When Madeline Was Young (29 page)

When I'd met him, he'd had rheumy eyes and he'd seemed to be a man of few words; at least, when my father and I had stood with him under the hotel's canopy, he'd said very little. He'd nodded as my father spoke, and smiled warmly at me. Through the years he'd probably heard quite a bit about us, and I hoped that he was able to reduce Russia's epics to the basic elements, that after his years with her he understood how little of her news was based on fact. He did search my face as if it took him a while to square the Timothy of Russia's stories with the boy in front of him. The hotel made him dress in doorman livery, a bright-green coat with tails and brass buttons and yellow epaulets and a top hat with a gold band. It didn't seem to bother him, having to wear that clownish costume, complete with yellow-andgreen spats. While we were talking, he'd opened the door for a woman in sable, and he'd tilted his head slightly, making the gesture to lift his hat even as he kept it firmly in place. He managed to make the servitude seem like something he was only too happy to be doing, as if it were an honor. I wanted to tell my father I was sorry for Elroy, but I didn't speak to him about such things. And anyway it wasn't true that I was sorry only for Elroy. I was sorry, in my habit of grief, that the world accommodated the haughty woman in her coat, and the fence across the way with litter washed up against it, and a grown-up like Elroy forced to wear frippery.

When it came time to pass formally in front of the casket, Lu had as much trouble moving forward as I did. My father took Russia to Elroy first, and they spoke quietly together above the head of the dead man. We knew we were supposed to pause before him, as if finally we were getting a chance to be acquainted, and also we were to pray fo
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is time in the afterlife. Mikey in his church suit, and Madeline came next, hand in hand, both standing with their heads bowed. Russia watched all of us as we paid our respects. I must have performed all right, because on my way back to my seat she reached weakly for my arm and held on while she dabbed her handkerchief to her nose. I had to stay in front of her as she wiped all the moisture from her wet face. It seemed to do her good to keep me in her clutches, and when at last she let go she croaked out, "Precious." I knew nothing about her or Elroy, and yet she needed to show me off to her people. Had she not had children because, more than with any other families she worked for, or her own husband, her loyalties and even her love lay with us? At the end of the service, as we filed down the aisle, the congregation pressed toward the center, the better to see the Macivers.

Afterward, in Russia's apartment, the relatives packed into the small rooms until there was hardly space to open the kitchen door. Osella, Russia's sister, said, "I'm so proud of you, Timothy." I had never met her before, but, as Elroy had done, she, too, seemed to know me well. She was unsteady on her feet, and she grabbed my arms as if I were always on hand to hold her up. "Look at those straight teeth," she demanded, something of course I couldn't do myself in the moment. "So handsome, just like Russia always say."

"Thank you."

"You're the favorite, you know that?"

"It's, it's something--I hope for."

She threw her head back and laughed. "Don't you worry, don't you worry one little minute. She always tell us about your smart brains."

The kitchen was narrow; the counter and the pink Formica table were empty and cleaned to a dull gloss, one lone African violet on the windowsill. In the living room, the same clean nothingness, a yellow sofa with scratchy cushions, the first television my grandmother had owned, a thing as large as a stove, and the two card tables for food, the ten folding chairs from the church. The door of the bedroom was ajar
,
no space for anything but a dresser and the bed covered in a brown blanket. There were no shelves, no reading material outside of the Time magazine on the coffee table, and no paintings or pictures on the wall. On the small end table by the sofa there was a faded photograph of Russia's mother, and another of the Maciver family at Christmas, the year Buddy visited. Russia is with us, standing next to Arthur. There was also a studio portrait of Mikey and Madeline, the gift my mother had given them for Christmas one year. In lieu of a wedding. They'd gotten all dressed up, they'd been driven to Sears, they'd sat very close on a carpet-covered bench, and they'd smiled handsomely at the camera. The eight-by-ten photograph with its cherry frame was the fanciest thing in Russia's living room. I wondered if the apartment was bare because she and Elroy didn't have enough money to furnish it, or because they didn't have any interests.

