She was always crazy. Looking back, I see no doubt about
it. It was a deceptive craziness, though, sometimes
luminous and joyful. Even when it was, my brother and I
knew it was important not to relax. If one of us let down
our vigilance, a bottomless pit could open right beneath
our feet, eclipsing the ground we'd been foolish enough to
trust, and the sickening freefall would begin again.
We blamed ourselves, of course. Mother blamed us, too. In
a way, that was best, because we could all be saved if
Roger and I only perfected ourselves, and I used to
believe that was possible — until the summer after eighth
grade, when she went for weeks without speaking to me. I
had no idea what I'd done or how to fix it, and bang, one
afternoon while I was lying on my bed, this thought came:
it's not me. Instead of being relieved, I cried a long
time, letting the tap of water against our mildewed shower
curtain obscure the sound. I was ill-equipped to deal with
the insight, which didn't last anyway. Maybe Mother
smelled my doubt of her; she had an uncanny sense of when
she'd gone too far, although I can see now she took full
advantage of the vast and open space we gave her, the
miles and miles before she reached our edge.
But there was this, too: she had the most wonderful laugh,
rich and tinkly at the same time.
My mother had an undisguised preference for male over
female, inexplicable considering the relationships she'd
had with men. She both worshipped and loathed the memory
of her father, who'd died before Roger and I were born,
and implied grossly preferential treatment of her brother,
Jacob, to whom she hadn't spoken in a good fifteen years.
It was all an enigma to me until she and I made a journey
to Seattle to see her dying mother. Neither Roger nor I
had never so much as met our grandmother before then.
Mother had told us the distance from Massachusetts to
Seattle was too great for visiting, but we also knew that
when Grandmother called, Mother would often end up banging
down the phone or pretending to have been disconnected.
My brother and I speculated that we were the children of
different fathers. Our discussions on the subject were
rare and secretive because Mother gave us to understand
that she was a Virgin. Any question that didn't use that
tenet as a given would bring quick punishment. As a reward
for her purity and devotion, God gave Mother the Truth. It
was a serious mistake to disagree with Him through Her.
She had elevated her non-male status by having had
adequate brains to become the Bride of Christ, as she put
it, a position she evidenced by wearing a solitaire pearl
on her wedding ring finger. Since He only needed one
Bride, the lowliness of my gender was unredeemed.
One time it was better to be a girl, but I couldn't enjoy
it. Mother had taken us on an impromptu camping trip, as
she did at least once every summer. Each time she found us
a new place to trespass; we never went where it was legal
to camp, because, she explained, those places had already
been discovered and ruined, or, more likely, they hadn't
been the best places to begin with or rich people would
have already bought them up. Every year we collected
treasures from our trip and after we got home we'd make a
collage. "Look! A whelk and it's not broken!" one of us
would call out as we walked a heads-down souvenir
search. "From an eagle!" we'd pronounce a feather fallen
from an ordinary gull, and she'd proclaim, "It's a keeper
and so are you." Of course, she also regularly threatened
to return us to the Goodwill store, where she claimed to
have found us at a clearance sale, but she loved us. I
know she did. Even now, after all, I remind myself of
that. And she had the most wonderful laugh.
All in all, I hated camping, but I pretended to like it
because it was God's Great Outdoors and it would have
added another flaw to the list she kept on me if I didn't
like laying my bony body down on God's Great Hard-As-Rocks
Rocks and hearing Mother remind us of the Rock of Ages on
which we should rest our lives. We didn't have a tent or
anything. Three thin sleeping bags, a couple of dented
pots, paper plates, ancient utensils stolen from various
diners, matches and a red plaid plastic tablecloth
constituted our equipment. Mother said a tent would spoil
the view of God's Great Starry Heavens. To myself, I added
that it would also spoil the feast enjoyed by God's Great
Mosquito Plague, but I would never have been dumb enough
to say it out loud. The thought was a grimy smudge of
rebellion on my soul, and I was amazed she didn't notice
and purify me again.
