by Joanna Scott
In the next weeks, the girl spent mornings and afternoons sewing buttons on organdy dresses and mealtimes listening to the Father trumpet the rewards of faith. Miss Smile All the While taught her hymns, which they sang together with Miss Cheerfulness Good in the kitchen. She learned from Miss Smile that the angel named Miss Love Dove had gone to the Father’s kingdom up north, and Miss Dancing Soul would see her “in good time.” The girl stopped thinking of her mama as an object to be retrieved—instead, Miss Love Dove was another member of the huge family to which the girl herself belonged, along with Miss Smile and Miss Cheerfulness and all the others, including Mr. Loving Jeremiah, who was like an older brother to her, protective and conspiratorial. Though he never admitted it, she could see that his fondness for her fell just short of romance, which wasn’t allowed in the kingdom, fortunately, so she could feel safely tempted, as long as she kept her daydreams to herself. Here in Paradise, the girl knew she had nothing to fear from her Prince Charming, no matter that his face was as inviting as a sun-drenched lake and that he took to sneaking upstairs to her dormitory and leaving candy on her pillow. He wouldn’t try to take advantage of her, she felt certain.
But his affections weren’t restrained enough, as it turned out. Somehow the Father himself got word of the chocolate heart Mr. Loving Jeremiah gave to Miss Dancing Soul on Valentine’s Day, and he ordered meetings with each of them separately. Mr. Loving Jeremiah went first, and when he came out half a minute later he didn’t even glance at the girl, just skulked on past looking every bit like a thief caught red-handed. But just then the angel named Miss Pleasing Joy stepped up and took the girl’s hand, clenching hard, as though trying to squeeze fortitude into her and prepare her for her first face-to-face meeting with the Father.
Everyone, including the girl, knew that the Father considered children nothing but annoyances. She had been lucky to have the protection of Miss Smile All the While, one of the kingdom’s most important angels, and she’d been treated as a grown-up, given coffee to drink and work to occupy her during the day. Now, as Miss Pleasing Joy released her hand and nudged open the door, she was reminded that she was just eleven and hadn’t even completed the fifth grade.
The office was long but hardly wider than the sofa at the far end, where the Father sat prying open a pistachio shell with his thumbnails. The girl gave only a passing glance to the angel working as the great man’s secretary who was sitting in a chair beside him, her face turned down while she scribbled in a notepad. The room was furnished simply, though with lush accents: red velvet drapes covered the window behind the sofa; red flowers, like the paw prints of small dogs, filled the wallpaper; the single painting in the room was of the Father sporting a halo. In person, he glowed as though he were made of parquet like the floor and had spent the morning rubbing oil into his skin and buffing himself with a soft cloth.
He dusted his fingertips together, cleared his throat, and in a quiet voice that managed to sound shrill, he said, “You have consorted with a member of the Angelic race.” He stared at her as he had that day she’d first heard him speak, withering her with his fierce divinity, and then reached for another pistachio.
It was during this pause, while he raked his fingers through the bowl of nuts, that the girl looked to the seated angel for help. The angel named Miss Love Dove lifted her eyes and smiled back, her soul so chock-full of happiness that it was clear the serene expression on her face would never change, not even if someone poked her with a pin, not even if someone whipped her with a belt, beating her mercilessly, turning that soft, sweet-smelling skin to pulp.
“Mama!” cried the girl, feeling as though she’d suddenly been turned inside out and given a violent shake. But her mama just looked down at the notepad in her lap and smiled that smile that said I got everything I’ll ever need locked for safekeeping in this old heart of mine.
“You are limited in your conception of the universal,” the great man continued, but the girl interrupted, begging, “Mama, say something!” Mama went on scribbling shorthand, and His Holiness carefully selected another pistachio. “Therefore you cannot see me as I am.”
“It’s me, Mama! Your own Sheebie!” the girl pleaded, forgetting that her mama had never known her as Queen Sheebie.
“And you have pursued what is forbidden”
“Mama!”
