Magdalena's Shadow, page 32
“I was alone and scared and you were a world away. I always dreamed you would come back, but you sold your apartment. That’s when I knew I had lost you.”
“I don’t know what to say, Coco.” Rob spoke without looking at her.
“I’ve done the best I can. I’ve made mistakes, but at the time I thought I was doing the right thing in leaving you to live your life while I tried to go on with mine. None of this has been easy.”
Rob stared out at the ocean. In that moment, James woke up, his black curls peeking out from under the blankets.
“Beee.” James pointed out at Bebe and Mila where they played.
“Do you see Bebe playing?” Coco watched James pull the blankets away, his eyes fixed on the coastline.
Rob turned then, seeing his son for the first time. All the pain melted from his face when he saw James’ silver flecked brown eyes, long lashes, and black curling hair.
“You see. He looks just like you, Rob.”
James looked from Bebe and Mila to Rob, who sat beside his mother.
“James.” Rob knelt down on the blue and white tiles in front of his son.
James looked at Rob, examining his black curls and tan complexion, his face breaking into a wide smile.
“You had him alone, Coco.” Rob turned to look at her, his eyes filled with grief. “You didn’t need to have him alone.”
“Yes I did,” Coco answered with gentle resolution. “You said we broke the law. He’s the proof. You left saying that I had endangered everything you were because of my age, and I was too heartbroken and depressed to cope with losing you, let alone being pregnant.”
Rob slowly lifted the baby into his arms and sat down again beside Coco. James smiled, his eyes turning back to where Bebe played. “I’m so sorry, Coco. If I had known, I would have come back.”
“I wasn’t sure.” Fresh tears filled Coco’s eyes. She closed them and remembered James’ traumatic birth. “There’s one more thing you need to know. I can’t have any more children. I almost died having him, and I can’t have any more.”
At that moment Bebe and Mila ran up the walk, leaving Tia on the beach.
“I can’t believe you’re here!” Bebe squealed, throwing her arms around Rob’s neck.
“I missed you too, little one.” He kissed the top of her head, tears sparkling in his eyes. “Look how big you are.”
“Did you see James?” Bebe grabbed Mila’s hand, pulling her in front of the baby. “This is silly little James. He’s my brother.” Bebe kissed James, squishing his little cheeks between her hands before she turned to lead Mila into the house.
For a long time the garden was hushed in silence. Rob held Coco’s hand, tracing her fingers with his thumb while he looked at his son.
“I don’t know what to say,” Rob said finally.
“Just say you understand and that you forgive me for not telling you.”
“I understand. I wish things had been different, but I understand. Still, you shouldn’t have had to have him alone. It must have been terrible.”
“Losing you was terrible. Having James was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
“Coco, most girls wouldn’t have gone through with the pregnancy.”
“That was never a thought.”
“Thank you.” Rob looked down at his son.
Coco couldn’t see his face. He kept it from her, but she could hear the gratitude mixed with grief in his voice.
“Thank you, Coco.”
James looked up, reaching a small hand to his father’s face.
Coming February 2018
A Place Among the Thistles
E. E. Orme
Spring 1961
Gidra
I’m trapped in a black and white film. The leading man is missing, and the role of heroine has been usurped by Mama. Her Grace Kelly hair and Rita Hayward figure draw the attention of every man on this antiquated steamer, while I’m left to glide in her shadow looking small and childlike by comparison. We’ve run away again, fled from the nameless thing which moved us from Austria to London, London to New York. After New York, we’ll travel to Virginia. After Virginia, only God knows where we will land.
I miss London. I miss my lovers: those fine old gentlemen who showered me with money and gifts in exchange for kindness and kisses. I miss my routine and the small but lavish apartment where I knew peace. Imprisoned on this ship, I watch my autonomy fade to a memory. Here, I am Mama’s possession, a moving, serving ornamentation: obedient, cheerful, and attentive to her every whim.