This particular trip involved a drive of two hours south
into Rhode Island, to the oceanfront estates of Newport.
She figured that by parking on a kind of no-man's-land on
the obscure boundary between two huge properties, we could
unobtrusively carry our gear onto the enormous cliffs and
climb down, out of sight from the main houses, onto lower
rocks where cozy sandy nests were revealed between them
when the tide withdrew. Now it seems absurd to even
contemplate, but I guess security systems weren't so
nearly perfect in 1969.
I was too nervous to enjoy the scenery. There was a catch
to the plans Mother made. If some disaster befell us, such
as being arrested, she'd be furious because, she'd say,
she had been testing our good sense by inserting a flaw
into the plan. By not finding it, we would have proven
again that her lessons had gone un-learned, she had Cast
Pearls Among Swine. On the other hand, questioning the
wisdom of a scheme was to certify Lack Of Faith, a major
sin and stupid to boot; we knew that much.
We set up camp just as she'd imagined, on a huge fairly
flat rock above a tiny spit of sand, below the cliffs and
the manicured lawns and formal gardens that spread from
elegant verandas toward the sea. Finding driftwood was the
first task she set us to, and not a simple one. There
isn't a lot of vegetation on those cliffs, and she was not
happy with the skimpy pile we amassed. At some point we
must have satisfied her, and she began working to get a
fire started. We had to remember to praise the results
profusely or we'd have displayed Lack Of Appreciation,
another major sin. The wood fought back; there wasn't
enough kindling and nothing we'd found was adequately dry.
Roger might have contributed to the green wood problem by
sneaking onto a lawn and uprooting a small tree. He
sometimes did things like that when we were desperate, and
I didn't say anything. We helped each other out that much,
at least. Mother finally got a small blaze started, pale-
appearing against the brilliant blue sky, and I breathed
again. It was only late afternoon, too early for supper.
"We'll take a treasure walk." She tended to announce her
decisions. "Watch your step."
We set out, climbing from one level of rocks to another
when necessary, along the jagged shore guarding the back
of Newport's spectacular mansions.
"Children," she exclaimed, her face animated and ecstatic,
"You see? God's riches are ours. We don't need money."
(Thank goodness we're not tainted with filthy lucre,
observed a dangerous whisper in my mind.) But then Mother
began to sing,
"Amazing grace! how sweet the sound that saved a wretch
like me! I once was lost, but now am found, was blind but
now I see." Her fine, strong contralto wove itself into
the noise of waves stunned by their meeting with cliffs
and, as always, I was immediately reconverted to every
word she had ever spoken. Her face was sun-gilt, and what
she said about being the Bride of Christ had to be true, I
was positive, or no way would God let her be so beautiful.
She put her arm around me and hugged me to her, and I
thought I would die then and there of pure happiness.
And all the signs were good, that was the thing. When we
were in front of one estate, two big, short-haired dogs
came charging out at us, barking ferociously, and I
thought we'd done it, we'd failed another test. But Mother
waved cheerily at the man who came out after the
dogs. "Yoo hoo, how are you this beautiful day," she
called, just as though we belonged there, and kept right
on going. The man waved back and whistled for the dogs who
went to him reluctantly, whining their disappointment at
being denied fresh kill.
We went on a little farther, and the three of us sat on
the rocks of a small promontory, a melon sun spilling
color over the edge of our world and sea. My goose-bumped
skin smoothed out, and Mother said my hair was a glorious
titian. A great peacefulness settled over us, each with
our arms wrapped around our knees, and time slowed for our
gratitude the way it does when you're by the water, your
dry soul soaking up its magnitude and kindness. Mother
rubbed my back and I wriggled into the crook of her arm
and put my head in the hollow between her shoulder and
cushy chest. We were all mostly quiet, but every now and
then, something would pop into her mind and she'd say it
and laugh, full and real and utterly joyous. She had the
most wonderful laugh. I know I've said that, but it's
still true. Even when we had no idea what she was talking
about, her laugh would make us laugh with her.
