The Stardust Lounge (9 page)

What had we thought, anyway? What had we believed our lives would be like after our marriage? I suspect we thought, like many parents, that my sons would grow up under our enlightened care and everything would be fine.

We believed that our parenting was superior, that we were, without a doubt, better parents than our own had
been to us. We'd vowed not to make the mistakes they did, mistakes we often picked out and highlighted and discussed so rationally.

And we believed that our lives as writers, lives punctuated by travel, by liberal, ecumenical notions of culture and society, by our moves to this or that university to teach, by our stays in Europe, the boys attending school there—that all these experiences would have positive effects on our children.

Though Stephen's behaviors were hard on everyone, what was hardest on Stan and me these days was the fact that rationale and reason seemed trivial now, dizzyingly earnest. Our once sacred belief in the honor system had become a joke. Now, instead of judging our parents, certainly culture at large, for old-fashioned—indeed we'd often called them cruel—approaches to child rearing, we were looking to those approaches for answers.

Neither of us raised an eyebrow when one or the other fell into the doomed cadences of
that's the way my parents did it…

As recently as two years ago Stan would likely not have paid much attention to the article in the
Times,
or if he had, he would have noticed it only to shake his head at what he thought to be a father's stupid brutality toward a daughter.

The quality I loved best about Stan was his benevolence, his stand against oppression. During the Vietnam War he'd been a conscientious objector. During our courting he had written me,
I'll do everything I can to befriend and father to your boys.

I look down at my shabby T-shirt and jeans, my dirty
bare feet. Stan falls onto our bed fully clothed, sighs, and closes his eyes. He is used up by the first weeks of intense teaching and the commutes from Maryland to Massachusetts, where he is greeted by an anxious mother and an angry stepson.

“I'm sorry about this,” I say as I lie down next to him.

“Sorry for what?” He stirs. “You didn't do anything.”

“I know but—”

“But what. You were going to say, ‘It's my kid.’ “

“Uh-huh. Sorry,” I say again, this time for making the distinction.

“Night,” he sighs.

In the morning he wakes me with a note he has found from Stephen taped to the fridge.
I'm leaving for good,
it reads.
Don't try to find me.

Stan is fully dressed. He has showered and put on fresh clothes. I see his backpack stuffed and ready at the foot of the bed.

“I can't do this anymore,” he says as I sit up and shake myself fully awake. “I'm sorry.”

Stan hands me a mug of coffee and smooths my hair.

“Take my advice and call the police and let them deal with him. When you do, let me know.

“And by the way,” Stan adds as he readies to leave. “It seems Stephen took the dog with him, and a bag of dog food. And your car.”

Stephen kissing G.Q.

We're dancing. The boys take turns being my partner as we dance to the spinet organ playing “Shine on Harvest Moon,” and peppy versions of “Harbor Lights,” “I'll Remember You,” “Someone to Watch Over Me.” Stephen likes to plant his little feet on mine—we sidestep the maze of cables, hobble and sway across the cafe's bright linoleum.

When thirteen-year-old Charles cuts in, he places his hand on my hip and concentrates on the floor. He has just outgrown me in height and we are startled by this new perspective that renders both of us a bit shy.

His height surprises us and sadly reminds me that just now we are separated, Charles living with his father in Columbia, Stephen and I in Iowa City.

I have to lean away from him because the brim of his Stetson keeps grazing my forehead. If I swing to the snare drum beat a little too enthusiastically, Charles looks panicked.
So we step deliberately, meet each other's eyes, and smile.

This Friday night, like so many others, we planned to meet at our usual spot halfway between Columbia and Iowa City—the Bloomfield, Iowa, town square—so that Stephen could spend time with his father, and Charles with me.

But my Volkswagen threw a rod in Ottumwa, a town short of our destination. After calling a tow truck from a phone booth, calling Columbia regarding our situation, I carried six-year-old Stephen piggyback along the highway, our heads down against the November wind gusting off the fields on either side of us. We made our way toward the only establishment open now, toward the shuddering pink neon rainbow of the Stardust Lounge.

The boys’ father occupies a table just off the dance floor. When we catch him looking at his watch again we wave. He throws us a resigned smile.

The evening our car breaks down in Ottumwa, it is the last night of the town's bowling league tournament. Teams are gathering at the Stardust Lounge for a celebration.

Sure enough, the boys’ young stepmother, Terri, had relayed my message to Charles and his father. They'd waited nearly an hour in Bloomfield, then phoned to discover we were marooned in Ottumwa and came ahead.

We dance among five or six couples wearing bright satin team shirts of green, gold, and blue, their names sewn on the pockets. The boys are wearing oversized clothes they love from a secondhand store in Iowa City. Stephen's well-worn denim jacket has colorful patches
sewn on the front—the Roadrunner, hot cars, and trucks. Though it's November, he wears surfer pants, and his favorite Michael Jackson tennis shoes.

Charles sports that Stetson, paint-stained jeans, a Hawaiian shirt, and an Iowa Hawkeyes tie, clothes he's not allowed to wear in Columbia, so he wears them to visit me.

I'm in jeans, boots, and a sweater. Their father is dressed impeccably.

We're odd among the bowlers in their team shirts and shoes, the waitresses in matching dresses and caps. The three of us appear to be out of uniform, or in the uniform of some tribe not native to these parts.

Before Charles and his father arrived, our waitress produced for Stephen a battered book of children's Bible stories, and between orders, she sat with Stephen explaining to him how Jesus loved him. Stephen was tolerant. He listened to her and nodded, though he tapped his little foot to the music. Perhaps to get away from her at last, he pulled me out on the dance floor.