She won’t tell me what prompted this new flight, so I must try to imagine the thing she’s done in the few hours I have to myself. Precious are those small sections of time in which she leaves me alone, allowing me space to rest the way I did in my apartment. In those moments I am calm, safe, and free to let down my guard and erase the fraudulent smile that corrupts my lips in every other waking moment. I liked London. I liked Vienna more. Would I like Virginia? I’ve watched the slow down-sweep in our fortunes. Noting, in my singular way, how every flight brings us closer and closer to poverty and degradation.
At least John Stuart is kind. He dances with me, chats with me and fills my silence with his soft southern comforts. He is forever describing the beauty of his family home in Virginia, the vastness of its lands and the quality of its horses. He knows my weakness for horses, for open spaces, for peace. I drink in his promises, resting my hope on the colorful pictures he paints. John Stuart, whom we call J.S., is Mama’s lover, but he is my friend, has always been my friend, ever since the night I brought him home to sleep with Mama.
But even J.S.’s friendship comes at a price. My new life in America will include his son Parker, a quiet, private school boy of sixteen in need of company and maybe a little more. I laugh when J.S. describes how the uptight boy needs a lesson in pleasure before he is consigned to the monotony of a sallow and shallow protestant wife. What I think J.S. really wants is to see his perfect son brought down a little. Parker seems to embody every virtue his father lacks. It’s no wonder J.S. is so eager to introduce us; what true sinner ever could love a saint?
I’m bored sick with bitterness, trapped on all sides by an endless expanse of icy black water, while my dance card fills with the name of my first American client, a boy of sixteen. It fills, the way it always has, with men, with sex, with the work we do to keep our bellies full, our wardrobe up to date, and our jewelry boxes overflowing with valuable tokens of false affection. Every hard-won gem that crosses our palm is a sad half promise of love coupled with the vague notion that there is a future in what we do. With every mention of Parker, I grow more resentful, more worn by the grief I mask behind a playful flirtatious smile.
Where do old courtesans go to die? This seven-word question dogs my days in a never-ending repetition of fear and loneliness. Where do old courtesans and worn out prostitutes go to rest their heads when the game’s played out and the music’s died away? Maybe to America?
We stand in a cold gray fog on the main deck; Mama flirts with a fellow passenger while J.S. looks bored, and I hope against hope for a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty. When the fog thins, I see Lady Liberty for a brief moment, her strong features glowing in the morning light. People call and point and move down the railing hoping for a clear glimpse. Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free… the words, taken from her tablet, play through my head while tears fill my eyes, because maybe just maybe there will be a place here in this new country where a tired little wanton can make a home. Bring us your shamed, your degraded, your broken painted ladies, I add, praying against hope that here there is peace and freedom enough for one more.
Parker
Strathmore House
Loudoun County, Virginia
I want to rip it down. I want its existence to fade from memory. I want to bulldoze its cavernous hallway and release this overpowering scent of dust and damp decay. I want a bonfire of the vanities, a bleeding out of old blood and of bad blood until this toxic patrimony comes to an end. I want to watch Strathmore House fall.
The many faces of my dead relations hang upon velvet paper and richly lacquered wood paneled walls. Their portraits, mounted like trophy heads, stare out on the world with glassy sightless eyes. In every room their dead eyes find me, smothering my small rebellion into bitter submission.
I have no home but this, a fact that is as real as the clockwork appearance of a house maid just after the first stroke of the fifth hour. She will come as her forbearers came, to draw the curtains and block the late afternoon light.
“Home.” The word is no more than a bitter sigh, yet it echoes through the lofted hall like a pledge of fidelity to this place. In the distance the great hall clock ticks on noisily, its mechanical sound marking the minutes while it breaks up the silence.
In stillness I watch the shadows recede, forced into hiding by the bright afternoon sun that washes in through the western windows. The room is bathed in golden light and glittering dust particles that rain down through many fingered sunbeams. I reach to catch the sunbeams in my hands the way I once had, but I’m stopped by an ingrained propriety that reminds me I’m sixteen and almost a man.
