Some Can Whistle (14 page)

Then the thing would happen and of course bear no resemblance to our rehearsals. If it was a romance that Jeanie was rather hoping would start slowly, then the guy would try to fuck her in the elevator two minutes after arriving for the first date; or, if she was hoping it would start fast, then he wouldn’t. “I’m so good at auditions, why am I so bad at life?” Jeanie asked frequently. “I rehearse and rehearse and then it never comes out like I rehearse it.” In fact, she
was
brilliant at auditions and less so at life, at least if you consider love affairs and confrontations with film directors life.

What I valued in Jeanie was that she respected the fear that the infinity of human options can produce in some people, herself and myself for two. We talked and talked, rehearsed and rehearsed, always ending where we began, in indecision; for indecision was the port (to steal from H. James) from which conversations between Jeanie and I always set out, and also the port to which they inevitably returned.

In twenty years of relating, involving almost daily conversations, Jeanie Vertus and I had never really even been able to decide if we were in love. Probably at some level we both thought we were, but we could never quite get it rehearsed to the point where we felt confident enough to stage it exactly. We couldn’t decide how to play it, which was precisely the problem I now faced with my daughter.

I yearned for a talk with Jeanie, but Jeanie wasn’t there to indulge me in a final postponement. I sighed a few times, dialed the garage, and ordered my car.

When I first saw T.R.—after reaching Dismuke Street by a circuitous but subtly soothing route that involved going out the East Tex Freeway for a while and then doubling back—she was sitting on an old wooden bench behind the Mr. Burger, eating a banana split. Bo and Jesse, my grandchildren, were whining, salivating, and stretching their little hands up to their mother piteously; while Jesse whined she also bounced up and down in her stroller on what seemed like sturdy little legs. The stroller looked older than Bo and Jesse put together; it was held together with masking tape. In her indignation at being denied part of the banana split Jesse was bouncing quite vigorously—it did not look to me as if the stroller could hold together much longer.

Most of the banana split had already been eaten when I arrived on the scene: its remains, a rich chocolaty goop streaked with strawberry, filled the customary little paper canoe. When not actually taking a bite, T.R. held the canoe high, far out of reach of her children’s hands.

“You shouldn’t have thrown down your all-day suckers,” she told the children matter-of-factly. I was instantly struck by her matter-of-factness. The trait had to have come from Sally, because, despite a lifetime of striving, real matter-of-factness had always eluded me.

“Them suckers was supposed to last all day, that’s why they call them all-day suckers,” T.R. went on, lowering the brimming canoe a bit and delicately filling a plastic spoon with the chocolaty goop.

Bo, concluding that he was not going to get any of the goop, began to jump up and down, his countenance darkening.

“Pow pow pow!” he said, pointing his finger at his mother.

In a smooth movement that reminded me a bit of Gabriela Sabatini’s graceful turns at the baseline, T.R. set the canoe on the bench beside her, caught the hand that Bo was shooting her with, lifted him briefly, turned him a half-turn, and delivered one smooth open-handed smack to his rear end. Then she turned him back a half-turn so that he was facing her and looked him square in the eye.

“Don’t you shoot at me, even pretend,” she said sternly. “Jesus don’t like for little boys to shoot their mothers.”

“Pow, Jesus,” Bo said defiantly. The second T.R. set him down he turned and fled, firing imaginary shots behind him.

“Pow pow pow,” he said from a safe distance.

“Pow,” Jesse echoed uncertainly.

T.R. picked up her banana split again.

“Now you see,” she said, looking at Bo. “You taught your own little sister to try and shoot Jesus and me both. It’ll be a long time before you get your next chance at an all-day sucker.”

Looking a little more closely, I noticed two lemon-colored all-day suckers lying in the dust not far from Jesse’s stroller. Bo, who wore nothing but a tiny swimsuit, the same ugly color as Godwin’s, reached under the swimsuit, found his bobbin of a penis, and pulled it out. After a few moments of intense concentration, he began to pee in the general vicinity of the all-day suckers, frowning at his mother as he did.

“Pow,” Jesse said, more softly. She was standing up in the stroller but had stopped bouncing. She took her tiny finger out of the air and put it in her mouth as she watched her brother urinate.

T.R., casually dressed in a T-shirt, Levi’s cutoffs, and sandals, took this development calmly.

