Burgundy Grove March 2013

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Grove Burgundy

March 2013

Contributors Authors Fran Young Milton Trachtenburg A.J. Kirby Managing Editor Nyssa Silvester Layout Design Chris Taney Editors Andrea Jakeman Daniel Friend Savannah Woods Special Thanks Brett Peterson

Credits Cover art by 96dpi Creative Commons license, some rights reserved. Flickr.com: 96dpi.

Table of Contents

Mister Magpie

Nobody has time to share in my moment of glory.

Stop the Merry-Go-Round

37

Stories of Women Who Broke the Cycle of Abusive Relationships

7 27

I’ll be Okay.

Spirit dancing on open seas

5

Above: Flickr.com/jurvetson

Spirit Dancing on Open Seas Fran young

H

is arm tightened around my throat, wrenching me high and tight into his chest. My toes barely skimmed the deck as, at the edge of vision, sparks appeared like fireworks in the starless night sky.

Reality slowed to a frame-by-frame stutter.

I had time to, almost casually, examine what brought me to this tiny bob of a sailboat in the middle of a hurricane, with a beautiful man I thought I could love, trying to silence me, forever.

How ironic, I thought, that his sailboat was called Spirit Dancer, and my spirit might soon be dancing far, far away from my body.

•

Only six months earlier I first spied this beautiful man, solo at the helm of a 28’ sailing sloop. Smiling broadly, he bobbed his head to music as he steered toward Catalina Island, his colorful surfboard strapped like a maiden to the mast. I waved and shouted for help. He averted his eyes. Drawing nearer, he must have thought me a bit touched, slackjawed as I was by his sculpted body and shaggy blond gorgeousness.

He motored past my little dinghy floundering in the wind just outside the harbor, and I saw him lose the smile in an instant as his tall, proud stance dissolved into a slouch. I gaped after him as I retrieved the oars from under my seat—no helpful tow to shore would be had from this handsome sailor, I realized. And even though I did not yet understand how to catch the wind in a canvas sail, I knew I had to gather my wily charms to learn more, much more, about this hunk of masculine godliness.

TM Magazine - 5

Spirit Dancing on Open Seas The New Year’s Eve celebration that night in Avalon was the place to cut loose and reward myself for a successful row to shore. Only steps into the club, I spied him standing beyond the dance floor, chin up and smiling once again in a circle of guys who obviously knew him well and seemed to be congratulating him. One by one, his friends gave him a final thump on the back as

cornered, I could see he recognized me from the harbor and quickly apologized for making himself “unavailable” to offer a gentlemanly rescue in my time of need.

Smiling, I let him know he at least owed me the next dance and sat myself down without an invite. The ice was broken and we began to talk. He showed me the article written about him, a surfing champ

I spied him standing beyond the dance floor, chin up and smiling once again in a circle of guys. they turned away to pair off with a fresh drink or waiting girlfriend. Now, standing by himself, a rolled up surfing magazine in hand, his smile faded and he looked lost, lonely. He polished off his beer and slumped into a seat.

Watching him flip through the magazine, I slowly worked my way across the dance floor in the minutes approaching midnight. Once I got him 6 - november 2012

at the end of his career, his last hurrah.

We joined the throngs on the dance floor and at midnight shared one sweet, delightful kiss that seemed to last for hours, surprising us both by surpassing its New Year’s Eve obligatory beginnings.

•

The next day, we sailed to the lonely back side of the

Fran young island, away from the hubbub and diversions of touristinfused Avalon. As soon as the anchor dropped he jumped in the water and hunted for our lunch, fried-up abalone omelets and fish sandwiches lovingly carried up from the tiny galley. In the mornings we shared kisses across the surfboard, dropped from the deck of Spirit Dancer, and floated with rising tides for

me words of hatred spilled, then flung, and finally, regretted. What was life worth, he questioned, to devote oneself to love and family, just to have it all disappear through no fault of your own? He wondered out loud if life was worth the effort.

The words flowed freely from him, yet I added little to the conversation—I had neither past defeat nor success at

In the mornings we shared kisses across the surfboard. long discussions, relishing the lack of schedules or commitments. We eyed each other with desire, with the gleam of possibilities on the horizon.

Beautiful man talked about his recent past—the injustices and heartbreak of infidelity, of child support to be paid while he was denied the close daily relationship with a daughter he loved so well. He shared how cruel and heartless a woman could be, repeated to

adult life’s choices to contribute. But I felt I could trust this beautiful man who shared my sketchy last-resort plans and doubts about life. I believed I could love such a man, flawed in ways I could relate to.

We jogged along rocky paths above the sea as I gathered my thoughts, reevaluated my concerns. I sensed something niggling at the back of my mind. I couldn’t quite place my finger on what burgundy grove - 7

Spirit Dancing on Open Seas was wrong, but there was a familiar feel to my attempts to mold myself unflinchingly into a situation, and it didn’t sit quite right. Confused as I was, at the same time I knew this could be love.

•

It seems odd to say, but true: I had never before had a heartfelt discussion with anyone, ever. But here, with beautiful man opening up his heart to me, a light began to shine on the misguided motivations in my own life.

guarded and wary of people telling me what I wanted for myself. I would not, could not, buck the system. I didn’t know one thing about who I was.

As my reward for being the “good foster girl,” I could enjoy meals with a roof over my head. Period. Professed love came with strings attached, sometimes bizarre strings that felt like barbed wire and never seemed like the expectations of any “normal” family. I was quite aware that the alternative was homelessness and so I shut up, and closed up, tight.

Confused as I was, at the same time I knew this could be love.

All I had ever known of family or self was what the State of Ohio wanted—in fact, demanded—of me. In a word, they expected me to obey, to be the dutiful foster child that would warrant an effortless long-term placement.

Seventeen years of disingenuous foster care had left me 8 - november 2012

I learned young not to trust others and became a watchful, silent, invisible child. Twice I barely escaped being sent to the “special” school for mentally retarded children when I remained mute for whole years in primary school. As I got older, the role of wallflower felt most comfortable.

Fran young No school clubs or sports for me. No friends, no mentors.

No joy.

Feeling lost and lonely, I knew I had to find some meaning for staying alive and

I considered it research of sorts to move two thousand miles away on a sudden whim, or to drive dangerously impaired by alcohol, or to sit inside of a jail cell for a day

I knew I had to find some meaning for staying alive and knew, in foggy terms, that life revolved around love, and, apparently, love revolved around trust. knew, in foggy terms, that life revolved around love, and, apparently, love revolved around trust. I was short on both of those, and while no one would have pegged me as the morbid one, the suicidal girl, I, too, was wondering if I even wanted to continue living. Why bother? Would I be missed?

In the years since emancipation from foster care, my sense of recklessness increased as I dared myself to accumulate firsthand experiences in all the possibilities of adulthood.

for petty crime. I wanted it all, scabs and warts and pain and danger. For the first time in my life I could call the shots.

To start fresh in California, sorting out questions of life and love, and finding all the answers for myself, felt wildly invigorating. I searched to find the joy that would make me want to walk the earth, force me to feel alive.

Eventually, spontaneous travel became my preferred method to challenge myself.

At least when I was on the go I didn’t have to concern myself burgundy grove - 9

Spirit Dancing on Open Seas with why love and trust eluded me. Whenever a doubt arose, my objective became to escape by any means. I knew I needed some grounding in my life but couldn’t find a way to keep from untying every tentative knot that threatened to hold me close. I couldn’t trust.

I wouldn’t trust. I trashed every relationship and good experience I encountered as I continued my search for the purpose of my life.

•

We left Catalina Island and set sail for Long Beach to return Spirit Dancer to her berth. I studied how to read a compass and raise a sail, what to call parts of the sailboat and the equipment on board, how to tie knots that held fast. We were both quiet and thoughtful. I was still trying to pinpoint the source of my wariness.

Beautiful man finally popped the question: would I leave with him on a sailing adventure, maybe one around the world? Beautiful man and 10 - november 2012

all his promises trumped my niggling doubts. I accepted his challenge and without hesitation said yes!

We promised ourselves to leave on Spirit Dancer in mere weeks and made love in celebration of our commitment: if

Fran young Below: Flickr.com/Storeyland

the winds blew our way, we’d never, ever look back.

•

We kept our commitment to set sail by the end of January. Heading south, sailing under clear, gorgeous

skies, we stopped briefly to drop anchor in San Diego. I wanted to say goodbye to a few friends who knew me well— they were not at all surprised to see me leave with a man I had just met. I had always been considered ungrounded,

burgundy grove - 11

Spirit Dancing on Open Seas unconventional, just a little “off.” A good friend told me, as we stood on the beach in a hug, that I was a survivor, like a cat—I always landed on my feet. He reminded me that I could count on that strength within myself. My mantra became I will be okay.

toward a tiny seaside town, we found ourselves in a riotous pod of grey whales.

Dozens of the giants, much larger than our sailboat, would slide alongside, eyeing us with curiosity, breaching, singing, joyous in finding a mate. We both snapped out

My mantra became I will be okay.

