If the Moon Had Willow Trees (Detroit Eight Series Book 1)

by Kathleen Hall

  “Dearest Maggie, you aren’t listening. What they want, what they care about, is that you and Issie experience your own lives as fully and authentically as you can. Anna unleashed her power. If she were here, she’d tell you to plant a willow tree on the moon.”

  15

  Black Jack

  Those who dance are often thought mad by those who cannot hear the music.

  —Unknown

  AUGUST 1968—“So, Pepe, change your mind? Ready to move to Detroit?”

  “Sam, my man, there’s no one in Toronto who’s ready to move to Detroit. It’s a goddamn shooting gallery. Forget the wild west, Detroit makes Texas look like a pansy-ass state.”

  “Think about it, Pepe. Detroit’s filled with Italians who left that mafia-infested boot you call Italy.”

  Yeah, well, that’s why I’m in Toronto. Peace loving hippies and French Canadians holding hands and singing “Oh Canada” and planting flowers. I’ll come visit when I have an insane urge to outrun bullets.”

  “Pepe, you’ve got it wrong. Detroit is just going through a rough patch. You’ll see. One day you’ll be knocking at our door,” said Maggie.

  “Ah, Ms. Maggie, don’t count on it. But here, I found this envelope with your name on it in an old stable trunk. Looks like a bunch of family photos. I wanted to give them to you before they got trashed.”

  Maggie had a death grip on the large brown envelope on her lap.

  “So, Mag, are you going to look inside?”

  “When I’m ready.”

  “Do you want to pull off the road?”

  “No.”

  “Okay. Well, let me know if you do.”

  “Damn it, Sam. Will you please stop pressuring me to do things when you want them done?”

  “Mag, no pressure. They’re your photos. Just thought you’d be anxious.”

  “I’m not anxious and I don’t want to talk right now. I want to breathe.”

  “Got it.”

  Sam was glad they left on a Sunday afternoon to avoid Monday’s gridlock in the cities. The empty roads and pastures reminded him of the bull and their crazy lovemaking. No chance for a rerun today.

  After four hours Maggie said, “let’s eat before we get to Windsor. I’m hungry.”

  “Me too, Mag.”

  Three miles later, Sam pulled into a scenic overlook. It was almost six o’clock. Families were setting up picnic tables, grilling hotdogs. Kids were playing tag or throwing sticks for their dogs to fetch. Sam spotted an empty table at the edge of the small roadside park next to a stream and said, “Will this do?”

  “Holy crap, Sam, it’s like we just entered a Norman Rockwell cover of The Saturday Evening Post. Sorry for being so rotten. I’m a little freaked out and need some time.”

  “Babe, I got it. Let’s eat.”

  An old willow brindled the light of a late summer day as Maggie opened the boxed dinner and unpacked turkey sandwiches, homemade potato chips, almond cookies and a thermos of coffee. In spite of the heat, a trace breeze from the north carried the crisp scent of autumn. Under the food, Maggie found four sturdy paper plates and four dark gray linen napkins with the Zeno insignia embroidered in white. A small envelope was addressed to Maggie and Sam. Maggie opened the envelope and read the card out loud:

  My Dearest Maggie and Sam,

  Getting to know you over the past nine days has been wonderful, but I want more.

  I hope you’ll give some thought to getting together over the Christmas holidays. I have a chalet in Blue Mountain that sleeps ten. Let’s see if the two of you, Issie and her family and Aunt Jo are up for the trip. My treat.

  I’ve enclosed my business card so you can reach me. (Home address and phone number on the back.)

  Bon appétit, dear ones. I look forward to seeing you again!

  Kindest regards,

  Jacques

  P.S. Maggie, Catherine told me you liked our Zeno linens, so I’m selfishly including these so you won’t forget me.

  “Blue Mountain? Sam, I haven’t skied in five years.”

  “Maggie, I don’t think this is about skiing.”

  Coming out of the Windsor Tunnel, Detroit’s skyline shimmered like Miami against the fiery horizon of a setting sun. Its burned buildings and abandoned houses lost in deep shadows. By the time they unpacked the car and stuffed their dirty clothes in a laundry basket, it was after nine. The sky was dark. The brown envelope sat unopened on the coffee table. Sam started to ask Maggie when she was going to open it, but checked himself and said, “ready for bed?”

