When Madeline Was Young

by Jane Hamilton

  Every Saturday afternoon, Russia cleaned the church with two teenage boys in tow. The curved oak beams across the ceiling gleamed as if they'd been rubbed hard by a brave crew outfitted with chamois cloths and furniture polish. There was no ladder that could have reached those high places, and I imagined the boys swinging from beam to beam as if they alone knew the purpose of the design. "No more of that monkeyshines!" Russia would shout at them. Whatever building she cleaned was a place she felt was hers, and at the funeral her head was high, not only as star mourner but with that air of ownership. She was wearing a black slippery-looking dress that stuck a little to her stockings, and a deep-purple sweater with gems embedded and twinkling along the button row. The tragedy had already made her scrawny; she later told me she'd sobbed her flesh away.

  At the altar there was an enormous china vase, big as a washtub, filled with gladiolas, sent by Figgy. So of course we felt she was with us. Two steps away from that floral monument, the eighteen Macivers in our drab good clothes were in a line, squeezed into the pew. Behind us, the sea of dark faces, the shine of their mourning black. Russia sat next to her beloved Mr.

  Aaron, holding my father's hand in her lap through the service.

  The casket had been parked next to Figgy's bouquet, and so we had continuous viewing without having to stand up or crane our necks. I had briefly seen the neighbor boy Cody Rockard when he'd been laid out, but I had not ever had the occasion to study a dead person for the length of a Baptist funeral. It must have been something of a job to put together a man who had been shot in the head and the chest, to make him not only presentable but recognizable. The one time I'd met Elroy, I'd been walking around downtown with my father and we'd stopped at the hotel to greet him. In the casket, resting on the cream-colored satin, he seemed all bones in his beige suit, no substance to his body, and I doubted that his eyelashes had curled in real life, and it seemed unlikely that his nose had lain so fiat to his face or that his hair was normally dyed a blackish purple.

  They'd put a cap on him to cover the cavity the bullet had made, and it was set at a rakish angle--Elroy Crockerby, the life of the party, a regular boulevardier on his way to the pharmacy.

  When I'd met him, he'd had rheumy eyes and he'd seemed to be a man of few words; at least, when my father and I had stood with him under the hotel's canopy, he'd said very little. He'd nodded as my father spoke, and smiled warmly at me. Through the years he'd probably heard quite a bit about us, and I hoped that he was able to reduce Russia's epics to the basic elements, that after his years with her he understood how little of her news was based on fact. He did search my face as if it took him a while to square the Timothy of Russia's stories with the boy in front of him. The hotel made him dress in doorman livery, a bright-green coat with tails and brass buttons and yellow epaulets and a top hat with a gold band. It didn't seem to bother him, having to wear that clownish costume, complete with yellow-andgreen spats. While we were talking, he'd opened the door for a woman in sable, and he'd tilted his head slightly, making the gesture to lift his hat even as he kept it firmly in place. He managed to make the servitude seem like something he was only too happy to be doing, as if it were an honor. I wanted to tell my father I was sorry for Elroy, but I didn't speak to him about such things. And anyway it wasn't true that I was sorry only for Elroy. I was sorry, in my habit of grief, that the world accommodated the haughty woman in her coat, and the fence across the way with litter washed up against it, and a grown-up like Elroy forced to wear frippery.

  When it came time to pass formally in front of the casket, Lu had as much trouble moving forward as I did. My father took Russia to Elroy first, and they spoke quietly together above the head of the dead man. We knew we were supposed to pause before him, as if finally we were getting a chance to be acquainted, and also we were to pray for his time in the afterlife. Mikey in his church suit, and Madeline came next, hand in hand, both standing with their heads bowed. Russia watched all of us as we paid our respects. I must have performed all right, because on my way back to my seat she reached weakly for my arm and held on while she dabbed her handkerchief to her nose. I had to stay in front of her as she wiped all the moisture from her wet face. It seemed to do her good to keep me in her clutches, and when at last she let go she croaked out, "Precious." I knew nothing about her or Elroy, and yet she needed to show me off to her people. Had she not had children because, more than with any other families she worked for, or her own husband, her loyalties and even her love lay with us? At the end of the service, as we filed down the aisle, the congregation pressed toward the center, the better to see the Macivers.

