NOVEMBER 1968—“Oh my god, Issie, the rabbit died,” said Maggie.
“Holy crap! I don’t know if I should offer you congratulations or sympathy. Just pray for a girl. When did you find out?”
“Just now. I got a call from the doctor. Sam’s in a meeting and I couldn’t stand holding on to this information another second. Why does a rabbit have to die?”
“When are you due?”
“Mid-July. I’m freaking out. But this is good, right? I have the summer off and I can go back to work in September.”
“Maggie, whatever you do, don’t tell the school you’re pregnant. They’ll fire you. Do you have to work?”
“God, I don’t know. I’ve got to get off the phone in case Sam tries to call. I’ll catch you later.”
Maggie sat on the brown tweed sofa she and Sam picked up at a yard sale. Then, the fabric and cushions appeared to be in good condition. But now, with a baby coming, Maggie saw the sofa and the rest of the house with new eyes. What was Proust’s quote about discovery not being about new places, but having new eyes? Maggie searched her mind without luck. She’d go to the library and look it up later. One phone call, one dead rabbit later, her life already felt different and nothing looked the same. Maggie stretched out on the sofa, laid her hands on her belly and stared at the ceiling light fixture—a terrarium of iridescent blue flies, papery gray moths and one silky orange dragonfly. Holy mother of god, what were Sam and I thinking?
When the phone rang, Maggie was standing on top of the kitchen table under the living room light. Three of the four screws that held the glass globe were clamped between her lips as she moved to unscrew the fourth with a metal fingernail file. Dropping the file on the table, spitting three screws into her hand, Maggie executed a backward slide off the table and ran to the kitchen to catch the phone.
“Hey, Mag, what’s up?”
“The rabbit died.”
“Whose rabbit?”
“Sam, THE RABBIT DIED.”
“The rabbit died? Oh my god, the rabbit died! We’re having a baby. Maggie, we’re having a baby! My heart is beating so hard I wonder if you can hear it. Can you hear it?”
“Hold the phone next to your heart, let me hear it.”
After several beats, Sam whispered, “Can you hear it?”
“I think so. Or, it’s my own heart. God Sam, we’re going to be parents! I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“Who’s ready? How does anyone know if they’re ready? When babe?”
“Dr. Stanley said the third or fourth week of July.”
“Are you scared, excited, peaceful?”
“All of the above. I was on the kitchen table taking down the globe from the ceiling fixture in the living room to clean it. We’re eight months away and I’m already nesting. Do you think I’ll become a housekeeper?”
“Not a chance. We’re both too laid back. I’m so curious and excited about this metamorphosis, this blind march into parenthood. We’re going to have a baby, Mrs. Tervo!”
“Oh god. We moved too fast. We don’t know the first thing about raising kids! I was parentless, and you didn’t. . . .”
“Mag, seriously? Most of us are lucky we survived childhood.”
“Is that your slanted, perverse way of trying to cheer me up? Because if it is, I’m missing the point.”
“My beautiful pregnant wife. We’re smart, we can memorize Spock; plus, our friends and family will be lining up to give us advice we don’t want.”
“Ah, yes, advice. Something to look forward to. Speaking of advice, let’s wait a few weeks before we tell your mom.
“Your call, babe. How about White Castle on our way to The Eights tonight?
“You’re on!”
Maggie loved the drive to Clyde’s house, past Aunt Jo’s street and Angelo’s Pizzeria. Her old haunts. The after-work traffic seemed light for a Wednesday and the starless, cloudy night rested like a pall on the bare trees and empty sidewalks. Due to schedule conflicts, this was the first called meeting of The Eights since their return from Toronto. Maggie knew their ragtag civil rights momentum relied on time stolen from hourly workers, beauticians, maids, janitors, truck drivers and factory workers. Most were from toothless neighborhoods in skeleton cities. Without Dr. King pushing the agenda, work was relegated and measured in random, intermittent hours.
Clyde and Marmalade met them at the door.
“Hey, Marmalade you poor, beleaguered collie. You still hanging out with this bum?” said Sam.
“Marmalade knows he’s got a good thing going. What about you Maggie? You still hanging out with this bum?”
“Clyde, are you comparing me to a dog?”
