“I wrote him and said they couldn’t make it.”
“Maggie, do you want to go? I mean, pregnant and all.”
“Sam, don’t treat me like I’ve got some disease. Dr. Spock says pregnancy is a state of health. Besides, I want to get to know Jacques better. I want him in our life.”
“What about skiing? Can you ski if you’re pregnant?”
“This trip is not about skiing mon ami.”
Sam reached over, put his hand on Maggie’s belly and sighed.
18
Trapped
I think that when women are encouraged to be competitive too many of them become disagreeable.
—Dr. Benjamin Spock
DECEMBER 1968—Sam looked at his watch before he called Maggie at the number on the yellow telephone message. Maxine had checked the box next to Urgent. It was nine a.m., less than an hour since he dropped Maggie at The University of Detroit for a faculty lunch and end-of-semester planning session. Rather than risk weather and city bus schedule delays, Maggie opted to get there four hours early.
A male voice said, “Good morning, this is the University of Detroit Library. May I help you?”
“Good morning. This is Sam Tervo. I have a message from my wife Maggie who asked me to call this number.”
“Of course. Please hold and I’ll let her know you’re on the line.”
“Hello.”
“Hey, Maggie, you okay?”
Maggie whispered, “Oh god, Sam. I’ve been puking my guts out. Can you pick me up? I can’t do the bus.”
“Morning sickness?”
“I guess. I called the Department Head to tell him I couldn’t make the meeting. He pressed me for a reason, then asked if I was expecting. I had to tell him. Sam, he said he was sorry but he’d have to replace me next semester, some rule about the ‘impropriety of pregnant women in a classroom.’ I’d be so ticked off if I didn’t feel like a pollywog in a Mason jar.”
“Hang tight. I’ll look for you in the library. If I don’t see you, I’ll assume you’re in the ladies’ room and plant myself between the circulation desk and the door.”
Sitting at a well-worn, yellowed oak table near the entrance, Maggie’s head rested on her folded arms. Dressed in black, with black hair spilling like ink, she looked like one of the nuns covered in a habit. Sam did a double take before he put his hand on Maggie’s shoulder and said, “Hey, babe. How’re you doing?”
Without moving her head, Maggie looked up at Sam, her face tear-stained and sallow. The makeup she’d so carefully applied for her ‘first professional meeting’ smudged her face and mascara left skid marks under her eyes. Maggie said, “If you think I look bad, ya shoulda seen the other guy,” then burst out crying.
During the ride home Sam had to stop twice for Maggie. Her dry heaving was punctuated by pleas and obscenities. The few saltines Maggie had for breakfast and the few ounces of water from a library fountain were long gone. “Hey, Mag, this may not be the best timing, but do you want to stop and pick up some White Castle for your lunch later today?”
When Maggie punched him in the shoulder and started to wretch out the window again, Sam said, “ Got it. Bad idea.”
Sam in a white button-down shirt, wearing his loosened black, gold and blue paisley print tie, cleaned up the dinner dishes after making Campbell’s Tomato Soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Listless, Maggie watched from the kitchen table in navy sweat pants, a red cable knit sweater and an old pair of Sam’s wool hockey socks. Ice was collecting inside the windows where the caulking had cracked.
“Mag, I know it doesn’t seem fair, but most places won’t hire pregnant women. I may not like it, but I kind of get it. It’s a distraction, if not a disruption. Seriously. Think about it. A pregnant woman might prompt sexual thoughts, catcalls, you name it. Catholic universities sure as hell don’t want to deal with that. Besides, most women quit after the baby’s born, which makes this debate a . . . what? An argument about six to eight months of lost work?”
“Sam, really? Who’s behind your long hair and sideburns? A pig with a brush cut? This is 1968. We’re out of the Dark Ages. At least I thought we were.”
“Mag, I’m on your side. But the flipside, whether we like it or not, is the hard reality. This is still a man’s world. It’ll take time for the pendulum to swing.”
“Screw it. I’m not going to give up my career because some uptight priest thinks pregnancy is obscene. I’m going to fight this.”
“Right, Mag, you want to take on the Vatican between morning sickness and Dr. Spock? Don’t get me wrong, you of all people could do this, have it all. But, why when you don’t give a damn about this job?”
