He is tempted to defend me. Then he remembers Robert. “Listen, I should tell you something. Uh, don’t break your back doing favors for the guys in the band. They’re a bunch of assholes. Like today, you shouldn’t do them any favors like this. They, uh, don’t want you around. You’re supposed to turn off the groupies.”
“You want me around?” Claire is strong.
“Well, it’s not actually up to me. See, it’s business. The more chicks we have around the better we look. Shit, I like you, Claire. I’ve never been able to talk to anybody until you. I like your head. I walk up to those chicks and I say, “Hey, you wanna fuck?” And they do or they don’t. It’s a business. I don’t mean to offend, but it’s a business. Part of advertising. The more we bag, the more records we sell, the bigger crowds we draw. The guys follow the chicks who follow us.”
“So?” Claire puts her nose against the window.
“I don’t love it. I mean, after I play, I’m beat and then I gotta go out and perform all over again. You know about the charts?”
“Sure I know about the charts.” She doesn’t. “So?”
“The point system. You know they keep charts on all the upstate bands. How we play. What we drive. How we ball. What we wear. Christ, you know I just went out and bought all this new underwear. This new bunch—the stewardesses …”
“They aren’t stewardesses. I sit with them.”
“Well.” Mack is defensive. “One I know is. They get out there and scream for us. And cry. You ever have anybody cry because you’re so good? I’m so good, me, they cry for me in front of the whole audience. That makes us, Claire.”
“You mean you just walk up to them, say, ‘You wanna fuck?’ and they do?”
“Yeah, that’s the way we do it.”
“Okay.” She continues to look out the window. “I wanna fuck.”
The corners of Mack’s mouth turn white in anger. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, shut up. You’re not one of them.”
“I wanna fuck.”
“Shut up, Claire!” His anger is justified. She is being ugly.
“And I have to go to the bathroom so let’s stop at the Exxon.”
“You can go in the woods. I want to get this over with.”
“I’ll go where I want to.”
“You sure can turn guys off. You sure can. Look, all I’m telling you is don’t sit with them anymore and stay away from the guys in the band.” Mack drives past the
Exxon sign without stopping.
Claire is sorry. She wishes for long eyelashes and to be small and giggle in his car. She attempts the mysterious smile, but she is empty inside. They find the farm. Beyond a sloping gray barn, there is a complex of new green and white aluminum barns. Claire points to the correct barn down a dirt road. Mack drives to it. Claire leaves the car, relieved to be uncramped and away from the white corners of his mouth. “There’s a guy watching us. Get turned around,” she directs Mack. “I’ll be fast.”
All the pigs in all the pens stand as Claire enters. The barn smells of Lysol and feed. I have told her that dreams come true if you sleep with the pigs. I have told her pigs have great power. She smiled when I told her this. Over the pens hang forms and charts. Thermostats are clipped to the screenings. There are hundreds of pigs in the long barn. One sow stands, clumsily, threatening Claire with dull red eyes, grunts, collapses on the sucklings about her. Claire laughs at the sow. I like her laugh. It fills the empty barn. She extricates a slippery Pink suckling, tucks it under her cape and races trough the labyrinth of pens to the entrance.
She laughs as she runs. She has forgotten Mack’s insults. The man in overhauls starts calling to her, many times, each time more insistently and closer. Claire doesn’t hesitate. She tosses the squealing pig in the rear of the car and claps her hands over her head to make the man disappear. He doesn’t. Mack spins his tires in the mud, splashing his white hood and windows as he roars out of the farm area. The pig is soon lulled by the motor and sits quietly behind them. Fat drops of rain fall on the windshield. They turn into a hollow road between gentle green hills of firs. I hope Claire doesn’t forget to pick the puff-balls for me. As a reward for dedicating the pig I shall teach her how to use them as an aphrodisiac. It is not an important secret, but it can be amusing. There is a problem. The window is fogging. Behind Mack’s head a pale steam rises and then is followed by the hearty smell of fresh vomit.
