Mom says, “You shouldn’t keep Jeffrey out so late. He’s only five years old. You know better than that.” Her voice is naturally loud. She looks at me quick, like a jab. Then she goes up the left side of one sweater with the scissors.
She’s right, but I’m not going to acknowledge her rightness. Just like Mom won’t acknowledge that my other head is Jeanne D’Arc. I say, “Jeffrey had a great time at the bookstore and his parents were fine with it.” Suddenly not quite ready for an argument to start, I add, “Everything okay with the blender and dishwasher?”
Jeanne whispers a prayer, coving her face with my left hand, very pious and humble.
Mom says, “So far so good, thanks for asking. You’re such a sweetheart.” Mom goes up the right side of the other sweater. She works so very fast. “It’s going to be cold out tomorrow, so I’m making you a nice, warm, and presentable sweater.” She says presentable as if anyone will see me. Mom gets up and goes to her sewing machine next to the kitchen table. I wonder if Mom planned the sewing machine into this evening’s allotment of electricity and then I’m worried that I didn’t spend enough time on the swing today, and then I hate myself for being so trained.
I say, “What’s for dinner?”
“Mushroom chicken, corn, rice pilaf. Go wash up first. And you are going to do your math and science homework tonight, Veronica. No excuses. I can’t put off your exams any longer. They’re due in the post in three days.”
I mix truth with a lie. “I bought a book that I really want to read first.”
“Tomorrow night is your book club and the next night you have to take the exams. You are going to do your homework tonight.”
Mom is always so reasonable, and I hate it. Makes me feel like I’m the bad one for wanting to fight. I say, “I don’t care,” but not very loud. I think Mom is going to let it slide, but then she breaks protocol by commenting on my other head.
“Why is there a boy on your shoulder?”
Jeanne crosses herself.
I don’t know what to say. Other than when she’s making two-headed clothing, Mom usually ignores my other head. I manage to say, “Real nice, Mom. She’s Joan of Arc.” I don’t say her name in French because I don’t want to remind Mom that she hasn’t given me a French unit to work on in almost two weeks.
“I didn’t say that to be mean, Veronica.”
“Then why did you say it?”
She stares at me. “I won’t let you start another fight with me over nothing,” she says and turns on the sewing machine.
I throw myself into a chair and pick at my lukewarm dinner. I don’t wait for Jeanne to say grace.
There’s a spider fern hanging above Mom and the sewing machine, some of its leaves are browning. With the machine’s vibrations, some leaves break off and fall onto Mom’s head. She sews quickly and the result is a beautiful Irish-knit turtleneck sweater with two turtlenecks. No visible seams where two different sweaters come together. She is very talented, and I hate her. Okay, I don’t hate her but she makes me very angry without me being able to rationally explain why. Yesterday, I constructed an elaborate Cinderella fantasy where my father, a man I no longer remember, was driven off by my evil and shrewish mother. I suppose it’s the only desertion scenario that doesn’t hurt me.
I offer Jeanne some of my food but she is fasting. Now I feel guilty. I struggle to finish what’s on my plate. I think about Jeffrey insisting that I ask Mom where my father is, or better yet, how come he doesn’t see me if he really lives in the same town as us, but I know tonight is not the night for that conversation.
Mom says, “Try the sweater on, sweetie. Make sure it fits.”
I pull the scratchy wool over our heads. Jeanne doesn’t like it.
Mom tugs at the shoulders, waist, and sleeves, inspecting her work. She says, “This fits nice. Very nice. You look great.” Mom is still at least six inches taller than me. I don’t know if I’ll ever catch up. Mom folds her arms over her thin chest, her defense and attack posture. Big smile, quite satisfied with herself, with what she’s done for her daughter. It’s a very intimidating look. One I don’t know how to overcome.
She says, “Homework time. I’ll check your answers when you’re done.”
I leave the kitchen with a full belly and empty of fight. As I walk into the living room and past the snarling fireplace, Jeanne closes her eyes and says, “Allez!” which means go! I already feel bad about the food so I hurry away from the fire, but I trip and fall, my hands scraping on the brick landing in front of the fireplace. Jeanne spasms and twitches, trying to remove herself from my body and away from the fire, and I’m crying, but not because of the pain, and somehow this must be all Mom’s fault too.
