Sounds Like Crazy

by Mahaffey, Shana

  I had theater practice three nights a week and therapy two days a week. Even though the total number of hours for both was about eight hours, I was more exhausted than when I had a full voice-over schedule or a packed diner.That didn’t stop me from having panic attacks about my finances, but Milton was adamant that I continue to focus all my energy on our work.To make do, I returned the forms for the credit card applications that had now replaced the surprise checks in my mailbox and waited for the anxiety tide to go from low to high.

  The thought of Thanksgiving one week away transformed my financial panic into free-time panic, because there would be no theater practice Thursday night, and if Milton wouldn’t cut France short, he certainly wasn’t cutting out turkey. Add to that that Thanksgiving always marked the end of the season for The Neighborhood. I hadn’t watched the episodes with the new voices. I couldn’t for so many reasons. But I heard they were not as good as mine. Either way, I needed to find something to do for six days that made me forget about everything, including the TV show I was no longer on.

  I collapsed in the overstuffed chair in my living room and stared at the wall opposite me, hoping it would answer.The wall was a mishmash of pictures, disorganization to the extreme.Worse, there were marks here and there, along with the occasional hole from where I had mistakenly hammered a nail. These marks resembled the scars I carried when I was ten years old and I’d committed the serious offense of using tacks to hang things on my bedroom wall.

  On my tenth birthday, I got my first posters.They were pictures of animals with pithy sayings. The Boy loved to read them to me in the afternoon when I did my homework. After a few months, I had dozens of these poetic posters taped all over my room.The posters were taped because my mother never let us use tacks. Tacks left holes in her walls. But those damn posters were always falling off the walls, and finally I decided to buy my own poster tacks with the money she paid me for helping her clean the house. Guilt money, because I stayed home from summer camp one morning when I woke up scared and didn’t want to face the sunshine and noisy camp kids.

  I thought if I stayed home, my mother would bring me juice like she used to do for Sarah. I thought my mother and I could have a girls’ day, and I imagined we’d take our beach blankets, lie on the deck, and enjoy the languid warmth of the sun. I’d read books to her.We’d eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. After a while, I’d rub Hawaiian Tropic on the backs of her stubbly legs and we’d laugh when I said her legs felt like Daddy’s cheeks late at night. But I stayed home, forgetting that Sarah hadn’t done this for a long time and my mother didn’t bring anyone juice anymore.

  My holiday from summer camp was spent cleaning shutters with an old dishrag because my fingers were small enough to glide along each slat, wiping away the dust that had accumulated in the past forty-eight hours. After the shutters, I pushed the vacuum canister while Mother sucked the shag out of the carpet that hadn’t had time to gather dirt since the last pasting she had given it. She gave me a few bucks for my sore fingers and aching back—that and the pleasure of a ride to Lucky Supermarket, where she shopped for dinner.

  While my mother pushed her cart up and down the alleys of food, I wandered off to the stationery section, where I located the poster tacks. She noticed me only enough to tell me to use my two dollars if I was going to buy something. And not to slip anything into her cart.

  I went to another register and bought the tacks.

  When I got home, I went down the dark hallway to my room. My mother’s room really. I was just a guest. The decor echoed her personality. It was the same for every room in our house.They were all meat-locker cold, spare. My room was Antarctica, with powder blue walls and white trim around the windows and doors that enclosed the closet when they weren’t leaning against the wall, resting after one of my tantrums that resulted in the demise of not too strong hinges. In the family food chain I could feed only on the furniture, the perky little girl’s furniture that belonged to someone who vacillated between being a tomboy and a princess. A little girl who played in the mud, wore ripped jeans, and never bathed except when she was thrown, clothes and all, into the steaming water screaming,“Boys don’t wash their hair.” A little girl who wore frilly dresses and bows in brushed hair pulled into an eye-slanting bun.

  My room was filled with my mother’s choice of furniture: white little girl’s dresser, nightstand, and trundle bed for guests. Furniture with gold trim painted around the edges, perfect like my mother’s lipstick. I taped the posters of praying children and Donny Osmond on the walls. She hung the white chiffon curtains that framed the idyllic window offering a view of the wood-pile. From the outside all so perfect; from the inside rotten like a bowl of fruit that had been left out for days.