“Sam, Freshman English is my path to poetry, my way to earn stripes. We were going to do this together. You said you’d watch the baby while I taught at night. Now nothing?”
“Babe, if it was up to me you’d be running the poetry department. What do you want? If you want to fight I’ll climb in the foxhole with you. If you decide to take this time to work on civil rights, women’s rights, motherhood, whatever, we can live without your income. Up to you.”
Maggie raised her eyebrows and looked at Sam sideways. He waited for the hook, the wry comment. Instead, she stood up and took his face in her hands, smiled and said, “Samuelsan, we’re both fighters and dreamers. Let’s keep our feet on the edge of the foxhole and plant a willow tree on the moon.”
Morning sickness had no mercy or time restriction. The smell of coffee or cigarette smoke tested Maggie’s gag reflex in every bagel shop, restaurant, movie theater, bus, doctor’s waiting room, anywhere people drank coffee or smoked, which meant everywhere. Home was Maggie’s only safe harbor and keeping her own company was like rowing an anchored boat. Everyone was working or getting ready for the holidays while she spent endless days trying to keep bland food down. After several last-minute cancellations to meet for dinner to celebrate the baby, Sam’s mother Maija offered she and Kenny would make dinner in Maggie’s kitchen and smoke outside. In final settlement negotiations to host, what Sam now referred to as the Bi-lateral Dinner, he agreed to re-caulk the windows and mop the floors.
Maggie smiled as she looked around the house—clean light fixtures and floors, ice-free windows. On the coffee table sat Jacques’ gift of four gray Zeno cloth napkins, tied in a white grosgrain ribbon; Grandma Landry’s off-white crocheted tablecloth; one of Aunt Jo’s Scotch Pine candles; and a very pricey red linen tablecloth from Hudson’s post-Christmas sale last year. Maggie told Sam it was worth the twenty dollars because it ‘lifted her spirits’ so Sam christened it The Red Shroud of Turin.
Maggie planned to organize and set the table. Sam would pick up wine and beer after work. For the first time in weeks, Maggie looked forward to getting out of her sweats and into real clothes.
When the phone rang at four o’clock, Maggie expected to hear Sam’s voice, maybe Issie’s. “Hello!”
“Hello! Is this Marguerite Soulier Tervo?” said a man with a deep, baritone voice.
Maggie halted a moment before returning a formal reply in her best aristocratic voice. “Yes, it is. To what do I owe the honor, Monsieur Jacques Ruivivar?”
Jacques’ laughter hooked her immediately. “Oh, Maggie, it’s so good to hear your voice. I got your letter and it looks like this year’s out. A baby? Imagine!”
“It’s hard to imagine. With morning sickness, it’s a stretch to see beyond the moment, much less seven months down the road. How are you?”
“Doing well, Maggie. I wanted to call before the holidays got away from us. My accountant said there’s a small reserve at Amadeus for the Soulier girls—you and Issie. I know it’s hard getting on your feet and it sounds like Issie and Eddie have had some financial challenges this year. If you’ll send me bank account information for the two of you, I’ll split the proceeds and wire the money.”
“Are you putting me on? Really?”
“Really, Maggie. I’m not sure of the total, but it’s sufficient eno
ugh to make sure it gets to a bank rather than risk mail.”
“How exciting, found money, like an inheritance from a long-lost relative.”
“Well, so it is, the remainder from Anna and Raymond’s investment in your education.”
“You’re right. Issie and Eddie will be thrilled and we have a very empty nursery to furnish. Are you planning to go to Blue Mountain?”
“Maybe. Probably. Being there is like living in a Christmas diorama. Let’s try again for next year.”
“For sure, Jacques. Have a happy holiday!”
“You too, dear Maggie.”
Just as Maggie hung up, the phone rang again.
“Hello!”
“Hey, Maggie. I wanted to warn you before I show up at your house tonight.”
“Oh, Stella, we’ve got plans with Sam’s mother and brother.”
“I know. Guess who’s coming to dinner?”
