by Rand, Naomi;
Sam unpacked her own vision of independence, posters of Joe Strummer and Elvis Costello wielding guitars. A pile of her favorite art books sprouted on the small desk. Joseph Beuys was her current obsession. Sam had gone to the retrospective at the Modern five times. Her favorite piece was the Volkswagen bus with sleds trailing off the back. Each sled held a roll of tightly wrapped felt. Sam had been moved to tears.
Here she was. Here she was with Joseph Beuys, Elvis C., and her roommate Lucy Westcott. Sam had done her best to get a single. She’d even had her therapist write a letter about her social anxiety (it was a lie; still, she wielded a certain amount of power since the kitchen shrink episode when she’d walked in on him on top of Brooke spread-eagled across the kitchen table). When the college persisted in their perverse desire to sequester her with a stranger, sending her a questionnaire asking her what her likes and dislikes were, Sam answered the questions with her characteristic honesty. “Favorite hobbies? Listening to punk rock music several decibels too loud. Describe your perfect roommate? Invisible.” They’d ignored her warnings and chosen this girl who looked every inch the prom queen.
But there was that comment about the cigarette, there was that. Hope does spring eternal, Sam thought ruefully.
Alma was at the window, trying to pry it open. “It must be stuck,” she said.
“Let me,” Sam offered.
“Oh no, dear. Tom will do it.”
Tom showed no signs of doing anything. He was focused on Brooke.
“I can’t believe you were really a football player,” Brooke said. She used her best “aw gee whiz” tone. “A sporting man. Well, I’m not surprised. You have that firm look.”
Tom didn’t notice the artifice. Most men didn’t. They were fools when it came to Brooke, at least initially. Sam cleared her throat. Her mother ignored her warning. Brooke’s head was inches away from his. It was embarrassing and pathetic that she needed this kind of constant attention and approval. Sam took out her frustration on the window, slamming her hand hard into the frame. It came unglued. She lifted it.
“My, but you’re strong!” Alma exclaimed, her voice several decibels too loud.
Sam flexed her nonexistent muscles. Inner strength, that’s what does it.
“Sam’s father doesn’t believe in this sort of thing,” Brooke said. Sam winced. Not that one!
“What sort of thing is that, Brooke?” Sam interjected, flushing.
“Why, you know,” Brooke threw out vaguely. She used her hand to encompass the room with its stale air and standard issue furnishings. Sam knew where her mother was headed. By pretending she had a loving husband at home, Brooke could sanctify this as an innocent flirtation. Tom was not even close to her type. Brooke fell for aging rock stars, alcoholic painters, and euro trash.
“My father lives in Vermont,” Sam said under her breath. She shot Brooke a warning look.
“Your father adores the country,” Brooke continued, ignoring the implicit threat.
Yes he does, Sam thought. And when he got divorced, he left the city and his son and daughter far, far behind. She hadn’t seen him in eight years, although she still kept a photograph of him in her wallet. Originally, it had showed dear old dad with his brand new family, a bouncing boy named Damian (who names a child after the devil?) and their former au pair, the bountiful Eliza. Sam cut them out and kept him. She looked at it from time to time, reminding herself of how disappointing fathers could be. Hey, she could share it now.
“Did you folks have to travel far?” Tom asked.
“Just from Brooklyn,” Sam said.
“This is our first time in the city,” Tom allowed.
“Really?” Brooke managed to sound authentically surprised.
“We’re from Appleton. Appleton, Wisconsin.”
“Wisconsin. I’ve been to Milwaukee,” Brooke told him. “Beer. The Brewers. The Milwaukee Rep.”
“Tom and I, we don’t get down to the city all that much. We’re just settling back in,” Alma said brightly. “What with Tom’s retiring.”
“You’re retired?” Brooke inquired.
“Tom was a lieutenant in the Navy,” Alma explained. “They give you a real nice pension.”
“A Navy man. Now isn’t that interesting. I’ll bet you went just about everywhere,” Brooke said.
“I guess we did travel quite a bit,” Tom agreed.