  Afterward, in Russia's apartment, the relatives packed into the small rooms until there was hardly space to open the kitchen door. Osella, Russia's sister, said, "I'm so proud of you, Timothy." I had never met her before, but, as Elroy had done, she, too, seemed to know me well. She was unsteady on her feet, and she grabbed my arms as if I were always on hand to hold her up.

  "Look at those straight teeth," she demanded, something of course I couldn't do myself in the moment. "So handsome, just like Russia always say."

  "Thank you."

  "You're the favorite, you know that?"

  "It's, it's something--I hope for."

  She threw her head back and laughed. "Don't you worry, don't you worry one little minute. She always tell us about your smart brains."

  The kitchen was narrow; the counter and the pink Formica table were empty and cleaned to a dull gloss, one lone African violet on the windowsill. In the living room, the same clean nothingness, a yellow sofa with scratchy cushions, the first television my grandmother had owned, a thing as large as a stove, and the two card tables for food, the ten folding chairs from the church.

  The door of the bedroom was ajar, no space for anything but a dresser and the bed covered in a brown blanket. There were no shelves, no reading material outside of the Time magazine on the coffee table, and no paintings or pictures on the wall. On the small end table by the sofa there was a faded photograph of Russia's mother, and another of the Maciver family at Christmas, the year Buddy visited. Russia is with us, standing next to Arthur. There was also a studio portrait of Mikey and Madeline, the gift my mother had given them for Christmas one year. In lieu of a wedding. They'd gotten all dressed up, they'd been driven to Sears, they'd sat very close on a carpet-covered bench, and they'd smiled handsomely at the camera. The eight-by-ten photograph with its cherry frame was the fanciest thing in Russia's living room. I wondered if the apartment was bare because she and Elroy didn't have enough money to furnish it, or because they didn't have any interests.

  Each time the kitchen door opened, it seemed impossible that more people would squeeze in, and we all jostled farther along, as if we were on a subway car. Although we had hours to go, I said to my mother that probably we should get to the airport sooner rather than later. She must have wanted to flee, too, because she nodded heartily.

  If only we would leave, the party could begin; everyone, both black and white, knew we Macivers were holding the Crockerby spirit down. If we could as fast as possible put away the feast that had somehow materialized from the spotless counter--if we could chug the corn pudding, the chitlins and maw, the fried cabbage and bacon, the string beans with ham, the short ribs and gravy, the fried chicken--if we could quickly, quickly clean our plates, we could get out of their hair and they could shout, they could weep, they could talk, they could sing. As it was, the polite Macivers took up the chairs and the sofa, agreeing with the relatives who stood by that the service had been beautiful and Elroy indeed had looked well. We accepted the compliment that Figgy's flowers were remarkable, that Figgy herself was a woman of uncommon generosity and artistry and perseverance, as if my aunt had dug around in the earth with her own paws to grow

  seeds and then arranged the blossoms just so and slipped in during the night to set the vase center stage.

  Russia sat on the sofa between my parents--still holding my father's hand--and sa
id, "I wish Mr. Buddy was here. Mr. Buddy would be such a gentleman, and he'd make us laugh, now, wouldn't he?" Ever since Buddy had enlisted in the army, Russia had broken her rule; he was the first and only person in my generation she would confer the "Mr." upon. "I say Timothy is my favorite, I say so, but Mr. Buddy, oh, Mr. Buddy." She wiped yet another tear from her cheek. "Mr. Buddy, he's flying right into the storm to deliver us."

  Louise was at the card table getting her food. She set down her plate, which had nickel-sized servings of each dish, something the relatives would want to comment on later. "Mac's going to be a doctor," she said to the group on the sofa. "He's going to save lives, not murder people."

  "Elroy got murdered," Madeline sang from her place next to my mother.

  "That's right, darlin'," Russia said. "The good Lord took Elroy. The good Lord said it was Elroy's time. We all got our time, child.

  We all come to the Kingdom."

  Louise said, more loudly this time, "Mac's going to save lives."

