by Rand, Naomi;
They all were.
At the Dakota the crowd sang “Give Peace A Chance.”
Sam choked up. Last spring, they’d been smoking a joint. “We should see if John wants some,” they’d joked, but too late. She had been close enough to touch his jacket. If she’d only reached out. But father and son were past by then, walking up the hill and disappearing from view.
Now he was gone forever.
Being happy should be easy and effortless. It should just come, Sam thought. But it didn’t happen that way. It was hard to be happy, even if you were famous and rich and successful beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. John had been so many different people in his life, the original mop-top, a husband and young father turned hippie and druggie, then a man so truly in love he would give up everything for it, for her, for his son.
Life was so desperately unfair.
The policemen standing vigil looked stricken themselves, solemn and grim. They were probably Beatle fans, too. Who wasn’t? Being a fan, you felt touched by the person you admired in a special way. It was as if that famous person was your very best friend. They weren’t. You were no one to them, but they were everything to you. It was odd how deluded fans became. How being near your idol was enough to lighten your mood. Their specialness rubbed off, or so you imagined. She’d found herself telling the story of John Lennon walking right by her. It had made her feel brighter and better, she’d felt important solely because of that proximity.
But all he’d wanted to do was to walk through the park like any other father holding onto his son’s hand, his own lovely son. It was true, she hadn’t hounded him or asked for his autograph, she’d left him alone because she was a New Yorker and that was what you were trained to do from birth and it was a good thing to be like that. To pretend as if it didn’t matter, even though it did.
Sam was crying. She wiped the tears away. The rain fell steadily, chilling her. There were lights lit in the apartments above them. The yellow crime scene tape flapped wildly. Faces appeared at the windows.
“I’m Patricia Whitten from the BBC. Can I ask you a few questions?” The reporter had a clipped British accent. Arc lights flared, illuminating Sam and Lucy, trapping them.
“I guess,” Sam said.
“Super! Can I have your names then?”
“Sam. Samantha Barry.”
“And you?”
Lucy shrugged.
“Why are you girls down here?”
“We just wanted to come,” Sam said. “We thought we should.”
“Why come to the Dakota?”
“This is where John lived,” Sam said.
“You don’t think it an intrusion?”
Sam stared at the woman. Of course it was. Yet here they all were. It felt right to stand vigil but now that she’d said it, Sam saw how horribly wrong it was. She flushed, embarrassed. She thought of how Win had blasted the White Album the day it came out. How Win had taught her the words to every one of those songs. “So you say it’s your birthday.” Then she imagined John Lennon arriving home, thinking it a normal day, that he would have all the time in the world left to say and do whatever needed to be done for Yoko, for Sean. Sam was sobbing. She turned away, wiping at the tears.
“We’re here because we don’t know where else to go,” Lucy said, taking over.
The woman swung towards her. “How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Why does that matter?”
“It’s a point of interest. Fans of all ages you know.”
“I’m eighteen,” Lucy said.
“To you he was more the later Lennon than John the Beatle.”
Lucy nodded bravely.
“It wasn’t a question of him being your favorite?”
“My favorite?” Lucy’s jaw dropped.
The woman persisted. “One did have favorites, you see. Some liked John, others preferred Paul.”
“That’s a terrible thing to say,” Lucy told her.
“You shouldn’t ask that question. Can’t you hear yourself?” Sam agreed. “What sort of person are you?”
“Excuse me?” The reporter smiled brightly.
“I can’t excuse you,” Sam said firmly.
She grabbed Lucy and pulled her through the crowd, finding an exit on the far side.
“Favorites,” Lucy said in disgust.
They crossed the street and clambered up on a park bench. Sam’s jacket was soaked, her feet numb inside the canvas Converse sneakers. Above their heads, the limbs of a naked oak helped to thwart a little of the water.