“A bit? My lord!” Alma exclaimed. “Japan. Germany. The Philippines, why you name it. Lucy here was born over in Germany. She’s our youngest. We have six.”
“Alma,” Tom said quietly.
“What?” Alma asked. She made a clucking noise and bent over, then dug into the trunk to emerge with more pink towels.
“Six children? God, two almost killed me,” Brooke exclaimed.
Sam thought about grabbing her and yanking her to her feet, then whisking her away. Stop. Please just stop! Sam couldn’t do it. It would be too humiliating. She told herself this would be over in a few more minutes. Brooke would go, Lucy’s parents too, then she and this girl Lucy would finally be alone. What would that be like? What could they possibly have in common? Then Sam realized Lucy was staring at her. Lucy’s expression said, “When will our suffering end?”
She smiled and Lucy rolled her eyes.
“Is your other one a girl?” Alma inquired.
“A boy. Winston. We call him Win.”
“Is he in college too?”
“He’s finding himself,” Brooke said, dully.
Alma had unwittingly stumbled into the thicket of true despair. Brooke stared down at her scarf, stunned into silence. Win wasn’t finding himself. He was escaping her clutches for the umpteenth time. His avowed desire to flee from his mother had broken her heart. Sam had mixed feelings. Growing up, Win had been both protective of her and abusive. There were childhood games like Fifty-Two Card Pick Up and Hostage (guess who was the hostage?), and all those mornings when he woke her with a dousing from a squirt gun, then chased her through the apartment and right out onto the street in her pajamas. He was like that comic book villain he’d introduced her to back when, Two Face. It was also Win who made sure she didn’t break her neck on the jungle gym when Brooke was rehearsing for her next big break. And without his guidance, Sam would have been listening to what was on the top forty on WABC. Win had patiently schooled her in music, from the Beatles to Otis. Sam sympathized with her brother. He wanted to just be a kid; instead, at twelve, he’d been stuck caring for her. He didn’t exactly ask to be the man of the house. No wonder Win alternately loved and despised her. It was kind of his right.
Sam’s possessions were stashed. She plopped down in her desk chair and spun round. Alma was still unpacking. On the surface, their families couldn’t have been more different. Lucy’s was honest to god, dyed in the wool, All American. These people probably said grace at every meal. And look at how well prepared they were. Alma had packed her daughter a first aid kit. Yes, all that pink was cringe inducing, but at least this mother had thought to provide her daughter with actual new bedding. Sam’s own sheets were stripped off her bed at home then stuffed into the duffel bag.
These Westcotts were solid. They knew how to parent. Sam visualized Lucy’s home. It featured modest décor. There was a dining room table with a seasonal centerpiece. For fall, a cast iron turkey surrounded by orange and red autumnal leaves; for winter, a snowman with sprigs of rubberized fir; for spring, lilacs and tulips; for summer, daisies, gladiolus, and dahlias. At dinner, after saying grace, they’d devour a hearty meal. And round that table, five other male children. All were undoubtedly youthful versions of Tom.
“You’d think for all the money it costs to go here they’d invest in air conditioning,” Brooke said.
Alma retrieved another pink item from the trunk. As she unfolded it, Sam realized it was a curtain.
“Mom, stop, please just stop,” Lucy begged.
“Stop what?” Alma asked innocently.
“Stop fussing over me.”
> “I’m not fussing,” Alma said. She dug into the trunk again and emerged with a brand new curtain rod wrapped in plastic.
“Alma, sweetheart,” Tom said. “Why don’t you sit down for a while and rest?”
Alma ignored him, stubbornly working the rod out of its sheath.
“Mom, Samantha is living here, too. She might not want those curtains.”
“I’m just going to try them out,” Alma said.
“And we’re just going to take them down when you leave,” Lucy told her.
“Let’s just see how they look.”
“God, let’s just not,” Lucy said.
“What’s gotten into you?” Alma asked, clearly hurt. “I’m only trying to help.”
“It’s her room, Alma,” Tom said softly.
“Yes,” Alma agreed, yet she headed for the window. Tom stood, going for the interception.