“Oh, shit, I stepped in it again. Of course not, Maggie, I meant you’re too good for this cracker.”
“Better. Give me a hug. I’ve missed you!”
“You too, Maggie, especially at work. Angelo’s been in a deep funk since you left. If you thought he was a pain in the ass before, wait’ll you see him now.”
“For real? Angelo told me he hired two people for less money than he paid me. Ticked me off.”
“Maggie, you of all people know Angelo was telling you he missed you,” said Clyde.
“I guess. Without a car I’m a little homebound. But, I’ll pop in one day and we’ll let Angelo buy us lunch.”
“Do it! Blanche is in the kitchen with Loretta and Stella talking trash, waiting for Robin and Willie.”
“Sam, walk with me and Marmalade for a few blocks and tell me what’s happening. New job, new digs. I’ve missed you, my man.”
It was cold enough to see breath, silent enough to hear it.
“Job is way better than I thought. Relaxed dress code, guys walking around without jackets. I’ve even seen a few with loose ties. No shit. I told Maggie it reminds me of an ad agency.”
“Seriously, that’s your bag? I work in jeans. You want casual, flip hamburgers, make pizzas, dump garbage, mow lawns.”
“Got it. I sound like a ditz.”
“No, you sound like a suit, part of the country-club set. ‘Oh, worries me, I’ve got a pimple on my ass and I have to wear a tie to work.’ ”
“Fuck you.”
Clyde put his arm over Sam’s shoulder and said, “Let’s cut to the chase, I love you too much to sit back and watch you become a bigger asshole than you are.”
Sam dropped his head on Clyde’s shoulder and said, “just my luck to choose a prick to be my best friend. And, not to brag, but I’ve got an administrative assistant who is ‘dy-no-mite.’ Smart, sassy, good-looking.”
“Please don’t tell me you’ve made her your confidante.”
“She’s my assistant. Who else am I going to trust?”
“Dickhead. Remember our talk about kryptonite?”
“I do.”
“And?”
“And I’m a dickhead. Damn. I don’t think I’ve told her anything personal, and I sure as hell didn’t tell her about my Sheer Juice fumble.”
“Sam, that was not a fumble. More like a hundred-yard dash to the opponent’s end zone. It brought you to your knees and who knows how many years on a short leash. You’ve got way too much to lose to make anyone your confidante. Think about it. You haven’t even told Maggie. Or have you?”
“No. Maggie can’t know. Not now, not ever.”
“Okay then. No word from Zito? No special favors?”
“None.”
“Good, except the longer the time and the farther you are from Sheer Juice the more likely you’ll forget about treating everyone like kryptonite. You can bet your ass they’re not going to forget. You might want to have the word ‘kryptonite’ tattooed on your left arm.”
“I was thinking the word ‘dickhead’ on both arms.”
Marmalade barked at something—a shadow from the streetlight, a stray cat?
Everyone except Blanche was seated at the dining room table, including Robin and Willie. There was an air of excitement. The room shimmied with animation and sound.
&nbs
p; “Well, if it isn’t Daddy Sawbucks. Fancy job, new baby on the way,” cried Robin.
Sam looked at Maggie who shrugged her shoulders, held her palms up and smiled like Mona Lisa gone rogue.
“Yep, we’re learning how to be grown-ups in spite of ourselves,” laughed Sam.
Blanche walked in with a tray of eight stemmed glasses and a bottle of Boone’s Farm Apple Wine. “Well, it’s not champagne, but this calls for a toast!”
Clyde stood up, raised his glass and looked first at Sam and then at Maggie. “My two friends, we’ve worked hard, labored through race riots, protests, sit-ins and pizza parties for nine-year-olds. We’ve seen some of the best and worst of humanity. But here you are, bringing your kid into this tilt-a-whirl world. Just when you think you couldn’t love them more, there will be the first smile, first tooth, first step, first word. Totally out-of-sight! Kids open the forgotten world, the one hidden from adults. I wish you health, happiness and sorrow. You will have sorrow. But, this kid will give you courage you didn’t know you had and teach you about love in ways no one can explain.” Clyde touched his glass to Maggie and Sam’s glasses. Then everyone began toasting health and happiness.
Loretta laughed as she said, “Here’s to sleep-filled nights. Marcus was a night owl, slept all day and up all night. It was a special kind of hell.”
