Test Pattern

by Marjorie Klein

  TEST

  PATTERN

  MARJORIE KLEIN

  Dedication

  For Joshua and Bennett.

  The future is yours to see.

  Content

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  1 CASSIE 1954

  2 LORENA

  3 CASSIE

  4 LORENA

  5 CASSIE

  6 LORENA

  7 CASSIE

  8 LORENA

  9 CASSIE

  10 LORENA

  11 CASSIE

  12 LORENA

  13 CASSIE

  14 LORENA

  15 CASSIE

  16 LORENA

  17 CASSIE

  18 LORENA

  19 CASSIE

  20 LORENA

  21 CASSIE

  22 LORENA

  23 CASSIE

  24 LORENA

  25 CASSIE

  26 LORENA

  27 CASSIE

  28 LORENA

  29 CASSIE

  30 LORENA

  31 CASSIE

  32 LORENA

  33 CASSIE

  34 LORENA

  35 CASSIE

  36 LORENA

  37 CASSIE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PRAISE FOR TEST PATTERN

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  1

  CASSIE

  1954

  MOM IS DANCING the tango in front of our new TV. Her silhouette dips and glides, slides flat as a shadow across the silvery screen. She’s one step behind Arthur Murray, who is demonstrating the Magic Steps That Open the Door to Popularity.

  “Come on, dance with me,” she says to Dad. She grabs his hand, tries to pull him off the couch. He scrunches down, crosses his arms, shakes his head. Dad doesn’t believe in dancing.

  Maybe he’s tired. He started moving the furniture as soon as he got home and saw the TV was here. Mom directed, pointing here, no here, no maybe it’d be better over there, until finally everything was lined up, TV on one wall, couch on the other, Naugahyde chairs parked so they’d face the TV, too. Now our living room looks like the Paramount Theater.

  Dad’s still in his work clothes, his Dickies shirt smeared with dirt and stuff from the shipyard, hair all sticking out and sweaty. Mom couldn’t wait for him to change, just rushed us throughdinner so she wouldn’t miss The Arthur Murray Party. She’s so bossy about it, you’d think it was her very own TV.

  It came this afternoon when we kids were playing kickball. “Yay!” we cheered as we spotted the delivery guy balancing the big box on his cart, then we jitterbugged behind him in a wacky parade up the sidewalk to our house. Mom waved him through the doorway, her hands all white from making biscuits. I wanted to die. She was wearing her ratty gray robe and those dead-squirrel slippers. Her hair was knotted in pincurls stuck to her head like snails.

  The guy grabbed one corner of the box with a hairy fist and ripped off the side of the carton. There it was, our new TV, wobbling on pointy little feet like a dog that’s been bumped by a car. “Magnavox,” Mom whispered, reading the gold letters beneath a screen that shone silver as a nickel. The guy plunked the rabbit-ears antenna on top like a beanie, fiddled around with some wires and stuff, then plugged it in.

  “Not much on right now,” he mumbled, flipping channels, wiggling and stretching the rabbit ears in every direction. Circles and lines appeared on the screen, faint and fuzzy at first, then clearer until he stood back, squinted, and said, “Pretty good picture.”

  The test pattern stared back: a giant’s eye, round and square at the same time. “That’s all, folks,” the guy said before he snapped it off.

  After he left, the kids stayed outside, quiet. Then Margaret asked, “Can we watch?”

  “Go on home,” Mom said, shooing them off with her flour-stiff fingers. “Nothing’s on.”

  “Come back later, okay?” I yelled as they straggled away. “Come back when it’s Howdy Doody time.”

  “Never you mind,” Mom said so they couldn’t hear. “And keep it off till Dad gets home.” Sometimes she acts like I don’t count, like what I think doesn’t matter.

  Soon as she went into the kitchen, I clicked on the TV. I couldn’t get much, just a bunch of snow, but the test pattern camein clear. Black-and-white. Bull’s-eye. Spider’s web. Round and spoked as a wheel. I stared. It seemed to breathe. I couldn’t get away. And then it spoke to me: Hmmmm, it said. Hmmm hmmm, grabbing my ears like the pattern grabbed my eyes.

  I heard Mom talking. Far far away.