Before Sam got out of his car, Maggie was standing in the open side door with her hands on her hips, goose bumps multiplying in the arctic air. Maggie’s orange and white checked apron covered a thin black A-line dress over black nylon tights with black patent leather go-go boots. Maggie had pulled her hair into a French twist and trimmed it with sprigs of holly leaves and red berries that matched the burst of red lipstick.
“Hey, babe, what’s up? You look out of sight, like some Goddess Aphrodite.”
“Samuel Tervo, why didn’t you tell me Kenny and Stella were dating?”
“What? Where did you hear that?”
“Stella called and said, ‘guess who’s coming to dinner?’ ”
“No shit? I had no idea. I can’t remember the last time I talked to that dickhead. Is this the first time Stella said anything?”
“Yes. Stella claims they didn’t want to freak us out so they decided to see where the relationship landed before they told us.”
“Since when?”
“Since our wedding, almost a year now.”
“Unbelievable. I thought Kenny’s absence meant he was back into drugs and no way was I going to spin that roulette wheel again.”
“You torqued?”
“No. His business, not mine. You ready to take down Stella?”
“Yeah. I think I am. We’re friends. Why wouldn’t she tell me?”
“Mag, pretty and smart as she is, Stella is the ice queen. Seriously, look up ice queen in the Britannica and you’ll find her picture. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile, much less laugh.”
“I know, but an entire year? By now you’d think the two of them would know if they’re a couple.”
“Think Kenny. Would you depend on him to get to dinner on time? Now, think about the high probability for break ups and make ups.”
“Okay. I get it. You’re wrong about Stella. She’s super reserved, but she’s not an ice queen. In spite of everything, I can’t wait to see how they are together. I’m trying to imagine prim and proper Stella with your wild, crazy-ass brother. Who do you think changed the most?”
“Mag, guys always change for the girl. He’ll be wearing a dark suit, white shirt and tie.”
“Nah. I bet she’s in bell bottoms with a suede fringed vest.”
“You’re on. If you win I give you a back rub; if I win I give you a back rub.”
“Ah, Mr. Tervo, you drive a hard bargain.”
Maggie pulled the kitchen table into the living room to dress it. She added one white linen napkin for Stella, a keepsake of Mama Tervo’s generous wedding gift. Maggie copped the napkin from the London Chop House last May. The truth was, Maggie was about to slip the napkin in her purse when Sam asked the manager if they could buy it. The manager looked around then signaled Maggie to slip it in her purse! Sam called it The Heist. Maggie could still taste the medium rare prime rib, twice-baked potatoes, French-cut green beans and hard rolls. On the way home, the night air was almost balmy at sixty degrees. Before they reached married housing, Sam turned into Wayne State’s empty stadium parking lot. A crescent moon with a brightly burning Venus was holding up the dark blue sky. With the top down on the Triumph, they made love under this symbol of the Libyan flag, or was it a Muslim blessing? In the sated heat of their entwined bodies, Maggie sensed they’d been transported to new lands with keffiyehs around their heads and warm falafels in their pockets. The next day, she and Sam decided they’d celebrate every wedding anniversary at the London Chop House—same table, same meal, for as long as they could masticate. (Sam’s double entendre!) Reservations were set for their first anniversary next week.
For seating, Maggie used the two mismatched kitchen chairs and borrowed three slightly charred card table chairs her neighbor rescued from the burned-out Kresge’s after the riots. Maggie thought, hodgepodge, warm and cozy like Aunt Jo’s. This was the first family gathering at their house—the first company of any kind. Maggie was surprised she felt so jazzed. At a gut level, she thought she finally understood the purpose of house-warming parties. Human energy filled empty spaces, like Sam’s old tenement building and its jukebox of sounds, smells, motion—in spite of poverty, in spite of the cold.
“Hey, Maggie, wine and beer in the fridge. Do you need me for anything?”
“Yes. Courage, fortitude and a kiss to build a dream on.”
“Seriously, do you need me to do anything? If not, I’m going to wrap the outside pipes. Winter is here big time. They’re predicting snow with temps below zero.”
“Go ahead. I’m just waiting for your mom to show up and start dinner. I hope we have enough pots and pans.”
“As you like to say, oh well!”
Maggie laughed and said, “Oh well!”