“Sorry!” I get up and dash up the stairs to my bedroom. My hands sting and I look at them. The palms are all scraped up and bloody.
Jeanne says, “It’s only stigmata. But keep it secret. Go wash it off and don’t tell your mother.”
At least, that’s what I think she says. My French is a little rusty.
4
Mr. Bob was my science teacher when I went to school. I don’t miss school and the taunts and the stares and how incredibly lonely I could be in a lunchroom full of other people. Nor do I miss Mr. Bob, even though he’s always been nice to me.
Mom and I are standing next to the swing set, watching Mr. Bob. Odd and misshapen tools that couldn’t possibly fix anything fill Mr. Bob’s fists and spill out of his tight, too short, and paint-stained overalls.
My mother says, “Can you fix this?”
Mr. Bob says, “No sweat.”
My other head is Marie Curie, child-aged, so no one recognizes her. She’s very plain and I find that beautiful. Marie says something in Russian that sounds vaguely commiserative. Mom ignores this head.
Unprompted, Mr. Bob launches into an explanation of how the swing set works. Maybe he does know that I have young Madame Curie with me and he’s trying to impress her. If so, that’s really creepy.
Mr. Bob says, “This swing set is one big friction machine. Mounted on the horizontal bar above is an axle with circular plates, each plate turning and rubbing against pads when you swing, making an electrical charge. The prime conductors, your long brass pipes, follow the frame of the swing set. The ends of these conductors carry metallic combs with points bent toward the faces of the glass plates. The combs collect the charge, and the pipes bring the charge to the collector/generator and then to your house. Really it’s very simple, but not very efficient.”
Mom says, “Nothing Veronica’s father did was very efficient.”
I want to tell Marie Curie the obvious, that my father made this swing set, but he isn’t here anymore and I don’t know where he is but supposedly he’s still in town, somewhere. I don’t think Marie has learned English yet. The next time I go to the bookstore, I’ll get her biography, and maybe some books on electricity and friction machines so I can fix this without any help.
Mr. Bob climbs a ladder to get at the axle. Tools drip and drop like a lazy rain. As much as I’d like the swing to be tuned up so it’ll be more efficient, I don’t want Mr. Bob touching any of it. The swing is my only connection to my father and I’m afraid Mr. Bob will ruin everything. Wanting to be random and unpredictable, but knowing different, I blurt out, “Where’s my father?”
Mom folds her arms across her chest and says, “Why don’t you go inside and wash up. Don’t forget you’re hosting the book club tonight and you haven’t prepared any of the hors d’oeuvres.”
I stare at Mom and I want to cry. Marie stares at Mr. Bob and clucks her tongue at his apparent incompetence. Marie says something in Russian that I think would translate as: “I’d like to see this contraption’s schematic, you talentless monkey.”
Mom softens, and bends to whisper in my ear. She says, “We can talk about this later if you really
want to. If you need to. But it’s for the best, Veronica. Really. Go on, now. Set up for your book club.”
5
My book club is here. Six women, ages ranging from Peg Dower’s somehow rheumy thirty-six to Cleo Stanton-Meyer’s health-club fifty-three. Our chairs and bodies make a circle, a book club Stonehenge, but with an end table loaded with coffee, tea, water, chips and spinach dip, and biscotti at the center. Everyone has their dog-eared copy of Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf on their slacks-clad laps.
Mom stays in the kitchen and doesn’t participate in the discussions, even though she reads all the books. She insists this is my thing. I hear the sewing machine turn on and off sporadically.
Bev Bentley, white-blonde and DD chest (Mom is so jealous), says, “Excuse me, but is that her, Veronica? Will we be able ask her questions?” Hands cover faces all over the circle. Peg and Cleo groan much like a crowd at a sporting event when something bad happens. Bev is the something bad happening. She asks me the same question every meeting. And every meeting I answer: “Sorry, Bev, she’s not the author of this book.” It is rather insulting for her to continually think that my other head is that simple or predictable, but I don’t tell them my other head is Sylvia Plath. They should be able to figure that out on their own. Sylvia just smirks and takes it all in, burning Bev down with a look that could shame an entire culture.