  Russia looked across at my sister as if she was only then seeing her. "You come here to Russia, Louise. Russia has something to tell you."

  "What?" Louise advanced a few feet to the sofa.

  "You come closer."

  Louise took a baby step and another.

  "Mr. Buddy, he went down the street to say the news. You understand me? He said the word about our brother Cleveland to Miz Pin-del. Timothy, he's a good boy, but Mr. Buddy--he walks with the Lord."

  My mother was fixed on Louise, willing her to be quiet.

  "You go on now, and eat your dinner," Russia said. "You keep still and eat."

  Although Elroy had just passed, Russia couldn't keep from launching into the story of the summer evening in the Pindels' loft, not only as if it had been a highlight of the Maciver history, but as if she herself had witnessed the near fellating of Mikey O'Day. A perfect postfuneral entertainment for all ages. Louise, abandoning her plate, elbowed her way into the kitchen and stood by the door with her arms crossed.

  "Mr. Buddy's the one to heal the wounds," Russia began. "Russia say so all his life, ain't that right, Miz Julia--Mr. Buddy's the one to heal the wounds."

  "He's a very thoughtful young man," my mother murmured.

  "Our child here"--without turning her head, Russia moved her eyes to the right, in Madeline's direction--"was in danger, you know how I mean. Locked up and held tight, held tight and locked up. But Mr. Buddy that night, he run through the storm, he run in the wind, and he run in the rain and the thunder and the lightning. Mr. Buddy, he climb hand over hand, all wet and cold, to help the children. Didn't Mr. Buddy set you free, Mikey, didn't he set you free? It was that night you two kneeled before Mr.

  Buddy and you said, `Mr. Buddy, we going to get married someday.' You said, 'Mr. Buddy, you saved us so we could come down the aisle to get the Lord's blessing.' A man and a woman, they should cleave together, like it says in the Good Book. It don't matter if you don't read the Gospel, it don't matter if you can't spell the Word, a man and a woman, they cleave, they got to cleave together. Mr. Buddy, he showed you the way. Mr. Buddy, he took you to the light."

  As benediction to that astonishing revision, that poem, Osella quavered, "A-men. A-men."

  Madeline was concentrating on cutting the pretty pink frosting roses on her cake in the least violent way, and Mikey's head was bobbing as it did when he listened to music. To my mother I said, "I think we better go." After we'd cleared our plates, after the Crockerby women embraced us again and the men shook our hands, we hurried down the five flights of stairs and came out blinking into the mild spring light. How relieved we were to find ourselves back in our own story! My mother made a point to praise Louise for her civility, and she said once more that our being at the service meant the world to Russia.

  Who cared? We were out of there, we had escaped!

  Madeline sat up front in the station wagon, the three adults in a row. My father and I filled the car with talk about a breeding experiment I was working on with my biology professor, a project that required mice and the hemoglobin of their unborn.

  Louise was somehow able not to say a word until we were in our seats on the airplane, strapped in and waiting to take off. She had bought herself an extra-long hot dog in the terminal and eaten it ravenously over a magazine. "Every single minute of that nightmare," she suddenly cried, "is Mom's fault."

  "What-"

  "For having a slave in the first place!" She was yelling over the noise of the propellers.

  "You can't blame-"

  "Where do I start? Where? Can you believe Russia holding Father's hand through the funeral like he's her new boyfriend, like she's bragging about her guy? The Macivers have done that to her. The Macivers-we-are responsible. Don't tell me having a slave is complicated, because it isn't. It is not! It's simple oppression. What's Mom been doing all these years anyway? What'd she need a servant for?"

  "Do you have to talk so loud?" I managed to say.

  "And what is that utter bullshit about Jerry Pindel and Buddy? Buddy breaks the kid's nose and knocks him out, he almost croaks? Mom, the almighty pacifist, should have reported Buddy to the police. They should have incarcerated him! And it was not raining that night, and it was not thundering, and it was not cold. There was onehundred-percent humidity."

  I had to laugh at the way Russia had set the story in a thunder-

  storm, the preferred weather for melodrama. If you'd listened to her enough over the years, you came to think that nothing important had ever happened without her somehow looking on, and certainly no story had its real meaning until she told it.