  “A grateful girl would love this room,” she had said to me once.

  Well, not me. I wanted my Hot Wheels tracks snaking about the floor so my cars could drive me away. I wanted my horses grazing freely in their blue shag pastures. I wanted my dented yellow Tonka truck sitting in a prime location, ready to take away the debris that had accumulated in my little city, ready to run over Barbie when she moseyed into my room trying to entice G.I. Joe away from his cowboy adventures in the pillow mountains over in the corner. But my things stayed safely hidden away in my closet sanctuary, peeking out only when the doors came down.

  I sat on my bed and ripped the plastic off those tacks.Then I ran my fingers over the cardboard backing, scratching the tips and finally pushing my forefinger down on a tack.

  “Ow,” I said, sticking my finger in my mouth.

  I grabbed the first tack with what little fingernails I had. Then I caught the corner of my Donny Osmond poster and determinedly pushed that tack into the wall. I hoped I made a big hole. I did the same with the other three corners. Donny wasn’t falling on my body again.

  I reclined on my bed, satisfied. Donny was pierced to the wall. The praying children would no longer slip and turn, their entreaties pointing to hell instead of heaven.

  My mother walked in.

  I sat up and kicked the cardboard holding the few remaining tacks to the floor. Her eyes followed its descent. Her hands swooped and fingernail fangs caught the cardboard prey. She passed a fleeting glance across each picture on the wall; the red periods of each corner shone like beacons.

  “How dare you,” she exclaimed.

  “I—”

  “Who do you think you are?”

  She came at me. I recoiled. She slapped me with the cardboard. I covered my face. She caught my wrists, pressing the cardboard that still held tacks against the right one, piercing my skin in her fury. I went limp, retreating into my head. Nobody shifted to take over. I lay there like a rag doll. She let go, tossed the cardboard on the mattress, and left the room.

  As an adult, when I hung a picture, I still glanced over my shoulder to see if my mother was there. Then I used really big nails and didn’t measure. I usually made quite a mess before hanging a picture just right.

  The wall in front of me at that moment certainly was quite a mess. Maybe I should paint. I wonder how much that will cost. Oh, who cares? Next week that’s what I’ll do during my free time.

  I was in the middle of a short story in the New Yorker when Milton opened the door.

  “Just let me get to the break.” I held up a finger.

  Milton cleared his throat. I closed the magazine and placed it back on the table and stood up.

  “You shouldn’t have magazines in your waiting room if you don’t want people reading them.”

  I walked into the room, sat down, and closed my eyes. Betty Jane reclined on the couch. Sarge and Little Bean were left to stand.

  “Slide over,” I said to her. She didn’t budge. I wished I’d smoked more before coming in. Betty Jane would probably move if I reeked like a Parisian, but since the session when I had discovered how I started smoking, my stomach had soured before I was halfway through with a cigarette.

  Finally, Sarge and Little Bean dropped to the flo
or. “You don’t have to sit on the floor,” said Ruffles. “You can share my pillow.”

  Betty Jane sat up, but they still went over and sat with Ruffles on her pillow. Then she pulled out her nail file, but the scraping had an antsy quality about it.

  “Do they know what I think about outside here?” I said to Milton.

  “Why? Were you thinking about something significant?” he said.

  I wanted to tell him no, but the rest of the memory I’d unearthed while staring at my holey wall came rushing toward me.

  “My mother never let things go very easily,” I said,“especially not holes in her walls. I’d made a few, so I skipped dinner. I knew I would pay for my civil disobedience, but I hoped to delay punishment as long as I could.”

  I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling and listening to my stomach growl. Dinner was hours ago and my afternoon snack had long been digested. After eleven, headlights from the driveway shone through my window. A car door slammed and the front door followed suit shortly after. I expected the shouting to start any moment. That would come only from my father. My mother’s voice always lowered in direct proportion to her anger and my father’s rose with his.