Our discussion begins with Peg trying to compare Clarissa Dalloway to Catherine from Wuthering Heights, but no one agrees with her. Sylvia laughs but it sounds sad. I redirect the discussion to the book’s themes of insanity and suicide and reality and the critique of the social system. None of us says anything that’s new or important, but it is still satisfying to discuss something that matters to us. Cleo wonders aloud how autobiographical this novel was for Woolf, and I wonder how hard Sylvia is biting her tongue or maybe she just doesn’t care enough to join in. I’ll need to keep me and her out of the kitchen and away from the oven.
Then book talk is over before everyone’s teacups and coffee mugs are empty. And as usual, our talk deteriorates into town gossip.
“Darla has been sleeping with that new pharmacist.”
“William Boyle?”
“He’s the one.”
“He must be ten years younger than Darla.”
“Fifteen.”
“And her divorce isn’t even final yet.”
They move on to discuss the high school gym teacher and his secret gay lover. As best as I can figure, this mysterious lover is more abstract ideal than reality. Sylvia is still disinterested. She’s flipping through my copy of Mrs. Dalloway and doodling in the margins. And there’s more of the who’s-sleeping-with-who talk followed up with who’s-not-sleeping-with-who talk, which includes Cleo’s third husband’s erectile dysfunction diagnosis and her daily countdown until he fills one of those blue pill prescriptions, likely to be handed out by the philandering pharmacist.
The sewing machine in the kitchen is quiet and has been for a while. Mom stopped sewing once the book discussion ended. I know Mom thinks this book-club-cum-gossip-session is a substitute for all the wonderful teenage conversations I don’t have with other teenagers. I don’t know if it is or not, since I’m not having those teenage conversations with other teenagers. I generally don’t mind the town dish as I do find it entertaining, but tonight it seems wrong, especially on the heels of Woolf’s book. I mean, this was what she was railing against.
So, inspired by Virginia to say something meaningful, or at the very least to yank everyone out of complacency, I say, “Does anyone know where my father lives?”
In the kitchen, the sewing machine roars to life, stitching its angry stitches. Sylvia whispers, “Atta, girl,” into my ear. I look out into the newly silent Stonehenge of women. All of them here, all of them totems in my living room only because my mother asked them to be here. I love Mom and I hate her for the book club; not either/or but both at the same time.
The women, they shrug or shake their heads or say a weak no. Then they fill their plates with chips and biscotti. I know it’s not fair to make them uncomfortable, but why should I always be the only one?
Our discussion slowly turns toward TV shows and movies, and then what book should we read next. Peg finds the book I didn’t want to buy sitting unread on the mantel. She passes it around. Everyone claims to have heard about the book that no one has heard about. They mumble agreeable sentiments about it being challenging, something new, having buzz, and they decide, without asking me and before the book makes it way around the circle back to me, to make it our next book club selection. Sylvia thumbs through it and doesn’t say anything.
Mom reappears from the kitchen with everyone’s coats in her arms. Polite, light-pats-on-the-back hugs are passed back and forth, even when I insist upon handshakes, and then everyone leaves. I’m left with Sylvia, no answers to my father question, a mother pouting and sewing in the kitchen, loads of dishes and cups and trays to wash, and a book in my hands that I don’t want to read.
6
I am up and out of the house before Mom wakes up. We haven’t said anything to each other since the book club. Getting up and eating breakfast alone quickly becomes an hour on the swing set. It’s cold and there’s no way of knowing if Mr. Bob’s tune-up did any good. The swing doesn’t seem any different, or more efficient.
I really don’t want to do this today. It’s not helping that my other head is changing by the downswing, almost too many heads to keep up with. There’s been Cleopatra, Bonnie Parker, Marsha Brady, Fay Wray, Emily Brontë, Cindy Lou Who, Janis Joplin, and even that vacuous snot, Joan Rivers.
