Godmother Night

by Rachel Pollack

  She returned to the kitchen and held it up at arm’s length, like a shield. “Here,” she said. “This is my protection.”

  Mother Night looked solemnly at the paper. “What are your demands?” she said.

  “I won’t go with you. That’s all. Kate needs me. And Laurie needs me. I’m not going.”

  Mother Night shook her head. “I’m sorry, Jaqe. I can’t do that. Name something else.”

  “Is this because of Laurie’s father? Because of what I did to him?”

  “This has nothing to do with Laurie’s father. It only has to do with you.”

  “Then why? It’s so unfair. He gets to live and I don’t. That’s wrong.”

  “I know,” Mother Night said. “What I do is not about fairness. But think of this. He lives because you chose to release him. You gave him life. Not for his sake, but for your own. And for Laurie, so that you would be worthy of her. You cannot choose what will happen to you, but when you faced the choice for someone else, you chose life.”

  “Then let me go. Let me stay with my family.” She added, “The candle. Give me a new candle. Another chance.”

  For the first time since Jaqe had known her, Mother Night became angry. “Don’t you think I’ve already done that?” she said. “Do you remember when Laurie’s father cut you? And you went into the woods? Those woods were not a safe place, Jaqe. They would have swallowed you forever if I had not reached out for you. I gave you an extension then. So you could bear a child. I cannot do any more than that.” Jaqe said nothing, only stood there, still holding the picture. Relaxed again, Mother Night said, “Make another demand.”

  There was silence for a moment, and then Jaqe said, “Kate. I want you to take care of her. Watch over her. Make sure no one gets to her and hurts her. Can you do that?”

  Mother Night nodded. “Yes, Jaqe. I give you my promise. I will watch over Kate as if she were my own child.”

  Jaqe began to cry. “And Laurie,” she said. “Will you take care of Laurie?”

  “I will do what I can.”

  As Jaqe looked at Mother Night the old woman seemed almost to dissolve. She was still sitting there, still smiling, but she had grown slightly transparent. An odd thought came to Jaqe—that she had known Mother Night for a very long time, that once there was no one but the two of them, the Mother and the Daughter, inseparable. But Jaqe had changed that. She had gone away and met Laurie. Instead of just a daughter, she had become Jaqe. She said, “If I go with you—if I return—I won’t stop loving Laurie. I hope you know that.”

  Mother Night nodded. “Absolutely. That is just the way it should be.” She stood up and held out her hands.

  Jaqe was about to take them when she heard, somewhere behind her, Kate crying. “Oh,” she said, “the baby. I better go see if she’s okay.”

  Mother Night said, “I’m sorry, Jaqe. Laurie will see to her. And remember, she’s under my protection now.”

  “Oh. That’s right,” Jaqe said. “I forgot.” She laid her hands on Mother Night’s palms. The small fingers circled around hers. Jaqe closed her eyes.

  Laurie became sick on the way home. Goddamn alcohol, she thought. She wanted to stop and throw up, right there in the street like some homeless person. But she couldn’t stop; there was no time. She had to get home before Mother Night got there. She was out of shape, she knew, and weak from lack of sleep and too much beer, but couldn’t she at least outrun an old lady?

  She reached the apartment building finally, and nearly screamed at how difficult it was to get the key in the lock and open the downstairs door. Finally, she got through it and ran up the stairs to her own front door, which took even longer. “Jaqe!” she shouted when she got inside. “Jaqe? The baby. Is she okay?”

  It took her a moment to realize that Kate was crying, screaming in fact, as loudly as any time in the months since her birth. “Oh God,” Laurie said, “Oh, Goddess. She’s okay. She’s all right.” She picked Kate up and held her a moment, just to make sure she didn’t feel hot or anything, then put her back down.

  How was she going to explain all her shouting to Jaqe? It didn’t matter, she realized. She’d think of something. Better not to tell Jaqe what had happened. She’d probably just imagined it anyway. She found Jaqe in the kitchen slumped over the table. Laurie pulled up a chair to sit across from her. Should she wake her? Anyone who could sleep through a noise like that deserved her rest. Goddess, she thought, I love you. I love you so damn much. She stroked Jaqe’s face.

