HANDSPRINGS ACROSS THE MOON "How," I said. "Lemme borrow your Notre Dame sweater." He did, and we tried to get in the right frame of mind to hit the local pub for their St. Patrick Day's blow-out. "You and Maria had another fight?" "Yeah, usual shit. Always starts over something stupid. I think this time it was the fact that I like Elvis and she doesn't." "She doesn't?" "She thinks he was vulgar and white trashy." "Yeah, but that's his appeal." "I called her a snob and she called me something and it just got way the fuck out of hand. But I don't wanna think about that now. And I can't write when we're mad at each other. Nothing comes. The whole planet seems dingy and gray and bereft of stories." "Bereft, eh? So then, you'd say there was a 'dearth' of stories about." "Yes. Not nearly a plethora. Hey, where's the Dachau Darling? "She's pissed about something. Who knows? Let's split." It was early but on St. Patrick's Day it always got crowded by eight and we wanted a table since we wanted to eat too. It was cold out, but not windy, and as we reached the bar we saw a man next door to it. He was painting a door that was previously red. When he finished it would be black. We saw it and laughed. Two guys in sweatshirts with Greek letters on them walked by and stopped. The one thickneck said to the painter, "Hey, who's your landlord, Mick Jagger?" Then, they high-fived each other. I cupped my hand over a cigarette and lit it. The painter, who was sweaty despite the cold, looked up and said, "Mick Jagger? Landlord? Oh, wait. I see a red door and I want it painted black! Ha ha ha. That's funny. That's good. I gotta tell my wife that tonight. You're very clever. I woulda never--" "Fuck you," said the other one and they kept walking. As soon as we entered the bar, Pat the bartender said the same thing to me he has every St. Patty's Day I've spent there. "What are you doing here, Rich?" hew yelled. "I thought you were Jewish." The whole bar looked over. "Half-Jewish, half-Irish." "I never heard of that," he said, like he always does. "Yeah, my grandparents came over during the great potato knish famine." We've had this exchange for years now and I even heard a stand-up comic use that line down at the Comedy Works here in town. Pat still likes it as much as the first time. We found a table in the back room and ordered corned beef and cabbage and Irish stew. There was a table of about twelve behind us. "Well," said Howard. "How long? I say fifteen minutes." "I say two." "Ten bucks?" We shook. "What's that song they always sing," I said to Howard, loud enough, "about that boy who goes off to war?" "That's cheating," said Howard, kicking my shin. "Ten bucks, Skippy." A man in a tan suit smoking a cigar came over and joined us. "This is a song about a boy who goes off to war..." He finished that part, stood up and closed his eyes. [ Oh Danny Boy, the pipes are calling you, from glen to glen...] The bar was filling up. Just after our food arrived, we were joined by a family: a forty-ish man with a Yamaha acoustic guitar and capo, two younger brunette girls, an older woman, an older man, and a couple of boys our age. "You don't mind if the Holloran family singers join you, do you?" "Please." They filed in to the booth and piled their coats on the piano. "I'm Tim, this is my daughter Maggie, my daughter Clarice, my sister Ellen, and that's Ron and Mark. And that gentleman there is Jimmy, but you can call him 'tamzie'." He was wearing a tam. "I'm Rich. This is Howard." "Brothers?" he asked. "Look at them, Daddy. They could be twins." "Five minutes, Rich?" "That's not fair, How." "It's a bet." "What are you two wagering on," asked Tim. "Oh, how long it'll be until we hear Danny Boy again." They laughed. "That's a sucker bet, you know. 'Oh Danny Boy..." "Stop, Daddy." Clarice elbowed her father. He moved the capo to the second fret and started. "When Irish eyes are smiling..." We were floored by his two daughters. It was so clear that Maggie was the 'good' one and Clarice the 'bad' one. Maggie's hair was all pulled up and held in place with a bright green hair thing. She had another, a red one, around her left wrist. Clarice's hair was long and silky and reached to the middle of her ribcage. It was all pulled over to one side of her head. She was moving a hand through it. "What happened to the 'big hair'?" said her father. "Well, it *was* big. There's no more hair spray in it. If I had my purse it'd be *huge*. You'd see." "I like it like it is now," said her father, moving a hand through it. "Feels like mine." His was short and salt and pepperish and it all seemed to go in different directions, but Clarice felt it and nodded, "Yeah. I like your hair. That salt and pepper action is nice." Howard said, "That is just sooo 'Jungle Fever'. Maggie giggled. This was Howard's latest thing. He'd say things like, 'That girl is so dawning of the age of Aquarius'. Or we'd be climbing a tree and he'd say, 'This is just so A Separate Peace'. The other day he'd said someone was very 'Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy.' I still don't know what he meant. Maggie was wearing a large wool sweater and blue jeans. Even so, the fact that her breasts were very round and large wasn't hid. Clarice's features were very, *very* brunette. She had a high, flawless forehead, cheekbones that would make David Bowie look moon-faced, carefully plucked dark eyebrows, long eyelashes and full, sensuous lips. Her breasts were smaller than her sisters and conical. They poked at her green chamois-material shirt. She wore tight black jeans and boots. Soon, it was learned that Maggie was graduating this semester from a small