When Madeline Was Young (25 page)

My mother was all for the marriage, although as time went on she worried that Madeline had spent so many years fantasizing about it that the real ceremony would be a terrible disappointment. She was in favor of a small wedding at the Congregational church, punch an
d c
ookies at the backyard reception, and some kind of semi-chaperoned weekend trip, activities by day and adjoining but separate rooms in a hotel by night. Afterward, their companionship would go on as it always had, each in his own family, Mikey running off home for supper, Madeline working on her general fashion scrapbook while Mikey memorized a new song, Mikey visiting for a few days of the Moose Lake vacation. My mother couldn't say whether it was Mrs. O'Day's Catholicism or the fact that she was a generation older than the Macivers, or whether it was her ecumenical stubborn and righteous selfishness that made her obstruct the couple's happiness.

Joan O'Day was small, her wrists and ankles thin as a child's, her feet charmingly narrow and delicate even in Keds. She was so short and little but otherwise unremarkable that the hard-looking ball of her potbelly was always a surprise. When she shouted at my mother, you imagined that downstairs was a robust, bosomy matron who could sing. I was away for nearly all the big scenes, but I recall that her voice in anger had a vibrato. She'd come over on weekend afternoons, when the betrotheds were at the movie theater; she did, at least, show that consideration. In the front hall, so my mother's stories went, Mrs. O'Day would shout: "Mikey is not going to marry Madeline! Do you understand? You have no business, no business encouraging them to get married. Married! Mikey can't boil an egg without setting the stove on fire."

She'd bellow equally about every aspect of the bad idea. Mikey had plenty of people to care for him, and there was no reason to introduce someone else into the family who needed looking after! The Macivers might dream they could pawn Madeline off on the O'Days, but they should think again!

When my mother tried to explain that the wedding was a ceremony to honor the couple's love rather than the beginning of a domestic arrangement, Mrs. O'Day would start in after Madeline. Madeline had wrung the engagement ring out of Mikey, wrung it out of Jack O'Day, too, the husband who couldn't say no to anyone. She'd demanded a ring that was far too expensive, draining Mikey's saving
s a
ccount for a real diamond. A real diamond! "You think the wedding is going to be the end of Madeline's extortions, do you? Once they're married she'll want an apartment, and then she'll go after a house, and next you know she'll be signing an agreement on a summer home! The wedding is the tip of the iceberg. It will never end, Julia Maciver, and I say it is never going to begin!" Out the door she'd go with a hearty slam, blazing back home to iron Mikey's undershirts and bake his macaroni and cheese.

Madeline's fervor about the marriage waxed and waned, but apparently that spring of 197
0
she'd been pushing for it with greater urgency. There was very little else she could think of or talk about. What my mother's letter told me, Louise explained, was that the crisis had come to a head.

"What do you mean?" I said.

"The O'Days are retiring to Florida."

"Retiring?"

"They are taking Mikey and moving away." Before I could register the news she cried, "What'll she do without him?" She folded into my side, moaning, "What'll she do?"

"They can't do that," I said. "They won't." It was bad enough when Mikey went on vacation, when Madeline had no one to hound, no one who was willing to sit by her side all through the day. They couldn't do it to their own son; I was sure they would not. Mikey and Madeline went to the grocery store together, they went to each other's dentist appointments, they held hands in front of the pet-shop window watching the guinea pigs. They were as good as married; they were better than married. For all Mikey's silliness and his tendency to be self-centered, he was courtly, holding Madeline's elbow when they crossed the street, running around her to open the door, and once I saw him so carefully and lovingly move a strand of hair out of her eyes. Despite their height difference, when they were spooned together on the sofa watching television, his arms around her, they had a physical comfort that was enviable.

"Mom won't let it happen," I said. "She'll find a way to keep them together."

"She has to," Louise wailed.