  “Cassie, Cassie—Cassandra. What is the matter with you?”

  I stared into the eye of the test pattern. Saw me looking out at myself, looking in at myself. I couldn’t get away from me.

  “Cassie!” Mom’s hands, big and warm as cats on my shoulders, turned me around to look at her. Her mouth moved around my name. I blinked like I just woke up.

  “That’s enough,” she said with a frowny face, and switched the test pattern off. She didn’t turn the TV on again until after dinner when it was time to tango with Arthur Murray.

  I CAN’T SLEEP. The house is still. Bony branches of the chinaberry tree clack witch fingers against my windowpane. Nights like this I’d stay warm in bed, but this night things have changed. There’s a TV in our living room, and I hear it calling to me.

  I tiptoe barefoot down the stairs, creep into the darkened room. In the gloom, the couch seems alive. It cradles its cushions in its arms like fat babies. Deep shadows from the porch light shift and hide like small quick animals.

  I change my mind, turn to go back upstairs. The TV stops me with its silvery face. I get that same loopy feeling I get on the Tilt-A-Whirl, like I just ate a handful of jumping beans. I touch the knob of the TV. My hand seems to belong to someone else. My fingers and toes prickle like they’ve fallen asleep, and my whole body freckles with electricity.

  I hear its hum before I see it, the circle with spokes like a wheel. The blacks get blacker, the whites get whiter and then I see it clearly: the test pattern. It starts to spin, then whirs like a pin-wheel and sucks me into its eye. I’m inside a space that’s inside of me.

  I hear voices. Music, weird music. Flash of red, flicker of green. Somebody—just my reflection, just me? Or …?

  “What the bejesus do you think you’re doing?”

  Yikes. It’s Dad.

  And here comes Mom in that ruffly cap she wears over her pincurls at night, eyes all pooched with sleep. But her mouth is wide-awake. “Get your bee-hind upstairs. Are you out of your mind, watching the test pattern?”

  “There’s nothing else on,” I mumble.

  “Get to bed,” Dad says, and snaps off the TV.

  Even when I’m back in bed, the test pattern is still with me. Sharp and clear and real as a dream, it presses against my closed eyes.

  2

  LORENA

  LORENA’S IN THE kitchen pounding dough. Bam, bam, she punches away at the soft fleshy mound, flattens it with the rolling pin into a quivering blanket spread over the wooden board, blizzards it with flour. She wields the biscuit cutter like a circular sword, smashes its sharp edge repeatedly into the pale dough, deals the limp rounds into neat rows on the baking pan. She has done this every day since she married at twenty. She figures she will do it till she dies.

  The screen door opens in a metallic whine, slaps shut. Here comes Cassie. “Mom!” she calls.

  “What?” Lorena blots her sweating forehead with a dish towel, balls it up, throws it into the sink.

  “Can we watch TV?”

  “Not now.” Lorena can hear the crowd of kids jostling each other outside her front door, frenzied at the prospect of spending a half hour with a freckled puppet and a grown man who cal
ls himself Buffalo Bob.

  She dusts her palms as best as she can, then wipes them on her gray flannel robe, her anniversary gift from Pete, $2.99 on sale at Nachman’s he announced when he handed her the box. The gray slippers—real fur, he had said—well, those weren’t on sale but he bought them anyway.

  “Mom, pleeeeze!” Cassie whines. “Everybody’s outside already.”

  Well, too bad. Lorena shuffles out of the kitchen, her slippers making a wshhht wshhht sound. “Sorry, kids,” she says in her Nice Mommy voice. “Not today.”

  “Well, then, when? We’ve had the set a whole week already.” Cassie fixes her with a hateful glare. “I wish you were Mrs. Powell.” She storms out, slams the screen door behind her, yells, “I’m going to watch at the Powells'. They like kids.”

  The Powells live across from them and have a TV, until now the only TV on the block unless you counted the MacDougals, an older couple who never invited anyone over to watch. Maybe Peggy Powell didn’t mind every kid in the neighborhood hanging out at her house, swarming like termites while she fixed dinner. They had to watch Howdy, had to watch Kukla, had to watch every puppet show that popped up on the screen. Well, Lorena wasn’t Peggy Powell, handing out Kool-Aid to those sticky-faced kids. She didn’t want them crammed into her living room, sucking on Tootsie Pops, putting their feet on the couch. That’s not why she got a television set.

