He put a crucifix in the office right above the till, and a statue of the Blessed Mother next to the coffee urn in the show room where people would make deals to buy their cars. There was a large family photograph, the one taken on the day Daddy retired from the U.S. Navy, with all thirteen of us lined up outside the big anchor at the China Lake office. This photograph was framed and placed in the center of the table in the showroom.
Everyone knows how to rub a car until it sparkles and cleaning windows is a reward unto itself, but I really wanted to learn how to pump gas and check the oil.
But the next morning we were told to put on our Easter dresses and shoes. Mother said we had to introduce ourselves to whoever came onto the lot. If we saw someone seriously looking, we had to politely excuse ourselves and get Daddy. The big girls—Clara, Madcap, and me—were supposed to read the brochures on the new Ramblers and memorize facts about the cars. If we helped sell a car, maybe we could get some kind of commission.
Daddy said American Motors had the mid-size high-performance luxury compact market to itself, and he was going to sell a lot of cars. The prices on the windows of the cars told you right away which ones were used and which ones were new. There were only five used cars, with prices from $175 to $850. The feature car, sitting in the middle of the lot cost $2,665. We were going to be rich enough to be able to afford wall-to-wall carpets once we sold all those cars.
Daddy had to give up 6:30 Mass because he had to open the garage at 7:00 to sell gas. He wanted to be there on the first day, to make sure it all went smoothly. First impressions are lasting, he kept saying. Besides, God wanted him to succeed, and sometimes you have to skip Mass to do it.
I called Wanda the night before, inviting her and her family to come on down.
We all got out of the Volkswagen bus at 9:00 Saturday morning, spilling onto the lot. The effort of it felt like we were bundling up for Sunday Mass. But there was no one there, and the place looked worn and dingy in contrast to the three new, shiny automobiles and five used cars. (A Ford Falcon, an old Austin Healey, a Volkswagen bug and two others I didn’t know the names of). “Start small and think big” was Daddy’s motto, which he repeated when he saw me looking forlornly at the lot surrounded by multi-colored, triangular flags that blew in the breeze. Me and Madcap hung around together, looking like Easter morning in our chiffon dresses, poised to receive the hordes. The smell of coffee in the urn made me hungry. Paul, John, and Bartholomew stood at attention behind the glass in the indoor showroom, their feet apart, their arms folded across their chests, waiting for their first customer. A lone red Volkswagen bug tooled up to the pumps and Paul, John, and Bartholomew descended upon it. Paul lifted up the hood and checked the oil, John-the-Blimp went to the window to ask if they wanted Regular or High Test, and Bartholomew brought the tan cloth and the Windex for the windshield.
The twins lolled about in close proximity to a huge box of glazed doughnuts and already there was sugar down Luke’s vest and crumbs on Markie’s face. They looked green and uncomfortable, and their small hands were full of bitten doughnuts.
Finally around 11:00, there was a rush. A bunch of families from the parish arrived, and I fully expected Daddy to gather in their midst and say some kind of prayer. Instead, he took them to the Ambassador and gave a speech about its luxurious interior, its vinyl bucket seats, head rests, and color-coordinated shag carpets. He invited them to sit inside while he told them about the dual-chamber master brake cylinder, separating the front and rear brakes, so that in case one failed, the other brake would come to the rescue. Daddy said AMC had made the car of the future. It was also lighter than the 1962 Classic and had a V-8 engine. Every other car manufacturer, Daddy said, was playing copycat with their new compacts. AMC was a truly visionary company. I felt pride by association, even though nobody seemed to want to buy anything.
What I noticed particularly was that the men got in the car, moved the gearshift and pressed all the buttons, while the women strolled around doing small talk with Mother. I could tell her feet hurt; she wore canvas sneakers with white shoelaces and kept wanting to sit down. Clara and Jeannie strolled the lot with Jude on a hip, until a group of boys from the high school arrived, and the next thing you knew they were all gathered around Clara in a circle. In the farther reaches of the blacktop, where the used cars sat glinting in the sun, me and Madcap hung out, making smart comments about anybody who walked onto the lot. I held the brochure in my hand, ready to tell people about the Ambassador, but I really wanted to take one of those cloths and rub the shiny cars until they were good enough for Jesus to parade into town on a Palm Sunday. There was enough room for him and three of the apostles in the new Ambassador, and I wanted that automobile to glisten like a jewel.