  “Are you kidding? Really? You think I’d go to bed without looking at these photos?”

  “Listen, Maggie, you told me not to mention them and I didn’t. I know this is important to you. I’m trying to be sensitive, but give me a break here. I don’t know how to deal. So you tell me what the hell you want from me.”

  Maggie sat down on the sofa and started crying.

  Sam slid to his knees. “Shit, Maggie, I’m doing the best I can. I know I can be dumb on both sides, but I have no idea what you want from me.”

  “I don’t know what I want. I’m afraid to look at those photos. I’m pissed that I had parents who disappeared without saying good-bye. I’m pissed at Jacques for staying away all these years. I’m pissed because Aunt Jo, Aunt Minnie and Uncle Cyp must have known more than they told me. Fuck, fuck, fuck. My whole life is a goddamn lie, and I’m sitting here like a pitiful orphan crying about something that happened twenty years ago.”

  “Listen to me, Maggie. You were only five when your parents left to protect you in the only way they knew how. My guess is they acted out of courage. Everyone who loved you believed it was the only way to keep you safe. Mag, you’re always telling me we have no control, only influence based on the choices we make. You get to choose how to deal with this.”

  “I will. But not now I’m too wired. I need to crash.”

  At four o’clock in the morning a light in the living room led Sam to Maggie. Sitting cross-legged on the sofa, Maggie was wearing a black tee shirt with Make Love Not War in pink block letters. In front of her, three carefully stacked piles of photos.

  “Coffee?”

  “Please.”

  Sam left the French press in the box, heated water in the kettle and opened the instant coffee. When he brought two cups into the living room, Maggie was in the same position.

  “Hey, Mag, do you feel like talking?”

  “Not sure. It’s so weird. I don’t think Pepe had permission to give me these photos and my sense is that Jacques, or someone, may have wanted to sort through these first.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Pile one, baby pictures of me, or me and Issie, including some with Anna or Raymond. Pile two, pictures of me as a toddler alone or with Issie. No parents, no adults, just the two of us at different times and in different places. Pile three, pictures of me at four or five alone or with Issie and/or Anna. No photos of Raymond.”

  “Okay. I’m not sure what you think this means.”

  “What I think it means is both my parents were around when I was a baby. One or the other was taking pictures. When I was a toddler, only one of my parents was around to take pictures. It could have been Anna or Raymond or someone else. From age three to five, Anna was in a number of photos but no Raymond. Did he become camera shy? Why isn’t he in these photos? Who took them?”

  “Do you want my opinion or do you just need a listener right now?

  “I’d love it if you’d look at these pictures, including the backgrounds, and tell me if anything looks out of whack. I’m nagged by something but not sure what it is. Right now, I need to soak in the tub.”

  Sam looked at the three stacks and sipped his coffee. As he began to pick up the first pile, he flashed to his meeting with Zito and the unseen photos of Carla. Thanks to Sheer Juice’s influence and recommendation, he’d start work at Jingo Motors tomorrow. This afternoon was paperwork and orientation in Jingo’s Personnel Office. Almost everyone, i
ncluding Maggie, saw this job as a major coup. Only he and Clyde knew about the Magic Slate price tag attached to this job. Clyde was right. Sheer Juice did not set him up for a one-shot deal. Sam was indentured. For how long, for how much? Who knew?

  Breakfast was Cheerios, milk and toasted Wonder Bread with cold, hard butter. Sam grimaced before he could check himself. This was the primary reason he never played cards.

  “Don’t even think it Poker Face.”

  “So no chance you’ll learn to make muffins?”

  “Quick study. That’s what I’ve always loved about you. Sorry I’ve been such a shithead. I’m going to get my head on straight, or as straight as I can. Which, is probably not promising much,” laughed Maggie.

  “Hearing you laugh is enough. I wasn’t sure who was inhabiting that lush body of yours and I’m glad to know you’re still here. I’ve missed you.”

  Maggie sat on Sam’s lap, nuzzled his neck and bit his ear.