The following week at sea was frightful—bitterly cold, wet nights at the helm left me reliving the warm goodbyes of those I had just left behind. Beautiful man, frozen, tired, and irritated like myself, was noisily doubtful of how thorough our preparations had been. With no safe landing harbors to be found along the Baja Peninsula, we quarreled our exhaustion, day and night. Beautiful man was not happy, not smiling. I took the blame as my own, and the buzzing disquiet in my head grew more insistent.

Headed southward along the coast of Baja California 12 - november 2012

of our funk in this first big surprise of our adventure and laughed at ourselves, no longer cold or doubtful.

Our dance with the whales became a positive confirmation for me—I knew already in the first few weeks of sailing, in the center of a pod of dancing whales, that I was on my way toward an excellent destiny. Shivering night watches and near misses of uncharted islands seemed like a small price to pay for the freedom of wind in the sails, whales at our side, budding joy in my heart.

By the time we made the southern tip of Baja

Fran young California, beautiful man and I were elated and ready to try out our sea legs on land with some dancing and revelry in Cabo San Lucas. When we returned to Spirit Dancer after dark, our clothing was gone. It had not been thieves who stole our hand-washed clothes as they dried on the deck, but my recklessness in not using clothespins to hold them down. We laughed at our folly, glad we hadn’t set our jackets and watch-wear on deck to dry as well. We were feeling optimistic and free, ready for the next adventure and eager to move on.

what or who or why they were escaping We tied our boats up like one long raft of bobbing masts, and met up on board over beers and fish baked on hibachi grills on the bows. No clocks nor schedules, no boss, no troublesome relatives or responsibilities peeking over anyone’s shoulder—it was bliss at sea, and we became a group of friends united in a joyous adventure.

Together we decided to travel as a caravan and rendezvous in Acapulco, where there was a famous though understated yacht club at which we’d meet. As Spirit Dancer

We were feeling optimistic and free, ready for the next adventure.

By Puerto Vallarta we had deep all-over tans, the swimsuits below deck for most days during our private nude days at sea. We met other sailors—some were families, or retired, or too rich to do much of anything else—and each had a unique story to tell of

eased into the Acapulco harbor, we waved high at people on cliffs overhead, laughing at their astonished faces when they saw our nakedness. But in the Acapulco Yacht Club, we behaved ourselves, as we needed supplies and petrol and rules burgundy grove - 13

Spirit Dancing on Open Seas are better followed when in foreign lands, especially the deeply Catholic ones.

We stayed at the club for a few weeks, meeting up with sailing friends, helping those who needed work done on their boats, and regularly going into the city itself. Often, we’d seek out a restaurant, glad for food that didn’t come from the end of a fishing line or from a tin can. Beautiful man got into the habit of eating tacos from one particular street vendor whose tabletop fans lazily distributed olfactory advertising throughout the neighborhood. I satisfied

the sights, and meeting other sailing adventurers to compare notes.

All the work on friends’ boats was eventually completed, and many, many margaritas later I realized the commitment for Spirit Dancer to sail south from Acapulco had been put off indefinitely.

Other boats left on their way, yet we remained anchored.

Tempers flared and I began to see again the not-so-beautiful side to the man who now preferred to sleep the day away rather than make a move toward continuing our journey southward. Finally, I

I spent more and more time alone, wandering the city, seeing the sights. myself with pineapple, mangoes and orange juice and occasionally tripped into a tiny Chinese restaurant like those found in alleys of every city in the world. I spent more and more time alone, wandering the city, seeing 14 - november 2012

pleaded and enlisted others to cajole, and weeks after our initial departure date, we finally agreed to set sail the following day. Beautiful man frowned and complained, and no longer ate or shaved or seemed to care about the adventure. Or

Fran young about me. Or anything.

•

Leaving Acapulco, I knew it would be a long-haul journey for us, far out to sea. The sailing community had warned us to avoid the coastlines of Guatemala, El Salvador, and Nicaragua due to civil wars and virulent anti-American

of land. Excited and nervous at the same time, I pulled anchor and aimed west while beautiful man went below to fall asleep. Again.

Several days out to sea, he had not yet come up on deck.

Shouting out from below, he’d demand water and throw a glass out from a darkened berth. He no longer came up

The sailing community had warned us to avoid the coastlines. sentiment in those countries.

On the other hand, we’d have to face the dangers of Mother Nature instead, for the Gulf Stream waters west of Central America were known far and wide for seasonal— this season—near-constant hurricanes. The aim for all of us sailors became to go many kilometers out to sea and make a wide loop, ultimately headed for safe harbor in Costa Rica. It would be our first journey that meant weeks at sea, outside the sight

to pee over the side of the boat, to cast a fishing line, or scan the horizon. We were headed toward the safe waters of Costa Rica, that’s all I knew, and we were well beyond the sight of land. I prayed to the sea gods that my developing skills at reading charts and operating the Loran-C electronic location device would keep us headed in the right direction.

Day after day of drifting along with the wind and tides, alone with one’s thoughts, is burgundy grove - 15

Spirit Dancing on Open Seas not an easy task. A person has to like herself from within to be this isolated and alone with her psyche, her heart. My selfevaluation meant a long, hard look at what had brought me to this point in time. I raked over my old thoughts concerning the meaning of life, my rationale for living. At the helm I would daydream of

in my adult years, I tried the recklessness and abandon that I thought would let me paint a portrait of who I was.

As of yet, I hadn’t resolved for myself the purpose of my life, but in those isolated days of floating on the wide-open sea, my vision cleared and I began to appreciate how I had grown and developed, learned to see

At the helm I would daydream of stepping off into the sea. stepping off into the sea, closing my eyes, and feeling the release of the water pulling me down. I allowed myself recklessness when walking on the deck to adjust a sail, or balancing hands-free on the prow. I felt so alone—I was so alone—and as I looked around at the cockpit of a 28’ sloop with no land in sight, the comfort of the waves felt inviting.

Through my foster-care years, I had held myself close and tight to survive. Later 16 - november 2012

myself from the perspectives of those few who cared for me.

I thought over my friend’s comment about my ability to always land on my feet. He cared about me, knew I was a survivor. He believed in me enough to encourage me on my adventure while reminding me that he was always there if I ever needed help.

Other San Diego friends had come to say goodbye too, with sad faces at the thought that I might not be back.

Fran young But they wanted me to come home, cared about me. What a surprise!

With a start, I realized I now had a reason to value life and living. I had learned to trust myself in guiding our travels, basically by myself, at the helm of this sailboat. I had come to trust the friends who sailed in tandem with us, waiting for us to join them in raising a glass to adventures in a new land. I realized for the first time that I actu-

foster care. It was a surprising thought—I had never dared to dream that I could have a real family who would love me for myself.

Day after day I stared toward the horizon, not searching for signs of life and land as much as examining my head and heart. It was a forced selftherapy of sorts, and it fully occupied my thoughts. An emotional haze lifted when I realized that I—yes, I—could make life worth living. I could

I realized for the first time that I actually liked what I had become. ally liked what I had become.

I had earned trust in myself.

That thought morphed into the consideration that maybe, just maybe, I would one day have a family of my own, one where I could be a good and kind mother. Perhaps I could correct my withdrawn nature and improve on the questionable history of those who’d artificially nurtured me in

make life and joy and relationships be exactly what I wanted, and I was at peace with my possibilities.

•

The frequent knocks of sea turtles on the hull were distractions, as were the whales singing and the dolphins dancing at the bow of Spirit Dancer. Despite my burgundy grove - 17

self- examination and the conciliation of my past and present, at the end of the day, I was brought back to the situation I was in—on board the boat, sailing past unfriendly shores in the middle of hurricane season.

I had seen a drastic change in the man on board. He was more sullen and silent each 18 - november 2012

day. To distract myself, I pretended I was utterly alone, and this gave me a strange sense of relief. But when a groan or shout did come from below deck, it startled me out of my dream state and reduced me to tears. I knew I was callous to ignore him, and I was sure my lack of skill as a sailor could not keep us alive much

Above: Flickr.com/~Brenda-Starr~

Spirit Dancing on Open Seas

Fran young

longer. I will be okay.

Nighttime frayed every last nerve as I searched for lights in the sky, potential indicators we’d strayed into the shipping lanes. My ears filled with auditory hallucinations, making it seem like we were about to crash on rocky coasts. I kept the flare gun close at my side—stories of pirates

boarding yachts and killing everyone on board were all too real in my mind. I will be okay.

When a flying fish landed in the cockpit, I couldn’t immediately react to its flopping around, didn’t know whether to grab it for potential food or take pity on a creature that had also lost its way. Carefully, I sent it back overboard and began to take precautions for my own survival. I clung to cables when on deck to adjust a sail and tied a tether around my waist in rougher waters when at the helm. I collected rainwater in a bucket and remembered to trail a line behind Spirit Dancer in case I, too, needed something to grab onto should I fall overboard. I will be okay.

At the beginning of the third week at sea, the winds began to pick up speed and the waves swelled higher than I’d ever seen before. I began to hallucinate in earnest, and when the dolphin songs started to include lyrics I could understand, I swallowed hard burgundy grove - 19

Spirit Dancing on Open Seas and realized I had to go below deck to see if beautiful man was even still alive. I needed help for the coming hurricane. Desperately.