“Them suckers was already ruined, who cares if you pee on them,” she said to Bo. “You can’t really solve many problems by yanking out your little peter and peeing on things, but if you want to try, go right ahead.”

Then T.R. looked up at me. I had parked well down Dismuke Street and approached the group cautiously, as one might
approach a pride of lions who were momentarily intent on family play.

The image was appropriate because T.R. was a large, casually graceful girl—the image that sprang naturally to mind was of a tolerant young lioness, finishing off a light snack, perhaps of antelope, while playing with her cubs. She had tawny hair, neither quite blond nor quite brunette, and fine features, with more of a girlish curve to her cheek and a much more generous mouth than her mother had had.

Even at a distance of twenty yards I had the sense that I was approaching a superior animal, very beautiful to look at, very unpredictable.

Until she looked up, she had been paying no attention at all to the portly figure approaching along the sidewalk—the portly figure, of course, was me. But then I edged into the circle of her awareness; that is, I got close enough to threaten her cubs. She didn’t get up or prepare for attack—after she glanced at me she took another bite of the banana split—but that was because the glance satisfied her that I was no threat.

“T.R., I’m your dad,” I said faintly, feeling that I had just uttered the most inadequate first sentence of my life.

“That Dew makes great banana splits,” T.R. said. Despite her matter-of-factness, I believe she was slightly nonplused by my actuality—like Nema’s lovers, I may have worked better as a fantasy.

“These kids would give their sharp little teeth for a banana split,” she added, looking at me hopefully.

“I’ll buy them one if they’re allowed to have banana splits,” I offered, waving at Dew, who was grinning at me through the window of the Mr. Burger.

T.R. studied the matter for a moment—studied me, studied her children.

“I’m not sure a little boy who pees on his all-day sucker
deserves a banana split,” she said, looking at Bo. He had drained his small reservoir of urine but was still fingering his penis as if he expected more to spurt forth at any time.

So far he had taken no notice of me, but Jesse had. She had pale blue eyes, wispy blond hair, and a buttercup mouth. After only a momentary inspection, she held out her hands to me.

“See, Jesse’s the friendly one,” T.R. said. “She’s into singing and dancing and hugging necks. Bo’s into slugging people when he ain’t trying to pee on something or squash cats. Bo’s just your average guy.”

Jesse was still holding out her hands to me, but she suddenly upped the ante by beginning to squeal.

“Pick her up quick, she’s about to squeal,” T.R. said. “It’s blackmail, but anything’s better than hearing Jesse squeal. Dew gets a sick headache every time Jesse squeals.”

I lifted the little girl out of the stroller and held her awkwardly. I had only occasionally held small children before in my life, and it had been years since I had attempted such a feat. Jesse was staring at me solemnly, so solemnly that I felt like I was on trial. Bo suddenly walked over and kicked me. Apparently he didn’t like it that I was holding his little sister. Since he was barefoot, the kick hurt him more than it did me. Jesse looked down at him smugly—I believe she was enjoying being safely out of reach.

“That’s your grandpa you just kicked,” T.R. informed him. “He’s the man with the airplane, but I don’t see why he’d want to take you on it if you’re going to be so unfriendly. It serves you right if you hurt your toe.”

At that point we were engulfed by Mexican teen-agers, the same Mexican teen-agers I had seen at the Mr. Burger the night before. One chubby girl tried to comfort Bo, who glared at me balefully, picked up his dirty all-day sucker, and walked off a few feet away with it.

A pregnant girl who looked to be about fifteen held out her hands to Jesse.

“Can I hold Jesse?” she asked. “I need to practice for when I have my baby.”

Decisions seemed to come thick and fast for grandparents. I had just picked Jesse up; now I was being asked to surrender her to a pregnant Hispanic teen-ager. Was this appropriate? I didn’t know.

“The big question is whether it’s okay with Jesse,” T.R. said. “Jesse’s got a mind of her own. She’s the smart one in the family.”

“She knows me,” the Mexican girl said. “I hold her all the time.”