  That idea made me laugh harder.

  "It's not funny! Goddamn you!" My little sister was beating me on the arm. "Russia turns Buddy into a pastor? Some kind of superhero minister who flies into Jerry Pindel's loft to anoint Mikey and Madeline so that their fucking up in the bedroom is somehow legitimate? That's her main concern here, sex out of wedlock--to make herself feel better about that sin, she invents Reverend Jesus Buddy Christ. I can't stand it!" She yelled even louder. "I can't stand it!"

  "Is all of that Mom's fault?" I had the nerve to ask.

  It was convenient to blame my mother for every ill, and for Buddy's misdeeds, too, such as they actually were. I wanted to remind Louise of our parents' seriousness, of their moral life, even if they weren't perfect. In my head I ticked off my mother's volunteer work at Hull House, tutoring adults, her part-time job at West Suburban Hospital, on the night shift, to help pay for our college, the eternal playschool for Madeline, the 1967 bus trip with Madeline to march on the Pentagon, the fact that, Madeline aside, my mother was stranded for twenty years because we came home from school for lunch, the cheese sandwiches lined up on the counter about to be grilled, the apple slurry coming through the sieve, the pudding stirred to the satin stage. The roast for dinner was also on the counter, the meat in its net thawing in a pool of blood, the potatoes and carrots scrubbed and in the Dutch oven. What's Morn been doing all these years?

  "Don't start talking to me," Louise said, pressing her head to the window. "You've probably memorized a seminal Sophia Cooper feminist manifesto about the bondage of suburban women. Well, guess what? I don't want to hear it. Go back to school and butcher your pregnant mice."

  Below us as we lifted off lay the flat grid of the gray city, the deso-

  lation of the urban landscape. We were leaving it behind as we'd done before, but this time was different; this time the entire scrim had been pulled away from the home front, and we could see the outer world that all along had been part of us. I would have liked to return to our cozy, selfish ignorance, but that seemed no longer possible; from now on we'd walk hand in hand with our entitlements, nursing them along, feeding them up. In the brief years of childhood, I had cried more than a boy should, shaken with sorrow if I saw a person in a wheelchair or a blind woman trying to cross the street. The deaf son of the grocer nearly killed me. My mother had identified our distinctive gifts--my sensitivi
ty, she called it, and Louise 's music. Maybe the sound of the cello had been the only important, the only productive thing that had happened in our house. I wished for a minute that the older Lu weren't sitting next to me, that the Louise of Oberlin College could take herself back to our living room and sit herself down to her threequarter-sized cello.

  Before we landed, just to irritate her, I said in my best Russia voice, "Timothy is my favorite, but Mr. Buddy, he's flying right into the storm to save us."

  MY MOTHER COULDN'T STOP POOR BOYS, minority boys, or foolish boys from fighting the war, but she was not going to let the government have me for fodder. For her, in the matter of the Vietnam War, all young men were not equal. The summer after college, when I was living at home and working again at the museum, in Fishes, my number for the draft came up, just as we'd feared. The antiwar movement had by then seized the country, and it's hard to imagine even the most freedom-loving person thinking that Southeast Asia would be a worthwhile place to die. Nixon had been pulling out troops for some time, and I had no interest in being the last to be killed for any reason, not least for a cause the administration appeared to think futile.

  There was one terrible dinner at Moose Lake with Figgy and Arthur, right before I pleaded my case as a conscientious objector at the county courthouse, citing my Quaker heritage and my upbringing as a pacifist. After that night, my aunt and my mother never really spoke again. Buddy had enlisted for a second tour and was back in Vietnam, part of the First Logistical Command, the organization that supervised a number of depots, support groups, ammunition supplies, and mortuaries. For a while the word went around that he was driving trucks to the front lines, but as I said there were different reports through the years.

  Cousin Petie, who seemed to have his own reason for disliking Buddy, maintained that Sergeant Eastman was well behind the scenes and in no real danger. After Nixon's election, Arthur was going back and forth to Princeton to teach, and Figgy was staying in D. C. for her work at the Phillips Collection.