“Defying me”
“Acting stone-cold”
“God Almighty”
“like you don’t care about nothing”
“at the same time that you partake of our bounty”
“lessin you crazy”
“seeking refuge amongst us”
“course you ain’t crazy!”
“and will remain welcome”
“You just forgetful!”
“as long as you believe”
“...All mixed up...”
“in my omnipotence.”
The Father bent his right forefinger in a gesture to signal that the meeting was over. Miss Love Dove marked it with an emphatic period and smiled at her daughter. Miss Pleasing Joy took the girl’s hand. The girl felt herself being tugged backward, and though she didn’t resist, she remained facing the front of the room, trying one last time to compel recognition.
“Mama, you know Granny’s gone.” Not a flinch. “Dead, Mama!”
And that was it. Before the girl could say another word, she’d been pulled back into the waiting room and the door to the office had snapped shut, apparently of its own accord. The meeting had lasted for less than one minute. Efficiency, like abstinence, kept the empire functioning smoothly.
And how efficient the girl proved to be, startling herself with her decisiveness as she left the waiting room, walked down the hall, and went out the front door into the street, not stopping until she’d reached Rexall’s and then only briefly to orient herself, for during her three months at the kingdom she hadn’t ventured outside, there had been no reason to, what with all the activity going on inside and winter souring the streets.
It was snowing, but she hardly noticed. The snow fell in a fine, wet mist, veiling her hair with silver beads and melting on the sidewalk, making the concrete shimmer. At first the echo of her voice drove her on—your own Sheebie, your own Sheebie—but after a few minutes she stopped listening, and her mind filled up with the knowledge of her body’s discomfort. It was snowing, and the snow felt fiery hot against her face. It was snowing, soaking her thin white blouse, turning the cotton to ice. It had always been snowing. It would never stop snowing. Queen Sheebie was afraid of snow and would do anything to escape it. Just about anything, except go back to the kingdom. Anything else.
She tried moving in a purposeful way, as if she’d stepped out for some ingredient her granny needed for her baking, an egg, some flour, and was only going to the A&P so hadn’t bothered to put on her coat. Though she wanted to run, she didn’t go faster than a fast walk, which meant she was going along slowly enough for her mama to catch up before she crossed the street. Her own mama, who was suddenly there, grabbing her, hugging her, asking, “What we gonna do now, baby? What we gonna do?” Stuck inside the circle of her mama’s squeezing arms, the Queen of Sheba didn’t even try to think up an answer.
YIP
Yip.
Yip.
Yip.
This is a tape of Harold Linder. Brilliant young Harold. I want Harold to be the star of my show. Listen:
Yip.
Yip.
His brilliance lies in his uninhibited love of his own voice. It doesn’t matter to him what he says. To speak aloud is everything. No, not quite everything. To speak aloud in front of an audience is everything. This is my discovery.
Yip. Yadderyipip. Yadderyipiphipippityhiphop.
Yip.
Yip.
Charlie looks forward to a tempting meal. Oh, Charlie. Yip. Oh, Charlie. Yip. Hap. Haphop. Do you like soup, Charlie? Yip. Soup, Charlie? Yip.
Yip.
Yip.
I found him in Bellevue, whe
re I’d gone to see Mr. Jack Dawes, the leading man in my last production. Jack had been hospitalized after he was found wandering along Madison Avenue in puris naturalibus. Uncased, as it were, and obviously enjoying the attention. I’d received an anonymous phone call alerting me to the fact that another member of my company required immediate medical attention. As I expected, the reporters were waiting outside the hospital armed with cameras, pens, and their ubiquitous notepads when I arrived. They are always ready to publicize a celebrity’s embarrassment. They have built their careers upon such exposure, and those of us in the limelight must accept it as a sort of tax upon our fame. Which is not to say that one must lose all dignity at such moments. As I stepped from the taxicab I raised my hand as though preparing to make a speech, then I strode solidly, full of purpose, toward the entrance and into the lobby.
