24
The deceitful hippie was on a bus to far northern Queensland and she was left with fourteen acres and a piece of paper that said I give my car to Dial. Beside the Bruce Highway at Nambour, in the spewy waving exhaust fumes of the bus, the boy asked her, Can we go to a motel now?
Can we go to a
motel
!
But then she saw that frown-fold by his nose, the shifting secret eyes.
Oh Christ, she thought, what have I done? This had been an unblemished boy and the most remarkable thing about him had not been his handsome father’s face but his perfect trust, the way he put his hand in hers and sat beside her on the bus, so close, resting his cheek against her arm. His eyes had been limpid, gray, in some lights, a lovely sulfur blue. His hair had been tousled, curly. It was hard not to touch him all the time. And here he was, his soul all curled up and fearful of attack.
Can we, Dial?
She looked into his eyes and wondered if an equal and opposite rage was burning in that perfect little head.
Can we? Please.
She was already tense about how they would get back to Remus Creek Road. She had no license, could not drive a stick shift.
Can we?
He hung off her finger with his fist, marsupial. How can he have endured all this? In the car she found a crumpled oil-stained map.
Here, she said, what’s this?
Is it the sea, Dial? He pushed closer to her, and brushed his cheek against her arm.
We’re really near the beach, she said. It was the first time she understood where she had taken him. Would you like that, baby? She lay her hand on his head, the engine of his soul contained within her palm.
And stay in a motel!
Why not! She was not broke yet. She had
Huck Finn
inside her bag. They could play poker and eat pizza and swim all day.
OK get down on the floor, she said. She was insane, of course, even now, particularly now. Get down on the floor? The little creature didn’t even argue, just curled himself with the kitten, in among the dust and matches on the rubber matting.
Then she drove, best she could. Wrong side of the road.
As for the boy, he did not seem to mind the sneezing dust and deadhead matches, did not seem irritated that she kept moving her hand from the gear stick to his shoulder and back again. The confused scampy cat soon went off to sleep on the back window ledge, but the boy stayed hiding, knowing the mother loved him once again.
Did you really drive to Montana?
That was his real mother he was talking about. I’m not used to this car, she called. I’m sorry.
Did you have a map then?
It’s a stick shift, she persisted. I’ll get used to it.
Dial?
Yes.
With his stubborn quietness he was forcing her to look at him. She turned briefly, actually frightened of his seriousness.
Are you scared they will arrest me, Dial?
Don’t be silly, she said. She was driving way too slow. She could see the cars behind her and she was looking for a place to pull off the road.
We’re underground. That’s why I’m on the floor?
Don’t talk now. I’m concentrating.
You said I had to lie on the floor.
Shush! she said. There was a tractor yard up ahead and she pulled off. She counted seven cars pass by. Did she have to tell him now?
It’s safer on the floor, she said. Just generally.
Can I get up if I put on my seat belt?
Sure you can, she said, pulling back onto the road.
This was how you drove my daddy to Montana, right, Dial?
How the fuck did he know all this stuff.
It was an automatic, babe.
It was a rental, Dial. And with a bullet in your arm.
It was as if he was taunting her. In a minute he would want to see the scar.
Look, she said. This is so pretty. They were traveling between walls of green sugarcane. Above the giant grass towered a small wood house on stilts.
It was a .32, right?
The sugarcane gave way to a forest of thin raggy-barked trees, their white trunks like chalk marks drawn on darkness.
Right, Dial?
Cameron told you all this nonsense, she said at last. How old is Cameron?
He’s sixteen. He’s a Maoist.
Well, she said, the press is full of lies. He should know that.
She was pulling off the road, unable to go on. She could not look at him. She stopped beside a mess of churned-up gray soil and broken trees, a sad forest, cut off like a knife.
What are we doing?
She almost told him, I’m not your mother, but she got out of the car, pretending to look for something. She could not live like this, day after day. Some barbarian had been through these woods with bulldozers. There was not a flower to pick, nothing but these spooky injured trees with flaking skin like psoriasis. She tugged at the bark, and it came off in a long sheet, like paper.
That was it. She would take that back to him.
Look, she said. Isn’t this cool?
He looked at her more than at the bark. Did he know she had gone mad? What is it, Dial?
Australian tree bark, baby. You can write on it.
He turned it over in his hand, frowning. What do you want me to write? he asked at last.
Draw Buck, she said brightly, back behind the wheel.
I’m going to write a word, he said.
Let me see when you’re done.
She could feel him laboring beside her, serious, dogged.
Are you done?
He had written ANA.
She thought, I can’t stand this. It has two n’s, she said.
Are you angry with me again, Dial?
No, baby. I love you.
She kissed the top of his head. You know, some cats really love the beach.
Are you Anna? he asked.