As I crept toward the berth I saw his foot move. Oh, sweet Jesus! He’s alive! But I also saw he was so weak he could barely lift his head to stare at me, too frail to speak. I got the flashlight and shined it into

resistance to the despised vegetable when we stocked the boat. I fed him can after can as their juice produced a bloody stain around his cracked gray lips and down his sunken chest. He fell back into the berth to sleep again.

With effort, I avoided the mirror myself. Even though I knew I had not eaten at the same questionable street ven-

I will be okay. the berth, starting at his feet and inching the light higher and higher, from his emaciated legs, to the urine-stained sheets, and slowly up to his face. What I saw was bile yellow everywhere: yellow eyes, nails, skin. I knew this look.

He had become the classic caricature of a man with fullblown hepatitis.

I knew iron could help strengthen him. With the boat bouncing hard off high seas, I dug cans of beets from the depths of the hold. I was thankful he had overcome my 20 - november 2012

dor as he had, I wondered if the disease had not also been found on unwashed margarita glasses or limes squeezed onto papaya by unwashed hands or other food we had shared.

I buried my head deeply into another science-fiction book and curled my hands away so I didn’t have to inspect my nails for yellowing. I will be okay.

After sleepless nights unending, the hurricane ramped up into full-force winds. The boat rocked hard onto its side, the cockpit rails

Fran young just inches above the water line, the sails begging for mercy. I knew if we lost our mast or our sails, we were doomed. Beautiful man’s groans grew loud above the roar of the waves and wind, the bone-shattering crashes of twenty-eight feet of fiberglass hull sliding down waves seemingly miles high.

He grew louder and angrier by the hour until, with a surge of energy, he came above deck with wild yellow eyes and a beet-blood mouth to scream above the waves that this hor-

arm quickly around my throat, tightening with strength I could not have predicted. We rocked hard with the motion of the waves, the fireworks in my peripheral vision getting brighter, the blood rushing in my ears louder than the crashing waves. He was shouting in my ear that I had to go overboard, I had to go overboard now to make the violence of the storm stop!

As the frame-by-frame stutter of my reality slowed and dimmed, the mother of all waves crashed over Spirit

And then, with a lunge, he grabbed me from behind, his arm quickly around my throat. ror had to stop! I shouted back at him to help as I struggled with the mainsail, straining to loosen it before it flew out of my grasp or tore away to fall overboard and drag us along with it.

And then, with a lunge, he grabbed me from behind, his

Dancer and forced us down hard onto the floor of the cockpit. My face was smashed and bloody in the deepening water coming on board.

I squirmed out from under the man on my back and, clinging onto the helm, saw he had been knocked out. burgundy grove - 21

Spirit Dancing on Open Seas Making sure he was face-up in the bloodied water, I left him in the flooded cockpit and stumbled below deck. With no time to waste, I began to pump the bilge. The hurricane screamed and roared as Spirit Dancer surfed down endless mountains of wave upon wave, the unlashed sails flailing loose on deck.

Hours later the sea calmed somewhat and I collapsed below deck. By morning I found myself waking to blue

After thirty-one days outside of sight of land, Spirit Dancer limped into an anchorage at a small fishing village in the midnight hours.

I hoped we were in Costa Rica, but I wasn’t sure, and I prayed for more inner strength if we were deeply unwelcome in this village. I anchored and stripped in the darkness to pour bucket after bucket of seawater over my head, washing away the terror of those days. I slept the night on the

I will be okay. skies and without knowing how or when, I realized the man had climbed down from the cockpit, stepped over me, and returned to the stench of the berth.

I could hear dolphins through the hull, singing for me to come watch them escort us into yet another beautiful day. And I did just that. I will be okay.

•

22 - november 2012

hard deck of the sailboat. The gentle waves lapping onshore rocked me to sleep, calming my nerves and reviving me. I will be okay.

In the morning I cautiously shouted toward the beach and motioned for someone to come out to the sailboat.

We had lost our dinghy, as well as every cushion and unlashed item on deck during the hurricane, and I didn’t trust myself to swim the two

Fran young hundred meters to shore. Two young men, friendly, kind and, fortunately, Costa Rican, rowed out to Spirit Dancer and helped to hoist the man up from his berth, into their boat, to the beachside village, and temporarily into a hotel nearby. A local veterinarian came to administer vitamin shots and forced feedings, calls were made to the man’s family, and a taxi was hired to take him to the airport for a flight out of San Jose and to a Long Beach hospital.

•

Two months of recovery later, he returned to us— Spirit Dancer and me—forty pounds lighter and obviously still weak. We continued on to Panama together, where I found work helping other sailboats transverse the canal.

I fell in love with Panama and became known for my skill sailing at the helm in emergencies.

Beautiful man continued on his quest for a new life. We parted as friends, but knew

I had saved myself by fighting back for the life that I now believed in.

I had saved myself by fighting back for the life that I now believed in. I knew my life had potential and that in my future—mine—there was good to be had. I could be loved; I could trust. I no longer needed the comforting possibility of suicide to quell my fears. I was a survivor. Yes, I would be okay.

we’d never see each other again. There was something about his arm lifting me by my throat, choking life out of me, that had severed something—trust of him, I guess, and a willingness to throw myself toward death.

I recognized a newfound trust in myself. I felt fortunate to be alive, proud to have burgundy grove - 23

survived. I knew, finally, that for me life was worth living. It was a revelation.

By the time I returned to San Diego a year and a half later, my newfound appreciation for my strength as a survivor helped me realize I’d finally found something to call my own. I learned who I was, and, fortunately, I liked

24 - november 2012

what I discovered.

My spirit had danced over the high seas and conquered threats of death. I had survived by my own strength of will.

I will be okay had been my friend’s message to my spirit.

It was true.

I was better than okay. I was thrilled to be alive.

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Spirit Dancing on Open Seas

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Above: Flickr.com/Megyarsh

Stop the Merry-Go-Round Stories of Women Who Broke the Cycle of Abusive Relationships

Milton Trachtenburg

S

Why You May Need to Read this Book

ometimes I hear voices.

I’m a therapist, and the voices I hear haunt my nights, sometimes even my days. I hear a litany of pain and anguish that often rips through me, cries for freedom. So, I write. I share the voices I’ve heard, those who have shared their stories with me. In this book, I share some of those voices with you. Because of the promise of confidentiality, I used pseudonyms, changed aspects of these people’s lives to hide their identities, and didn’t quote them word for word. I called myself Dr. Robert Sand in these case histories and remained objective when the stories stopped for discussion. I found it more comfortable writing about myself as though I were someone else.

The stories of these women need to be told; their voices have been held silent long enough. Robert will speak for some of them, but others will share their own history.

As a caveat to the reader, the following stories may seem graphic; abuse is never pretty. But my desire is that through this book, each reader might come to care or develop a desire to change something.

Listen—the words these brave women share might embolden you to break free from your own bonds of silence and tell of the secrets that, before this, you could not tell. Abused women are taught to keep silent to protect the person who is abusing them. Those who found the courage to speak out may give you the courage to tell the secrets that may save you, or someone you know, from being abused.

TM Magazine - 27

Stop the Merry-Go-Round

part 2: Marianne’s Story Chapter 1: The Home Years I don’t know quite how to begin my story. How do I tell people that I used to hate myself? How do I tell you that I allowed myself and my children to be abused by a sick husband for five years? Even now, over a year later, I still can’t reconcile how I allowed it to happen. You know, I always thought that I was a winner. I never drank, I never did drugs. I was a good student and a model teen.

I don’t want to blame Mom and Dad, or Dan—that’s my ex-husband.

My therapist, Robert, asked me to talk to you, to tell my story. He said that maybe it could help someone. I don’t like talking about these things, but if going through the pain of talking about it one more time can help even one other person escape what I went through, maybe it will be worth it.

You know, when I first went into therapy about two years ago, my therapist asked me to 28 - november 2012

tell him about my childhood.

Without thinking, I told him that I couldn’t remember anything about it. I learned later that not remembering childhood memories is very common among abused people.

When you do begin to remember, the thing that stands out most is the pain.

Everything I remember is like pieces of a puzzle. I painted pretty pictures of my perfect family. To the world I was Marianne-lovely, Marianne-bright, Mariannemature. I guess I was all of those things, but inside I felt like Marianne-worthless, Marianne-punching-bag.

I’m sorry, I don’t mean to cry. Yeah, I was also Marianne-waterworks.

My childhood . . . I guess that’s as good a place to begin as any. I remember the street where I grew up. Talk about something right out of Brady Bunch! Our street was lined

Milton Trachtenburg with beautiful oak and maple trees, and the houses had huge lawns with lots of shrubs. Even on the hottest day there was shade and a sense of privacy and permanence. Maybe my street helped save my sanity when I was growing up. When I was outside of my house, I always felt more real, more protected.

Our house was the biggest on the block. It sat back on the property, and Dad always said it allowed us to have the privacy we needed. Dad added on extra bedrooms every time he and Mom had another kid.

There were six of us and I was the oldest. I remember Dad insisted that every kid have a room of their own. He’d say something about how, when he was growing up, his parents and all six kids lived in a threebedroom house, and he would be damned if his family was going to live like that.