Each time the kitchen door opened, it seemed impossible that more people would squeeze in, and we all jostled farther along, as if we were on a subway car. Although we had hours to go, I said to my mother that probably we should get to the airport sooner rather than later. She must have wanted to flee, too, because she nodded heartily.

If only we would leave, the party could begin; everyone, both black and white, knew we Macivers were holding the Crockerby spirit down. If we could as fast as possible put away the feast that had somehow materialized from the spotless counter--if we could chug the corn pudding, the chitlins and maw, the fried cabbage and bacon, the string beans with ham, the short ribs and gravy, the fried chicken--if we could quickly, quickly clean our plates, we could get out of their hair and they could shout, they could weep, they could talk, they could sing. As it was, the polite Macivers took up the chairs and the sofa, agreeing with the relatives who stood by that the service had been beautiful and Elroy indeed had looked well. We accepted the compliment that Figgy's flowers were remarkable, that Figgy herself was a woman of uncommon generosity and artistry and perseverance, as if my aunt had dug around in the earth with her own paws to grow

seeds and then arranged the blossoms just so and slipped in during the night to set the vase center stage.

Russia sat on the sofa between my parents--still holding my father's hand--and said, "I wish Mr. Buddy was here. Mr. Buddy would be such a gentleman, and he'd make us laugh, now, wouldn't he?" Ever since Buddy had enlisted in the army, Russia had broken her rule; he was the first and only person in my generation she would confer the "Mr." upon. "I say Timothy is my favorite, I say so, but Mr. Buddy, oh, Mr. Buddy." She wiped yet another tear from her cheek. "Mr. Buddy, he's flying right into the storm to deliver us."

Louise was at the card table getting her food. She set down her plate, which had nickel-sized servings of each dish, something the relatives would want to comment on later. "Mac's going to be a doctor," she said to the group on the sofa. "He's going to save lives, not murder people."

"Elroy got murdered," Madeline sang from her place next to my mother.

"That's right, darlin'," Russia said. "The good Lord took Elroy. The good Lord said it was Elroy's time. We all got our time, child. We all come to the Kingdom."

Louise said, more loudly this time, "Mac's going to save lives."

Russia looked across at my sister as if she was only then seeing her. "You come here to Russia, Louise. Russia has something to tell you."

"What?" Louise advanced a few feet to the sofa.

"You come closer."

Louise took a baby step and another.

"Mr. Buddy, he went down the street to say the news. You understand me? He said the word about our brother Cleveland to Miz Pin-del. Timothy, he's a good boy, but Mr. Buddy--he walks with the Lord."

My mother was fixed on Louise, willing her to be quiet.

"You go on now, and eat your dinner," Russia said. "You keep still and eat."

Although Elroy had just passed, Russia couldn't keep from launching into the story of the summer evening in the Pindels' loft, not only as if it had been a highlight of the Maciver history, but as if she herself had witnessed the near fellating of Mikey O'Day. A perfect postfuneral entertainment for all ages. Louise, abandoning her plate, elbowed her way into the kitchen and stood by the door with her arms crossed.

"Mr. Buddy's the one to heal the wounds," Russia began. "Russia say so all his life, ain't that right, Miz Julia--Mr. Buddy's the one to heal the wounds."

"He's a very thoughtful young man," my mother murmured.

"Our child here"--without turning her head, Russia moved her eyes to the right, in Madeline's direction--"was in danger, you know how I mean. Locked up and held tight, held tight and locked up. But Mr. Buddy that night, he run through the storm, he run in the wind, and he run in the rain and the thunder and the lightning. Mr. Buddy, he climb hand over hand, all wet and cold, to help the children. Didn't Mr. Buddy set you free, Mikey, didn't he set you free? It was that night you two kneeled before Mr. Buddy and you said, `Mr. Buddy, we going to get married someday.' You said, 'Mr. Buddy, you saved us so we could come down the aisle to get the Lord's blessing.' A man and a woman, they should cleave together, like it says in the Good Book. It don't matter if you don't read the Gospel, it don't matter if you can't spell the Word, a man and a woman, they cleave, they got to cleave together. Mr. Buddy, he showed you the way. Mr. Buddy, he took you to the light."

