The Ryer Avenue Story: A Novel

by Dorothy Uhnak

  “And the ultimate male put-down, their only way to deal with the threat when a smart woman beats them at their own game, confuses them, threatens them, is …” Her aunt pulled her shoulders back, thrust out her chin, and in a low, gravelly voice, said, “What that dame needs is a good fuck!”

  She put her hand over her mouth and rolled her eyes, shocked at her own audacity. “God, baby, don’t ever tell anyone I said that!”

  Megan was fascinated, totally in awe of her beautiful, golden-red-haired, wide-eyed, daring aunt, who laughed and giggled and took chances like a tough young girl.

  “Aunt Catherine, how do you know so much?”

  “Baby, I’ll tell you a secret. All women come to know these things. Only they don’t talk about them. We keep our mouths shut; we play the game. Let the men think they’re so smart, so superior. But some of us—we don’t play games. We live by our own rules, and we pay whatever price we have to pay.” Then, sadly, she said, “You’ll find out yourself, Megan. There are some great girls out there, and great boys, too, for you to be friends with.”

  Megan shook her head. “God, Aunt Catherine. It’s so hard. To know how to be and all …”

  “It is hard, Megan. Life is hard. Not just for girls, not just for women. For everybody. Here’s my best shot for you, kiddo. You’re so damn intelligent, gifted—pretty and brave and honest. You can laugh at yourself. If you feel yourself trying to be someone else, or what you think someone else wants you to be—then you’ll know it’s wrong for you. You be your own best self, and someday you’ll meet a boy who will love you for every single thing about you that makes you Megan.”

  “But what if I don’t?”

  Catherine looked at her niece with such intensity that Megan held her breath.

  “You will,” she said.

  Megan nodded. And then, taking a chance, she asked, “Did you, Aunt Catherine? Meet a man who loves you just for being exactly who you are?”

  Her aunt chewed on her lower lip, then grinned and shrugged. “Now, that would be telling, wouldn’t it? We’re not talking about me just now. We’re talking about people in general, and you in specific. Go to sleep now, Megan, I think I’ve filled your head with enough for one night.” And then, in a soft and loving voice, she added, “Oh, you’ll do, Megan Magee. Believe me, you’ll do.”

  It was what the President of the United States had said, and now her wonderful Aunt Catherine said the same thing. And Megan believed her.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  THE TEN MONTHS MEGAN MAGEE SPENT AT Warm Springs had a profound effect on her life. At the rehab in New York State, she had often sensed from the staff feelings of indifference, obligation, sometimes resentment and sometimes outright cruelty in the face of the pain and suffering of the polio-stricken kids. Some of the staff—especially the volunteers—couldn’t hack it. They mistook pity for empathy, and did more emotional harm than good.

  At Warm Springs, the only cruelty was in the disease itself. There were more damaged kids gathered there than Megan could even begin to imagine. By comparison with some of the others, she realized that she was among the more fortunate. After all, her broken leg, though painful, did mend, did strengthen. She had the use of her arms, and eventually of both of her legs, the one weak and healing, the other encased in a newly fitted iron brace. Her swimming grew stronger; in the pool, she felt renewed and vitalized, always surprised anew when she got out of the water to realize her limitations. But she could get around; she was not one of the really disabled.

  These were the patients imprisoned in the iron lungs: huge chambers encasing the entire body, with only the patient’s head sticking out, lying forever staring up into a mirror positioned to show the victim a small portion of the world. The lung was like a monstrous living creature: it pulsated with a rhythm calculated to keep the damaged lungs functioning. It was the nearest thing to hell that Megan could imagine, to be so helpless and imprisoned.

  The staff at Warm Springs felt privileged to be there. The proximity to “the little White House,” FDR’s retreat, caused a surge of excitement from time to time. The Man is in residence, or is expected. Once, while Megan was there, the President paid a visit to the patients. He hobbled awkwardly on his two canes, not needing to pretend to them that he was more ambulatory than he really was. He stopped off and visited Megan, who was so excited that she swept her books and papers and pencils off her desk in an effort to stand in the President’s presence.