I loved my mom and dad—I really did. Mom was so perfect, at least to the rest of the world; she was the president of more organizations than I could

name. I was always polishing her collection of gavels and plaques, which they would give her after she completed her term as president or chairperson. “To Mary, for dedication above and beyond” was etched into each plaque with loving care. Above and beyond. Yeah … And Dad, he was and is the vice president of a Fortune 500 company, and “he did it all on his own.” He never had the opportunity to get an education, but he never missed a day of work. And when people from his office came over to the house for a party, they always told me how great a guy my dad was.

Maybe if I tell you some of the things I remember, it will help you understand how my life worked out the way it did. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not making any excuses for myself. I’m an adult, and I’m responsible for my own actions. But I’ve learned through therapy that sometimes what you see and learn as a child is what you become as an adult, until you accept the responsibility to change it. burgundy grove - 29

Stop the Merry-Go-Round I don’t remember much from before I was twelve or so. I can remember Mom screaming at the kids, but there are so many blanks I can’t fill in. Anyway, I remember enough after that to give you a picture of what was happening in my life.

The first thing that really sticks out in my mind is one day when I was coming home from school. I was in sixth grade. It was springtime. I was feeling great because I just got a writing assign-

doghouse in her backyard. I can’t remember the details of the story—it was a long time ago—but I remember that Mrs. Lindner cried when she handed the paper back to me.

I remember that she wrote on the paper that I was the most sensitive and caring student she ever met.

I think I flew from the bus to my house. I wasn’t used to getting compliments—I don’t think I ever felt so good in my life. As soon as I got in the door,

I can remember Mom screaming. ment back from my teacher.

Mrs. Lindner said it was the most beautiful thing she had ever read. It was the story of a young girl who had everything—a new bike, a computer, her own TV—lived in a beautiful house . . . you know, all the material things that are supposed to make kids happy. The girl gave all of the beautiful things away to the poorest child in the neighborhood and moved into the 30 - november 2012

I came back down to reality. I heard my brothers and sisters screaming upstairs. Mom was in the living room, sprawled out on the sofa, her ever-present cocktail glass on the table next to her. The ashtray was overflowing, and there was a dish of leftover something that looked like it had been chewed and spit out. I shuddered in disgust and hoped that Mom hadn’t noticed. I judged what condition she was in the same

Milton Trachtenburg way a woodsman tells the age of a tree: by the number of rings.

There were plenty of wet circles on the table. It meant she had had no meetings that day, and she had probably started drinking by midmorning.

“Whatcha got there?” Mom’s speech was pretty slurred.

“It’s just a story I wrote for an assignment for school. Mrs.—” “Well, while you were out becoming a goddamn Ernest Hemingway, I’ve been here all alone trying to take care of your five brothers and sisters. Can’t you see I’m sick today? You were supposed to come right home after school.”

When Mom was that drunk, it didn’t pay to argue with her.

“Lemme see the damn paper.

I guess I worked hard enough for that privilege.”

Mom read the paper in that funny way she had when her eyes wouldn’t focus.

Afterward, she looked up and said, “You are a damn ungrateful bitch. That’s us you’re talking about, isn’t it?

Don’t we do enough for you around here? What did you

tell that nosy teacher about your family?”

Any good feelings I had disappeared that instant. I felt I had done something bad, but I didn’t know what it was. What had I said that was wrong?

“But, Momma . . .” “‘But, Momma’! Listen, you.

Get upstairs and start taking care of your brothers and sisters. You don’t care about me at all, do you? I have to take care of all of you and this damn palace. Do you think your father will listen to any excuses I have if the place isn’t perfect when he gets home?” Mom struggled to get up off of the sofa, but she slipped back because she was—I have trouble saying it even now—she was drunk.

I felt so guilty. “I’ll try to get home earlier from now on, Momma. I know you need my help. The kids are a real handful.”

I felt about a hundred years old when I went up the stairs.

All the kids ran up to me and hugged me. “Come on, let’s play in my room,” I said. That was a real treat for them. Because I burgundy grove - 31

Stop the Merry-Go-Round was the oldest, I had the right to keep my room private.

I loved my room. I got to choose everything in it. For my twelfth birthday, Mom took me shopping and told me that I was going to have a room any teenager could be proud of. She let me know that when she was a kid, she had to share a room with her sister and that all their furniture was hand-me-downs.

We picked a fairy-tale bed with a huge, white canopy. I always imagined that I was a princess when I was in my bed. All my furniture was white, and we chose soft colors for the curtains and carpet.

And I chose the biggest bookcase I could find because I had more books than any ten other kids combined. Usually, I read stories to my brothers and sisters until Mom had dinner ready, and when Mom was too “sick” to cook, I made dinner. Listen to me. Don’t I sound like they were my kids?

Sometimes I believed they were.

When Mom was “sick,” I tried to be extra careful and 32 - november 2012

extra quiet. The little ones learned how to become part of the scenery when Mom was having one of her tantrums. I tried to protect them as best I could. Maybe that is why I have so much trouble remembering. I got hit a lot.

That day, when I got upstairs, I remember feeling like I was going to throw up. I was too

Milton Trachtenburg Below: Flickr.com.Dominic’s pics

young then to realize that it was because another little piece of my dream had been stolen. I just thought then that I had a weak stomach. Mom’s friends always said I was so delicate—I thought that was what they meant.

“You keep those damn kids out of my hair—do you hear me, Marianne?”

I shuddered when Mom screamed like that. Her voice would cut right through me. It wasn’t until much later that I learned to tune it out.

I remember how she talked to herself while she was making dinner. “Damn all of them.

Always wanting, wanting, wanting. Who ever took care of me?”

Sometimes I heard her crying.

burgundy grove - 33

Stop the Merry-Go-Round At exactly ten to six, I would tell the kids to get washed for supper. Dad liked all of the kids clean, neat, and at the dinner table when he came in the door at exactly six o’clock. Dinner had to be just ready, or there would be hell to pay.

Dinner wasn’t exactly the most pleasant experience at my house. Dad would come

then, I thought that everybody lived like that.

We ate in silence that night, like we always did. After Dad finished his dessert, he would ask Mom if anything happened that day. That was the moment of truth for us kids. It meant that Mom would report what we did wrong and Dad would go for the strap.

Dinner had to be just ready, or there would be hell to pay. in, inspect the living room to see that there was no mess, and, without saying a word to anyone, go wash for dinner.

When he came downstairs, it was like a general inspecting his troops. Everyone had to have clean hands and a washed face, be wearing a clean shirt or blouse, and be sitting silently at the table with hands folded in their lap. Mom would bring the food in from the kitchen just as Dad sat down, and serve him first. If he didn’t like what she served, she had to start cooking all over. Back 34 - november 2012

A lot of times, when one of the little ones would make a mess or break something by accident, I would take the blame and the whipping. I first remember that happening when I was only about six. Funny how bad memories can flash back when you least expect them. Maybe that is why I have such a hard time remembering anything from my childhood. I’m sure there must have been some good things, too.

•

Milton Trachtenburg “Anything happen today I should know about?” Dad said.

You could have heard a pin drop in a snow bank. I looked at Mom, my eyes pleading her not to tell him. Dad caught the glance and stared at me belligerently for a long moment. I felt like I was going to throw up my dinner.

“Well,” Mom said, dragging out the moment for what seemed like forever, “Marianne was a little late getting home from school, but I took care of it. It won’t happen again.” Dad looked almost disappointed.

“You kids better listen to your mother, or you’ll answer to me, do you hear?” When Dad raised his voice, you couldn’t help but hear. He gave me a look that said I was off the hook for now, but that he was going to count this one and add it on to the next time I did anything.

After supper, I walked quietly out of the dining room and to the stairs. I wanted to be as

invisible as possible in case Dad had changed his mind about punishing me. The last thing I saw as I began softly climbing the stairs was Dad making his daily pilgrimage to the liquor cabinet to pour his first drink of the night. He used the tallest glass on the bar. That usually meant a lot of drinking and trouble later. Mom asked him to pour her one, too.

I made it as far as the bathroom at the top of the stairs and threw up my dinner. I still had to be careful to be very quiet.

Afterwards, I felt sick and went to lie down in my room for a few minutes. My composition was lying on the bed.

I picked it up carefully, like it might explode. I read Mrs. Lindner’s comments maybe five times. Then I began tearing the paper into the smallest pieces I could. I remember feeling very cold inside. I stuffed the pieces into the pocket of my jeans and then just lay there, staring up at the canopy of my bed.

burgundy grove - 35

Above: Flickr.com/Stefan Ledwina

Mister Magpie A.J. Kirby

M

y eyes are as much use as an informant hauled in by the drug squad—a twitchy, damp mess. What they used to present as incontrovertible evidence is now jerky, tear-blurred uncertainty. I can’t be crying, can I? No. Surely not. It’s just the cold.

I’m standing on the open station concourse looking up, trying to focus on the arrivals and departures board, but every time I think I’ve got a handle on the flipping letters, they change, morph into something else, so that in the middle of reading “Manchester,” I start to read “Edinburgh,” and suddenly I’m lost again.

I spot two uniforms loitering over by the big, glowing WH Smith’s.

Yellow high-vis jackets, that way of standing we have. And my heart gives a little leap. I can ask these two without it seeming like asking for help. I can go up, shoot the breeze about whatever comes to mind, crack some joke about top brass, something like that, and then just slip it in, say, “I was thinking of putting some eyes on the London train,” just casual, and then say, “It’s from platform three, isn’t it?”