  “Ouch, dammit Maggie, that hurt. Are you in great need of attention?”

  “Probably. Do we have time to talk through the photos before you get ready for work, Mr. Young Executive?”

  “Yes, but I’m not an executive. I’m an Employment Manager, which is management level, not executive. I understand corporate types are very sensitive about levels, office space and number of direct reports, so please don’t overstate my status.”

  “Okay, so I shouldn’t call you Emperor Tervo?”

  “Not in public,” laughed Sam.

  “The photos?”

  “I think you’re right. There’s a pattern based on age. I went through them quickly to see if anything jumped out at me, then looked at each one more slowly. The only curious thing I saw was in the third pile. Look here at these two photos. There’s something on the counter that looks like Jacques’ metal tree python. Then, in this last photo there’s a man’s hand with an insignia ring like Jacques’. The hand is too shaded to see if it resembles Jacques’. Most mind-boggling is how much your mother looks like Catherine, Jacques’ secretary. That might be why I felt the connection between the two of you. Could be a French Canadian genetic thing, but there’s something. Here, look at these two photos of your mother and think about Catherine. Am I off base or what?”

  “Sam, I see the tree python and the insignia ring looks like Jacques’. But, I don’t see the resemblance between Anna and Catherine. Not sure what difference that makes, but will look again.”

  “After I shower, I’m heading out. I want to check the routes and neighborhoods near Jingo. Should be home by six. What’s your day?”

  “Sorting laundry and lots of calls—Issie, Aunt Jo, Loretta and Stella. I know they’re dying to hear about our trip. Plus, Angelo will be expecting a call and will no doubt ask if I can cover weekends during football season.”

  “And?”

  “And, we’ll see. We just spent a wad of money in Toronto, and treat or no treat, it would be nice to have some money put away if we want to go to Blue Mountain in December.

  “Hey, Issie. How’s it going in Wasteland these days?”

  “When did you get home? Shit. I can’t wait to talk but we’re heading to the zoo right now—Raymond’s Cub Scout Pack.”

  “Damn. I’ve got some pictures I want to show you. Why don’t you and the boys come here tomorrow?”

  “Too nuts. I know it’s your hood, but there’s no way I’ll let the boys play outside. You come here. I’ll make a pot of coffee and pick up a Sara Lee coffee cake.”

  “Are you kidding me? You think it’s safe there with all those frigging hillbillies in white sheets?”

  “Marguerite Soulier Tervo, I know you love Detroit but it’s always spooked me. Come on. You haven’t been here in months. We’ll both be more relaxed if the boys can play outdoors.

  “I’ll check with Sam. We’re down to one set of wheels, and I’m stuck unless I can drive him to work and pick him up. I’ll let you know.”

  “Hey, Auntie Jo. How goes it?”

  “Oh, Maggie. You’re back! Darn. I’m on my way to a meeting with a new designer. I can call later. Depending on the day, it might be tomorrow. I miss you.”

  “Miss you, too. Call when you can.”

  “Hey, Loretta!”

  “Hey, Maggie! I can’t wait to talk to you, baby, but there’s someone in my chair and two under the dryer. I’m kicking ass this morning.”

  “No problem. Keep kicking. I’ll try later.”

  “Stella Webster here.”

  “Hey, Stella. You buried in work?”

  “Nope. Just closed my last open file and was about ready to clean up the minutes from The Eights meeting. We missed you guys.”

  “Missed you! Sam started at Jingo today and I’m knee deep in dirty laundry, but I wanted to hear a friendly voice.”

  “You first, Maggie. I’ve been dying to know if you found Jacques Ruivivar. That name is so fine he could be a character in a book or movie.”

  “Both! He’s got silver screen good looks and at least three autobiographies waiting to be written. Let me start from the beginning.”

  The afternoon sun was blistering. With no trees, shade-less windows and one small table fan to help cool the house, the heat was unbearable. The side door in the kitchen and one window in the living room held the only two screens in the house. Sam said he’d see if he could find two slider screens to prop up the bedroom windows to get them through the last few hot weeks of the year. Maggie tried to imagine turning this paper-thin shack into a home. Issie’s right. Burned out houses, rancid garbage, rats, panhandlers and gangs—there’s no frigging way she’d send her own kid out to play.