  The idea of owning one had once seemed a fantasy, like owning a box full of stars. Lorena had wanted her own TV since she first saw one, a mirage that shimmered from a circular screen on display in the window of Peninsula TV Sales. Soon afterward, her best friend Delia invited them over to watch on her brand-new set. Lorena had sat transfixed, mesmerized by its magic, spellbound in its glow. Pete practically had to drag her out the door before she’d leave Delia’s that night.

  When they got home, she had lain awake, obsessed. She had tohave a TV. Captured like black-and-white butterflies inside that box, awaiting release with just the click of a knob, were all of her favorite stars: Bob Hope. Red Skelton. Jack Benny. Groucho. Uncle Miltie. And Lucille Ball—her Lucy, as Lorena likes to think of her. She knows if she could meet Lucy, they’d become the best of friends.

  But seeing stars is not enough. Lorena wants to be one. The June Taylor dancers have triggered her fantasies of fame—for Lorena dances, too. The first time she watched the dancers open The Jackie Gleason Show, her methodical consumption of a Hershey bar slowed to a nibble. She studied each step of their kaleidoscopic choreography with a hunger, a passion, a desire so strong that it twisted into envy.

  She could do that. She could do better than that. A mantra began inside her head: I will do that, I will do that, and she silently chanted it all the way home. It hummed on the edge of her consciousness until Saturday came once again, teasing her anew with the June Taylor dancers. After that, Saturday nights at Delia’s became a ritual. Fueled by frustration and hidden anger, Lorena’s mantra burned like a tiny flame that grew day by day, consuming her thoughts until little was left but desire.

  Now that Lorena’s got her own TV, the June Taylor troupe seems to dance just for her. Hidden beneath the coffee table, her feet tap in secret mimicry when the desire to perform overwhelms her. As the camera rises high above the dancers to capture their divine precision, she just knows that if life had taken a different path, she could have been a petal of that unfolding flower.

  Before television, her vicarious performances were limited to Saturday matinees at the movies. She would sit in the dark sharing popcorn with Delia and imagine herself mirroring the steps of Gene Kelly, tappety tappety tap tap tap, or descending a circular staircase on the arm of Fred Astaire. When the movie was over, the fantasy would end and she’d go home once again to real life.

  Real life was once her fantasy life: a husband, a child, a home—all the things she wished for until she got her wish. After that, the fantasy faded into a predictable pattern of cooking, cleaning, shopping, and mending that promised to repeat eternally.

  Not that she complains, oh, no. She could have done worse. Pete’s not a runaround like Delia’s ex-husband. Pete’s a family man, always on time for dinner, always expects those biscuits. Before they got the television set, he’d stop by the bar near the shipyard to watch TV after work, maybe down a Ballantine or two. But now that they’ve got the TV he comes straight home— stays home, too. After dinner he parks his work boots on the coffee table alongside his beer and pretzels, watches wrestling or the Pabst Blue Ribbon bouts. He’s a family man, yes, it’s true. But mostly he’s a company man.

  He’s worked in the shipyard since he was fifteen, part-time when he was in high school. He grew up here in Newport News, Virginia, wouldn’t leave this place, he was born here just like his daddy. His whole family was Virginians, he bets they go back to Jamestown. That’s the kind of tie he feels to this city, he tells her if she ever talks about moving someplace else. It’s in his skin, his blood, under his nails and behind his ears, the grit and dust, the clang and roar of the shipyard. Even with his bum leg, he can scamper up those gantries like a monkey. It’s just something he’s done, something he’ll always do, work with ships and steel, the music of the metal always singing in his ears.

  Lorena grew up here, too. Her father worked in the shipyard. Almost everybody’s father worked in the shipyard. It promised good jobs and steady work as long as there was war. War feeds this town. It makes it grow. With World War II, then with Korea, the shipyard crystallized into a geometry of cranes and gantries and angular ships that shadowed it all. The riverfront became a city of ships and the water grew still and black. And over it all rang a carillon of steel that played the songs of war.