I trundle through the crowd, feeling the weight of the books in my canvas overnight bag with every step. The two of them are leaning against this big, red pillar-box. One of them is picking at the flaking paint on the top with his fingernails.

“Now then, boys,” I say, soon as I’m close enough to the two young-looking officers.

The two officers look at each other, then back at me. Say nothing.

TM Magazine - 37

Mister Magpie Which sort of puts me off my stride. I was thinking joke at this point all the way over, but now I can’t think of one at all. And they’re now practically sneering at me as though I’m a common or garden station radge. They probably think I’m drunk, can’t find my way home. Desperately, I try to pick out their credentials from their uniforms, try

please come to the missing child desk?” so it doesn’t start the public panicking, and so police know to go over and investigate, on the hushhush. They used “Mr. Magpie” because they thought nobody in the world would turn out to actually be called Mr. Magpie.

But every station in the country has a story about a real Mr. Magpie turning up, usually

Desperately, I try to pick out their credentials from their uniform. to work out what station they work out of, but I can’t find any distinguishing features on them at all. They’re just one big, yellow blur.

One of them sniggers, and I know I have to say something.

“Mr. Magpie been in, has he?”

And I know straightaway it is a stupid thing to say.

“Mr. Magpie” is code, see?

The Transport Police use it.

What it means is “unattended object on the platform.” They announce it over the Tannoy like this: “Can Mr. Magpie 38 - november 2012

all uppity, saying something about never having had a child to go missing in the first place. When my Margaret died and the night-night storytelling became my duty, I once told my son, Adrian, a made-up story of a certain Mr. Magpie. Mister Magpie is now, of course, the title of his most recent best-seller, something which, when I found out, gave me a swell of pride accompanied by some embarrassment, because I’d kind of given away a trade secret.

A.J. Kirby “Oh, aye,” says one of the police. “Mr. Magpie’s been in. So’s Mr. Pigeon, and Mrs. Seagull.” Then he splutters out a laugh. His fellow officer tells him, “That’s a good one, Mark.”

And I feel like giving them a piece of my mind. Like telling them how many years I worked beats like this. Like telling them I’ve more collars than they’ve had lukewarm dinners from the staff canteen back at the Ranch (which is what we call the HQ). But I don’t. I don’t because as I step forward I finally read the logo on the high-vis jacket of the first of these jokers, and it says “Bovis.” Not “Police.”

These boys are contractors.

Perhaps they do something with the tracks, or the overhead lighting, or with the unreadable boards. They don’t do the important stuff; they don’t maintain order and stop the public from herding themselves straight off platforms and into the path of oncoming trains. These guys aren’t worth my spit. I walk

away, hearing their continued laughter.

Then I hear it. Over the Tannoy. “Final call for the 18:35 service to London King’s Cross, calling at . . .”

And “London King’s Cross, platform thirteen.” Platform thirteen’s like a curse, the furthest platform away from the station concourse. Even if I could trust my legs to carry me there stumble-free, they couldn’t do it quickly enough.

And that’s not even taking into account the two separate escalators and the long, narrow corridor between five and nine. Even as I consider the distance, the speed I’d need to go, I feel my body rebelling. My body’s become like the department canteen; little factions have broken out everywhere, islands unto themselves. There’s no such thing as working together anymore. My legs won’t go all out and work with my eyes even if this is “one last job,” even if we do “need a result.” My back’s aching for no apparent reason, screeching about “overtime,” burgundy grove - 39

Mister Magpie and my bladder chooses that exact moment to inform me it would rather like to take a piss at some point soon. And when you get to my age, soon really means soon—not in five minutes or when we’ve got on the train—it means now.

And part of me thinks I should just give up right now.

Call it a bad job; Mr. Magpie visits the doubtless spotless station loos and then flies all the way home, tucks himself up in front of the fire with a nice cup of tea and a couple biscuits, The Bill on the telly.

One of Adrian’s books open on his lap. I always keep one of Adrian’s books open on my lap when I’m in my chair. Just in case I never get back out of it again. Just in case that’s how they’ll find me. I want whoever it is to tell Adrian, in that first call, that’s how I went, reading one of his books. He’ll never know I’ve never read past the first chapter of White Hype, his first novel.

Part of me thinks Adrian’s right, that the train’s too 40 - november 2012

much for me now, just like driving is . . .

I stalk over to the loos, thinking I might stick my head under the taps, wake myself up a bit. Get back on schedule. But all thought of schedules, London, or trains goes out the window when I reach the turnstiles that bar entry to the toilets and can’t find the requisite fifty-pence

A.J. Kirby Below: Flickr.com/Jaroslaw Pocztarski

piece to secure my access. My whole body downs tools. The only part of me which is not numb is my bladder, which practically screams at me to get a move on. I feel a lancing pain which almost causes me to double over.

Finally, when I’ve turned my wallet inside-out three times, and each time the coin has eluded me, a young

lad, hooded top on, taps me on the shoulder. And I’m sure he’s going to say something like, “Hurry up, old feller,” or “I’ve got a train to catch, you know,” or something coarser, more industrial, but he doesn’t. Instead he reaches past me, grabs the metal gate, pulls it backwards so it clicks a few times, and then, slowly, he guides it

burgundy grove - 41

Mister Magpie forward. So that I can enter and walk through.

The young lad winks at me.

Grins. Says, “Should be free to have a whizz anyway, mate, go on.” Urges me into the turnstile.

I’ve only just got enough time to unzip my fly before the urine comes gushing out and into the urinal. And it feels wonderful, magical. I close my eyes and revel in the moment. The torture my body gives me, it’s sometimes easy to forget the pleasure it can give. When I open my eyes again, I see the young lad has taken the urinal next to me. I think he wants me to thank him, but I won’t. I simply nod, zip back up, and walk into the washroom section. Placing the canvas bag carefully at the side of the sink and then taking my time washing my hands so that he can see I’m . . . respectful, a functioning member of society too, not old and past it.

And then I leave.

By the time I’ve pushed through the turnstile the 42 - november 2012

other way, the relief ’s already washed off me and panic has started to set in. Because now I’m in uncharted waters. I’ll have to get on a different train for starters, and my ticket’s probably not valid on that one. Then there’s the fact I won’t make my transfers now.

I’d given myself plenty of time to find the right color line, work out whether the tube I needed was north or southbound, that kind of thing at King’s Cross, but now I’ll have to do all of it in a rush. I might turn up in completely the wrong end of the city, somewhere dangerous, if I turn up at all. You hear all kinds of stories. And even if I do find my son, I don’t want to turn up looking as though coming down has been a challenge. I want to turn up unflustered, full of beaming smiles, ready to pat my son on the back and tell him, “Well done.” If I can prove to him this journey’s no effort, maybe he won’t be so funny with me coming down.

I can’t miss the next train.

No matter how long I have to

A.J. Kirby wait, I must be there when it arrives. I decide I will go up to platform thirteen now, so that I’m at least in the right place.

Luckily, the signs directing me to the platform aren’t revolving ones, so I make good progress. Still, there are people everywhere, and most of them aren’t looking where they are going. Most of them walk with their heads bent, studying the screens of their mobile phones; or arms outstretched, looking no further than their over-priced takeaway coffee; or at the pigeons that swoop

I make platform thirteen and discover there’s already more than a handful of people waiting, which I take to be a good sign. There are knots of people over by the vending machines. There’s even someone inside the phone-box.

I think it’s the first time I’ve seen someone using a phonebox for what it’s actually been designed for, for something like a decade.

Here on the platform is the full melodrama of human existence, and again it’s being played out on little, shim-

I might turn up in completely the wrong end of the city, somewhere dangerous, if I turn up at all. low from the arched ceiling, hunting for discarded pasties and rolls, bars of chocolate and packets of crisps. On the escalator, someone tuts loudly when I stand on the wrong side, blocking his progress. I thought they only had slow and fast lanes in London.

mering, handheld screens.

Everyone here is wired in to a mobile phone or a pad or a pod or a PDA or a Kindle.

Everyone. Even the little girl in the pushchair has what looks like a real mobile phone, and she can’t be more than three years old. Three years old and burgundy grove - 43

Mister Magpie yet she seems to be manipulating the buttons with a dexterity I couldn’t hope to match.

Never had a mobile phone myself. Never seen the need. I’m not usually mobile enough to need the phone in the first place and even if I was, I wouldn’t know who to call. Adrian has me only call on Tuesdays, which he calls his “Admin Day,” so if I was out and about on a Thursday or a Saturday and, God forbid, something happened, how would I get around that?

I feel a strange wetness on my cheeks, blockage in my nostrils, and suddenly, with a stab of embarrassment, I realize I’m crying. It’s the other reason I don’t trust my eyes anymore. These crying jags come upon me at the strangest of times. Week ago I was on my morning stroll to pick up the papers, and I stopped for a breather on the pub wall. They had a sign up, “Tea for Two, £1.99,” and I found myself roaring like I’d never stop. I staggered home and never got the paper that day.

44 - november 2012

Week before that I cried right in the middle of Tesco when I couldn’t reach up to the top shelf anymore. It’s where they put the freshest bread, and usually I’d have been able to reach up, no problem. I was a policeman, you know, and they still had the height regs in my day. But . . . but somehow I couldn’t reach anymore.