Suddenly a new group of people parked their cars on the street and stepped out. Wanda and her dad. Right behind them was the Feeney station wagon full of a bunch of kids of all ages. My heart sank. Wanda had obviously invited them. The little kids from both families didn’t know any better and soon they were chasing each other around the lot, playing hide-and-seek behind the gas pumps. Paul and John had discovered the switch that made the car lift up and down in the bay, and its growling sound started up as the huge metal frame went slowly up from the floor on a pole towards the ceiling. Daddy was in the lot giving his speech to Mr. Feeney. Mother and Mrs. Feeney chatted amicably in the showroom around the coffee urn. One of the Zimmerman boys drove up and stepped out with Teresa Feeney and opened the door for her, like she was stepping out on a red carpet. Her hair was exceptionally smooth, new bangs across her forehead, and a shoulder-length flip. Suddenly I was glad I had worn my Easter dress. I waved to Wanda, trying to seem friendly, although I was disgusted that she had invited the Feeneys.
Wanda’s father walked with his hands in his pockets past the cars, looking at my signs with the daisies. This was my chance to use my newfound knowledge of the Ambassador. He had stopped at the Ford Falcon, which looked to me a lot like the Ambassador.
“Hi, Mr. Anderson,” I said.
“Hi, Annie,” Mr. Nowakowski greeted me. “Quite an operation here!”
“That’s right, Mr. Nowakowski. AMC is the car manufacturer of the future.” Madcap sidled away from me.
“Did you see the new Ambassador, Mr. Nowakowski? It has curved glass and push-button door handles. It’s Rambler’s newest car, the car of the future,” I added, trying to remember the bit about the brakes.
“I’m attracted to it,” Mr. Nowakowski said, smiling.
“It has vinyl bucket seats, Mr. Nowakowski.”
“Thank you for pointing that out, Annie. That’s quite a feature.”
I liked Mr. Nowakowski. It was usually the weekend whenever I came over to Wanda’s house and Mr. Nowakowski would be home from work, wearing slacks and a casual sweater. He’d see me and say, “Oh, hello, Annie!” as if he was surprised, but delighted. “Ready for some catch?” Then he’d disappear into the bedroom and emerge with a leather mitt on his left hand and a softball nestled in its grip. The other mitt, my mitt, was under his arm. I always thought, He wants to play catch with me? But it made me feel in demand. Then he’d say something silly to Wanda about playing with her Barbie dolls for a few minutes while he ducked outside with me. He didn’t have the best arm in the world, but I got to be a pretty good catcher because of Mr. Nowakowski. He used to say he liked my “spunk.” Wanda told me he always wanted to have a son, but since her mother could only have one child, he had to make do with Wanda, whom he loved dearly. Because of my hair, I never tried to dress up in girlie clothes unless I had to (for Sunday Mass), so I think he liked the tomboy aspect of my character.
“Actually, if you can keep a secret,” Mr. Nowakowski said on the lot, “I’m hoping to get a car for Wanda’s mother for her birthday.”
“That’s some gift, Mr. Nowakowski,” I said, trying to sound positive. But the fact that someone could even think of buying a car that cost $2,600 as a birthday present, made me feel envious and
depressed. Of course, Wanda’s Dad was a lawyer and had only one daughter to spend all his money on. Their house was normal to fancy, with carpets and a lanai and a bar for cocktail parties. They always had fresh flowers artistically placed on a shiny black piano that no one ever played. Their kitchen had shiny marble counters and a dishwasher that always worked.
“Do you know about the brakes?” I asked, putting aside my martyr feelings.
“What about the brakes?” Mr. Nowakowski said.
“Well, they’re split up, so if one gives out, the other can act as a back up,” I said, proud of myself for remembering.
“Hmmmm,” he said.
“You don’t want a gas guzzler,” I told him.
“No, I don’t, Annie.”
“Then the Ambassador is your car, Mr. Nowakowski. Elegance and efficiency,” I said, getting the hang of being a car salesman, “Remember the Double E.” I’d just learned “efficiency” when I was reading the brochure. “Fuel efficiency.” I already knew elegant.
“Let’s go have a look,” he said.
So I brought Mr. Nowakowski over to the Ambassador. I invited him to sit inside and touch all the gadgets.
