“No, for some reason not at all. Might be my age, condition. Maybe motherhood!”
“Do you have any idea how much I love you right now?”
“All of me? The entire eighteen-wheeler load in a wet moo-moo?”
“Yep, all of you and this child who was wise enough to choose you as his mother. Mag, this morning I said I had something to tell you just before you got up to pee.”
“That’s right, you did. What’s up?”
“Unfortunately, I’m going to ask you to take on more mystery. What little I know may frustrate you, but it’s important because we have some decisions to make about what we do and who we talk to.”
“Tervo, this sounds serious. I hope to hell my schizoid hormones didn’t scare you off.”
“Your hormones might have been a factor, but what I’m about to say is so unreal, unformed, it borders on paranoia and psychosis. Sometimes I’m not sure. I’ll tell you what I can and from here on, no more secrets. I need you by my side and I want to be by yours. I’m going to start with the Reader’s Digest version, then you can ask questions.
First, I learned there’s a definite connection between the Mafioso at Sheer Juice and executives at Jingo Motors. During the auto show, I found Zito talking to Ben Kabul, Jingo’s president, in a back hallway. Zito was with Carla, one of the revolving-door administrative assistants from Sheer Juice. I’m not sure I told you, but the admins were hired to take care of the execs at work and outside of work. Most were young, stacked, slutty-looking girls who wore too much makeup and skin-tight clothes. They didn’t get their job based on secretarial skills. Carla was a blackjack dealer in Vegas. One of the recruiters said the admins had to pass the ‘elbow test,’ which meant if they stood in front of a wall, bent their elbows up and touched them to the wall, their tits would have to touch the wall. I know it’s crude and sexist as hell, but I want you to understand the kind of assholes I’m dealing with.”
“Assholes and imbeciles. Seriously, with guys like this running the world, no wonder things are so screwed up. Give me a break! Sorry, you were saying?”
“It’s okay, Mag. In any event, because Sheer Juice made the introduction to Jingo, I knew they had some kind of relationship, but it’s more incestuous than I thought. Without going into a lot of detail, Zito used to play head games with me. He started with chicken-shit things, like gibing me for being a schoolboy, saying ‘that MBA don’t mean shit from shinola.’ No big deal, trash talk. Then, he started messing with me about work schedules and work relationships—who to trust, who not to trust. About the same time, he began to lock me in the shop at night with the dirtiest jobs from the first shift. It was a little creepy, but I was close to graduating and too cowed to complain.”
“Whoa! Wait a minute. He locked you in at night?”
“Mag, this is hard enough. Let me finish. One night I asked Zito if I could call him if I had a question. He said he’d break my kneecaps if I called his house when he was out with another broad. No doubt a macho brag about getting a little on the side, but the main message was to let me know he was part of the mob. What happened next requires a lot more time and Clyde’s take because it’s complicated and more elusive. What’s important is both Clyde and I have information that Zito and the mob have started to play with LSD, gaslighting and mind altering to feed the underworld. According to Clyde’s sources, this sometimes involves the CIA and FBI.”
“Sam, I know you said to let you finish but this is unbelievably farfetched. Are you fucking kidding me? We’re talking about the mob, CIA and FBI in the same breath we’re talking about our lives? What on earth would bring us to the same place, much less the same table?”
“The best we can figure out is our work in civil rights could be the catalyst or Jingo Motors or Sheer Juice, or my love, it could be related to your missing parents or Jacques. I can only imagine how disjointed this sounds, but the fact is Clyde and I have been trying to put together a scattered one-thousand-piece, monochromatic puzzle. We don’t know who’s involved and who’s not involved. The bottom line is that Jingo or the mob or both are trying to mess with me to keep me off balance and loyal to whatever it is they want me to be loyal to. That’s about it. We pretty much have no idea what’s going on. Your turn.”
“Sam, I don’t know where to begin. It sounds insane, freaky and dangerous. What I hear is they, whoever they are, want to make sure you’re on their team. And, right now, you and Clyde have no idea what team they’re talking about, who’s on the team, what game they’re playing or where the end zone is.”