  There was something wrong. Laurie could feel it instantly. She knew Jaqe’s skin. Asleep or awake, sick or healthy, it made no difference. Laurie knew how Jaqe felt. There was no give, no energy, no…Laurie shook her shoulder. “Honey?” she said. “Sweetheart?” She lifted Jaqe’s head. The eyes swung open, empty.

  “Jaqe!” Laurie shouted. She continued to shout, though she had no idea what she was saying. Then, 911, she thought, call 911. But all she did was shake Jaqe’s shoulder. And scream. Only when she heard the sound of the baby piercing through her own voice did she stop. She put her face right up against Jaqe’s, trying to convince herself she could find some sign, some tiny fantasy of breath. Nothing. She put her hand on Jaqe’s breast, a place she knew better than any spot on her own body. Nothing. Put her on the floor, she thought. Pound on her chest. Breathe into her mouth. But she knew there was no point. Jaqe had been dead for too long. Jaqe had been dead since that moment on the bridge, when Mother Night had turned and looked back at Laurie with the face of the old woman.

  Laurie was hugging Jaqe when she saw the Xeroxed photo with the drawing she’d made. She picked it up off the floor and carried it with her to the baby. Laurie picked up Kate and held her in one arm. “Look,” she said, dangling the drawing in front of Kate’s face with her free hand. “Look, this is your mommy. Isn’t she beautiful? Oh God, isn’t she beautiful?”

  Kate stopped crying. She reached out and took hold of the drawing. From that moment on, Kate would never cry without purpose again. She would yell for Laurie only when she needed food or changing or serious attention. Otherwise, she would play, or sleep, or watch the world—in peace and gentle silence. Laurie, of course, knew nothing of this. She knew only that her daughter was laughing, and the sight of this miracle opened her heart with joy even as pain rocked her back and forth, and tears filled her mouth, meeting the great sobs that were rising up from her throat.

  One

  Fly with the Crows

  Kate could never understand why Laurie wanted nothing to do with Kate’s wonderful godmother. Even when Kate was very young, before she could even talk very much, Kate knew there was something wrong between the two. Once, when Kate was just three, Laurie was in the kitchen making dinner, leaving Kate to play with a set of dolls in funny costumes Uncle Mark had given her, when a sweet smell broke Kate’s concentration. She looked up happily, for even though she’d never smelled it before, she knew right away what it must mean. And sure enough, there stood the Lady With the Hats. (Kate thought of her that way until the age of three, when the Lady—who seemed to wear a different funny hat each time Kate saw her—explained what a godmother was.) She wore a long dress with lots of folds and what looked like real green plants growing all over it. And her hat—it was all big and floppy, like the dress, but where the dress had plants the hat had people! Or at least what looked like faces hidden in the creases. And just the tiniest whisper of voices, hundreds of them, it seemed. The Lady set the hat down on the floor, and Kate crawled up to it.

  On her hands and knees, like a puppy, she put her face up close, trying to see all the people hidden in the hat, trying to hear the funny sounds they were making. She began to laugh loudly; it was all so much fun. Though the Lady put a finger against her lips, Kate paid no attention. Soon she heard Laurie-Mommy call from the kitchen. “Kate, sweetie? You okay?” Kate made a noise, by which she meant, “Come in, hurry. This is wonderful.” To her surprise, the Lady looked sadly at her, then picked up the hat from the floor and set it
back on her long red hair.

  “Honey?” Laurie said from the doorway. “What is it?” Kate turned to look at her. Thrilled that Laurie could now meet the wonderful Lady, Kate laughed again. But when she turned back, the Lady had gone.

  Soon after she learned what a godmother was, Kate discovered she better not talk about her. She discovered this on a day when she’d gone on a trip in Godmother’s cute red car. Godmother had taken her away from day care, as she sometimes did (Kate didn’t know what she told the day care ladies, but it always worked), and had driven her to a huge park or zoo where you could see the bones on all the animals. Later, when Kate tried to describe the zoo, Laurie said, “That sounds like quite a place. Did you go there all by yourself? Or did someone take you?”