To the inexperienced eye, Jesse seemed willing—she was staring at the Mexican girl with a soft, benign expression. But the second I started to hand her over I found out just how inexperienced my eye was. Jesse had been sitting comfortably in the crook of my arm; the moment I started to lower her into the waiting brown hands, she transformed herself into a rigid column of resistant flesh, and the squeal she emitted was so loud that for a moment I had difficulty believing it came from the tiny girl I held. Jesse’s squeal made an ambulance siren seem flutelike. T.R. and Bo both put their fingers in their ears; the little Mexican girl ran away. The other teen-agers laughed. I couldn’t put my fingers in my ears without dropping Jesse. The sound was so piercing it disoriented me for a moment; it was as if I had strayed onto an airstrip just as the Concorde was taking off.

I knew it wouldn’t do to drop my granddaughter though, so I hung on. Jesse stopped squealing as abruptly as she had started; her face had become a bright red, but the color soon began to fade and the rigid little body became soft again and settled happily back into the crook of my arm.

T.R. took her fingers out of her ears. “That’s what it’s like when Jesse squeals,” she said.

Suddenly I felt a little weak—Jesse’s squeal had set off a series of aftershocks in my nervous system. I was still within the aura of the night’s migraine, and it didn’t take much to make me tremble.
For a moment I felt worse than weak; I had the horrible conviction that I was about to topple over; I felt vertigo coming on. Through the window of the Mr. Burger I could see Dew and Sue Lin grinning at me, but their faces wavered, in the manner of mirages on a highway. I felt terrified—the world, once so solid, was shaking like jelly; or perhaps it was just me that was shaking.

I knew that it would constitute a bad start to family life if I toppled over and crushed my little granddaughter. Desperate to avoid this calamity, I took two shaky steps and plopped heavily down by T.R. She had put her banana split on the bench beside her and barely had time to jerk it out of the way. Even so, some of the goop sloshed out.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t feel so good.”

“You’re lucky she didn’t squeal her hardest,” T.R. said. She put a hand on my arm sympathetically. “Last week she squealed her hardest at a cop who was trying to make friends when she didn’t feel friendly, and he had to go lay down in his police car for half an hour. They say babies squeal like that to scare off tigers but I don’t know if that’s true. Jesse’s never met a tiger.”

“La,” Jesse said, spying a fountain pen in my pocket. She plucked it out, studied it briefly, and held it up for her mother’s inspection.

“Ball,” she said emphatically.

T.R. shook her head. “It’s time you learned you can’t call everything in the world a ball, Jesse,” she said. “I know it’s an easy word to say but it don’t apply to everything.”

Jesse examined the fountain pen more closely. She waved it around a bit, put it in her mouth, took it out.

“Ball,” she said again, as if she had given the matter fair consideration and reached an unassailable conclusion.

A second later I was blind-sided by my grandson, who came rushing out of nowhere and made a leap for the fountain pen. His surge carried him into my lap but fell just short of its goal. Jesse snatched the pen safely out of reach, whereupon Bo, ignoring me except insofar as I was a useful platform, began to
hit her with the dust-encrusted all-day sucker he had picked up. Bo was not large, but, like Nema, he was a little cyclone of energy. Jesse held the pen out of reach, and I held Jesse out of reach, but in the first several seconds of the assault it seemed that Bo might prove more than a match for both of us.

“Pow dead, pow dead!” he yelled at Jesse. He didn’t yell as loudly as Jesse squealed, but he was loud enough.

I had just begun to ease out of my vertigo and hadn’t been expecting to have a small dirty boy squirming in my lap, trying to whack his sister with a dirty all-day sucker. The one thing that came to mind during the first seconds of Bo’s assault was the Salt II Treaty—it seemed to me I was receiving a first strike, while having no deterrent capacity. I was driven back on first principles, and my first principle was not to drop Jesse, whose deterrent capacity was not entirely negligible; she managed to keep both feet in her little brother’s face, kicking vigorously.

I wanted badly to grab Bo but didn’t have a spare hand to grab him with; the notion struck me with stunning clarity that God and/or evolution had erred in leaving us primates with only two hands. What a design flaw! It was obvious that parents and grandparents needed a pair of hands for each child, otherwise, how to hold one while grabbing the other?

I also quickly gained an understanding of why clichés are able to retain their force in the language: the cliché “Time seemed to stand still” held considerable resonance for me while my two grandchildren engaged in all-out war over my fountain pen. The scuffle couldn’t have lasted more than a few seconds, but to me, the epicenter of the assault, it seemed endless, a Six Day War, a Thirty Years’ War almost—a war that might exhaust whole generations.