It grew chilly as the sun continued to sink, and Mother
said we needed to get back to camp. Roger and I hurried
along, eager not to let anything interrupt the good
feeling. When we reached the small campsite where we'd
built the fireplace, a circle of stones in the middle of
the flat rock by which we'd left our bedrolls and cooking
equipment, Mother's face changed. Neither Roger nor I
caught it quickly enough, and neither of us, even when we
did see the change, knew what had gone wrong. Mother
pointed angrily at the area and shouted, "How could you
have let this happen?"
Roger and I looked at each other anxiously after each of
us had taken a quick inventory. Nothing appeared to be
missing. Mother realized we didn't see what she wanted us
to and it infuriated her. "There! there!" she shouted,
pointing at what had been the fire, now quite dead of
neglect. We scurried to pacify her.
"I'll work on another one, Mother," I said, and started to
gather up the couple of remaining kindling pieces, while
Roger went over to the site and began stirring the ashes
with a stick to see if any were live, but it was too late.
We had to be reminded how dangerous happiness is.
Mother charged over and pushed Roger to the side. He had
been squatting and her rough shove upset his balance; he
landed on an elbow and hip. She yelled, then, "It's a
man's job to keep the fire going." This was news to both
Roger and me, but he knew better than to argue and I knew
better than to draw her in my direction. It wouldn't have
diminished Roger's punishment, only convinced her that her
efforts were wasted on both of us and her rage and sorrow
would lengthen like our shadows. I slunk backward toward
the shadow of an overhanging rock, my back to the ocean,
watching, and not wanting to.
Mother grabbed the stick Roger had used to poke the ashes
and told him to let his pants down. At thirteen, though he
hadn't a trace of beard of his high-colored fleshy cheeks,
Roger was already man-size, of a hefty rectangular build.
Still, he obeyed the humiliating order. His underwear
gaped open and I could see a thin gathering of dark pubic
hairs. I'd wondered if he had it yet. I was nearly twelve
and had some, but the health teacher had said boys got
theirs later. I could hear Roger apologizing, saying he
understood and it wouldn't happen again, but Mother
layered her sorrowful look over her steely one and said
he'd have to be taught so he'd never forget again that a
man is to tend the fire and provide for women. She reached
over and yanked his shorts down, pointed at the rock he
was to lean against and raised her other arm, holding the
stick.
I lost count of how many times it came down. Behind her
the sun was melting into the horizon and it looked as
though she was pulling a great red fire down from the sky.
Her arm was silhouetted in a slow black curving upward,
until, after a momentary pause at the top of the arc, it
blurred as it fell, a sickening sound splitting the air
before the green stick cracked on his pale flesh, leaving
another streak of the bloody sunset there. When we've been
dead ten thousand years, bright shining as the sun, was
the last verse she'd sung, we've no less days...than when
we first begun, and I thought this time he might die but
her killing him still wouldn't stop. When it was over and
Roger was alive, I wanted to be happy that I was a girl,
but I wasn't. Maybe I was jealous in spite of what she'd
done to him because, when it was over, she pulled Roger
into her arms and held him while he cried, loving and
comforting him, and telling him it was all because he had
to be a man, a man, a man.
Roger healed up, we always did, though normal walking was
usually hard for a week or so, and we had to make up
stories to our gym teachers so we wouldn't have to put on
shorts. He had to earn his way back into grace, and I had
to agree with Mother about how badly Roger had let her —
us — down. Perhaps it sounds cowardly, the business of not
standing up for each other, but until we were well into
our teens, both of us kept trying to tilt the map of the
world we held until it fit the puzzle Mother presented. We
convinced ourselves it did fit, even if we had to lop off
a country here, an ocean there to cram it into place.
Later, we really did know better, but by then, we knew
something more important: she had to have one of us to
hang on to. When Roger defended something I'd said, even
though it was to shore her up, she couldn't stand it. She
simply couldn't stand it.