I need a change, the kind of change that brings hope and freedom from this iron clad routine that is all duty and service to others’ notions of what it is to live. I want to open the windows and feel the rush of fresh air as it pours over the stone sills. Yet even as I open the window, feeling the first rush of air, the great hall clock strikes its first of five notes bringing the house maid on silent feet to darken the stagnant room.
“Mr. Parker.” Doreen, the dark-skinned maid nods to me, her voice a whispered acknowledgment that I exist. I nod in return and watch routine prevail. The window is closed. The curtains are drawn, the room darkened in obedience to a long dead ancestor’s living wish. The heavy curtains sway with the residual murmurs of motion while the maid leaves as silently as she came. Having cut the last sunbeam short, the curtains go still, creating an automated evening or mechanical night that merges seamlessly with the pervasive silence–a thing broken only by the clock’s tick tock.
Gidra
No one comes to greet the ship when we dock in New York Harbor. I imagine what it must have been like in the 30’s when a steamer this size pulled into port. I imagine tickertape flying in long white ribbons, confetti filling the air as hands wave to excited onlookers. Scenes from old movies play through my head of beautiful blondes bundled in white fur coats, their elegantly quaffed hair gleaming under small cloche hats. Looking right I see a heroine, an idealized beauty just as perfect as any Hollywood actress, but my mother, Sophia, is no black and white film star, and her fans, all male, only visit her in secret.
Mama stands at the railing, her eyes fixed on the city, her thoughtful expression hidden behind the soft smile that always touches her painted lips. The wind picks up, freeing a wisp of silver blonde hair. She lifts a gloved hand to her forehead to catch the stray strand, her eyes shifting to mine when she sees me watching her.
“Schastliv?” Happy? she asks, her eyes meet mine before dropping to make certain that my dress and fur are immaculate. Mama’s smile brightens when her eyes again find mine. She is happy which means I will be happy too. I wonder why she bothered to ask. Schastliv? This word and its meaning are strangers to me, because we’re about to disembark through customs with false passports and a yellow valise filled with thousands of dollars in jewelry, and she thinks to ask me if I’m happy? I am frightened! Frightened of being caught, imprisoned, and shipped back to what? There is no country that will claim us. Yet Mama is happy and that happy must suffice for both of us.
A steward waits with our luggage, including the yellow valise, loaded neatly on a trolley. I eye the steward, my suspicion of everyone rising because a faux joie de vivre coupled with sheer desperation are all we have to turn this trick. We walk down the gang plank through a gathering ocean fog. It chills the air and obscures our view. The luggage trolley rattles down behind us, its reassuring clatter giving me courage as we enter the customs office.
The moment the door closes Mama laughs a high and chiming laugh that brings all eyes toward her. I would blush if I weren’t so terrified. Mama takes J.S.’s arm and kisses his cheek, pretending that he’s the most amusing man in the room. Glancing around, I count five open stations. Behind each station stands one uniformed immigration and customs clerk. Three are old, their faces lined with care and officious hostility. The other two are young but one is married, his cheap ring barely visible on his fat finger. So where is the mark, the easy play? I look over the room again. The last man is young, but before I have time to assess him, Mama guides us toward his station.
“Gidra, my love?” Mama’s English comes in a thick mixture of Russian and German accents to fall like warm syrup in my ear. These three words dispel my terror as they remind me to be fearless in the game.
I move up before her, greeting the uniformed clerk with my warmest smile while Mama and J.S. stand behind me like the Berlin Wall. I place our two fake passports on the work surface before glancing around at all the other clerks and passengers.
“What an awful lot of work you must have to do?” I ask with soft concern. “Are there always this many people?”
The clerk takes up my passport, his eyes sliding from my photo to my face, our eyes catching.
“No, ma’am, it’s only busy when a ship comes in.”