  “Of course I didn’t,” Kate said. “It was Godmommy.”

  Laurie laughed. “God took you on a trip? That must have been very exciting. Did you fly in his beard?”

  Kate rolled her eyes. “Not God, Laurie. My Godmommy took me. In her red car.”

  The effect amazed her. Laurie bent down and grabbed Kate by the shoulders, really hard. And then she shouted. Laurie never shouted. “I want you to keep away from her! Do you hear me? I don’t want you going anywhere near her. I don’t want you even talking to her.” Kate stared at her. She didn’t cry or try to get loose; she just stared. Laurie pulled her hands away from Kate’s shoulders as suddenly as she’d grabbed them. “Sweetie, I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m sorry.” She put her arms around Kate and held her close.

  Kate liked that. Usually Laurie had so much to do she never had much time for touching. So now Kate felt like a present, with Laurie the gift wrapping. Finally, Laurie let her go, only now she held her shoulders again, except not so hard, and said to her, “Kate, I want you to promise me something. It’s very, very important. Do you understand?” Kate didn’t answer. Laurie said, “I don’t want you ever going anywhere with her again. And if she comes to see you, I want you to run and tell me. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Kate nodded. “Promise me,” Laurie said. Kate still said nothing. “Sweetie,” Laurie insisted, “you’ve got to promise me this. I can’t tell you how important it is.” When Kate asked why, Laurie said, “I can’t tell you that. You just have to promise. Please.”

  “Okay,” Kate said, and Laurie, who was suddenly crying (crying! Laurie never cried, just like Kate herself), hugged her again. Of course, Kate had crossed her big toe over the second one, which meant the promise didn’t count, a rule she’d learned from Alvin, a boy in day care.

  So Kate learned early to keep her godmother and Laurie in separate places in her life. She couldn’t even use Godmother as a threat. Once, when Laurie wouldn’t get her an ice cream (Laurie claimed she’d already eaten two chocolate chip cookies, an argument that made no sense of any kind to Kate), Kate had said to her, “I’ll bet my godmother would let me have ice cream.”

  But instead of forcing Laurie to prove her generosity, the challenge only got Kate a yank on the arm from Laurie, who had started to shake. “Don’t you ever say that,” Laurie told her. Then she bent down to hold her daughter. “Shit,” she said. “I’m sorry, honey.”

  “You hurt me,” Kate said, more surprised than upset. “I have to draw with this hand.” She held the hand up, as if testifying at a trial.

  “I know,” Laurie said, “I’m really sorry.” She started crying. (Crying again! Even just talking about Godmother made Laurie cry.) Suddenly Kate was crying too, though she wasn’t sure why.

  When Kate started school she also started seeing more of her godmother. Mostly this meant sneaking away at lunchtime. Her godmother would pick her up, standing at the school gate just like one of the grandparents who took kids home for a hot meal. She didn’t come every day, of course. She had things to do. Each day at lunch, Kate would run to the playground. If she didn’t see Godmother, she would sigh and go back to eat her sandwich with the other children. But then the next day Godmother might be there, ready to take Kate on some adventure that, no matter how long it lasted, always ended just in time to bring Kate back for class.

  Sometimes Kate even saw Godmother talking with the other women, laughing at some joke together, though the conversation always stopped as soon as Kate came running up for a hug. Godmother was always so much easier about stuff like that than Laurie. When Laurie came to pick her up she always just stood there, with her hands in her pockets, not speaking to anyone while she waited for Kate to show up so they could leave. Laurie would walk away so fast that Kate would have to run a little to keep up with her, at least for a block or so, and then, once they’d gotten away from the other parents, Laurie would go back to normal, talking cheerfully to Kate and remembering to hold her hand.