Couldn’t get the requisite stretch in my back, the right level of elevation on my tippytoes, the right, I don’t know, dexterity. Feller in a white cap came out from the bakery bit and said he’d pull me down a loaf, no bother, and I couldn’t even tell him no. Had to turn away, scarper, leaving a halffull basket right there in the bread aisle.

I know I packed one of those little packets of tissues. Mansized ones. I always wondered why they called them mansized. I mean, they’re not sixfoot tall, are they? They don’t weigh in at fourteen stone.

Maybe it’s just so men like me can still feel manly despite the fact we’re bloody blubbering

A.J. Kirby on a station platform, trying not to see the concerned looks from the fellow passengers. I pat myself down hard, like I’ve just done a Stop and Search. Can’t find the damned tissues in my trouser pockets, nor in the top pocket of my sports jacket, though there is a flyer for Adrian’s event in there, and they’re not in my canvas bag because . . . Or they might be, but . . . I can’t see where . . .

up here. One of the people who weren’t looking where they were going. Some coward who picks on the weak and the vulnerable. And all the bastard would find would be four hardback books, a packet of man-sized tissues, my wash bag, and some spare socks and briefs. Nothing of value at all. Not to them.

I can picture the thief.

Bodie, my partner in the force, my partner in crime, as he

Men like me can still feel manly despite the fact we’re bloody blubbering on a station platform.

I spin round frantically, trying to locate the bag. I glare accusingly at the kiddie in the pushchair who’s clutching the mobile phone, at the person in the phone box, at the knot of people by the vending machines. But I can’t see it anywhere. Suddenly I feel lost, weightless. Like I might float away at any moment like a lost balloon. Someone must have snatched it on the way

used to joke, had this theory which I tend to agree with. He said there was an underclass in Britain, those who from generation to generation had never seen a job, the inside of a school, discipline. He called them his “gray squirrels,” and, like gray squirrels, they were gradually taking over from the indigenous red squirrels, those good, hardworking folk who’d made Britain burgundy grove - 45

Mister Magpie great back in the day. He said the grays and the reds were so far apart, they weren’t just different breeds, but different species. And when you’ve as many collars as us, you’ll see what he meant. Because petty thieves, shoplifters, robbers of old men’s bags in stations, they all started to look the same. Small, weaselly looking, pinched features enclosed by a big, black hood. My thief ’ll be . . .

Instantly I remember the young lad who twisted the turnstile for me at the loos.

Instantly I remember his smile at the urinals. Instantly I remember . . . I can picture the last time I saw the bag. I can see it now, placed carefully by the sink, avoiding the green slime which was seeping out from the soap dispenser and the pool of water which was escaping from the broken tap. I’d been distracted, was trying to put on a performance, so the young lad could see I was a normal, functioning member of society. Lad must have waited for 46 - november 2012

me to finish up with the halfhearted hand-dryer, watched me exit, and then seized his opportunity. Easy as taking a mobile phone from a baby.

I feel anger welling up inside me now.

Then I hear the bing-bong of the Tannoy. And I hear the words which chill the blood in my veins. “Can a

A.J. Kirby Below: Flickr.com/|| UggBoy<3UggGirl || PHOTO || WORLD ||

Mr. Magpie please return to the ticket office?” And then again, in case I’d not heard the first time. And I immediately understand that the unattended baggage in question is my carry-on canvas bag containing Adrian’s books and my tissues. I know that right now, whichever station employee’s located the

bag will be sticking their big fat nose inside, maybe looking at the stains in my briefs.

Or else the Transport Police’ll be there already, and they’ll be shifting the bag for incineration or something. And I know I have to go back and get it before they do. I also know that if they’ve found the bag, then either the young,

burgundy grove - 47

Mister Magpie hooded lad’s already pilfered what he thinks he can sell, or else he never took it in the first place. My faith in human nature as inspired by my full whack of years on the force, tells me that it’s the former.

Once a gray squirrel…

The Tannoy bing-bongs again, only this time, the announcement says something else. “The train now approaching platform thirteen is the nineteen-fourteen service to London King’s Cross, calling at Wakefield Westgate, Peterborough . . .”

And now I see that, for once, all of the faces on the platform are looking up from their screens. They’re turned left, looking up the tracks where now, even my untrustworthy eyes show me that there’s some movement. And I realize I have to decide now, before it’s too late. Do I retrieve my bag, the books, and miss another train, or do I chalk the lost bag up to experience and step aboard?

I can always buy more books.

Maybe Adrian will give me 48 - november 2012

free copies when I tell him about this . . . But no, I won’t, can’t, tell him about this.

People start to flock around me to the edge of the platform. The woman with the pushchair jars a wheel into the back of my leg, and for a moment, I think I don’t even need to worry about bags or tube-lines or Adrian anymore. That the train will come for me and put me out of my misery. But because the crowd is packed so close now, I don’t fall. Someone else elbows me in the ribs, twists round to apologize, and then, seeing my face, stops. A teenaged girl to my right talks so loudly into her mobile phone that I fear the whole world knows exactly what she wants for her tea.

The train’s entering the station now, amid a roar of brakes which sound like a wounded dinosaur. As it approaches, I feel the wind. I see the driver in his cab, up front. His face looks ghostly white. He appears to be eating a sandwich, but I can’t

A.J. Kirby be sure. Can’t be sure of anything anymore. What I’d give not to have to live in this constant state of fear and uncertainty all the time. What I’d give to . . .

The train slows. Carriages drag past. Inside, faces are pressed to the dirty windows.

People are already standing, waiting to escape. On the platform, people start to crowd forward, almost to the edge of the concrete,

The people around me seem to think there’s some kind of hidden message in the doors of the train. They try to position themselves exactly where they think the doors will finally open, as though this is one massive game of roulette and their own bodies are the chips. Finding the exact, righteous position seems to involve much shouldering of other people out the way. It also seems to

What I’d give not to have to live in this constant state of fear and uncertainty. waaaaaaay past the yellow line which is clearly marked with the words “Do Not Step Over This Line.” I feel as though if I step over that line, if I simply forget the fact I’ve lost my bag, it could be the start of a slippery slope.

I might start misplacing my wallet when I go to pay the papers, or putting milk in the washing machine instead of the fridge. I might . . .

involve much cursing under the breath. As the train slows still further it looks as though, through serendipity or something far more sinister, I’ve been bumped and bounced into exactly the right place so that the doors will open right in front of me and I’ll be the first on the train, by hook or by crook. But the sandwichmunching driver applies one last toe to the accelerator, burgundy grove - 49

Mister Magpie and the train shunts forward a few more meters, and now I’m slap-bang in the middle, between two doors.

The crowd streams onto the train, barely even pausing to allow those passengers who want to get off to disembark. My feet twitch. I can’t decide what to do for the best.

I watch as all the seats start

wishing to travel please exit the train now. The doors will be closing shortly.”

All I want to do is flop down onto the concrete and sleep and dream. Remember being a copper when I made decisions quick, snap, like clicking my fingers. Remember Margaret and how she used to be so indecisive about every-

My feet twitch. I can’t decide what to do for the best. to be filled. I watch as people steal the little “Reserved” tags off the backs of chairs and claim them as their own.

I watch as the luggage rack is filled, and as people start to stand in the aisle. I look back at the platform, and there are only a couple of stragglers left now. A couple of last-minute runners too. Up the other end, the conductor checks his watch, prepares to blow his whistle, and I know time is running out for me.

I hear the on-train Tannoy now: “Can all passengers not 50 - november 2012

thing and how, back then, it wound me up. But now I can see how the little decisions, the ones she’d wrestle with all day long while I was at work, suddenly became mountainous ones. Matter of scale, isn’t it? And I’m smaller now, shrunken.

The driver revs the engine and jerks me out of my reverie. Black smoke steams out from the undercarriage.

I cough, cover my mouth.

Close my eyes. And make for the door on the left. As I reach it, the conductor blows shrilly

A.J. Kirby on his whistle, the doors hiss closed. But someone on the other side wedges a shoe in to block them, wedges them open, and I slip inside, into the warm fug of the train. I manage to stand on someone’s foot and I think I kick someone else’s bag, but I’ve made it. The train accelerates out of the station and I make a grab for one of the handles which dangle from the ceiling.

Eventually someone spots my increasing desperation and offers me a seat. I suppose it’s one of the few benefits of my growing decrepitude.

I sit down and exhale deeply. After a while, I feel enough time’s passed that people might have forgotten they’ve borne witness to my weakness, and I dare to look around me. The seats are family seats. The four-seat communities in which you get a table in the middle. I’m on the outside, facing backwards.

My son would snigger at that.

Tell me how apt it was. How much of a . . . what do you call it? A . . . a metaphor, that’s

it. My son likes words like that. Christ knows where he learned them all from. I never taught him them. Taught him other things, led by example, I hoped . . . Next to me, in the window seat, is a business-type woman. Soon as I sat down she shot me a warning look, as though telling me not to encroach too far onto her territory. After a while though, she fell asleep. Must be a deep sleep too, because her head has almost lolled onto my shoulder a couple of times. And I’m sure that if she wakes up and finds herself resting against me, it’ll somehow be my fault. She smells strongly of smoke, this woman, as though she’s just chained three, four cigarettes outside the station, knowing she won’t be able to partake on the train.