“I’ll go get Daddy,” I offered, “He can tell you all the technical stuff.” But Daddy was over at the Ford Falcon, extolling its virtues to Mr. Feeney, right in the middle of a whole lot of words. Who else would know about the cars? I ran to get Paul, since he was the eldest and he was going to work at Shea Family Motors.
“Hey Paul, do you know much about the Ambassador? Mr. Nowakowski wants to look at it. I only know the stuff in the brochure.” Paul shrugged, but he went out to Mr. Nowakowski. I could see him leaning over and talking to Mr. Nowakowski in the front seat. I thought, how do boys know so much about cars?
Later, I found out that they talked about how easy the car was to wax and shine. Paul hadn’t even looked at the brochure. I knew more about it than he did! Mr. Nowakowski decided to put down cash for the car while Daddy was shaking hands with Mr. Feeney. Daddy was so excited, he rewarded him with a commission of 1 per cent of the sale price. $26. It would have been rude to question Daddy’s reward to Paul in front of Mr. Nowakowski, so I waited until the end of the day when everyone had left.
“Daddy,” I said.
“Yes, Annie.”
“I think you’re missing the boat,” I said, using his own phrase.
“Oh?” He asked, smiling, quite pleased with himself and the day’s success, the bulk of which was the outright sale of the Ambassador to Mr. Nowakowski. Daddy didn’t even have to bargain over the sticker price, since Mr. Nowakowski took the cash out of his pocket, while saying, “Remember the two E’s.”
“Yes,” I teased Daddy with my voice so he would listen. “Since it’s Shea Family Motors, I’ve thought of a slogan to go with the family photo.”
“What is it, Annie?”
“Shea Family Motors,” I said, like I was an announcer on the radio. “The family that drives together stays together.” Daddy looked up from the adding machine and cash box, where he was counting the day’s take. He grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil and started scribbling.
“Shea Family Motors,” he said, “Our family means business.”
“Or how about this,” I suggested, “Shea Family Motors: Cars of tomorrow for the family of today.”
Then Daddy said, “Today’s family, tomorrow’s car. But it’s more than selling cars,” Daddy said. “It’s everything about cars. Gas, clean windshields, oil changes, tires rotated. It’s a business. With a family feeling.”
“How about this one?” I ventured. “Shea Family Motors. A family business with a family feeling.”
“I think I’ve got it,” he said. “Shea Family Motors. We mean business about family. That’s it!” he said, triumphant, scribbling the slogan. “Annie, you’ve got quite a head on your shoulders.”
“Daddy?” I said, now that he was for sure in a great mood. “When Mr. Nowakowski came on the lot, I was the first person to talk to him. He’s Wanda’s Dad, you know. Wanda’s my best friend.”
“Aren’t you proud of Paul?” he asked me. I could see this forming up to be another one of our one-sided conversations.
“I told Mr. Nowakowski about the dual action brakes,” I insisted, determined to keep his attention, “and the bucket seats and the fuel efficiency.”
“A cash sale!” Daddy exclaimed. “I taught Paul the routine yesterday with the Sales Manager, when the buyer wants to bargain on the sticker price, but we didn’t even have to use it on Mr. Nowakowski.”
“Dad.”
“That’s the kind of time you need a lawyer,” he chuckled. “When he wants to part with his money. Heh heh heh.”
“Dad? Will you please listen? I read the brochure while we were waiting around for someone to visit the lot. That’s how I knew what to say. Mr. Nowakowski told me first that he wanted to buy a car for Wanda’s mother. I told him about the bucket seats and the dual action brakes. Then I went to get you, but you were talking to Mr. Feeney.”
“Out with it, Annie. What’s the point?”
“I sold that car to Mr. Nowakowski. Paul only talked about how to make it shiny. I deserve the $26.”
“Hmm, Annie. I’m proud of you for telling Mr. Nowakowski about the car. But in this business it’s all about closing the sale. Paul closed the sale. Mr. Nowakowski pulled out his cash and put it on the table for Paul.”
“But I was the one who went to get Paul! Mr. Nowakowski would have given me the cash if I hadn’t volunteered to get Paul.
“I see your point, Annie. What you don’t understand is that Paul is going to grow up and be the breadwinner for his family. You won’t have that pressure as a female; you can get an education and a job as a secretary. That’s why Paul is working at Shea Family Motors and you’re not. He’s getting important training for his role as a man in society. I set up the commission to give him an incentive to be a good salesman. He’s going to work for me. That’s why he deserves the commission.”