  When an aide rushed to pick the items up, FDR brushed him away casually, seeing Megan’s embarrassment.

  “Well, this is Megan Magee from the Bronx, isn’t it? I understand you’ve been doing fine, in your recovery and in your schoolwork. Getting along well in your first college semester, are you, Megan?”

  She was dazzled by his politician’s knowledge, overwhelmed by his interest. She knew—after all, she was Frankie Magee’s daughter—that he’d been briefed, knew what to say to her; but she also knew he was kind enough to care. After all, here was the first man to be elected President three times, and here he was, asking how Megan Magee was coming along. He sat by her for a while, asking penetrating questions about her studies and what her professional goals were. He listened, commented carefully, spoke to her as though they were the same age. There was nothing patronizing or false about his interest, and Megan saw these moments as treasures she would store away forever.

  Then he continued his rounds, having something cheerful and hopeful and kind to say to all of them, patients and staff alike.

  Megan, in retrospect, remembered how tired he looked. The black rings extended under his eyes, down toward his cheeks. The tightness of his mouth revealed pain, tension. She wondered about his pain—was it with him all the time? He moved so slowly and heavily.

  She didn’t need the President’s kind words to spur her on with her studies. Megan realized the time spent at Warm Springs, besides the hours given over to physical therapy, was a wonderful opportunity for her to get ahead of her own assignments. The professors from Emory were tough but fair; they demanded much of those students they felt could measure up, and Megan was one of their top students. They sent her grades on to Hunter, so that by next fall she would be easily admitted to the sophomore class.

  When Megan arrived at Warm Springs, she was something of a celebrity—after all, how many polio-stricken girls, or boys for that matter, were nationally known heroes? Megan quickly played it down: “Hey, I didn’t dive for the kid. Someone shoved me.”

  Both of her parents had taught her early on, don’t make too much of yourself. When you finally goof up, the fall from grace won’t be so bad.

  Even with all her physical therapy and schoolwork, Megan had free time to be bored, to make herself a nuisance by following the staff around. She was practicing, she told them, for the day when she would join the medical profession.

  One of the nurses, a crusty older woman, Miss Moore, decided to put Megan to work.

  “I’ve got an iron-lung patient needs some company. She’s just about your age, and sweetie, that’s all you two have in common.” She smiled at Megan, then nodded. “But I’ve got a hunch you two might hit it off.”

  Suzy Ginzburg was the only daughter of two successful avant-garde artists with studios in Greenwich Village and Paris. They lived all over the world, had traveled with Suzy to places Megan had never even heard of. As a result, Suzy, at seventeen the same age as Megan, was conversant in three or four languages; one of her proudest boasts was that she could use the slangy words for genitals, and what they could do, in every language—which she promptly offered to teach Megan.

  It was hard for Megan to realize that there was a body encased in Suzy’s massive iron lung. All that showed was a small, intense face: huge black eyes with thick, long lashes, heavy brows, a straight nose, a wide mouth that never stopped talking. There was so much life coming from this one small black-haired head that Megan felt exhausted trying to keep up. And the words had to be carefully coordinated with the rhy
thm of the machine that served as her lungs.

  Suzy’s voice seemed metallic, an accommodation to the pressure of the machine in which she lived, for the time being.

  “I definitely will get out of this damn thing. Don’t you believe otherwise, Megan Magee. God, what a pretty name. It goes with your face. A whole Irish thing—I love it. Jesus, a turned-up nose, red hair, what a great color. And those freckles, like spatters of paint. Great. Uh-oh. Did I insult you? I love freckles. They’re so … clean and innocent.”

  “That’s because you don’t have any,” Megan said. She didn’t know what to make of Suzy. She’d never known anyone so outspoken.

  As though she had read Megan’s mind, Suzy said, “Listen, I always say exactly what’s on my mind. That way you’ll always know where we stand.” She grinned bitterly. “In a manner of speaking. I heard about your saving that kid. Neat. Really neat. Listen, you can use that, one way or another, for the rest of your life. And it’s legitimate.”

  “Use it? What do you mean?”