Sam was outside when his mother pulled up in her turquoise and white 1956 Nash Rambler Coupe. The car was Maija’s earnest protest against the Ford Motor Company. Sam’s dad, Otto, started his career building railroads in the Upper Peninsula. Over time, he became well known for his ability to sweet talk insurgent landowners and swing through bureaucratic jungles to get the job done. In 1955, a recruiter called Otto and offered him a job managing the construction of railroad spurs to, and sometimes through, Ford’s manufacturing and parts plants. Otto always joked about the Lower Peninsula being a metaphor for hell, but Otto was not without ego. Working for Ford would be like winning the Stanley Cup. Added to the prestige was a salary three times his current pay. Otto and Maija decided to cross the Straits and spend five years in hell for fifteen years of income. The trip back north to copper country would be lined with gold.
Sam was ten and Kenny eight when the Tervos settled into a two-bedroom brick bungalow in Farmington, about twenty miles northwest of Detroit. A small but bustling farming town, their house was a three-block walk to the downtown area with all its usual suspects—a post office, bank, general store, hardware, barbershop, hair salon, movie theater, cafe, ice cream parlor and several churches. One year later, Otto got home from work, collapsed on the living room floor and died before the doctor was called out of a school board meeting and reached their house. Only thirty-six, everyone said Otto was strong as an ox. The doctor said it wasn’t a matter of strength, it was god’s one-armed-bandit—coronary thrombosis, a clot in his heart. But Maija knew better. For months Otto insisted it was his idea to work seven days a week, twelve hours a day. “I’m young, it’ll only be a few more months,” he said. After a few more months Otto started leaving earlier, getting home later—more agitated, angrier. Maija begged him to quit, to walk away from ‘those goddamn bloodsuckers’ and move back to Calumet. Otto told her it was too late; he was hooked on the money and the power. The night before he died, Otto said, “Enough! No more talk about leaving. Maija, love of my life, our days of trying to eke out a living on a dying railroad or salvage copper mines are over. Our life is here.”
After his funeral, Maija drove to the Nash dealership and traded in their 1956 black Ford Galaxy for a turquoise and white Nash Rambler. Heading home in the new car, Sam remembered his mom saying, “Ford can go fuck itself,” under her breat
h. That was the moment when Sam quit holding his breath. He knew they’d be okay.
Maggie stuck her head in the kitchen. Mama Tervo was preparing some twice-baked potatoes. As Aunt Jo liked to say, ‘Maija strikes a fine figure.’ A natural platinum blonde with blue eyes and fair skin, Maija was blessed, or as Maija said cursed, with full breasts and hips. In old photos she looked like Marilyn Monroe. Now, in a too-tight red brocade dress with black suede three-inch heels, graying hair in a bun, and lines in her face, Maija looked every bit of her forty-five years.
“Mama Tervo, you sure there’s no way I can help?”
“You and Sam can bring a couple chairs in and keep me company. I don’t know where in hell’s half acre Kenny is. He said he had to work late but thought he’d be here in time to help.”
Maggie gave Sam the look and Sam said, “Did Kenny say anything about bringing a date tonight?”
“No way. I’ve only got enough food for four.”
“Ma, Kenny’s bringing a date.”
Maija stopped scooping out the four baked potato shells, put her hands on her hips and took a deep breath before she turned around and said, “Who’s he bringing?”
Maggie looked at Sam and nodded.
“Maggie’s friend Stella, he’s bringing Stella.”
“That pretty Negro girl at the reception?”
“Black, Ma, not Negro.”
“Negro to me. What in god’s name does that smart, pretty Negro girl see in Kenny? Don’t she have a master’s degree in something?”
“You mean ‘doesn’t she have.’ ”
“Samuel, you don’t need to give me no English lessons. I mean what the devil is he doing with a Negro girl who could have any Negro boy she wanted? What’s her problem anyhow?”
“Why is it a problem? It’s not a problem. People are attracted to each other for all kinds of reasons. She’s strong, smart and beautiful. Maybe, just maybe, Stella is what Kenny needs to get his act together.”
“Yeah, and maybe people in hell want ice water.”
If the Moon Had Willow Trees (Detroit Eight Series Book 1) Page 16