“We shouldn’t be here. We should leave Yoko alone,” Lucy said. Just then, an entire floor in the Dakota went dark. Lucy grabbed Sam’s hand. Her cold breath made smoke signals. “No one really knows what it’s like until it happens to you. No one realizes.” Lucy’s gaze was fixed on some foreign, miserable spot. “Donnie was the first person I ever got stoned with. I was fourteen and straight as an arrow, junior barrel racing champion, queen of the pep club. I was my dad’s daughter, did everything the way he wanted it done. My parents were out to a movie that night. Donnie and some friends were going to the drive-in to see Star Wars. They’d seen it like six times or something. It wasn’t the kind of movie I liked. I didn’t care about science fiction at all. But Donnie got me to come along. He could really get you to do anything. He was like that. It was the first time I ever smoked pot. They took out the joint and passed it. Donnie said, ‘Go on, Lucy, it won’t kill you to try it.’ He was always daring you to step outside of yourself, outside of what you were comfortable doing. But not in a really dangerous way, it was like he was promising he’d be there for you if something happened.” Lucy sighed. “I still think Star Wars is a comedy. He and his friends were making jokes through the whole thing.”
“You must miss him so much.”
“I do miss him,” she said softly. “What’s even worse is when I forget about him. What kind of person forgets?”
“Everyone forgets. It’s normal.”
“No, it’s not. It’s wrong. Because if I forget, then what happens to him? He’ll be gone, and I don’t want him to be gone.” Lucy was desolate.
Sam’s heart expanded. It included Lucy, of course, but also everyone who’d ever lost someone near and dear to themselves, who’d suffered and ached, finally understanding that once that person was gone they could never be replaced, that living with the absence was all you could do. To do that, you had to be brave in ways that tested you. It wasn’t obvious bravery. It was something that you tucked inside, something that was rooted down deep, a very specific kind of courage. Everyone was forced to see how he or she would manage this if they were the ones who lived. Survival required adaptation, just as in nature. It was better to survive, but it wasn’t easy to know how to live afterwards.
Lucy let go of Sam’s hand and stuffed her own into her pocket. The crowd across the street had fallen silent.
“My mom never thought that Donnie could do anything wrong,” Lucy said. “He was her favorite so to Mom, he was perfect in every way. Donnie fooled her. If she’d looked a little harder, maybe she would have seen who he really was. Then again, maybe you just can’t see who your kids are. Maybe you love them too much for that.”
“What about your dad?”
“My dad thought Donnie was soft. He was always ragging on him to be a man and toughen up. It was his special Donnie litany. I remember this one time Donnie and my mom were watching TV together. Donnie couldn’t have been more than nine years old, just a little kid. My mom was stroking his hair and hugging him and they had this special smile they shared, this special secret way of looking at each other. Maybe my dad was jealous, I don’t know. That day, my dad got this look on his own face. It was the one that meant you ought to go hide until he cooled down. I tried to warn them. I waved at them, but they didn’t see. Then it was too late. He went ballistic. ‘You’re ruining him. You keep up like that and that boy will be a fag. It’ll be your fault.’ He went into a total rage, throwing
things around, scaring the shit out of me. After that, Donnie wouldn’t let my mom touch him.”
“That’s horrible,” Sam said.
“I know. I do love my dad,” Lucy said. “But he’s a Neanderthal, he really is. I mean, he does his best, considering. But sometimes his best isn’t even close to good enough.”
“I know what you mean,” Sam said. She would tell her now. She would tell her what she had never told anyone else. Lucy deserved to hear it. And imagine letting it out, finally. How would that even feel?
But Lucy was going on. “The fucking police, they were such cowards. When they phoned, my mom just kept saying, ‘no.’ Then she handed my dad the phone. I was sitting in the living room watching TV and half watching them. I knew something was wrong. I had this knot in my stomach. You want to know what it is, then again, you don’t. You want it to go away. You want everything to stop, to just stop. At the funeral, none of the other boys’ parents showed up. Everyone blamed Donnie because he was driving.”
“You said he killed himself.”
“He turned the car into oncoming traffic. I went out there to see where it happened. He rode right across the median to do it. I know he was drunk, but even so, you see what’s coming at you. You know that much.”