  “Hell, your father would know. He’s an ace politician, right?”

  “What do you know about my father?”

  “Hey, kid, I’m a New Yorker, right? My parents are New Yorkers. Of course, they’re socialists. Does that scare you? You are a parochial school kid, right?”

  Megan didn’t know what to make of Suzy Ginzburg. She’d been prepared to be encouraging, warm, and supportive. She hadn’t expected to be insulted and made fun of. Who the hell did she think Megan was?

  When she complained to Nurse Moore, she responded with a smile. “You resent her for having spirit? For being as much like herself, before polio, as she can possibly be? Isn’t that what you’re trying to do? Let her be Suzy. There’s a lot to this girl. She’s plenty tough. Don’t be so thin-skinned. Maybe you’ll learn something from her.”

  Megan did. She learned that Suzy and her family and all their friends were free spirits who inhabited a world, just a subway ride away from the Bronx, that might have been a colony on Mars. Suzy was right there, taking part in a lifestyle that was amazing, if not confusing. There were no secrets, no lies, no baloney; everything was right out there in the open.

  “My father had an affair with a model he was painting. She was a mess. When he dumped her, she told his fortune and predicted dire catastrophe. Hell, maybe she was right—look at me now.”

  “What about your mother?” Megan asked, wide-eyed.

  “Oh, she’s had her little things, too. I mean, so what? These two people are so crazy about each other. The outside stuff they’ve had—their little flings—don’t mean anything; sometimes they just need to spice up their lives, that’s all it adds up to. So tell me about yourself, Megan. You’re seventeen. A virgin, of course.”

  Megan felt her face go hot. She wanted to walk away. Not hear this stuff. But then again she wanted to stay and hear more.

  “Yes. A virgin. You say it like it’s something terrible. Instead of … of …”

  Suzy closed her eyes and quietly intoned, “Instead of a holy state of chastity, to be relinquished on your wedding night to the man who chose you for this honor.” She grinned. “Bullshit. I had my first real sex when I was thirteen. He was fifteen and he’d been around, so he pretty much knew what he was doing. It wasn’t sensational, and it hurt a lot, but all in all, for the first time it was, well, interesting. Of course, it got better as it went along. And then—”

  Megan blurted out, “Hey, I’m not your confessor, okay?”

  Suzy laughed, then became serious. “I’m sorry, Megan. This is just me, talking. See, your way of life is as strange to me as my way of life is to you. Wherever we go in the world, my family and I, we gravitate to our own kind. Artist communities, made up of painters and writers and sculptors and actors.” Then, sadly, she added, “And dancers. Oh, yes, and dancers. We have our own standards and I guess we lose sight of the fact that the rest of the world doesn’t live the way we do.”

  “You keep saying ‘we.’ Are you an artist too? Do you paint or what?”

  Suzy bit down on her lower lip and closed her eyes. The only sound was from her artificial lung, working away noisily. Megan glanced in her mirror and saw two long streams of tears.

  “I was a dancer. I was … pretty good. I was a junior member of a ballet company. One of the youngest ever. I’ve danced all over Europe since I was thirteen. Not prima—probably never would have made prima. I don’t think I’d ever have been that good. Which was always hard to face. But I don’t have to worry about that particular failure anymore, do I? I mean, what I have, at seventeen, are these memories. And now this really weird situation. Somewhere inside this huge iron tank, I assume, is what’s left of my body. My God, do you know the sacrifices a dancer makes for the sake of her body? Do you know …” She bit her lip hard. “Whoa. I think Suzy has talked enough for one day, Megan. I am on the edge of self-pity, and that doesn’t do me one bit of good. I’d like to just rest for now. Would you mind propping up that book for me on my reading ledge? I think I’ll just read for a while, okay? See you tomorrow.”

  Megan visited Suzy Ginzburg every day for the next few months, and they became fast friends.

  Suzy’s parents came in a whirl of color and noise and laughter, bearing gifts of food and books and records and paintings that they shared with everyone in the room. Everything was for all of them. They were young and beautiful. Her father was handsome and lean, dressed in dungarees and a denim workshirt, like a laborer. Her mother wore a long, whirling skirt and a tight black top, and her hair reached down past her waist. It was thick and black and caught behind her neck with a beautiful silver clasp “made by a friend, a silversmith. Pretty, isn’t it?”