Look, she cried. They had come onto a rise and there was the sea, miles and miles of it with yellow beaches disappearing into the chalky mist.
Beach! he said.
25
Tired and burned and sandy, they coasted down onto the plain to the west of Coolum, and the tops and bottoms of paperbark trees were already drowning in the melancholy night. The sky was still dark green. The headlights were on but the mother had had trouble seeing through the smeary insect glass. Below the sky was nothing but a smudge of road, wormy white trunks showing in the scrub.
The light made the boy homesick for his grandma. In the evenings the pair of them would drive like this, side by side, into Jeffersonville to Ted’s Diner. For a while one summer they would take his bike and he could ride around and around the empty parking lot at Peck’s.
There were local kids but they were not friends to him. They had short hair and hard squinting eyes and once when he was eating in Ted’s Diner they stole his bike. He knew who did it and where they lived so on every trip to town thereafter he walked up into the little backstreets around Pete’s Auction Barn and on one of these occasions, just after dusk, he finally saw his bike lying on a little lawn. No question it was his. It had black electrical tape wound around the middle of the crossbar.
He was wheeling it away when the kid came out and asked him what he thought he was doing.
It’s my bike.
Bullshit!
Yes it is.
Liar.
The other boy was maybe eight but when he came down onto the lawn Jay dropped the bike and flew at him so hard he knocked him over and he dropped on him with his knees and smashed him with his fists and he did not stop until the kid’s father pulled him off.
Christ, what you doing?
He stole my bike.
The father was a tall wiry man with tattoos up his arms and on his neck. He had wild black sideburns and pouchy eyes.
Hey, boy, he said, it’s just a goddamned bike.
Yes sir.
The boy had never been hit. He waited for it. Instead the man put his arm around the shoulder of his weeping son and together they walked up onto their porch and the boy saw a woman rush, like a moth fluttering in the light. He cried then, a kind of ugly hiccup.
Back at Ted’s he saw his grandmother.
You found it!
He should have told her, I gave it to him good, some stuff like that, but he was ashamed and dirty and did not know what to say. He kept seeing the father, the tenderness in his dull eyes as he put his arm around his son.
Are you awake, said Dial.
I’m OK, he said.
26
The Peugeot coughed one last time and threw itself a yard farther into the deep dark beneath the overhanging acacia and lantana. Ahead there was a home light burning.
He now had
Huck Finn
in one pocket of the cardigan. You don’t know about me, without you have read a book by the name of
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer.
The kitty was in the other pocket as he carried him up the path through the deepest pool of dark—between the two huts—and up the steps beside the papaya, and then into the big hut where it would just be them, and blankets, and a book, nothing better to imagine now. There was a weak yellow light inside, not sufficient to break through the murk of ceiling, just enough to show strange faces at the low table.
He stopped in the doorway, not knowing what to do. The mother clamped her arms around his chest and squashed him against her, breathless as a paper bag. He was so tired he could have cried.
They were hippies—who else! Arms and faces in shadow like a boring painting in the Met. There was a dense cloud of bugs around them, some flying, some dying, some bouncing off the lamp. They smelled of dope. The bugs settled on the boy’s sweaty nose and a scabby black moth rose suddenly from the table and smacked briefly at the light.
No one said anything.
Can I help you, Dial said. The only one she recognized was the Rabbitoh, one eye hidden by his raven hair.
A woman’s arm offered a joint. The lantern caught the green stones on her wrist, the small silver bells. Dial kept her arms around the boy.
We’re waiting for Jimmy Seeds, said the woman with the drugs.
Adam is gone, the mother said.
If he’s gone, said a man, he’ll come back.
Believe me, said Dial, he’s not coming back. We just bought this place today. Really, guys. I’m sorry. We have to go to bed. We’ve had a heavy day.
There were only five people at the table and all they had was a bag of dope and a teapot but they gave off a bad mood more smelly than the smoke.
She’s Dial, said the Rabbitoh, in case you didn’t know.
I’m Dial, the mother said stubbornly. This is Jay, my son.
Dial? This was a slender man with a handsome shaven face, a head of tousled tangled hair. He had a rubbery upper lip, maybe funny if you were his friend.
We’ve known Jimmy a long
long
time, Dial.
A dumb stoned laugh. A woman. The boy could see her in the gloom—curling thick black hair and big breasts loose inside her T-shirt.
The mother said, Adam got the bus to Cairns this afternoon.
The boy took out the book and gave it to the mother in case she should forget their plan.
The hippie woman pushed her hair back and shoved her long wide jaw into the light. I don’t want to lay some authority rave on you, Dial, she said, but Jimmy Seeds can’t actually sell his shares without the new buyer meeting the community.
She lifted up the lantern. Buck squeezed his eyes shut against the glare.
Anyway, you cannot have the cat.
She stood, revealing herself to be a head shorter than Dial. She had a thick waist and sturdy brown legs.