So we're dancing. And when Charles and his father arrive, Charles and I dance, too. Soon Stan will be here to take Charles and me back to Iowa City while Stephen travels with his father to spend the weekend in Missouri.

My car will stay in Ottumwa until it's fixed.

We'll drive in opposite directions only to turn around and meet back in Bloomfield on Sunday night.

In the meantime we're dancing—Charles and I, Stephen and I, and sometimes, if we can convince Charles, all three of us take hands and create a circle, circle counter to the clockwork box step of the couples,
the citizens of Ottumwa, my former husband looking at his watch, my future husband, Stan, who's just arrived.

The night's held back by our lights and the warmth of the cafe. Outside the window the extravagent yellow star atop its pink rainbow flickers and whines against the clatter of dishes and music. It washes our reflection, shows us luminously to one another.

We're dancing, our circle abutting the story in place, the couples moving against us, making room for us as we dance in and out of the margins. What do we know of our strangeness? So little yet. Exhilarated, feeling the pull of the centrifugal, we tighten our grasp.

Tuesday, 4:30 P.M.
—
Youths who had climbed the fire escape to the roofs of downtown office buildings and who were throwing objects at pedestrians were arrested and taken to the police station.

Saturday, 1:34 A.M.
—
Youths were reported to be skateboarding and causing a noise disturbance in the Jones Library parking lot. Subjects were gone when police arrived.

Sunday, 12:20 A.M.
—
A man reported to police that youths broke into a private swimming pool in Echo Hills and were skateboarding in the pool. Subjects were gone when police arrived.

Friday, 10:30 P.M.
—
Teens caught causing a woman to scream and setting off car alarms were sent on their way by police.

Saturday, 8:01 P.M.
—
Police removed fluorescent post-its with obscene messages from the walls of the Bangs Community Center.

Saturday, 9:45 P.M.
—
A woman reported to police that her daughter and some friends were harassed by youths making lewd comments and attempting to block the girls’ paths as they were leaving the Hampshire Mall in Hadley. Subjects were gone when police arrived.

Sunday, 10:10 P.M.
—
Two girls reported seeing boys holding a gun while walking on Main Street. Police did not find the boys and couldn't determine if the gun was real or not.

Friday, 10:30 P.M.
—
Youths reported to be looking in car windows and trying doors outside Bertucci's were gone when police arrived.

Saturday, 9:30P.M.
—
Youths fled police who confiscated a marijuana pipe and fireworks from the high school parking lot.

Monday, 7:18 A.M.
—
High school staff told police that someone had run a chair up the flagpole and painted obscenities on the wall leading into school. Police advised staff to question students.

Monday, 8:30 P.M.
—
A man told police that youths jumped out of the bushes at the corner of Amity and University and threw eggs at his daughter's car. Police are investigating.

Monday, 11:06 P.M.
—
A South Amherst woman reported that
her daughter was receiving annoying phone calls. Police referred family to the phone company.

Wednesday, 4:30 P.M.
—
Youths were reported to have released a pet snake among swimmers at Puffer's Pond. Subjects were gone when police arrived.

Friday, 11:43 P.M.
—
A woman reported to police that youths had thrown Slim Jims into her dogs’ kennel and tried to coax them out. Subjects were gone when police arrived.

Sunday, 2:04 A.M.
—
Police found youths jumping from vehicle to vehicle on Fearing Street. No damage was caused by their activity, police said.

Tuesday, 9:30 P.M.
—
Police checked out speeding vehicles on South East Street.

Thursday, 2:19 A.M.
—
Police received a report that a person driving too fast on Hobart Lane left skid marks when leaving the area.

Monday, 5:20 P.M.
—
Amtrak officials told police that youths had jumped on the top of a passenger car while it boarded in Amherst and ridden to Springfield. Police are investigating.

Monday, 9:45 P.M.
—
Youths attempting to overturn an occupied phone booth were told by police to stop.

I am sitting in a waiting room of a therapist's office in tiny downtown Amherst. Stephen, who has been living at a friend's house, has agreed to meet me here. Yes, he'll bring the dog, too. Whether he comes home or not, he says he thinks I should take G.Q. home. He is worried about the pup, who is uncomfortable in a strange place.

What is in store is uncertain. I've spoken to the new therapist over the phone, briefed him on our troubles. The therapist has been recommended by the parents of the child with whom Stephen has been staying.

I imagine a session in which we'll cull the same grueling details of the last three years, details under which Stephen will smart and grow sullen; under which I, through the telling, will feel the old anger and frustrations rising.

The waiting room is lively—boys around Stephen's age
playing video games on the floor in front of me. From the room to my right I hear shouts and congratulations, Latin music from the room to my left.

I look around for something to read to isolate myself. They can't fool me, I'm thinking. I'm not about to get my hopes up only to have them dashed tonight, or tomorrow, or in a week—whenever tensions heat up between Stephen and me. Besides, it's 10:00 A.M. on a weekday. Shouldn't these kids be in school?

I hear Stephen and G.Q. approaching, hear the bulldog's panting, Stephen talking softly to him as they enter the suite. I spring up from my chair to hug my son, drop to my knees to caress G.Q., who is so excited he pees on the therapist's rug. Stephen takes a paper towel from his pocket and kneels beside me.

“He does this a lot,” he says. “Now I come prepared. He's really missed you,” he adds, blotting up the urine. “He hasn't been eating too well.”

“I missed you both,” I answer, trying to catch Stephen's eyes. “He looks okay. You've been taking good care of him.”

When the therapist appears at his office door, we stand, stiffening again, freezing away from each other, the panting dog between us, stand up into familiar roles of difficult son and clueless mother.