“You’re upsetting Lucy,” he told her, grabbing hold of the rod.
There was a brief struggle. Then Alma managed to wrest it away. He shook his head. Her face reddened. She spun round and found Sam. Sam saw she needed an ally and she would have been one, she did feel sorry for her, but Sam had to live with Lucy. The lines were already drawn. Poor Alma was starkly, completely alone.
“You said you liked the curtains,” she tried. “They’re your favorite color.”
“I haven’t had a favorite color since I was five,” Lucy said bluntly.
This was evidently a private family matter. Sam tried to catch her mother’s eye, but Brooke ignored her. They should go but Brooke was clearly enjoying this. When they were alone again, Brooke would have at the Westcotts, disemboweling Tom, the decommissioned naval officer and former jock who was stupid enough to imagine himself as hot as he was in high school and Alma, the housewife who had six, count them, six children. Oh, the plebeian misery of their boring, Midwestern, Middle American lives! Look at them, Brooke would crow. Look at her. Her dress was just ridiculous!
It was Sam’s job to defend them. She’d have to beg her mother to stop, although she knew that Brooke would refuse to relent. If pushed, she would beat her breast and swear she’d done as much and more for her children. Sharper than a serpent’s tooth, these children of hers. If that didn’t work, she’d crank it up another notch, sobbing. In the end, everything was always about Brooke.
Alma held the screwdriver in one hand, the case of screws and rod holders in the other. She was also attempting to hold onto what was left of her dignity. Her mouth was a thin line. She’d tamped down the tears. Alma was brave, Sam thought. And stalwart. The woman was doing her best. Impulsively, Sam got up and went to her, then hugged her from behind. “Oh my,” Alma said, turning. There was a glimmer of disappointment in her eyes. She’d hoped for Lucy. But then she gamely smiled, accepting this last minute replacement.
3
Muriel Earhart Morrissey
September 1980
IT WAS ONLY September and yet the house was already chilly. It wasn’t even below thirty-two degrees outside; soon enough, winter weather would come. It would be unforgiving and bleak with snowbanks rising up the sides of the path dug along the street. On sunny days Muriel would be blinded, going from indoors to out.
Muriel went upstairs to her bedroom, took a cardigan out of the top drawer, and pulled it on. She checked in the mirror to make sure she’d buttoned it right and recoiled. It was still a surprise to see her reflection. How had she gotten this old? When had her hair turned whitest white? When had she become this snow queen?
Enough!
Downstairs, she went to get her purse where she’d left it on the kitchen table.
Only it wasn’t there.
Where on earth?
She checked the living room, then the hall, then sighed and made her way back upstairs.
If your mind went, you went with it. She had had too many friends who had fallen prey to criminal mischief because of it. Fearing their nest eggs would no longer suffice, the poor fools had entered contests. When the phone call came to congratulate them, the supposed winners were ecstatic and eager to give out all their pertinent information. A million dollars was to be wired to their bank account. One week later, those same foolish souls discovered their accounts cleaned out. Then they had to choose between the spare room at their children’s house and an old age home. Muriel had told herself she’d exit gracefully before her mind went south. Ah yes, the best laid plans.
Now where was that purse? It wasn’t on the dresser or on the bed or hanging in the closet. Muriel stood in the hall, trying to think. She was getting senile along with everything else.
It came over her then. She missed both of them so much. She doubled over from the pain. You expected that you might outlive your husband. You saw the walking wounded, a society of widows all around you. But outliving your child? It didn’t bear imagining.
Muriel had a sudden memory of her own mother standing in this same house, waiting. That time, it was Amelia. Mother, irredeemably broken, clutching at all the what ifs. The plane was lost over the Pacific. That time, the word “lost” called forth its optimistic opposite. Once lost, mightn’t she be found? Their mother had kept her bag packed just in case right up until the day she died. She’d always believed that Amelia would come back.
In my case, Muriel thought, the word lost is truly a euphemism. They’re dead. Dead. If only I could pretend otherwise.