  I crawled out of bed, inched down the hallway, and stopped short of the entrance. My parents’ bedroom was off to the left.

  “. . . what time . . . and drunk,” was all I could hear my mother say.

  “Lay off, will you?” demanded my father. “Christ, it’s always the same with you.”

  More muffled words followed; then I heard, “Holly . . . disobedient . . . had it with her.”

  I ran back to my room, slipped through the slightly ajar doorway, and dove into my bed. I was afraid of the dark. I wanted a light on at night. My parents compromised by leaving the laundry room light on and my door open just enough so a friendly beam of light offered a sliver of hope.

  The light disappeared. The darkness closed in on me. My bedroom door slid across the carpet. I smelled whiskey and stale cigarette smoke. I heard my father unbuckling his belt. “Holly,” he whispered as he drew back the covers. I turned and scuttled away from him, hitting the wall on the side of my bed opposite my father. He couldn’t even wait until morning to deliver the beating my mother had goaded him into giving me.

  I shut my eyes and saw Sarge dressed in camouflage creeping along a dark trench. His helmet and face were blackened as usual to help him blend in with the scenery. Back in the fox-hole the Boy huddled next to the Silent One, who sat calmly praying.

  “Holly,” commanded Sarge, motioning me to follow. My eyes rolled back in my head.

  “You stay and keep watch,” Sarge said fiercely to the Silent One. “I’ll get them to safety. Signal when it’s time to return.”

  The Silent One, his face a grave mask, bowed his head.

  Sarge held me and the Boy against his body as he moved stealthily toward a dim light in the distance.The darkness propelled us forward. I looked back. I couldn’t see the Silent One.

  “All clear,” said Sarge, putting us down in front of his ’57 Chevy. I looked back at a blank wall. “Holly, face forward,” ordered Sarge, pointing at the car. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt again. He opened the driver’s door and we all got in the front.

  The Boy and I rode along quietly. My eyes followed the yellow line on the road as Sarge drove. After about a mile, we pulled into a parking lot. In front of us was a well-lit playground with a large swing set in a sandpit. Everything surrounding it was dim and gray, as if a stage light were concentrated on this one area in the playground.

  Sarge parked the car and turned off the engine.

  I opened the passenger door.

  “Holly, I am afraid,” said the Boy.

  “Why?” I asked. “This’ll be fun.”

  Sarge sat on a picnic table, his feet on the bench, watching me and the Boy. I waved at him.Then I gripped the swing chains, dropped into the leather seat, and turned to the Boy.“Follow me,” I said as I kicked off and started swinging back and forth.

  On each ascent I stretched out my legs and then swept them back so I’d go faster and higher. Darkness and light became confused. Finally I pushed the swing up so high I was almost horizontal. Momentum rushed through my body and pressed me forward. Then a bolt of fear shot through my chest. My hands slipped on the chains. I sailed backward. The Boy screamed. I dragged my feet across the ground to slow myself. The Boy sat motionless, clutching his swing chains and crying. When I started moving forward, I dug in my heels, angled my body toward him, and pitched off my seat. In the next motion, I put my arms protectively around the Boy, shielding his back with my body.

  “Don’t cry,” I whispered as I hugged him tighter. “I’m sorry. You’re okay.You’re okay.”

  Sarge nodded his head, stood up, and motioned to us.

  “Come on.”

  I led the Boy over to the car. My lower body ached and throbbed against the leather seat. We sat in there for a few minutes.

  “Holly,” Sarge said, holding my face in both hands, “time to go home now.”

  I wanted to get out of the car and run as fast as I could. Run past the swings and into the dark night beyond. Sarge patted my head.

  When we pulled out of the parking lot, I whispered to Sarge, “Let’s keep going. Just drive until we reach the other side of the world. Never come back.”

  Sarge shook his head sadly and parked in the driveway. I started to feel more solid. I got out of the car, slowly made my way up the walk, and then opened the front door.The Silent One bowed. As I stepped in, my knees gave way under me. I heard the crackling sound of a burning cigarette. I opened my eyes and saw a glowing orange tip over in the corner on my rocking chair. It moved toward me. I smelled stale whiskey and burned tobacco. Then I saw the silhouette of my father moving away.