None of this is your fault, she said to Dial.
It’s cool, said the Rabbitoh. We just need to sit down and talk it through.
Sure you do, said Dial, giving the book back to the boy.
The boy let Buck slip away. Then, quiet as a shadow swimming in the dark, he climbed the giddy narrow-runged ladder to the loft. There he lay in the middle of the nest and pulled a fistful of tangled rug across his head. He waited for them to leave, blocking out their endless foreign voices.
27
She lay beside him in the blue light listening to the metallic explosions of possum droppings on the roof. With his moon-black lips, he seemed even more a foundling. To continue to deceive him seemed too cruel, but to tell the truth was even worse. In the humid darkness, Dial screwed up her face imagining how it would feel to have the whole foundation pulled from underneath your life. His real mother had been a star child too, so blessed that when you saw her do the simplest thing, pull on a sweater or break into a jog, for instance, you were aware of a perfectly symmetrical being, each foot the same, each blue eye identical, her even white teeth beyond the reach of orthodontics. She came to Radcliffe at sixteen, summa cum laude from Dalton, fluent in three languages. When she returned to the Belvedere at Christmas 1964 this child was in her womb, a fish with gills, a tadpole heart.
It was the sixties, but years before Radcliffe girls were on the Pill and boys slept over Friday nights. This was a teenage pregnancy with fifties shame and shadows, linocut illustrations in a women’s magazine.
Did she even know she was pregnant. She confessed nothing, but it did not take a great deal for Phoebe Selkirk to make the diagnosis. It was Christmas morning when things came to a head, the news giving Buster Selkirk all the reason he needed for a vodka. The day sort of went from there, filled with shouting and wailing and the caterer’s trays and boxes were abandoned and Susan retreated to a locked bedroom, alone with a tray of garlic mashed potatoes.
By midnight, lying awake listening to her daughter vomiting in the bathroom, Phoebe Selkirk still had no clear idea of who the father was or what her daughter imagined her life would be from here, only that the subject of “tidying up” her “condition” was not acceptable. That suicide had not been threatened seemed an encouraging sign, in the circumstances.
Mrs. Selkirk had until now proclaimed she had too much energy to sit still on an airplane, but on the following day, which she insisted on calling Boxing Day, she took a single Valium and traveled from Idlewild to Boston and from there to Harvard where her father had endowed a library and a chair. She consulted with no one about this trip, neither daughter nor husband, the latter having, in any case, gone off to sleep at the Harvard Club which was half empty for the holiday. She left her daughter sleeping and called in Gladys from vacation to clean up the mess and keep her company. In Quigley House she met with the dean of students and the president and persuaded them that they were capable of dealing with this little “bump,” which she thought of as a kind of hiccup but which was not understood that way by the two men. If the father had been a Harvard man there was no curiosity expressed and in the years when she drank her first martini at exactly six o’clock, Mrs. Selkirk would wryly comment on the three wise men come to discuss the virgin birth.
Mrs. Selkirk made no gift immediately, but she did encourage the dean and president to consider what it was that the School of Arts might have on its Christmas wish list. At the time she could not imagine she would ever blame Harvard for anything.
Phoebe Selkirk was, to put it very mildly indeed, curious about who the baby’s father was, but each time the question was asked the girl withdrew further, and her room, normally so bright and orderly, took on a dark dank tangle more suitable to an adolescent boy than the girl who had announced, on her twelfth birthday, her plan to be the American ambassador to France.
So you have no plans for marriage? she asked.
The girl’s laughter shocked her to such a degree that she began to wonder if schizophrenia more than pregnancy might be the problem.
In a very small way this disaster was a gift for Phoebe Selkirk, energizing her at a time when she was beginning to cause major trouble on the co-op board. While the boy’s cartilage was changing into bone, his grandmother found the house two hours from New York City, Kenoza Lake, Sullivan County, a million miles from anyone she knew.
She announced this to her daughter, who did not comment, and to her husband, who smiled and lifted both arms in the air, a very irritating habit that seemed to absolve him of all responsibility for anything, even his art purchases which he always sold too early or too late. He was kind of famous, although she wished he would shut up about it, for “getting out of” Pollock.
Tomorrow, we’re going, she said.
Later everyone would hear that Susan had been too young for Radcliffe and so was going to the Sorbonne for a year, a story her mother later amended when she learned the Kelvin and the Goldstein girls would be doing just the same and wanted to share an apartment in the Sixth.
She took the Peugeot and left her husband the ridiculous Alfa Romeo Spider with the midlife-crisis soft top. It was sunny and clear on the Palisades Parkway but once they crossed Bear Mountain the weather changed and they drove the last miles along 17B in freezing rain. On 52 they slid off the road, but it was close enough to walk. All through this the strange creature, her daughter, once talkative and happy, would not speak. She fell on the ice and bloodied up her knees.