Opposite’s a mother with her small boy. He must be nine, ten maybe. Adrian’s age when Margaret passed. And though I’m not one of those silly old people who see their children’s faces in those of every burgundy grove - 51

passing stranger, the boy does bear a striking resemblance to Adrian. Though I can only see the top of his head, those curly blond locks, because his face is twisted down over his portable games machine, I can see he’s of about the right build.

Has the same puppy fat Adrian had (and never quite lost; writing’s not an active profession) 52 - november 2012

and the same chubby cheeks.

Probably has little dimples too.

He’s wearing a gray, hooded sweatshirt with the Nike tick on it. I want to ask him why he’s not looking out the window, watching the dusky world go by.

I can only remember being on one train journey with Adrian.

Can’t for the life of me remember where we were going. But

Above: Flickr.com/Martin Burns

Mister Magpie

A.J. Kirby

all the way, the boy had his face squashed against the window so that when we got to wherever we were going, he had this dirty great black mark on his forehead and I had to take him into the loos to give him a good wash before we went wherever we were going. I remember being fascinated by his fascination though. By how he looked

in to all those tiny windows we passed, by how he imagined the lives going on behind them.

This little-boy-opposite’s having all his imagining done for him by his games thingy. I want to tell his mam how unalterably sad it all is, how we’ve lost that innocence. How we’re all gray squirrels now. Nobody looks in wonder at anything anymore.

I catch the mam’s eye. She glares at me. She has that protective sheen about her. She doesn’t want me looking at her boy. Perhaps she’s been forced to imagine too much. All the news they have nowadays, the stuff they have on The Bill, for Christ’s sake. Our eyes lock for a long moment and then she leans over to her son, whispers something about shutting off his machine, there’s a good boy. The boy hardly even looks at her, merely lifts his head a little, so I can see his tongue sticking out the corner of his mouth in concentration. She ruffles his hair and he grumbles away from her. She whispers for him to turn off the machine again. burgundy grove - 53

Mister Magpie I’m not sure, but I think she might be doing it for my benefit, like saying, He’s mine, he does what I tell him.

I don’t feel like I can look at him now, not straight. So instead I sneak surreptitious glances at his reflection in the window. Eventually he finishes his level or mission or whatever and he closes off his machine, and then he just sits there, staring into space, yawning a couple times just to emphasize how boring this all is. Past his reflection I can see lights. The first stop is approaching. Wakefield.

You can see the prison from the station. Big, old Victorian building. Rumor has it that’s where that nursery rhyme “Here We Go Round the Mulberry Bush” started, on account of this tree round which the female prisoners used to exercise. Doesn’t hold any female inmates anymore though.

“Here,” I say, across the table to the young boy, “want to see something really interesting?”

His mam instantly freezes, 54 - november 2012

like an antelope who’s just heard there’s a lion on the prowl.

“Watch out the window to your right when we pull into Wakefield Station. Because there you’ll see the Monster Mansion.”

The boy’s expression is unreadable. But surely there is a glimmer of interest in there somewhere. The mam clears her throat loudly.

“It’s the prison, see, and they call it that because it’s got . . .

It’s got lots of the most dangerous criminals in the country. And they . . .”

The boy’s eyes are imploring me to say more. I just know it.

“It’s the place where the baddest, boldest, most dangerous men are locked away.

The sex offenders . . .”

The mam slams her palm onto the table; the boy smirks.

“Enough,” she says.

But now we’re pulling into Wakefield Westgate, and the prison looms large to their right, and even she can’t help but look at the tall fences, the old, Victorian buildings.

And I’m delighted. Over

A.J. Kirby the moon to have distracted them. Maybe one day, this young boy will think back, like I think back to the time Adrian and I went on our one long train journey, and he’ll remember the story of the Monster Mansion like he’ll never remember any of his computer games. I can’t help but smile. The mam shoots a look at me which tells me I should probably stop smiling pretty damned quick.

so close, just a hop, skip, and a jump over a fence from the station.

•

The flyer feels wet in my hands. I’m sweating from the effort of finding the right tube.

From the effort of tunneling through this rabbit warren of a place. From the effort of trying to make sense of the indecipherable maps. Somehow, I’ve stumbled onto the right

And I’m delighted. Over the moon to have distracted them.

After a while, the boy gets his games console back out of his rucksack and starts playing again and the mam says nothing to him. But I’ve run out of things to say now anyway. I never was any good at talking to kiddies. Always got the wrong level, somehow, treating Adrian either too old or too young, never pitching it just right. Maybe people don’t want to know about prisons, especially when they’re

tube, going in the right direction, but still, I’m worried I’ll miss my son. I hold the flyer as close to my face as possible without blowing my nose on it. Try to read the text. It says there will be a reading and then a brief intermission, followed by a book-signing, but all it says for the times is “From 8 p.m.”

The noise on the tube hardly helps with the nerves.

It sounds as though hundreds burgundy grove - 55

Mister Magpie upon hundreds of people are jangling big jailers’ sets of keys, in no particular rhythm.

Slamming cell doors at the same time. There’s no buzz of conversation—mobiles don’t work down here—but still it sounds mad, frantic.

It’s as though the passengers, or the train itself, is breathing directly into my ear, menacingly, warningly. I’m an outsider down here, and don’t I just know it.

Adrian’s no outsider. He’s learned the London language.

He understands tube lines, things like that. Understands places he needs to be seen, and who he needs to be seen by. Sometimes when I catch him on the phone, I have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about, but I just listen, ummm and ahhh in the right places and wonder how much money a writer earns in a year, and why I haven’t got the bottle to straight-out ask him. And sure, we had that row when he wanted to go to university and I was deadset against it, wanted him to 56 - november 2012

follow in my footsteps, get something steady, in the law, but that’s all forgotten about now. He writes crime thrillers, doesn’t he, so more fool me. Turns out he is in the law anyway. I just wish he’d write me or phone me, ask me those procedural questions, or about the nicknames we used to give each other, because they’re the bits writers hardly ever get right and Adrian could get it so right.

Last story I ever told Adrian though was the one about Mr. Magpie. After that, he stopped listening, or I stopped telling. Chicken and egg; I can’t remember which came first.

There’s posters up by the top bit of the tube, some of them showing the spider’s web of red, green, blue lines, some of them showing maps and views of some of the buildings we’ll be passing directly underneath. There’s also, I see now, a poster advertising my son’s book. Here, on the tube, where millions, billions, of people will see it.

And right there, in the midst

A.J. Kirby of this noisy, sweaty hell, I feel a lurch of pride which almost knocks the stuffing out of me.

Gingerly, I stand up so I can take a closer look.

“Mister Magpie,” it says, “The new best-seller from the bloodied pen of the master thriller-writer Adrian Hunter.”

Adrian’s name is in white print against a background which looks like a big splatter of blood. Underneath, there’s a large image of an eye, which I presume belongs to a mag-

Now, as the tube pulls into another station whose name I can’t read, I want to grab one of the people exiting the train. Shake them. Force them to look at the advert up there by the roof, tell them, He’s mine, the fruit of my loins.

But everyone’s in too much of a rush. Places to go, people to see, theaters to visit and pubs to drink dry, jobs to go to or bags to snatch. Nobody has the time to share in my moment of glory. I sit back

Nobody has the time to share in my moment of glory. pie. The eye is dull, lifeless, like a doll’s eye or a taxidermist’s button, but in it is one sliver of light, a piercing line of yellow, which I can’t take my eyes off. It looks fantastic and I have no idea why. I want to be with my son now, so I can ask him about that yellow line in the white eye. It’ll show I have been paying attention all along. That I notice even the smallest things.

down again, wedging myself in between a humongously fat black man and a skinny white man who has the look of a used-car salesman about him.

Couple more station stops and we reach Tottenham Court Road, which is close as dammit to the Soho bookstore where Adrian’ll be reading (or now, most likely, clearing his stuff away, draining the last dregs of the burgundy grove - 57

Mister Magpie mocca-chocca-cappucino that has been laid on for him from the concession, which they’ll doubtless have inside the bookstore.) I’d been worried about disembarking the tube, that maybe my legs would have seized up, but as it turns out, I had nothing to be concerned about at all.

Soon as I stand up, I’m carried

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along to the doors by a wave of people. Same lot carries me across the platform, up the escalators, where I’m careful to stand to the right-hand side, and then through the ticket turnstiles.

Out on the street it’s less busy but still stuffy; close, they call it. London always seems to be hot when I’ve come down,

A.J. Kirby Below: Flickr.com/laffy4k

as though it’s a foreign country to the rest of Britain. There are people selling dodgy SIM cards on the corner, bustling alongside caricaturists and fellers selling “London” tee shirts, but none of them pester me. I’m out of their target demographic. I cross the street and soon I’m entering a district full of little bars and

cafés, most of which have people spilling out of them and onto the pavement. Big, burly men with tight tee shirts and shiny trousers. Men with crew cuts and piercings. Tattoos.