  A clean tee shirt and cutoffs would have to do. When Sam got home they’d head to the laundromat, start the washers, then pick up some White Castle for dinner. She was already salivating.

  When the phone rang at six, Maggie was licking a tablespoon of peanut butter.

  “Hey, babe, I’m just leaving the office and I won’t be home until 6:30 or so. What’s for dinner?”

  “Laundry and White Castle. We’re out of everything, so we need to stop and shop on the way home. This one car family thing is the pits!”

  “Another bullet to bite. Do you want me to pick up some White Castle before I get home? Are you starving?”

  “Tempted, but would rather get started on these clothes before tomorrow. Go. Now. Please.”

  “Seriously, Mag, we can afford Big Boys. We’ve hit the jackpot. I’m making twice as much as I did at Sheer Juice.”

  Maggie looked at Sam in suit and tie, sitting next to her in cut-offs and a faded orange tee. He was beaming. When did he grow past me? Maggie felt immature, diminished, sullen, like the time she and her best friend Greta ran for senior-class student council positions. It was June 1962, the last day of their junior year. Candidates were invited to give speeches one hour before voting began. Because voting day was always scheduled for the last day of school, everyone was hyped to begin summer break. No one seemed to take the speeches seriously, least of all Maggie, who’d been through these elections the past three years and easily won her seats on the council. On this day, like all others, she was dressed in her de rigueur wrinkled navy-blue school uniform, matching knee socks and a scuffed pair of penny loafers. Greta, who was running for the first time, showed up looking like Jackie Kennedy—a watermelon pink Coco Chanel knock-off suit with navy-blue silk stockings and three-inch navy heels. Maggie lost her seat on the council and gained respect for the power of bravado. Greta would graduate Harvard Law School in May then head to Washington, DC to clerk for one of the Supremes.

  “Seriously, Sam, I’ve been craving White Castle since we left for Toronto. We can talk in the car while we wait for the clothes to dry.”

  “Mag, this job is unbelievable! I thought I’d find a bunch of stodgy engineers with slide rules attached to their belts, but it’s modern—big windows, wide hallways and white cedar everywhere you look. No mahogany row like the big boys at GM and Ford. I get the sense th
ey take pride in being more egalitarian or at least more democratic. No shit. It’s so freaking open it could be a design studio or ad agency. Guys are walking around in rolled up shirtsleeves and loosened ties!”

  “Tell me about the employees? Blacks? Women?”

  “I didn’t run into any women or blacks in management positions. The only person I spent any time with was Maxine, my administrative assistant. She’s very cool.”

  “And?”

  “She’s black, about our age and irreverent as hell. You’d like her—great sense of humor, straight talk and lots of sass. My guess is you’ve trained me well to handle this powerhouse.”

  “Married?”

  “Yes, married. Maxine’s hot but she’s not you.”

  “Did you meet with your boss? What’s his name?”

  “Skip Malone. He wasn’t in, but Maxine’s not a fan. She called him a dip-wad.”

  “In what way?”

  “She said he’s a boot-licker who always says ‘yes’ to new assignments then puts together a committee to do the work and he does nothing.”

  “No shit? How does he get away with that? I want his job!”

  “No, you don’t. Maxine thinks they hired me to be his replacement. She’s savvy, so will keep my eyes open. What about you? How was your car-less day in the hood?”

  “Don’t even go there. I tried calling Issie, Aunt Jo, Loretta and they were all too busy to talk much less come by. Stella was the only one who had time for me. When I told her about our trip she got diabolical as hell. I think she’d make a better investigator than an accountant. Jesus. She’s mystified by the photos but thinks I’m on to something. Which reminds me, Issie wants me to go to her house tomorrow because she’s afraid to let the boys play outside in Detroit. Pissed me off at first, but then thought about how I’d feel letting our kid roam around Detroit alone. Sam, we’ve got to get out of this area before we have a baby. Maybe closer to Redford? Somewhere behind the library?”

  “Did you call Angelo?”