As benediction to that astonishing revision, that poem, Osella quavered, "A-men. A-men."

Madeline was concentrating on cutting the pretty pink frosting roses on her cake in the least violent way, and Mikey's head was bobbing as it did when he listened to music. To my mother I said, "I think we better go." After we'd cleared our plates, after the Crockerby women embraced us again and the men shook our hands, we hurried down the five flights of stairs and came out blinking into the mil
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pring light. How relieved we were to find ourselves back in our own story! My mother made a point to praise Louise for her civility, and she said once more that our being at the service meant the world to Russia.

Who cared? We were out of there, we had escaped!

Madeline sat up front in the station wagon, the three adults in a row. My father and I filled the car with talk about a breeding experiment I was working on with my biology professor, a project that required mice and the hemoglobin of their unborn.

Louise was somehow able not to say a word until we were in our seats on the airplane, strapped in and waiting to take off. She had bought herself an extra-long hot dog in the terminal and eaten it ravenously over a magazine. "Every single minute of that nightmare," she suddenly cried, "is Mom's fault."

"What-"

"For having a slave in the first place!" She was yelling over the noise of the propellers.

"You can't blame-"

"Where do I start? Where? Can you believe Russia holding Father's hand through the funeral like he's her new boyfriend, like she's bragging about her guy? The Macivers have done that to her. The Macivers-we-are responsible. Don't tell me having a slave is complicated, because it isn't. It is not! It's simple oppression. What's Mom been doing all these years anyway? What'd she need a servant for?"

"Do you have to talk so loud?" I managed to say.

"And what is that utter bullshit about Jerry Pindel and Buddy? Buddy breaks the kid's nose and knocks him out, he almost croaks? Mom, the almighty pacifist, should have reported Buddy to the police. They should have incarcerated him! And it was not raining that night, and it was not thundering, and it was not cold. There was onehundred-percent humidity."

I had to laugh at the way Russia had set the story in a thunder-

storm, the preferred weather for melodrama. If you'd listened to her enough over the years, you came to think that nothing important had ever happened without her somehow looking on, and certainly no story had its real meaning until she told it. That idea made me laugh harder.

"It's not funny! Goddamn you!" My little sister was beating me on the arm. "Russia turns Buddy into a pastor? Some kind of superhero minister who flies into Jerry Pindel's loft to anoint Mikey and Madeline so that their fucking up in the bedroom is somehow legitimate? That's her main concern here, sex out of wedlock--to make herself feel better about that sin, she invents Reverend Jesus Buddy Christ. I can't stand it!" She yelled even louder. "I can't stand it!"

"Is all of that Mom's fault?" I had the nerve to ask.

It was convenient to blame my mother for every ill, and for Buddy's misdeeds, too, such as they actually were. I wanted to remind Louise of our parents' seriousness, of their moral life, even if they weren't perfect. In my head I ticked off my mother's volunteer work at Hull House, tutoring adults, her part-time job at West Suburban Hospital, on the night shift, to help pay for our college, the eternal playschool for Madeline, the 1967 bus trip with Madeline to march on the Pentagon, the fact that, Madeline aside, my mother was stranded for twenty years because we came home from school for lunch, the cheese sandwiches lined up on the counter about to be grilled, the apple slurry coming through the sieve, the pudding stirred to the satin stage. The roast for dinner was also on the counter, the meat in its net thawing in a pool of blood, the potatoes and carrots scrubbed and in the Dutch oven. What's Morn been doing all these years?

"Don't start talking to me," Louise said, pressing her head to the window. "You've probably memorized a seminal Sophia Cooper feminist manifesto about the bondage of suburban women. Well, guess what? I don't want to hear it. Go back to school and butcher your pregnant mice."

Below us as we lifted off lay the flat grid of the gray city, the deso-