  Lorena is sick of it. She feels like she’s in the bottom of a brown paper bag. Sometimes when she goes with Delia to a matinee, she thinks that what she’s watching is what’s outside the bag, it’s notall shipyard and the A&P and running the Hoover under the couch. It should be a Technicolor world, and she should be Doris Day. But then she comes out blinking in the sunlight and leaves it all behind her in the Paramount.

  DELLA’S ALREADY IN line when Lorena huffs up out of breath from running across the parking lot. “Where did all these people come from?” she complains, flattening the top of her hair where the wind poufed it out. The line stretches before them and ends at the door of a bright yellow trailer—the very same trailer featured in the Lucille Ball-Desi Arnaz movie The Long, Long Trailer—parked smack in the middle of the A&P parking lot on its tour of the country.

  “I told you we had to get here early,” Delia says, tapping at the face of her Bulova. “It’s already nine-thirty.”

  “I didn’t think there’d be such a long line.” Lorena stands on tiptoe to peer over the crowd.

  “A long, long line to see a long, long trailer,” Delia says, then, realizing she said something worth repeating, repeats it: “Long long line, long long trailer. Get it?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Lorena is more annoyed than amused. She hadn’t expected to wait, had itched with excitement ever since she tore the announcement out of the paper that the trailer was coming. She has seen the movie twice, could see it again and yet again. She just can’t get enough of Lucy, her queen-of-hearts lips, her flapping lashes, her flawless flaming hairdo. Watching Lucy on TV was one thing, but seeing her flamboyance brought to Technicolor life on the big screen almost brought Lorena to tears.

  The crowd shuffles patiently across the asphalt lot, disappears by twos and threes into one door of the bright yellow trailer, then stumbles out through the other. Dazzling as gold, irresistible as a magnet, the chrome-encrusted trailer draws Lorena and Delia into its magical field. They pause in the doorway, dizzy with anticipation as the doorbell peals a musical hello.

  “Oh my God,” Delia swoons. “Just like in the movie.”

  “They stood right here.” Lorena’s voice is hushed, reverent. “Lucy and Desi. Their fingers actually touched this door.” She runs her fingers along the door, then reaches overhea
d to touch the door frame. “This is where Desi bonked his head. Remember?”

  Their entry is blocked by a square woman in a striped dress who has affixed herself to the glass-doored oven in the kitchen. “Looka this, Delbert,” says the woman, squishing her nose against the glass, “you don’t even hafta open it to see in.” But Delbert is mesmerized by the Venetian blind in the window, opens and closes its slats repeatedly until Lorena pushes by to peer into the oven herself.

  “Remember when Lucy made dinner while the trailer was moving?” Lorena asks Delia as they jostle their way to the refrigerator. They open the very door that Lucy opened. “And how she made a Caesar salad, and it flew all over the place?” Lorena is in awe, that Lucy was covered in Caesar salad right where she is standing.

  There’s a real bathroom with a real shower. Everything matches: yellow drapes, yellow tile, yellow shower curtain. Lorena is overwhelmed. She caresses the pink satin quilt on the same twin bed where Lucy and Desi pecked a chaste kiss. Delia sits on the other bed and sighs, “Wouldn’tcha love to live here?”

  “It’s so much better than a house,” agrees Lorena.

  “Much fancier.”

  “Remember how she wore that organza dress and flowers in her hair when she was moving in?”

  “And how they ate by candlelight? And drank Chianti?”

  “Yeah. Parked by a waterfall. In the mountains.”

  The low rumble of the crowd outside the trailer is punctuated by a hand whapping the window of the bedroom where they sit. “Hey!” yells someone. “Get a move on. There’s people waiting out here.”

  “Just hold your horses,” Delia yells back. They take a last, longing look around them before leaving through the trailer’s back door. The line now serpentines the parking lot, weaving in and out between cars.

  “What’d you think you were doing? Moving in?” calls the same voice that accompanied the hand whapping on the trailer’s bedroom window, a voice belonging to a peak-hatted soldier. Delia and Lorena sashay off in a huff, barely sparing a glance at the soldier, who continues haranguing them from his place in line. “Where’s your suitcase?” he calls. “Did ya give ‘em a down payment?”