“Dad! I deserve the commission!” I said, stamping my feet.
Chapter 9
fertility
June 16 – Dear Jesus, I really need a room to myself, so I don’t have to constantly be on watch for someone wandering onto my territory and claiming it for themself! If it’s not Jeannie, it’s Rosie, with her piles and piles of dirty clothes all around her bed. I am so sick of all the junk everywhere! Can’t we for once have a really pretty place—not all trashed up with diapers and newspapers and laundry everywhere, and pots all over the place when it rains? Maybe wall-to-wall carpeting in the living room? I realize these are all selfish wishes, because “if wishes were horses, beggars would ride.” Please note: My novena for a single room ends Thursday at 2:00 pm.
Life itself flowed relentlessly on Madeline Drive in Pasadena while we waited for our family friend to be elected Pope. Fertility blossomed continuously, sloppy and voracious, inhabiting every living thing right under our noses and without our permission. It became an atmosphere surrounding us, a ripe smell— the confluence of hot sun, of throbbing, unknowable forces that populated the known world and permeated our subconscious. Grass creeping around the bricks on the walk up to the front door. Roses sprawling in the formal, weedy beds at the side of the house, an overgrown patch prickly with red, yellow, and pink flowers about to bud, in full bloom or falling like confetti onto the ground. The bamboo on the border to Clarkie Franklin’s yard sprouted green rods furiously, and no one tried to cut it back. Vines over the ancient wooden arbor swelled with leaves and then hung with purple flowers, and it didn’t occur to anyone to trim them until the arbor itself groaned in the middle and slunk under all the weight. My dog Sparky went sniffing around the neighborhood as far as the vacant lot to the north, and South Pasadena Avenue to the east and Orange Grove Boulevard to the west. These excursions produced litters of pups who were born more deeply mutt than he was. We only knew they were his offspring because in each litter there was one in his sp
itting image: short and squat, black and white, a bib around the neck, and a striped tail that curled up over the rump. Because we were Catholics, we would never spay or neuter our pets. Sparky would return from these excursions trotting proudly, his tongue hanging out, panting in quick puffs, later exhausted and spent as he lay down at the side of the house in the sun and napped the rest of the day.
School was out for summer. Candy Kohler had sent out invitations to a co-ed pool party and girls-only slumber party, the first ever co-ed social get-together for our class. Now I wished I hadn’t said anything about being a nun. I really wanted to go to Candy’s party and fit in with everyone else, like a regular person.
Wanda had already “blossomed into a young lady” as Daddy said when she came over for lunch last weekend.
“How’s Wanda?” he asked with sudden interest when she walked into the dining room. It was after breakfast on Saturday, the coffee going cold in the cup in front of him. He stood up from his Captain’s chair and opened his arms to give her a hug. She’d been my best friend for four years, all of a sudden Daddy notices her? (and gives her a hug!). When was I going to “blossom”? I was still flat, flat, flat. My nipples looked like mosquito bites pasted to my white, bony chest. It hadn’t occurred to them that it was time to begin training for their ultimate role in life (nursing babies). But I could see it coming. I had just turned twelve, and soon we’d all be teenagers. I had to seize my life and live it before I was exiled into the convent. I got to thinking about what I should wear in the pool.
Every month Seventeen Magazine came in the mail, addressed directly to me, courtesy of my oldest cousin, Jake McLellan in Northern California (a son of Mother’s sister). He wrote me letters on blue paper with small handwriting, bragging that he was going to take me out of the nunnery and marry me. I pored over its colorful pages, pretending to belong to this ultra hip world where nun was spelled n-o-n-e, and meant nothing left. Nuns of all shapes and sizes wearing bizarre black clothes and living together in delusion of their special status in fantasy relationships with Jesus Christ was like aliens in outer space to the glamorous people in Seventeen Magazine. In last month’s issue, there was a promising but ultimately useless article called “How to Win Arguments With Your Family.” More amazing, it featured a voluptuous model with Wanda breasts and a tanned midriff, casually wearing a two-piece bathing suit with squarish bottoms. When I got Candy’s invitation, I knew everyone was going to be wearing a two-piece.
A Theory of Expanded Love Page 6