“That’s the gist of it. I know it makes no sense. What’s worse, I don’t know when I’m going to be blindsided again. The last thing I want is for you to think I’m pulling away from you or the life we’re making. I’m telling you because I don’t want to keep secrets from you. You’ve lived with enough secrets. I need you on my side. Up to now, I’ve kept things between Clyde and me because I didn’t want to freak you out. So, your mood swings may have kept me from telling you. Sorry, babe, to lay this heavy load on you right before labor. But, after Jacques’ call, I want to make sure we’re safe. I don’t know how Jacques fits in, but he may be a link. Clyde thinks the mob or CIA might be tracking your parents or information they had. I don’t want any of us to say or do anything that tips the scale in the wrong direction. Not that I know the right direction. There may not even be a direction.”
“Samuel Tervo, I love you more than life itself. I’d take a bullet for you. Do you trust Clyde?”
“I do. Is there any reason I shouldn’t?”
“None. I would trust him with my life. You couldn’t pick a better man for your foxhole. If I’m going to help you fight this battle, I need more guidance. Do I keep my conversation with Jacques casual, banal? Is there a way to measure what I say to keep us in a neutral zone?”
“My beautiful, wise wife. You’ve got it. We need to find our neutral zone. I have no idea what it looks like, or where it is, but it’s a start. I’ll let Clyde know we talked, and as soon as you’re ready, the three of us will get together. We’ll talk and keep talking. I think it’s the safest way to move ahead. Maggie, you can’t tell a soul. Not Issie, not Loretta, not Jo, not Jacques, not anyone. If you can’t do that, you have to tell me now.”
“Sam, we’re family. My devotion is to us—you, me and our child. I spent my life keeping secrets. I’m good at it.”
“One more thing. Ben called me to his office on Friday and said he thought it would be a good idea for us to move to Livonia. I may have said something to Maxine or Skip in passing, but I don’t remember telling anyone we decided on Livonia. In any event, Ben told me Jingo owns a small house on a one-acre lot on Six Mile. He gave me the address and I drove by Friday on my way home. Three mature willows, two large elms and a few lilac bushes surround the house. A white cape cod with green shutters, it’s small, but there’s an acre to build on. No cookie-cutter subdivision. Walking distance to the elementary school, a country block from a restaurant and riding stable, and in the opposite direction, a country block to a grocery, hardware store, hamburger joint and gas station. Ben said Jingo would cover the mortgage. We can make mortgage payments through payroll deductions. You feel like a drive?”
Maggie looked hard at Sam. “Excuse me. This is Sunday and you didn’t say word one about this house until now?”
“I know. I wanted to tell you about the mystery first, but I kept getting signals you were going into labor. Although I thought I knew how you’d react, I didn’t want to freak you out. Today, it struck me that we could be waiting another week or more, and then you told me about Jacques’ call. His call pushed me over the edge and I found the courage to begin a conversation about fears that haunted me for more than a year. Maggie, I don’t want these fears to tear apart our marriage. Forgive me?”
Maggie loved Sam more than she’d ever loved anyone. He was far from perfect. Sometimes he skirted the truth. Even today. But, she heard a different tone. Today, Sam seemed to be reachin
g for a higher rung, more willing to expose his insecurities and vulnerabilities. This would take time. She, Sam, the baby—her family—deserved her best effort.
Sam wasn’t aware he was tapping his fingers on the table until Maggie lifted his left hand with her right and stretched her open hand against his. She then weaved their fingers together to make a joint fist and looked at Sam. “I forgive you. I know it took courage to tell me and I’m not afraid. For some reason, I’m calm. And, as much as I’d love to see the house, I’ll take a rain check. If Jingo’s hooked to the mob, this might be a lair we avoid or use to our advantage. We need time to decide. Right now, I want to stay close to a toilet and catch Walter Cronkite’s evening report. The moon! Sam, we’re going to the moon!”
23
Moonlight
And the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time.