“Oh, I am glad. Just look at all these people.” I look around the room again, inspecting our luggage trolley for Mama’s yellow valise before refocusing on the clerk. “It would be terribly hard on you if it were always this busy.”
“Yes, ma’am, that would be rough.” His smile is shy. A soft blush touches his pale cheeks.
“Do you have to stamp every passport?” The government stamps glint in a basket to my right, their chrome with red and black wooden accents make them look important.
“Every one,” he nods, looking at the stamps.
“Now what does this one do?” I ask, tapping the top of the closest one.
“Oh, now that… Well, you shouldn’t touch that. It’s official.” He sets down my passport to lift the stamp.
“I’m so sorry.” I smile up at him, looking both apologetic and playfully abashed.
“Oh, that’s all right. Now, if you don’t mind my asking, what brings you to the U.S.?”
J.S. answers with an impressive air of authority. “We’ll be spending the summer on my estate in Virginia,” He sets his authentic passport over mine and Mama’s. Red and black stamps litter its pages, bright in their official ink. J.S. has been everywhere. But what catches the young clerk’s attention are the words Diplomatic Passport embossed in silver lettering across the front. The inside pages are littered with visas and other important looking government stamps.
I watch the clerk take it up. His eyes moving from the passport to J.S.’s face and then back again. His brow knits before he sets it down. To my surprise he stamps each passport before returning them.
“Enjoy your summer, Captain Strathmore. It’s been a pleasure serving you, sir.”
I watch J.S. take all three passports, depositing them into the breast pocket of his Jermyn Streettailored jacket. My features would reflect suspicion if they weren’t trained to show only naivety and amusement. How has J.S. acquired a diplomatic passport? Why was I told to distract the clerk if J.S. already had the ace in his pocket?
I follow Mama and J.S. through the customs house and out onto the sidewalk. J.S. tips the steward, but the depressed look on the boy’s face tells me it’s a meager tip. Mama wastes no time. Before the boy is even out of sight she’s retrieved her precious yellow valise, leaving the trolley looking somehow shabby without it.
I must admit that despite all obstacles, we have arrived. Once again we have tempted fate and won. No one has arrested us yet, which means the game can commence with its usual vigor. If our game had rules the first and only rule would be, “All’s fair in love and war,” because in our game, the wars never end and love is just a fanciful state of mind.
Parker
I wake each morning at six o’clock to the sound of the third-floor clock gonging in unison with the great hall clock below. My door is opened on the hour by a maid named Althea. With tired eyes I watch her draw the curtains and set my egg and toast on the breakfast table. Althea is the honey colored maid I like, the one with the fine hips and slim waist. She is pretty and paler than a house maid should be. I want to call her to me. I want to talk to her. I want to make her smile before I draw her close and touch that fine rich skin. There is such sweetness in her face, such innocence in her eyes that I am both tempted by and ashamed of, the wicked track my mind has taken. I watch her leave without a word.
Walking to the breakfast table I know from past experience that this is the usual Tuesday breakfast, and that tomorrow I can expect bacon, potato, and a biscuit. This is my grandfather The Judge’s menu, still repeated six years after his death. Either way, I like Tuesday’s breakfast best because plain as the meal is, it reminds me of the townhouse with lace curtains and yellow walls.
The smell of scrambled eggs and hot toast mingle in my mind with the remembered aromas of Lily’s Turkish coffee and rose water perfume. This rich mixture of scents calls forth a memory of home more vivid with color than any photo. With fork in hand I close my eyes, letting the first bite make everything clear again. Her face, the dust on the window casing, the way the old table wobbled when we ate.
I miss her smile and the way she’d tell me to hurry up and eat. I liked that best of all. “Parker, hurry up and eat,” Lily would say, grabbing a scarf off a kitchen knob as she passed through the room, looking for yet another lost item in the piles of lost and misplaced things that decorated our living room. Lily never wore a watch or looked at a clock; she existed in a state of perpetual lateness, which characterized our lives in the townhouse.