After signing the necessary papers to commit Jack Dawes for forty-eight hours, I took a stroll along the corridors of the locked ward. That’s where I met young Harold, who was leaning against a wall and yipping.
Yip.
Yip.
Yadderyipyip.
The clarity of the sound, even amidst the hubbub of insanity, impressed me, and I stopped to listen. At the time I believed he was unaware of me watching him, but now I understand how important it is for Harold to have an audience. No one can be a spectator to his performance without Harold’s tacit permission.
Yadderyip. Yadderyip. Oh, Charlie. Poor Charlie. Do you want something to eat, Charlie?
Yip.
Yip.
Yip.
This boy is not mad, I told the doctors. They disagreed and named his disorder, one of those tangled Latin names that always seems to celebrate exaggeration. I asked to take Harold along home with me, but the doctors said I would need his mother’s permission. So I called her, Mrs. Linder, and asked if I might borrow her son. She refused, of course. Then I told her who I was, but as it turned out she was one of the few people in the city who had never heard of me.
“Mrs. Linder, I want Harold in my play,” I explained. That interested her.
“What would he do?” she asked.
“I want him in my show,” I said.
“But what would he do?”
“I don’t know. Whatever he wants to do. Whatever comes naturally to him.”
She said she’d think about it and call me back. A few minutes later the pay phone rang, and it was Mrs. Linder, who during the interim must have called some acquaintance of hers, who warned her against me. “No,” she said. “Under no circumstances will I permit you to put my son on stage.” I tried to convince her to lend me Harold for a two-week trial period, but she refused. I assured her that I was no circus impresario. I was a famous theater director, a modern artist, and I could make her son famous. Rich, too. Still she said no.
Charlie looks forward to a tempting meal. Soup, Charlie. Oh, soup, Charlie. Oh, steak, Charlie. Oh, corn, Charlie. Oh, butteryip, yip. Butteryoyip, oh butteryoh, ow, ohwa, ohwa, ohwa.
I’m certain that a production with Harold at its center would be a wild success. It’s the seduction of shame again. The potential for embarrassment is great when lines haven’t been memorized and rehearsed. Imagine the twelve-year-old boy standing in the circle of a spotlight on a bare stage—no painted background, none of my extravagant props or music, only Harold and his voice. The show’s suspense would be predicated upon his composure. Should he lose it, the spectacle would become the kind of event that takes its place in theater history: “I was there the night that boy...” whatever. The possibilities for failure are limitless.
Suspense is essential to all performance, from symphonic music to vaudeville. Without the element of suspense, Harold seems to most people no more than an insane creature capable only of babbling on and on. But put the boy on stage, and mere babbling would turn into artful improvisation. It is not just for my own sake that I want to make Harold a star. I am concerned about the boy and want to save him from a lifetime wasted inside institutions. Besides, Harold enjoys having an audience—I could tell as much right there in the hospital while I watched him. He pretended not to notice me, but I knew he was grateful for the attention.
Yip.
Yadderyipyip. Oh, Charlie. Do you want something to eat, Charlie?
The first time I applauded him I detected the barest ripple of a startle, a slight tremor in his arms, a twitch of his jaw. I stopped clapping and waited for the boy to continue, but he stared past me at the peeling white wall. Imagine a silence so powerful that you can feel it wrapped around your body—and just beyond, the clamor of other patients. If I’d had any doubt about the boy’s remarkable ability, I lost it during that nearly endless silence. And then, the burst of sound:
Yip.
Yadderyipyip. Yadderyipyip.
The fact that Harold cannot carry a tune makes him even more unique. Mrs. Linder and the doctors look upon the boy as a malfunctioning machine and keep trying to tinker with the gears and cogs of his mind. But I know that the boy is perfect. In the corridor at Bellevue I recognized in his voice the precise expression of my own artistic ambition. It felt as though he were calling to me out of my past, a voice rising with the night mist from the estuary bordering our estate.
Yip.Yadderyipyip.
A strange seabird calling a warning, splitting the silence into halves, the voice of the bird separating past from present and defining the space of my solitude.