—T. S. Eliot
JULY 20, 1969 POST MERIDIEM—A fine breeze wound its way through the living room and kitchen screens, cooling itself as the Earth rotated on its axis toward darkness. For years, Maggie wondered why people insisted on talking about the sunrise and sunset as if the sun moved. Poets were the worst offenders. Why was it so hard to understand the moon orbits our planet, waxing and waning, as the Earth spins on its twenty-four-hour axis during a twelve-month orbit around the sun? But the sun, the unmoving sun, only appears to rise in the east and set in the west. The truth is, we turn our back on the sun every day.
Earlier, during her now daily rocking-chair meditation in the nursery, Maggie caught the outline of the waxing crescent moon in the cloudy sky. Nearly invisible, Maggie imagined it peeking through the curtains, watching for the arrival of alien visitors. To say she was jazzed by the moon landing would be a gross understatement. Maggie felt as if she was taking flight.
After the rain, the world was delirious with sound. Field Crickets were reaching a fevered pitch, as Red-Winged Locusts and Meadow Katydids lusted in the warm, wet twilight, crying out in ecstasy, to once again, trigger the crickets in an orgy of noise. Birds of every feather and color called one another home—chasing one last insect, sipping nectar from wilted flowers on summer-weary vines, splashing in new puddles. Dogs barked at shadows and cats climbed screens to get a closer look. There was excitement in the air as if something big was about to happen.
Yet, there was no sign of human life—no mowers, no walkers, no bikers, no drivers, no children playing kick-the-can, no neighbors shooting the breeze on porches. To Maggie, the contrast was surreal and eerie, as if an air-raid siren had sent humans tumbling for cover in bomb shelters while the rest of the world celebrated. No air raid, television sets were drawing people inside, feeding the fears of doomsday sayers who predicted humans would become slaves to technology.
Taking a just-in-case shower after dinner, Maggie did the best she could to reach the black stubble on the backs of her legs, before she thought screw it! With her hair wrapped in a towel, her body barely wrapped by Sam’s old blue plaid cotton robe, Maggie sat down on the couch and tried to picture the millions of families across the world gathering around their flickering screens to watch a man walk on the moon.
“Hey, Sam, forgot to tell you, Maija called to see if I was in labor. She said if you get tired of grilled cheese while I’m in the hospital to let her know and she’ll fix dinner.”
“Tire of grilled cheese? Surely you jest! But, might be a good time to check on her. Farmington’s a close drive and I, or we, could get to the hospital in time for evening visiting hours. You feel anything?”
“Just twinges, no labor pains. I’m going to turn on Cronkite. You about ready?”
“Go ahead. I’ll get these dishes done. You need water, something to drink?”
“No way. My floodgates are on red alert.”
After three short rings, Sam picked up the phone.
“Hello!”
“Hi, daddy-to-be! How’s Maggie?”
“Hey, Aunt Jo. Maggie’s in the living room waiting for her water to break or see a man walk on the moon, whichever comes first.” Sam looked into the living room, pointed to the phone and lifted his shoulders in a pantomime to Maggie. Maggie shook her head no.
As if she could see through the phone, Aunt Jo said, “I’m not going to ask you to put Maggie on. I’m sure she’s tired of everyone calling to see if she’s in labor. If you’ve got a minute, I want to pass something along.”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“I got a call from Jacques today. I can’t remember the last time we talked, a decade or more. He told me he talked to Maggie. Did she say anything?”
“She did. Maggie said he called to see if she’d delivered and wanted to set up a time to visit once she got on her feet. That’s about it.”
“Okay. Jacques basically said the same thing to me, about seeing the two of you and the baby. He also said he might bring Catherine with him. I think you met her in Toronto.”
“We did. Catherine tracked down Jacques to set up the lunch.”
“Sam, I’ve tried to stay out of this, and not sure I should say anything now, but there are things about Jacques and Maggie’s parents she and Issie don’t know. I’m not going to tell you what that is. Not now. Certainly not before the baby’s born. So, I hope you’ll keep this between us. Right now, I feel a responsibility to warn you about Jacques. He’s very charming, but there’s a dark side. This might sound like I’ve been nipping at the cooking sherry, but I can’t help how it sounds. Please trust me here.”