“Sometimes you don’t,” Sam insisted.
“Sometimes you just want it to be over,” Lucy said. “Sometimes that’s all that matters. You don’t think about the rest. Sometimes I guess some people just are selfish. I hate him for being that way. Which is the worst part you know, because I loved him so much. I mean, how can it be that he didn’t care how we were going to feel? How could he not think about that?”
Lucy jumped down off the bench.
How indeed, Sam thought. She knew what Lucy meant all too well.
They walked back to the uptown bus and sat in the back again, drying off their clammy clothing. Sam saw their reflection, cemented inside the double-paned glass of the bus window.
“Listen, I shouldn’t be asking for advice with Dusty. I know I have to figure it out myself, I’m a big girl.”
Dusty. There it was. Sam couldn’t escape.
“But there’s this other thing.”
Sam held her breath, afraid of what that was.
“My mom invited you out for Christmas. Would you consider coming?”
“Oh.” It was a relief. In fact, when Sam thought about the bare bones Christmas tree in Brooke’s living room she wanted to escape. Brooke and Win waking past noon, all bleary eyed, to open the presents, then all of them trooping across the river and through the Central Park thickets to Grandmother Katherine’s apartment for their ritualistic dressing down. Win usually got her CDs boosted from the local record store; once he even stole Lanvin perfume for her. She wore it faithfully, dabbing it on the sides of her neck for a month until Brooke told her she smelled like an old Parisian lady. The best present he ever gave her was won at the San Gennaro fair. It was a black and white stuffed dog. She named it Spot and slept with it for weeks. Then one day, it was gone.
“Tracy thought it was cute,” Win said. When she started sobbing, he added, “I’ll get you something better. Don’t cry. Please, I can’t bear it when you cry.”
True to his word, the next day a teddy bear was on her bed. Win did his best but it wasn’t enough because how could it be? Brooke’s all his this year, Sam decided. He came back home just in time for Christmas. So why not let him have Brooke, have her and coddle her and get stoned with her and get fed up with her and disappear again maybe after New Years’? In the interim, she would escape. There was no earthly reason not to. It was her turn now, Sam told herself, burying the guilt as deep as she dared.
“I’d love to go to Wisconsin with you,” she said, squeezing Lucy’s hand.
As they walked from the bus stop, Sam looked over her shoulder, checking for predators. An icy wind blew up off the river.
“What have you girls been up to?” the guard at the campus gate asked, tossing a wink.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Lucy replied. Then she took off. In a footrace she had the advantage, outpacing Sam by a yard, her long hair flying.
15
Muriel
December 1980
CELIA SAID, “I do” at the nave of the church. Muriel beamed. Then she joined the guests in the reception hall just across the street. A band was setting up on the raised dais. Above them, a banner proclaimed “Celia and Gary. Partners Forever.” Exquisite pink, red, and yellow flower centerpieces graced the tables. Muriel enjoyed her pig in a blanket as she contemplated what forever meant these days. Celia and Gary had been high school sweethearts, so they’d had more time than most of their contemporaries to ponder the innumerable imponderables. Still, Muriel had read the statistics; one out of two marriages ended in divorce.
But here came the new bride and her groom. “Look at you, all grown up,” Muriel said, giving Celia a hug.
“Auntie Muriel.” Celia beamed. It was a fond nickname; Muriel wasn’t a real relation. Muriel shook Gary’s hand. His sky blue jacket shimmered. It reminded Muriel of the ones that singer Presley favored. Gary had a strong chin, but he wasn’t traditionally handsome. He was really more pleasant looking than anything else. Youth held its own attractions.
Five months pregnant, Celia’s yellow dress clung to her stomach. Muriel’s old friend Julie had been so upset when her granddaughter announced that she preferred to live in common law sin. “Monstrous,” she’d declared. Muriel disagreed. “Why not test the waters?” Julie was positively scandalized by Muriel’s laissez faire attitude. In the end, the temptation of gifts and money had proven too much. Celia and Gary were both art students and as broke as could be. They caved. Now here they were, married.