They’re covered in them. It’s like they’ve become walking cartoons. I step around them and into the street, causing a cycle rickshaw to jangle its bell at me in warning, or alarm, or consternation. Someone tries to thrust a free newspaper into my hand, and then into my trouser pocket, in a reverse pick-pocketing. I can feel myself losing my bearings, losing my confidence, losing my energy.

Finally, I turn onto Cannery Row, where the bookstore is and . . . Well, I’d been worried I wouldn’t be able to find it. I’d been worried a bookstore wouldn’t exactly stand out against the other white noise of the high street. In the summer riots, the looters went for pretty much every different type of shop apart from bookshops. Which I’d seen as an indication of what burgundy grove - 59

Mister Magpie role reading and writing had in today’s mass media, mass market place. But I see straightaway I’ve been wrong.

The Waterstone’s is by far the biggest store on the street, dwarfing all the smaller gadgetty-type shops. And this evening, it’s been done out like there’s a film premiere going on inside. There appears to be a red carpet, metal crowdcontrol barriers, some of those fake trees to lend atmosphere. I say there appears to be because it’s hard to see past the queue, which snakes out the open double doors and halfway down the street, finishing in front of a closed mobile-phone store. And above all that, a huge sign, similar to the one I saw on the tube, showing the magpie’s eye.

I start to walk quickly now, quicker than I’ve walked in a long time. For once, all of the constituent parts of my staff canteen of a body work in concert, and above and beyond the noise of the crowd, I can hear the sound of my footsteps echoing back 60 - november 2012

off the buildings as I walk up the cobbled street, doing a real policeman’s walk. I’m sure the two Met uniforms who’re on duty, manning the barriers, recognize my walk as I approach. They must see the purpose in my stride, the righteous energy. But when I ask to be let through because my son’s inside, the officers simply shake their heads.

Can’t even be bothered to voice their denial of me. Can’t even be bothered to look me in the eye as they do so. One of them waves vaguely off in the direction of the back of the queue and, before I can allow this incident to ruin my good mood, I policeman’swalk back there, clasping my hands behind my back all the way, like I’m doing new end titles for The Bill.

The queue’s surprisingly fast-moving though. My son must have perfected the art of the celebrity signature, ironing out the squiggles, the loops and the curls into a simple line which can be dashed off with a quick flick of the

A.J. Kirby wrist. The art of answering questions quickly, giving a brush-off without it ever seeming as though a brush is involved. I think of telling him that he could process this

into a concourse area, like a station. I can’t see my son, too many people, but I can see the big Waterstone’s display banners over towards the right of the store. There are black ones

I policeman’s-walk back there, clasping my hands behind my back all the way. thing even quicker if he didn’t bother signing at all, if he took a leaf from the old police school and simply placed an ink pad on the desk in front of him, and then simply applied a thumb print to every one of the books he was presented with. I wonder if he’ll take the suggestion as the half-joke it’s intended to be.

A couple minutes more and I’m able to see through the big, tinted-glass frontage of the bookstore. It’s low-lit inside, moody. The usual three-fortwo tables at the front of the shop have been shifted to one side, and now the whole front of the place has been turned

on which the Waterstone’s text is in bold white, moving diagonally down the banner, and there are blood-red ones that have been made up especially to advertise Adrian’s book. The money that must have been spent . . .

I’m inside now. Hot aircon ruffles my hair. The people around me have hushed into an almost reverential silence.

I can almost hear the questions those who’ve reached the front of the queue are feeding my son. There’s a common theme. They ask “Where do you get your ideas from?” or “How come you know so much about crime and burgundy grove - 61

Mister Magpie criminals?” or “Have you ever worked as a detective?” I can’t quite hear my son’s answers, but I can imagine what he’ll be saying. Something about his dear old dad being a timeserved policeman. Something about my old recitation of the Mr. Magpie story. Maybe when I get up to the front, I’ll play it cool, play it like I’m just another customer. Present him with the (admittedly dog-eared) flyer for tonight’s event for him to sign (in lieu of a book) and ask him, as

even though I’m still quite far from the front, I can finally see Adrian. He looks fatter than I remember him. Portly.

The promotional photos must have been airbrushed. Also he’s losing his light, curly hair. It’s receding into a widow’s peak. There’s a bald patch at the back. He’s wearing a no-logo black tee shirt and jeans, is sitting in something of a slouch. Between customers he sort of dazes over. But each and every time a new customer approaches, it’s as

He’ll look up, meet my eyes, and there’ll be understanding.

Congratulation. Gratitude. he twists his left hand over the page, who first told him about Mr. Magpie. And he’ll look up, meet my eyes, and there’ll be understanding.

Congratulation. Gratitude.

I shuffle forward some more.

Though I’m stooped now, I’m still plenty tall enough to see over the heads of most common or garden folk. And so, 62 - november 2012

though someone’s flicked a switch inside him and he suddenly wakes up, becomes all smiles, all matey bonhomie.

He puts the customer at their ease, asks them a simple question, asking them who they want the signature made out to, as though it’s a check, then he signs, then, when they’ve got over their nerves, he lets

A.J. Kirby them ask a question of their own. Just one. The latest customer asks him a variation on the common theme and again I can’t quite hear his answer, but as he finishes, I try to giraffe my head just that little bit higher, just in case he happens to look over in my direction. I want to be ready.

Now there’s only four people ahead of me in the queue. The first is an older woman, must be my age if she’s a day. She shuffles forward to the desk and Adrian animates himself.

Asks her the standard question and she says, shrilly, a voice which suggests she’s long since lost the ability to hear her own voice, “Make it out to Margaret, dear.” And for a moment, I wonder if Adrian’s professional mask will slip, whether his pen will suddenly shake over the page, whether he’ll look up at this woman, whether there’ll be sadness, memory in his eyes. Whether I can trust my eyes enough to see all that even if there is.

But none of that happens.

Instead, Adrian dashes off his

autograph, pushes the book across the desk for the woman to collect, and then sits back, hands clasped behind his head, waiting for her to ask her obligatory question. She seems reticent at first though, so Adrian prompts. “So, are you a fan then?”

Margaret bites her lip.

Ummms and ahhhs for a moment as though this is the million-pound question on a game show. Finally decides she can’t lose, not here, and she nods.

“Which is your favourite of the books?” asks Adrian at almost the exact same moment that Margaret finally pipes up with her question.

Adrian has to ask her to repeat herself.

“I said, these books are quite dark.” She waves Mister Magpie as though to identify which books she’s talking about. “Do you have to have a certain type of mindset to write like that? Did something happen in your own life?”

For a moment, Adrian seems stumped by the burgundy grove - 63

Mister Magpie question. He looks over his shoulder to where a couple of bookstore flunkies are Stanley-knifing open a huge cardboard box containing more stock, perhaps hoping they’ll have the answer.

Then he looks to his right, to a small man in a suit, who is sort of hovering over by the display banners; his agent.

Margaret evidently isn’t happy with this answer though, and presses. “But in every book, there’s an absent father, or a father who’s so twisted and dark . . .”

Suddenly my legs feel shaky. The diagonal writing on the Waterstone’s banners starts to blur, to drip, like blood. And I

“In every book, there’s an absent father, or a father who’s so twisted and dark…”

And then he looks into the queue. And there’s no way he couldn’t have seen me. I’m head and shoulders taller than everyone else here now.

Right in his eye-line. But Adrian looks away. Back to the woman, Margaret.

He steeples his fingers, leans forward in his chair again.

“These books are fiction,” he says. “They’re made up. None of them bear any relation with real life or anything that’s happened to me.”

64 - november 2012

understand I should have read the books before coming down here, before ever thinking I could resume the relationship with my son. I remember what he used to say to me about communication—specifically that I couldn’t communicate— and I wonder whether he’ll misread my surprise visit as just another act of miscommunication.

Adrian says, “The books bear no relationship with real

A.J. Kirby life whatsoever. They’re inventions . . .”

“But they seem so true,” says Margaret.

And for a moment, I think Adrian’s going to say more, but instead he says a simple “thank you” and then nods politely at the next customer to approach the desk.

As he does so, I’m absolutely sure that he sees me. Onehundred-and-ten percent. I see his chubby cheeks flush red, his chin wobble a little, a bead of sweat gathering on his forehead. For once, my eyes don’t deceive me. But there is no acknowledgement, no recognition, no . . .

No nothing. The next customer moves to the desk, thrusts a book into Adrian’s hands and asks him to make it out to Dean, his son. And suddenly I need to be as far away from here as it is possible to be. Suddenly I realize too much has remained unsaid for too long for this to be anything other than awkward.

Suddenly I realize that the best thing for all concerned would be if I don’t jumble anything up any more, if I just leave Adrian to get on with it.

And maybe he’ll understand what I’ve been trying to say to him all these years, since his mam died, in fact, when they find me in my chair in front of The Bill, with one of his books open on my lap.

I turn around and walk out of the store. I can’t trust my eyes again. I blunder through, over, into people. My cheeks are wet. Some secret part of me wants Adrian to call out after me, run up and give me a hug like the bear hugs I used to wrap him up in when he was a toddler. But a bigger part of me just wants to be back at my house, safe, alone, where there’s nobody else I can push away.

Mr. Magpie spreads his wings and prepares to fly away home. This is not his world.

Not anymore. He’s just unattended baggage now.

burgundy grove - 65