Somewhere in the middle of our flood, Louise reached into her desk drawer, drew out two handkerchiefs, and handed me a wad of linen. I smoothed the wrinkles as best I could, down to the corner where "LMM" had been embroidered years before by our grandmother. Louise Margaret Maciver. I had my own set of twelve, with my initials. One of the things Madeline loved to do at home was iron the handkerchiefs, a job she'd work at in the basement while Russia folded clothes. Without Madeline our handkerchiefs were shriveled slabs that looked like enormous dried fruits. I turned on my back, drawing Lu to my chest, stroking her hair the way girls like, the way my mother had always done. We started remembering Mikey, as if we were gathering material for his eulogy. "Do you remember him," Louise said against my heart, "the night Madeline got taken prisoner up in the Pindels' loft, and how Buddy came to the rescue?"

"Buddy didn't realize Mikey and Madeline were a couple," I said. "I wanted to beat Jerry up for making Madeline parade around in that ugly dress. But Buddy thrashed him because he thought Jerry was forcing Madeline to pair up with a stranger. It was all confused."

"That dress," Lu ruminated. "I tried to find that thing the next day, but I couldn't. She must have crumpled it up and stashed it deep down in her trunk or in the back of her closet. A prize possession, I guess. I just wanted to get rid of it."

"Was the fashion show a game she'd been playing for years with Jerry, do you think? Or a one-shot deal?"

Louise shook her head. "She was always so gaga over Jerry." "Poor Mikey," I said.

"That was the only time I ever really saw him run--when he took off down the alley. He looked as scared and disturbed as we all felt."

We remembered the stir the following day, after the seriousness of Jerry's injuries was broadcast. He'd had to be hospitalized with hi
s b
roken nose and a concussion. My mother had come slowly up the back steps from the yard that morning, the color drained from her face, her jaw tight. I was intently reading the cereal box, thinking that I might, even at my age, send for a magic rock garden or a handful of sea horses. "What happened to Jerry last night?" Julia said.

"What's the matter with him?"

"Was it Cleveland who broke his nose?"

"You'd have to ask him." I wasn't going to tattle, not on anyone. My duty was to watch out for Madeline, and Mikey, too, to make sure his girl didn't wander off with the grocery boy.

"That's what they're saying, Mac, that Cleveland beat Jerry senseless."

"You should have thought of that," I said, "before you got involved with Project Share." So I got to shoot my arrow into my already stricken mother.

She went with a heavy tread to wake Clark Kent and the Negro suspect. I had thought Buddy could not rise any higher in my mother's esteem, but, no, he proved to her that he was not done, that there were greater heights to be climbed to the peak of her affection. Down he came to the kitchen, yanking his T-shirt over his head and zipping up the fly of his shorts. He was barefoot, but at the threshold he must have thought better of it; he realized he'd be more respectable if he was wearing shoes and socks. Around the block he went, ringing the doorbells, telling the neighbors with no fanfare that it was he who had hurt Jerry Pindel, that he had his reasons, that he was sorry, but that under no circumstances did the blame go to Cleveland Simonson. Cleveland had not touched Jerry. There were witnesses if they'd like. The Pindels could arrest him, Buddy Eastman, take him to court, make him do time. He shook his blond head and said mournfully that he was sorry, but even so it had happened and he couldn't take it back. "I'll be with my aunt and uncle for another few days, in case the authorities want to come and get me."

We had all been mum the night
before, but Buddy said enough of

"Mom won't let it happen," I said. "She'll find a way to keep them together."

"She has to," Louise wailed.

Somewhere in the middle of our flood, Louise reached into her desk drawer, drew out two handkerchiefs, and handed me a wad of linen. I smoothed the wrinkles as best I could, down to the corner where "LMM" had been embroidered years before by our grandmother. Louise Margaret Maciver. I had my own set of twelve, with my initials. One of the things Madeline loved to do at home was iron the handkerchiefs, a job she'd work at in the basement while Russia folded clothes. Without Madeline our handkerchiefs were shriveled slabs that looked like enormous dried fruits. I turned on my back, drawing Lu to my chest, stroking her hair the way girls like, the way my mother had always done. We started remembering Mikey, as if we were gathering material for his eulogy. "Do you remember him," Louise said against my heart, "the night Madeline got taken prisoner up in the Pindels' loft, and how Buddy came to the rescue?"