Muriel had always adored Celia. As a little girl Celia had been a wildcat, running her poor grandmother ragged. On an outing they’d all taken to the Harvard Museum of Natural History, Julie refused to buy three-year-old Celia some trinket. In protest, the child wailed, gnashing her teeth and pounding her tiny fists into the floor right next to the Kronosaurus. Julie begged her to stop, to no avail. She threw up her hands, walking away. That was when Muriel took over. Lifting the rag doll body from the floor, she said firmly, “Behave!” The tears dried right up. Children needed someone to set limits for them. That was how it was.
One friend then another came up to chat. Apparently the Medford Historical Society’s campaign to refurbish the Royall House was causing trouble. Alliances were forming. Would she be at the next meeting? Muriel was such a calming influence, a voice of reason, someone said. She didn’t commit. Then it was time for dinner. Muriel was at Julie’s table. The waitress set shrimp cocktails in front of them. Four demure curls of pink and white shellfish were draped over a handsome glass goblet.
Julie was deep in conversation with her daughter Erica, mother of the bride. This was the very same Erica, who so many years ago, played hide and seek and capture the flag with Muriel’s son. She’d met Julie back when her own children were in kindergarten. Just like that the knife went in, twisting in her gut.
Not here. Not now. Gritting her teeth, she turned to her right and discovered she knew the man slipping into the chair beside her. “Virgil, what on earth?”
“This is Mr. Washinawock.” Julie’s daughter, Erica, introduced him round the table. “He believed in our Celia from the very beginning.” Muriel got it then. Celia had worked at the bookstore back when she was in high school and Virgil had her do the window displays. Muriel remembered a particularly eye catching Halloween one, complete with headless horseman and goblins.
“How are you?” he asked Muriel.
It was a simple question, but one that reverberated. After that drive home, she’d avoided going back to the store.
“Good,” she said.
“Glad to hear it.”
“Muriel’s heading down to New York,” Julie interjected. “She’s giving a talk there. She’d going to be a keynote speaker at Columbia University.”
“I’m not going to be a keynote speaker,” Muriel corrected. “It’s nothing that grand.”
Mercifully, the waitress reappeared to remove the appetizers. The main course arrived seconds later, a feast of roast beef, mashed potatoes, and steamed carrots. Muriel dug in, grateful for the distraction. Her mouth was full when Virgil asked, “What are you doing then, if not being a keynote speaker? What’s your talk about?”
She chewed, swallowed, took a sip of water, and said, “They’re giving a student scholarship. I’m to introduce it somehow.”
“When is this all happening?”
“In January.”
“I’ll be in New York myself in January. Our ABA chapter has a meeting,” he said.
“ABA?”
“The booksellers association. I’m actually speaking to the group myself.”
“About?” Muriel asked.
“About this new trend, book banning.”
“Absurd, isn’t it?”
“And yet . . .”
Muriel nodded. She knew what he meant. Bad ideas came right back, just the same as all the good ones. All you had to do was live for long enough to find that out.
“What will you speak about?” he asked.
“My sister.”
Just then the best man stood, tapping on his glass.
The first speech was maudlin; the second, humorous; the third, verging on tasteless with its intimate knowledge of the bride and bridegroom’s private foibles.
Celia’s father got up and made a toast from their table. “I never thought I’d live to see the day,” he said to general laughter. He went on to roast Celia amiably and broke down when he said how he was happy to be gaining a son; he only hoped the boy knew what he was doing.
After that, they cut the cake.
There was a pause as it was devoured. It was too sweet. Muriel set down her fork. She saw Virgil’s piece was set aside as well, half eaten.
He saw her looking and leaned over. “Salt’s my downfall, not sugar.”
The microphone buzzed. The bandleader waited for the unpleasant noise to subside, then leaned in. “I want to welcome everyone to Celia and Gary’s wedding. The first song, by request of the bride and groom.”