She couldn’t. All those trips she’d made to the hospital and the hours spent standing by the bed as the machines ticked both their lives away. Some of her clothing still retained that horrid antiseptic smell. She’d washed it and dry-cleaned it, but the stink was still there. After their son died, her husband, Albert had been her rock. He’d said they would stay right here and take whatever came to them. They would die with their boots on. What a bald faced lie. Muriel had held his hand in the ambulance as he gasped for breath.
“Don’t let them take me there,” he’d begged her but Muriel had ignored him. She’d been selfish. She’d needed him alive and with her and what if they could save him?
Here was the purse, right where she’d left it, hanging off the coat-hook in the mudroom. Muriel locked the door behind her and set off down the street.
HER HOME SAT on a side street in Medford. Albert had been house-proud, and his son helped out. The two of them toiled through long, hot summers on their projects. Wiring. Plumbing. Painting. They were handy men, handy men to have around. Now they were both gone and things were going awry. One toilet flushed itself as if a ghost was using it. There was a steady drip in the kitchen sink. The electric door opener for the garage was on the fritz. She would have to call someone eventually.
It was a relief to get out. To be heading somewhere else. Muriel was the only pedestrian. Everyone drove these days, no one bothered to walk even a block when they could drive, making you eat their dust.
Muriel walked with determination. Watching the speed walkers at the Olympics, Albert had said, “Why Muriel, that’s you.” It was true. She was hard to catch up with, even with Albert’s big strides. She headed for town.
Virgil Washinawok stood at the counter inside the Book Nook on High Street. He was talking to three college age boys. Underneath the register, stands held the daily papers. There was the Boston Globe, The Boston Herald, The Medford Transcript, The Boston Phoenix, and those big city standards, The Wall Street Journal and New York Times.
Muriel headed to the back, past the stock shelved alphabetically in the handmade wooden bookcases. Virgil had set books aside in a reading area. He’d put in two big armchairs and a coffee table. New releases were cracked open so many times in the first week that they looked secondhand. Muriel had told him it seemed a little foolish, giving books away like that, for free.
“If they wanted them for free, they’d go to the library,” he replied.
She couldn’t quite see the logic there. Of course, reading a book at Virgil’s was much more pleasant than sitting in the library, with its fluorescent ligh
ting and hard wooden chairs. There it felt unwelcoming and sterile, like a hospital ward. Here, you could settle in.
Virgil believed that after a few hours of reading, they’d buy something. Muriel knew better. Why spend the money? Then, there was the thrill of doing something illicit to reckon with. Muriel had spotted more than one Tufts student slip something into his or her pocket or purse. She’d alerted Virgil. It was curious how he responded, doing the same thing each time. As the thief left, he’d ask if they had something they needed to tell him. Nine times out of ten they would pull out the book and pay for it. It was a dance, Muriel thought, and even when they brazened it out, Virgil didn’t threaten them or call the police. He said that their conscience would get to them eventually. Muriel doubted it. Her own Albert would have done things differently. He’d been a strict man. He believed in teaching a lesson. He would have called the police and had every one of them arrested.
Every so often Muriel bought a paperback. That assuaged her guilt for taking up this space, for sitting down and starting to read then looking up and discovering it was already dark outside.
At first, Virgil only exchanged pleasantries with her.
But now he set books aside for her. Kept them by the cash register and gave them to her and even asked her opinion.
Muriel had always been a reader. When she was young, she and Amelia had had to sit for centuries in their grandmother’s library. They’d read all of Dickens, all of Eliot, all of Thackeray. Once out of school and able to choose for herself, Muriel discovered she preferred humor. It was Huck Finn and everything else Mark Twain wrote. She adored Oscar Wilde. There was always an importance in being earnest.
Irony abounded.
Years ago she’d imagined herself having her own great adventure, back when she and Amelia were so young. Then, they’d both known how to shoot a rifle, how to cut down a squirrel in the prime of its life, and not bat an eye or feel a twinge of regret. But then boys came into the picture. For her, there’d been Daniel Roberts in high school, and Bertram in college who went to Harvard and pinned her, and then of course Albert. Thus her fate was sealed.