  They shared themselves with everyone—visited each kid encased in an iron lung. They drew sketches, caricatures of the kids and of the staff, turning them all into cartoon animal-faces, wise owls, fierce lions, sweet kittens, winsome puppies, but each recognizable. Then, using watercolors, they decorated each protruding face, added heavy eyebrows, long lashes, red cheeks, whiskers, and as a final touch, a third eye, in the center of each forehead—for good luck, to watch out for you while the rest of you is asleep.

  They left a ward of dazzled and enchanted kids who refused to have their faces washed for two days.

  Megan couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have parents like that. Actually to live with them, be part of that life. Their excitement and loudness, their enthusiasm, was overwhelming.

  Quietly, Suzie confided, “They’re just scared, Megan. It’s called whistling in the dark. Hell, I was their dancing girl. Imagine what it’s like for them to see me like this. Well, the hell with it. Listen, Megan, baby, put on a Sinatra record for me, will ya? Bring over the phono, close to me. Something sad and lovesick and mellow. You know, music to masturbate by.”

  Megan reacted with shock. She couldn’t hide anything. Her face registered it all.

  “Suzy!”

  Suzy grinned. “Relax, kid. Don’t start imagining all kinds of nefarious activity going on deep inside my iron drum. Believe me, there is nothing, nada, that I can do. Damn it. What an opportunity it would be, don’t you think? But I’m a girl who can’t even breathe for myself right now. But someday. Right? C’mon, right?”

  Megan laughed. “Right. You better believe it. Which Sinatra?”

  “Oh, God, any one. Any one at all.”

  Megan played “All or Nothing at All” and watched Suzy’s face relax. Watched the sadness disappear slowly; watched the dreamy way Suzy’s eyes opened and closed. Watched her feel the music. Wondered if her body remembered what it felt like to move with music. Wondered how Suzy could stand it, to be inside that damn prison when her every instinct was for motion.

  It was confusing. Suzy said the most unbelievably shocking, outrageous things about sex, about life, about her body. But it was so different from the way Patsy Wagner talked about sex.

  When Suzy talked, Megan felt a thrill of guilt for listening; but there w
as a difference when Suzy spoke. As though so many things were natural, normal, and, yes, some of it actually funny.

  When she left Warm Springs, she felt sadness at leaving Suzy, but Suzy promised that she’d be back in New York “before you know it, kid. And then you’ll come on down and see my part of town. You’ll have a helluva good time, I promise. C’mon. Gimme a smile and a kiss and you get on home and knock ’em dead at Hunter.”

  Megan leaned down and kissed Suzy lightly on the tip of her nose and then on her forehead, the way her father used to kiss her when she was little.

  Suzy lowered her voice and said, “I’ll be back, Megan. I promise you, we’ll get together in New York. And I promise you this, too, baby. I won’t let anyone corrupt you.”

  They were the same age, but Suzy always made her feel like a little kid.

  PART TWO

  CHAPTER ONE

  IF THE WAR CHANGED THE LIVES OF MOST of the kids he graduated with from St. Simon, it seemed that nothing drastic or exciting would ever happen to Willie Paycek. After Pearl Harbor, he went to the Army recruiting booth on Fordham Road and the Grand Concourse, held his breath, and presented his draft card, with its 4-F designation, to the sergeant. This was different. There was really a war now, and the Army needed all the men it could get.

  The sergeant looked at Willie and shook his head. A sorry-looking little guy with a punctured eardrum, missing the tip of the index finger on his left hand; deviated septum and ulcers. When Willie offered to get everything medically repaired—if the Army would help him out a little—the sergeant’s compassion turned to scorn, and he laughed so hard the other young men in the room nervously turned just in time to see little Paycek leap at the muscular, tough-jawed sergeant and swing at his jaw. The sergeant sidestepped easily, lifted Willie by the back of his neck, and carried him to the door.