local college. English major. Clarice was a waitress. "Where at?" She told us where. "Great lobster. Pricey." "Come by for brunch during the week sometime. That's my shift." "Hey, Daddy," said Clarice, "Pour me some beer in *this*" She produced a small ceramic cup. It had no handles and little ducks had been painted onto it. Her father looked shocked, as did her sister. "Where in the world did you dig up *that*??" Clarice showed it to me and Howard. "This was my 'girl cup' when I was, what-- five? Six? Drinking beer out of it would be-- oh God. I couldn't. I painted it in kindergarten. I love this cup." The waitress came by and asked us if we needed any glasses. The whole room, in unison, said, "Only when we read." "Daddy," said Maggie. Do the alligator song." "Alligator song?" "You know," said Clarice, who, as it turned out, had studied voice for a time when she was younger, and had gone from a soprano to a mezzo in her choir because of cigarettes. She and Maggie started, doing these theatrical gestures for each animal they mentioned: [ You got green alligators and long-necked geese, Humpty-backed camels and some chimpanzees, cats and rats and elephants, but sure as you're born, the loveliest of all was the unicorn.] They sang through this a few times until half the bar were mimicking these gestures as well. The table behind us applauded after they'd finished. I was becoming more and more captivated by this fabulous brunette, Clarice. She was quiet and sat close to her father, his arm between hers when he wasn't playing that guitar. Her sister was loud and deep-voiced and boisterous. She was dunking bits of bread in my brother's stew and requesting old songs from her father, who sang much better than he played. "Richard, Howard," he said. "You must know some Irish songs." "Well," said Howard, and asked for the guitar. It was handed it to him and he tuned it and looked us over and took off the capo. He picked out his chord and as soon as the girls heard it they laughed. "Well, it's Irish all right, but..." But it was too late. It had already begun. [ I can't believe the news today, I can't close my eyes and make it go away. How long, how long must we sing this song? How long? Tonight we can be as one. Broken bottles under children's feet, Bodies strewn across a dead end street, But I won't heed the battle call, It puts my back up, puts my back up against the wall. Sunday, bloody Sunday. Sunday, bloody Sunday. ] Then, Howard stopped and started a different one. [ All is quiet on New Year's Day, A world in white gets underway, And I want to be with you, Be with you night and day. Nothing changes on New Year's Day. I will be with you again. I will be with you again. ] Under a blood red sky A crowd has gathered in black and white--] "Don't you think that's a little somber, How?" "Mysterious Ways?" "Ooh, Daddy," said Maggie, Howard finding the chords and following her. [ She's a rich girl She don't try to hide it Diamonds on the soles of her shoes ] Clarice echoed, "She got diamonds on the soles of her shoes." [ He's a poor boy Empty as a pocket Empty as a pocket with nothing to lose Sing Ta na na Ta na na na She got diamonds on the soles of her shoes She got diamonds on the soles of her shoes Diamonds on the soles of her shoes Diamonds on the soles of her shoes ... She was physically forgotten Then she slipped into my pocket With my car keys She said you've taken me for granted Because I please you Wearing these diamonds...] The affection they all had for each other was infectious, but it seemed clear to me that it was Clarice who was her father's favorite. She was older than her sister by a year, had gone to an accelerated high school, but something must have happened, and she was a waitress now. They were looking through some pictures in her dad's wallet when we heard her say, "Yeah, so what do you call them when your grandparents are forty? Pop-pop and nana?" She showed the picture to me and Howard. She had twin girls, Jennifer and Lea. They were perfect. First-graders. When she got up to go to the ladies room she put her hands on my shoulders and whispered, "Sneak me a cigarette." I did. "I'm 23, by the way. You figure out the math." I did. It wasn't that tricky, and soon I had an outline of their family's history in my head. Clarice, at thirteen, winning a voice scholarship but instead going to a science high school, her sister to the local Catholic school. Clarice at 14, already driving the boys nuts with her savage cheekbones and sultry air. Clarice at fifteen, starting to rebel. Smoking cigarettes, pot, dating college boys. Clarice at sixteen, pregnant. Her family being very supportive--abortion was not an option there. Clarice, dropping out of school, having those twins and getting her G.E.D., and the next year taking the SAT's as a lark, scoring well into the 1400's. And her sister Maggie, carefully avoiding her sister's tracks, remaining chaste, active in her church, trying to be for her father what her sister could not. Clarice returned from the ladies' room, butted out her cigarette(first, she held it over her 'girl cup', but then rested her head on her father's shoulder and put it in the ashtray. "We've got all the voices now," said her father, strumming lightly on the guitar. "Try this one" [ Got out of town on a boat goin' to southern islands. Sailing a reach before a followin' sea. She was makin' for the trades on the outside, And the downhill run to Popakay Bay. Off the wind on we don't know the words la la la lumbago we got eighty feet of the waterline nice to make headway. In a noisy bar in Avalon I tried to call you. But on a midnight watch I realized why twice you ran away.] The people from the table behind us joined in for the next few verses, including Sister Nancy, a young, attractive nun whom they all seemed to know. [ Think about how many times I have fallen, Spirits are using me, larger voices callin'. What heaven brought you and me cannot be forgotten. I have been around the world, lookin' for that woman, girl, who knows love can endure. And you know it will. And you know it will. When you see the Southern Cross for the first time, You understand now why you came this way. 