  Kate worried a little that Laurie might find out about Godmother visiting her at school. Maybe one of the grandparents might tell, not knowing that Kate wanted to keep it a secret. “I just love Kate’s godmother,” one of them would say, “she tells such good jokes,” and then Laurie would start shouting and flapping her arms, like she did when she got really upset. But when Kate told Godmother about this, Godmother just put an arm around her and said, “Don’t you worry, darling Kate. Laurie won’t know until the time comes for her to know, and then she will know everything. So you see, we’re not really lying. We’re just waiting to tell her.”

  “I guess,” Kate said. They were standing in the top story of a funny old house in some neighborhood with nothing but single homes, and grass around them, like at her grandparents’ house. But this house looked like the kind of house Marianne, a girl at school, called spooky, a word Kate could never understand. When Kate asked her godmother if indeed it was spooky, Godmother laughed and said the house was “a fine old Victorian,” whatever that meant, and just needed a little work. They were standing in a bare room that smelled a little, like no one had cleaned it in a long time, standing before a window all closed with funny wooden doors Godmother called shutters (at first Kate thought she’d said “shudders” and laughed, since the wood stayed absolutely still). Kate was still thinking about Laurie when Godmother took hold of the shutters and said to her, “Get ready now, darling Kate. This is what we came to see.” She took a large step back and as she did so she pushed open the shutters.

  At first, all Kate could see was darkness. This made no sense at all, since they had come here in the middle of the day. She knew vaguely that time sometimes did funny things when she went with her godmother, but still…She turned to look at Godmother. “Is it a picture?” she asked.

  Godmother put her hands on her hips, as if angry, but Kate knew she was playing. She grinned as Godmother said, “A picture? Now what are you talking about?”

  “It’s so dark,” Kate said.

  “Don’t let the darkness lure you,” she said. “Look at the light.” And Godmother pointed straight out the window.

  Though Kate wondered what “lure” meant, she looked dutifully past Godmother’s arm to the distant center, where she now saw a throbbing ball of light. At first it just looked like a dot, but the more she stared at it, the more it filled her eyes. “What is it?” she said finally.

  Godmother bent down beside her. “It’s a dying star,” she whispered. “See how it spins and pulses? Stars get very excited when they die.”

  Kate smiled. “Stars can’t die.”

  “Of course they can,” Godmother said. “They don’t believe it, I admit. That’s partly why they get so disturbed. But everything dies.”

  “Everything?”

  “Well, almost everything. I’m sorry we couldn’t get any closer, Kate,” she said, “but the closer it comes to death, the hotter it burns. A foolish resentment, but what can you do except respect its feelings?”

  “What happens when it really does die?”

  “Ah, that’s partly why I wanted you to see it. Something quite special happens when a star dies. First it blows up. A little bit like a balloon if you blow in it for too long. Can you picture that, Ka
te?” Kate stared harder out the window, then she nodded. “Good,” her godmother said. “However, it’s after the explosion that the truly interesting part begins. The bits from the star go floating through space for a long time. Sometimes nothing happens to them. But sometimes—” She paused, to make sure that Kate would give her full attention.

  “Sometimes they join with bits from other dead stars, and together they all form a new star, healthy, young, and all full of energy. And sometimes, bits of the dead stars will come together as hard balls of rock circling and spinning around the new star. These are the planets. And over time, on some of these planets, really tiny bits of rock and dirt will change and become alive. And once life starts somewhere, well, there’s really nothing that can stop it.”

  Kate turned to her and grinned. “Cool,” she said.

  Godmother nodded. “Exactly. So you see, Kate, you and Laurie and Mark and Louise and all your friends are all made out of dead stars.”

  Kate stood there, thinking for a moment. Then she turned and looked back at the star. “Is it going to explode now?” she asked. “Can we see it make people?”

  Godmother smiled and stroked Kate’s hair. “No, I’m sorry,” she said. “It takes much, much too long for us to stand here and wait for it. You do have to return to school, you know.”

  “Can’t you write me a note?”

  Godmother laughed. “I suppose I could. But I don’t think that’s such a good idea.” She took Kate’s hand and they headed for the stairs.

  By the door of the empty room, Kate turned back to look once more at the dying star. She said, “When it makes people, will it make another one of me?”