Sam turned his back to the living room and stretched the phone cord as far away from Maggie as he could before he said, “Jo, this is important. Some things have been happening to me that I’m not ready to talk about. Fact is I’m not sure I should even ask this, but my question is simple. Can I trust Clyde?”
There was a long silence. Sam said, “Jo, you there?”
“I’m here. Oh, Sam, it sounds like you’re already in the soup.”
“What soup?”
“Too risky to talk about over the phone. I’ve known Clyde since the day Angelo hired him. He’s a good man. Listen to him. Trust him when your gut tells you to. Don’t trust him if your gut tightens up.”
“That’s it? You can’t say more?”
“That’s it for Clyde and maybe everyone else in your life right now. Time to find your core and let it guide you. Listen carefully, pay attention and make decisions that make sense for you and Maggie. That’s all I can say right now.”
“What’s at stake?”
“Besides sanity and well-being?”
“What about our behind the scenes push for civil rights? Does that put us at risk?”
“Maybe, I don’t know. But, I think it’s important, crucial, to keep your core. No matter what, keep your core, stick to what matters most to you.”
“When can we talk?”
“You and Maggie might be fine. You may never have to deal with this craziness again. If that’s the case, it’s better you don’t know more. I got lucky by staying under the radar. I can’t impress how important it is for you to keep this from Maggie right now. I know it’ll be hard, but not now. Please not now.”
“I trust that. I’ll call when the baby’s born. Call me if you want to talk.”
“Take care, Sam, give Maggie my love.”
Sam forced a lilt in his voice and said, “Sure, Aunt Jo!” After shaking himself from head to toe, Sam practiced a smile before he walked back to the handset and hung up the phone.
Walter Cronkite’s formidable voice filled the living room. “Apollo 11. Everything going well for a moon landing . . . three hours, twenty-one minutes and fourteen seconds from now.”
When Sam looked at his watch, it was 7:35 p.m., the same moment Maggie cried, “Oh god, my water just broke!” Maggie ripped Sam’s robe off and began wiping the sofa.
Taking his robe from Maggie, Sam said, “Come on, babe,” as he walked her to the bathroom. He then closed all the windows in the house, c
arried her suitcase to the back door, and called the hospital to let them know they were on their way.
Maggie ran a comb through her still damp, tangled hair, pulled it in a ponytail and put on some Hot Pink lipstick. Fighting her way into her now-tight gray dotted-Swiss maternity dress, Maggie didn’t bother looking for her white flats. She kept her white beaded moccasins on, took a deep breath and whispered, “Hey, little one. It’s time. We’re heading to the hospital right now and there will be lots of bright lights and people in white. Don’t be afraid. Sam and I will be there to greet you, hold you, take care of you always.”
As she headed to the side door, Maggie said, “Sam, should I call the hospital to let them know we’re on our way?”
“Done. You ready to boogie shoo? I’m supposed to avoid fainting and remind you to breathe. Much more exciting than a moon landing! You okay?”
Maggie placed her hand on her sinking mezzanine and smiled. “We’re fine.”
When Sam pulled up to the emergency room, he helped Maggie out of the car and walked her inside. No one was at the reception desk, but they heard Walter Cronkite’s voice coming from a back room. Maggie sat down as Sam followed Cronkite’s voice.
In the room, two nurses and a doctor were watching the moon shot on a small black and white portable television set.
Sam knocked on the door jam and said, “Hello, I’m here with my wife. Her water broke and she’s waiting up front.”
One of the nurses moved past Sam and headed to the front of the ER saying, “You shouldn’t have left her alone. Why didn’t you ring the bell?”
“Sorry. I didn’t see a bell, but I could hear the TV.”
The nurse gave Sam a look a lot like Maggie’s look, forcing the question of whether the look has been plagiarized over the years or whether it’s a natural feminine trait.
With one point of the nurse’s index finger, Sam sat down to fill out the paperwork as Maggie was whisked into a wheelchair and carted to some unknown floor by a porter.
If the Moon Had Willow Trees (Detroit Eight Series Book 1) Page 22