You want to kill my baby, she said.
When Che was slow to talk, his grandma said it was because the mother would not speak to her all through her pregnancy.
She was in contact with the father, of course. Of that Phoebe Selkirk was positive, but how that happened she never could quite figure. Books came for the girl, books of an entirely new type, philosophy, economics, books that would never once have interested her. For years and years afterward she would upbraid herself for paying no attention to the poisonous content of the books—Marx, Sartre, Marcuse—when she spent so much time looking through the marginalia attempting to decipher a code. There was no code. They spoke on the telephone, but by the time the first bill came, quarterly in those years, the boy had grown a proper face and all his insides were working as they should. Then the two women drove down to the city and booked into the Gramercy Park Hotel where no one the Selkirks knew would ever stay.
It was from here, at the bottom of Lexington Avenue, that the mother got a cab to take her to Beth Israel where she gave birth to the boy whose name she registered as Che David Selkirk.
The name caused a huge upset at the hospital, but it was the David that really got the grandma going. Much later, when David Rubbo shook his fist at the secretary of state, the grandma recognized him straightaway.
Ha, she cried, that nose.
The mother had not been able to see the father from December 1964 until July 23, 1965, the night the boy was born. He had been discovered around dawn, his head on her milky breast, asleep. He had long fair curly hair, long lashes, a wide brow and a nose with a Roman hump. Beakish, Grandma would say later, which represented a softening of her opinion. It was a New England nose she now decided. The nurses who had already judged the father of a Che revised their opinions when they had seen him. They gathered in a semicircle, and when he woke they brought the baby for him. He was a baby still himself; they blew their noses.
The boy, the mother and the father would not be together again until freshman registration of 1966 when Miss Selkirk and the babysitter—a scholarship girl from Girls’ Latin—quietly took a floor of a triple-decker in Somerville, and the mother entered Radcliffe once again.
Dean Gilpin welcomed the returning student and her mother over tea. She left Che behind on that occasion, and although Dean Gilpin did not order her to hide her baby, this was what they meant when they used the word
discretion.
So Che was kind of hiding from the start of his life. First at Kenoza Lake and then at Somerville and in both these places he was looked after by the girl from Southie.
The dean was preparing for bigger things than babies. There were fifteen thousand hippies living in Haight-Ashbury. The Beatles said they were more popular than Jesus Christ. Dave Rubbo burned his draft card on NBC. Everyone was ready for anything except, as Anna Xenos noted, Harvard “men” still “craved your bod” and clinked their glasses when a girl walked into the dining hall. They thought it was a whole new world, but they were the babies. Harvard was not ready for the first nursing mother to attend Ec 1.
Che also audited Gov 146. It is hard now to imagine how impossible this was. Harvard graduates with unfailing memories will tell you this could not have happened, but there was a picture in the
Crimson
the next day. Volume 23, issue 3. The father was often in the same pages, first because of the draft card, then because he was leader of SDS.
When Robert McNamara came to Harvard in September of 1966 it was SDS who led the protest. There were extreme left factions in SDS but it was still three years before the famous split that produced the Weathermen. Che’s dad did not have a gun in 1966. What he had was a list of ten questions for the secretary of defense.
The crowd was in good order but the Maoists were watching the back of Quincy House and one of them yelled,
Back door.
The boy would remember none of this, of course. But the crowd broke, sprinting toward the back. The mother was in the front, Che in her arms, her wild hair streaming, the famous “fabulous” Tibetan shawl flying backward. The crowd bucked. The mother tripped. She plunged forward as the black Lincoln sped around the corner. There was so much criticism to come, but everyone who saw her said she fell like an athlete, rolling, landing on her back with the child safe against her stomach as she slid, not toward home base, but under the front bumper of the rocking car. The crowd went dead quiet then. This is known. A flashbulb popped, five times. That is all recorded. The mother lay still, headfirst, beneath the steaming radiator. Then the boy began to cry, and as the mother slowly raised her head, she saw a small man with a Hitler-like mustache. He was Bill Hicks of the
Boston Globe
and he had just taken the most famous photograph of 1966.
The mother’s long tanned back was all messed up and bleeding, but no one else was even scratched, certainly not Che. So it did not matter, you would think, his father thought, his mother thought, especially when looked at in the light of all the deaths in Vietnam.
Grandma Selkirk had a different opinion, and Bill Hicks’s famous photo made it comparatively easy to have herself appointed the boy’s sole guardian. After that, the boy did not see the mother.
The boy got some of this information from Cameron. But mostly what he had were scraps of paper and rubber bands. It was the babysitter, staring at him in the Queensland moonlight, who could have given him the rest. She kept her silence, imagining it would not help to know that your mother took pills to dry up her breast milk, that she had decided to harden her heart against you.