"Buddy didn't realize Mikey and Madeline were a couple," I said. "I wanted to beat Jerry up for making Madeline parade around in that ugly dress. But Buddy thrashed him because he thought Jerry was forcing Madeline to pair up with a stranger. It was all confused."

"That dress," Lu ruminated. "I tried to find that thing the next day, but I couldn't. She must have crumpled it up and stashed it deep down in her trunk or in the back of her closet. A prize possession, I guess. I just wanted to get rid of it."

"Was the fashion show a game she'd been playing for years with Jerry, do you think? Or a one-shot deal?"

Louise shook her head. "She was always so gaga over Jerry." "Poor Mikey," I said.

"That was the only time I ever really saw him run--when he took off down the alley. He looked as scared and disturbed as we all felt."

We remembered the stir the following day, after the seriousness of Jerry's injuries was broadcast. He'd had to be hospitalized with hi
s b
roken nose and a concussion. My mother had come slowly up the back steps from the yard that morning, the color drained from her face, her jaw tight. I was intently reading the cereal box, thinking that I might, even at my age, send for a magic rock garden or a handful of sea horses. "What happened to Jerry last night?" Julia said.

"What's the matter with him?"

"Was it Cleveland who broke his nose?"

"You'd have to ask him." I wasn't going to tattle, not on anyone. My duty was to watch out for Madeline, and Mikey, too, to make sure his girl didn't wander off with the grocery boy.

"That's what they're saying, Mac, that Cleveland beat Jerry senseless."

"You should have thought of that," I said, "before you got involved with Project Share." So I got to shoot my arrow into my already stricken mother.

She went with a heavy tread to wake Clark Kent and the Negro suspect. I had thought Buddy could not rise any higher in my mother's esteem, but, no, he proved to her that he was not done, that there were greater heights to be climbed to the peak of her affection. Down he came to the kitchen, yanking his T-shirt over his head and zipping up the fly of his shorts. He was barefoot, but at the threshold he must have thought better of it; he realized he'd be more respectable if he was wearing shoes and socks. Around the block he went, ringing the doorbells, telling the neighbors with no fanfare that it was he who had hurt Jerry Pindel, that he had his reasons, that he was sorry, but that under no circumstances did the blame go to Cleveland Simonson. Cleveland had not touched Jerry. There were witnesses if they'd like. The Pindels could arrest him, Buddy Eastman, take him to court, make him do time. He shook his blond head and said mournfully that he was sorry, but even so it had happened and he couldn't take it back. "I'll be with my aunt and uncle for another few days, in case the authorities want to come and get me."

We had all been mum the night before, but Buddy said enough o
f t
he truth to keep the story contained. I don't underestimate his bravery. It was civil rights in action--Buddy, the future Atticus Finch. Up and down the alley, the mothers were impressed, even if some of them didn't believe him. According to the legend, he also had a conversation with Mr. Pindel--Jerry's father concluding with "Boys will be boys" and a handshake. We were all in the kitchen after Buddy had gone door to door, and I remember my mother praising him for his honesty and then saying plaintively, "But why did you do it? What reason did you have?"

Looking at me, he said, "It was a question of honor."

"Honor?" she said, without comprehension, as if she'd never heard the word.

"If you don't mind, Aunt Julia, I'd rather not talk about it."

Too humble to blow his own horn, our Buddy. He had taken care of the business, and nothing more need be said. He would go to prison if he had to, rather than recount a lurid scene and his own heroism.

As Louise and I lay in her dorm bed, sniffling and coughing and blowing our noses, she remembered again how furious Madeline had been. "It took both Stephen and me to haul her away from the loft."

I marveled at Madeline's admiration for Jerry, strong enough to cast her fashion judgment to the wind. Even though she'd been terrible to Mikey, I'm sure the next day they went on as if nothing had happened. The times I had slept in the boathouse with him, he'd always literally jumped out of bed at dawn, running to the window to see if the sun was going to come up. A clean slate every morning, the awful words "big fat dodo" wiped away.