Sam whispered, “Maggie, I wasn’t expecting this. Did you change your mind?”
“No. We were in the kitchen talking and I just blurted it out. It was as if I was channeling someone else. Freaked me out. Are you okay?”
“Me? I’m on some Timothy Leary LSD trip to the moon and back. Seriously, it’s as if I’m out of my body looking at myself from the other side of the room. Who am I now? Who are we?”
The meeting sounded like a recast of everything they said every month, except for the wailing, ranting and raving about Nixon’s win. After ten minutes, Clyde called for order. “Listen up. We can’t change what is. We can only hope Vietnam will turn Nixon’s attention to war games and give us time. Time for what you ask? The Civil Rights Act is a piece of paper. The courts are just beginning to give it teeth. In the meantime, tens of thousands of jobs and honkies are fleeing the city. If you haven’t noticed, Detroit is getting poorer and blacker. Bad enough, but the suburbs might as well have twelve-foot barbwire fences to keep us out. Anyone taken a Sunday drive to Livonia, Westland, Farmington, Southfield . . . anywhere outside the city limits?” asked Clyde.
Sam and Maggie were the only two who raised their hands.
“Just as I thought. What’s the buzz? Why aren’t we darkies checking out these new hoods?”
“For me, it’s about time, energy and gas. What could be more boring, and a bigger waste of time, than sightseeing along one of the Mile Roads? I don’t think anyone’s going to be standing on the gravel shoulder of Seven Mile, waving a handkerchief, hoping I’ll stop for a cup of tea,” said Loretta.
“Robin and I went to Northland Mall a few times. It’s got some color, mostly Jews and Arabs, but we sure did get ‘the looks.’ I felt like I was stepping on a sidewalk in Mississippi in the early sixties. It does make you aware of your skin tone!” said Willie.
“Willie’s right. In Detroit I never think about being black. At the mall, I couldn’t stop thinking about being black. Pisses me off to be wishing myself white at this point in my life. Lord, god, the next thing you know I’ll be praying for blue eyes again,” said Robin.
Blanche leaned forward and whispered, “Lois, an old neighbor and one of our white-flight friends in Livonia, invited me to her house for lunch. I can’t do it. Scares the bejesus outta me. Brings up all my childhood nightmares from the south. Do y’all know about the cops radioing an NIL code? Stands for “Nigger in Livonia.”
“Blanche, are you frigging kidding me? How do you know that?” asked Sam.
“Common knowledge. The NAACP whiffed it after the riots,” said Clyde.
“Holy crap! How do they get away with it? Who in their right mind would let this go on?” said Maggie.
“Maggie, you’ve never been stopped, frisked or dragged to the slammer because your skin’s white. Believe me, this ole minstrel song ain’t nothing new—same thing, second verse. Doubt there’s a white town without a nigger code. This might not be the south, but these auto plants are filled with Jim Crows. Southern attitudes and white sheets followed them north, packed in old trunks and piled in the back of pickup trucks draped in a Confederate flag. Same baggage moving into the burbs,” said Clyde.
“We’re the ones who act like the burbs are wrapped in barbwire. If we’re afraid to cross the city limits, we’re complicit in supporting this white supremacist, segregated, uncivilized world we live in,” said Stella.
Snapping her fingers Robin said, “Complicit? Sister, where in hell’s half acre did you come up with that word? And, what does it mean?” asked Robin.
“It means we’re helping the crackers maintain their fences. Sorry Maggie and Sam, I mean the bigoted whites. Well, maybe not. Maybe I mean all whites. Bigoted or not, when we hold back, keep ourselves separate from whites, it’s easy for them to drink the Kool-Aid. Ain’t nobody holding up a mirror. If we don’t whack through this jungle and pass the talking stick, why would they bother? Which, of course, leads to the question, do we even give a rip? Is it our goal to have whites accept us? And, why do they get to be the standard?” asked Stella.
“Do we give a shit? What do you think?” asked Clyde.
“It just struck me. After all this fighting for equality, which is our goal, I wonder if acceptance by whites is realistic. I’d like it, but do we need it?” said Stella.