My heads never change this fast, and I hate it. I really wanted nothing more than to sit out here and talk with one of the heads, have someone help me decide what to do, or what to think. I don’t know why finding my father is all of a sudden so important to me. Last week and pretty much all the weeks before that week, he was never more than a fleeting thought, a forgotten dream.
The swing coupled with my changing heads are making me dizzy, so I put my legs down, scraping my sneakers on the sand, digging an even deeper rut, and I stop swinging. Then I go and sit up against the neighbour’s wooden fence with my head in my hands, trying to regain some level of equilibrium. Joan Rivers is yammering in my ear about my terrible clothes and iffy skin. The leaves I’m sitting on are cold and wet. I get up and walk.
I walk downtown to the cobblestones and the Little Red Bookstore and Joan Rivers becomes Lauren Bacall becomes Calpurnia becomes Scout becomes Boo Radley’s mother, which is confusing. I stand outside with my hands cupped on the bookstore’s bay window. The place is empty and I’d have the shelves to myself but I keep walking, past the Little Red Grocery and Little Red Hardware and the Little Red Candy Shoppe and the Little Red Bank, and out of the downtown area and through the town square, and Boo Radley’s mother becomes Lucille Ball becomes Karen Silkwood becomes Mary Shelley becomes Susan Faludi. I walk past the Little Red Library and the Little Red Schoolhouse, which was where I dropped out during my sixth-grade year. Tommy Gallahue showing up to school with a papier-mâché second head was my last day of sixth-grade. Susan Faludi becomes Blanche DuBois becomes Alice in Wonderland. I walk past the town high school and I walk past without any regrets. Alice becomes Rosa Parks becomes Vivien Leigh. I walk through residential neighbourhoods, peeking over fences and into yards randomly, looking for the man I don’t remember, looking for the man I know I’ll never find. Vivien Leigh becomes a starving Ethiopian girl that I don’t know but have seen on commercials becomes Zelda becomes Flannery O’Connor. I don’t have a watch but it must be noon as the sun is directly over my head and I’m very hungry, so I start walking back home, taking a different route back, staying in the small neighbourhoods, still looking through fences and even inside a few mailboxes, for what? I’m not sure. And Flannery O’Connor becomes Oprah becomes Nancy Drew becomes Maya Angelou becom
es Shirley Temple becomes Eponine becomes Little Orphan Annie becomes Amelia Earhart and I’m home.
My mother is on the swing. She’s actually sitting on the swing that apparently is not calibrated to precisely my weight. But she’s not really swinging. She’s sitting, her legs folded under, her toes tickling the rut in the sand, her face in her hands, and I can’t be sure, but I think she’s crying. She’s wearing an Irish-knit turtleneck sweater like mine, but with only one turtleneck. Amelia Earhart becomes Shirley Jackson becomes Hester Prynne. I’m hiding where Jeffrey usually hides, in the thinning shrubbery next to our neighbour’s fence. Then Jeffrey runs out of his house, across the street and to my mother. No one has seen me yet. Jeffrey is talking with her. I guess, for him, it doesn’t matter who is swinging. I won’t hold it against him. He’s only five. I wonder if he asks her the same questions he asks me. Mom laughs then scoops up Jeffrey into her lap and they swing together. Hester Prynne becomes the witch accusing Abigail, and I’m angry-jealous, or jealous-angry, and maybe they’re the same emotion, each just wearing something a little different. I walk out of the bushes and to the swing. Abigail doesn’t say anything but just points with my left index finger.
Jeffrey says, “Hi, Veronica!” between giggles.
“Hi.”
Mom stops the swing. She says, “Jeffrey, you can swing by yourself, as long as you promise not to go too high. Promise?” If she was crying before, there is no sign of it now.
Jeffrey puffs out his chest. “I promise.”
I want to ask how Jeffrey is going to manage this with his withered arm. But he hops right on the swing, tucks the left chain of the swing under his armpit, grabs the other chain with his good arm and starts pumping. We watch him swing for a few minutes and Abigail has become someone else but I haven’t bothered to look and see who it is.
In the Mean Time Page 3