  “Holly, go to sleep now,” he whispered as he pulled my bedroom door all the way shut.

  I sat on Milton’s couch weeping.

  “Holly, do you think she knew your father would beat you if she told him about the tacks?” said Milton quietly.

  “She knew,” said Little Bean. “She always knew.”

  { 19 }

  By Thanksgiving day the postcard encounters with the Committee had transformed the loneliness I felt into a distant ache, proving that patience does pay dividends, even if they were not the ones I’d waited patiently for. But because it was Thursday, I found myself at loose ends and longing for some sort of company. So I was out walking in sandals despite all the grief they’d caused. For some reason, after my feet tasted freedom, they refused to go back into closed shoes. What was I going to do when it started snowing?

  On holidays, Manhattan streets provided an anonymous comfort the usual frenzied pace vitiated and gave unusual sounds a chance to breathe. Or maybe it seemed so on that particular Thursday because all the street sounds were new to me. Maybe that was why the familiar rattle of a Volkswagen Beetle from the sixties, the one that sounded like a bag of rocks and sand shaking, stood out as it approached me from behind. When I heard that sound, my surroundings dimmed and I felt as if I were back in second grade waiting for Uncle Dan to pick me up from school.

  My uncle said to me once, “Routine is the momentum that keeps a man going.” Our routine started when I entered second grade. It consisted of Uncle Dan transporting me to and from school every day in his powder blue VW Beetle.We called it the School Bug.That School Bug departed our home every morning at precisely seven thirty-five, and it approached the school entrance every day at precisely five minutes past three in the afternoon, which was the exact moment I’d walk through the front door of the building.

  He never left me waiting. Not once, and that year those rides were the highlight of my day. In the mornings we’d load up and listen to Bruce Springsteen on the way to school.We usually got through two songs before I exited the car. But the afternoon ride was my favorite, because I got to stand and sing the whole way home.

  The following year, when I started third grade, we
settled right back in as if only a weekend instead of a whole summer had passed.

  Friday, October 2nd was the last day Uncle Dan picked me up from school. The night before, Sarah and I had heard my mother and my uncle arguing.The yelling started after my bedtime. When we heard the raised voices, Sarah turned up her record player. I crawled out of bed, crept up the stairs, and crouched just below the landing, where I could hear but not be seen.

  “Sneaking around the house at night imagining things.” My mother spoke in a loud tone. I sat up, surprised. She always said a lady never yelled. I ducked back down. My uncle did ghost around the house. We would find him in the oddest places. Usually crouched behind furniture. Sitting at the kitchen table staring at the wall. One morning I woke up in my father’s closet and there he was sitting next to me. My eyelids were crusty and I had to pull hard to peel them apart.When I did, the first thing I saw was his arm with the freckles dancing in the curly red hairs. I rubbed the grit out of my eyes and saw the whole of him. Back against the wall. Knees up. His eyes wide open, vacant, staring.

  “Elizabeth.” My uncle sighed.“I don’t deny that I have problems, and I am grateful for all you’ve done for me. But you, the girls . . . I am concerned for your safety. Holly told me—”

  “Holly is a liar,” snapped my mother. “She lives in her own little world.You of all people know about that.”

  “Elizabeth, she showed me the bruises on the backs of her legs.” I bit my knee to keep from making any noise. After a visit from my father the night before, I had always tried to sit on the car seat with force to get the first wave of pain out of the way. The act of doing so had a numbing effect, and each sitting down thereafter hurt less and less. By the end of the day I almost didn’t notice it. But this worked only if there was a break between the beatings.After I got one, I would make an effort to stay quiet and out of the way, but I didn’t manage it that week. Uncle Dan had noticed me grimace as I had tried to gingerly sit on the bench seat of the car. He clenched his teeth and slapped the seat next to me with his hand. I flinched. He apologized and pulled me close. As he hugged me, he checked the backs of my legs. Then he promised that he’d make sure this didn’t happen again.