Maggie leaned forward, waiting to pounce. “Probably not. Whites are no different than anyone else when it comes to the survival of the fittest—power and wealth. In Canada, French Canadians are the underclass. In fact, I found out there’s a book called White Niggers of America about French Canadians. There, bigotry isn’t based on pigmentation; it’s based on the imagined threat to the Brit’s livelihood, to their power to control the wealth. Imagine the Brits worried we French would get too uppity? Little did they know!”
“Girl, you sittin’ at the right table then,” said Robin.
“For real? Maggie, I had no idea you were French Canadian. I thought you were just some clueless white hippie chick looking for a cause,” panned Loretta as the entire group cracked up.
“With that, we’ll call it a night. I want you guys to be thinking about how we begin to change the opinion of Führer Nixon’s silent majority. We need to tear down the unspoken but very real ‘barbed wire,’ between Detroit and the burbs, before Nixon trashes the Civil Rights Act. Then, of course, we have to come up with a good name for Maggie and Sam’s baby. As we know, honkies do a piss-poor job when it comes to names,” said Clyde.
“Amen to that,” said Loretta as she hugged Maggie and lifted her off the ground.
Before Sam shifted the car into first, Maggie said, “Let’s stop at Aunt Jo’s and let her know.”
The porch lamp was off but light glanced through the shrubs in front of the kitchen window. Maggie rang the doorbell. No answer. Maggie tried again, still no response. Maggie pulled her moleskin poetry notebook from her purse and ripped out a blank sheet. As she looked for a pen, the door opened and Aunt Jo smiled at them through the guard-chain gap.
“Maggie, Sam, what a surprise! Hold on! I’ll unleash this chain so I can give you a hug.” Aunt Jo was in her signature white terry-cloth robe with her hair in rollers. “I’m so thrilled for you both! Issie called and gave me the good news. I tried your house a half dozen times.”
“We had a meeting at Clyde’s. Sorry I didn’t call you myself, but I lost my head and decided to clean all our ceiling lights. I’ve got enough dead insects to support six junior high science labs. I hope we didn’t wake you.”
Aunt Jo tapped the brush rollers on her head and said, “Good grief, I hope I don’t scare you. Come in. We’ll sit in the kitchen.” Without asking,
Aunt Jo put on a kettle of water and pulled three cups from their hooks.
“No fuss, Auntie Jo,” said Maggie, as she looked at all the familiar surfaces, colors and objects. Was it a lifetime ago when she sat by this phone, willing it to ring, willing it to be Sam?
“So you’re due in July. What’s your intuition tell you, boy or girl?”
Sam and Maggie looked at each other then, in unison, said, “girl.”
“Me too,” said Aunt Jo, “a little Maggie!”
“Oh god, let me re-imagine,” laughed Sam.
“So, Auntie Jo, what’s going on with you? Hanging out with Angelo?”
“Maggie, I know you and Issie think you can turn our friendship into a romance, but that’s not happening. I fell in love once and that will keep me company the rest of my life. Angelo is a friend. No more, no less. And, believe me, he’s not looking for romance.”
“Auntie Jo, how would you know? Seriously. Angelo says the opposite of what he thinks and feels.”
“That’s his unique charm and it works for me.”
Maggie laughed and said, “Sure, Auntie Jo, I get it. Was Issie doing psychic cartwheels over the phone because Eddie’s back to work and she has the house to herself? What a mess! In August she was so depressed with him underfoot she almost killed off all her houseplants. Have you seen her? She’s so skinny that if she turned sideways, she’d look like a gamma ray. Seriously, her double C boobs wouldn’t fill an A cup.”
“Okay, in case you two forgot, there’s a guy in the room.”
Aunt Jo got up and hugged Sam over the back of his chair. Cheek-to-cheek she whispered in his ear, “My dear sweet Sam. If this conversation led to a public service announcement, the tag line would be: retain your mystery.”
“What was Aunt Jo whispering about?”
“Something about retaining our mystery.”
“Aunt Jo’s the mystery. I don’t understand why she refuses to talk about Jacques’ or my parents. She says it’s too hard for her. Makes me nuts. Life is a mystery.”
“Does Jacques know that Aunt Jo and Issie refused his invitation?”
If the Moon Had Willow Trees (Detroit Eight Series Book 1) Page 15