Poor Charlie. Do you want soup, Charlie? Soup, Charlie? Steak, Charlie?
HOW TEMPTING IT IS to twist my life into a dramatic tale of suffering in order to explain my dark art. But I might as well come out with it and admit that I’ve had more than my fair share of privileges. As a boy I was treated, along with my older brother, to all the pomp and rigorous training befitting the sons of a man who had made millions in the insurance business. I grew up in a stone mansion on sixty rolling acres overlooking Long Island Sound. My brother and I had nannies and tutors and chauffeurs protecting us from the world. We attended a small Jesuit day school. Through those early years my happiness was as solid and encompassing as the house, and I believed that the same was true for my brother, though I couldn’t be sure. He was an athletic boy, handsome in a puckish way, an apt enough student but a dull companion to my young mind. He and I were strangers to each other not because of any perceptible dislike but simply because we had such different interests. When we weren’t studying, he’d go for a swim or gallop his pony, Turl, along the beach; I preferred to occupy myself indoors.
Our home had a library with paneled oak, a splendid living room with a period Adams mantel, three kitchens, and two dining rooms, one of which we used only on holidays. A circular staircase led up from the reception hall to the second floor. The master bedroom was painted a light peach with ivory trim, and the master bath had coralline tile and Tang red fixtures. My own bedroom had buff walls and a bay window with a leather built-in seat. I liked to sit there for hours, reading and watching the color of the sound change from silver to a satiny black as the afternoon wore on.
I have no disclosures to make about unloving parents or sadistic priests who whipped knowledge into their stubborn pupils. My teachers, most of them tending toward the plump, were more inclined to whip cream into peaks for their cranberry cobblers than to whip the tender buttocks of young boys. And my parents were like children themselves, dazed by their ingenuity, for their wealth seemed to them something they’d accumulated while out on a Sunday stroll—a pocketful of pebbles and seashells and feathers and gold. And though my father outlived both his eldest son and his wife, even in his last months he could be seen shaking his head in disbelief at his fortune as he walked around the grounds of his estate, his Stetson sennit at a tilt to shade his eyes against the sun. Life had stunned him from the start—and for this, more than for the privileges, I am grateful.
I inherited from both my parents a sense of wonder and so have devoted myself to sharing that wonder with others. How indifferent we quickly become if
we’re not careful. Nothing kills interest like routine, day in and day out spent measuring percentages or hauling trash or teaching young girls how to type, and then at night an hour of the Wayne King Orchestra or maybe a boxing match broadcast live from the Bronx Coliseum. The tedium of competition. No, I am not a sportsman. Neither do I take any pleasure in the dance orchestras that lull their listeners to sleep. I prefer long periods of silence punctuated by unexpected sound.
Yip! Yip!
My dear Harold, so strange and wonderful. With the boy as my star, I would be able to shake my audience out of the slumber of routine once and for all. People know that they shouldn’t come to my theater if they want to be reassured that all is right with the world—they can go to the movies for that. My shows are never reassuring. They are as jolting as the modern world, as full of surprises. Harold would be my consummate theatrical surprise.
Poor Charlie. Are you hungry, Charlie? Do you want something to eat, Charlie? Strawberry short-Charlie-cake, Charlie, strawberry shortcake, Charlie, if you please, oh please oh please.
Yip.
Such is the force of a vital personality unimpeded by social consciousness.
Yip.
An individual, alone but not lonely.
Yip.
If I had half his ego I would be satisfied. The critics complain that my art is marred by my vanity, that I lack discretion, that I’ll put anything and anyone into my productions because I’m too vain to subject myself to aesthetic discipline. My last show, Garden City, which featured Jack Dawes, along with two dozen amateur clowns, a marionette troupe, and fifty retired chorus girls, was nicknamed Garbage Dump. This wounded me—proof that I’m not vain enough, not compared to young Harold, who exists only as a performer, never stepping outside the role to consider the value of his art. How I envy the boy. He wants an audience, but he cares nothing about the impression he makes—just like a bird that calls out for no other reason than to be heard.