'Cause the truth you might be runnin' from is so small. But it's as big as the promise, the promise of a coming day.] "Keep going, Daddy. We never get to do this at home anymore, ever since that table can't fit in the kitchen." Both girls pointed a finger at each other and Maggie said, "Demon Table." "Table from Hell!" and they touched their fingers together and went "Bzzzzzap!" "More Crosby, Stills and Nash. Do 'Teach Your Children', Daddy." He shook his head. "Come on, please?" Clarice spun that cup with the ducks on it around in her hands. "Oh please. We never get to do this anymore. And we've got an audience." "I can't, girls. Listen to your father. I--" "Howard," said Maggie, "Can you play that song?" "Crosby, Stills and Nash? Like ringin' a bell." "Oooh," said Maggie, finishing off Howard's black and tan. Howard put the capo up on the third fret and managed to up his voice an octave or so and sang with the two girls. It sounded like the three of them had been doing this all their lives. People were walking in from the bar to watch and the tiny back room was packed and filled with smoke. A waitress dimmed the lights halfway. All eyes were focused on the girls' father, who was helpless to hide his emotion. [ You, who are on the road Must have a code That you can live by And so become yourself Because the past Is just a good-bye Teach your children well Their father's hell Did slowly go by And feed them on your dreams The one they picked The one you'll know by Don't you ever ask them why If they told you you would cry So just look at them and sigh And know they love you] The girls looked at their father then and his shoulders started to shake. But they didn't stop the song. [ And you of tender years Can't know the fears That your elders grew by And so please help Them with your youth They see the truth Before they can die Teach your parents well Their children's hell Will slowly go by And feed them on your dreams The one they picked The one you'll know by Don't you ever ask them why If they told you you would cry So just look at them and sigh And know they love you. ] "We love you, Daddy." Clarice wiped off her father's cheeks. It was late and their father had to work early the next day . They told us that they came to this bar every Tuesday, early, after choir practice. Friendly good night kisses were exchanged and they drove off. We sat down again and the waitress cleared all the debris away. "They were something else. I like that Maggie. She seemed very--" "Genuine." "Yeah. Very non-psychotic, you know. I consider that a plus these days." "As opposed to her sister..." "Man! Her face..." "Yeah. You think Karen and Maria are together somewhere, scopin' out guys?" "You think?" "Could be." Soon, about ten kids our age in tie-dyes walked in and joined us. There had been a Grateful Dead show at the Spectrum that night. "So," said Howard. "How was it?" "Great. Check out the set list." He handed us an envelope on which he'd scrawled the songs that had been played. I loved looking at these things just to watch how the writing deteriorates. Especially after 'Space'." "Box of Rain, New Minglewood, Memphis Blues, Cassidy, new song, Truckin', Spoonful, He's Gone, Space, unreadable, Miracle, Stella Blues, Sugar Mag. And they encored with Weight." "Nice. How long was Space?" The guy with the set list held his hands about a foot apart and said, "Oh, about yea long." They all laughed. "Decent." So we switched gears drastically and talked with them for awhile. They bought us all a round of whiskeys and we paid for a round also. The one very blonde girl was an art student and her boyfriend was trying to be a writer. When she was seventeen she worked in a Chinese restaurant. Her mom had been in the Mexico City Olympics the same year Bob Beamon set one of the longest-lasting records ever. Her mom's event, it turned out, had been platform diving. They signalled last call and Howard and I started to head out. When we went to settle up with Pat, he said that Tim, the girls' father, had asked him to put it all on his tab. "I like that guy a lot." "Great bunch," said Pat. "They come here every Tuesday. After choir practice. With the mom, too." I put a cigarette in my mouth and reached in my coat pocket for my lighter. There was something else there, too. I pulled it out. It was Clarice's cherished cup. I didn't show Howard but put it back into my pocket right away and lit the cigarette. "You okay, Rich?" Howard said. "You look funny." "I'm great. Ready?" Howard bought a six-pack and bundled the bag under his arm. I put my arm around his shoulder and felt in my pocket for the cup. And as we exited the bar into the cool night we paused for a moment. During that pause, I thought about that art student's mother--young, fit and beautiful, standing on the edge of that platform, eyes straight ahead. Ready to jump and spin for the crowded stadium, for the world. Ready to touch the sky and slip into the blue water softer than a kiss. Ready to know that moment, just before she begins her descent, that moment where, for the diver, time seems to stop and elongate. That moment where anything was possible.