Mudwoman Page 28

  Agatha had not liked free time either. Even when she was reading, or watching TV, Agatha’s plump hands moved with surprising swiftness knitting, crocheting, quilt-sewing.

  Konrad was quite different. I loaf and invite my soul—Konrad had so many times uttered, it was a surprise to Meredith to discover, in high school, that the arresting line wasn’t his but Walt Whitman’s.

  Her wonderful, loving parents! In interviews, M.R. praised them lavishly.

  It was a mystery to M.R. why, as soon as she’d left Carthage—(first to attend Cornell, then graduate school at Harvard)—she’d seemed to forget the Neukirchens. Always she was meaning to telephone them, or to write; in those years before e-mail when letter-writing could be something of a pleasurable task. As if a mist were gathering at the back of her brain, chill and insidious.

  And beyond these wonderful Quaker parents as she spoke of them in interviews, in the years preceding the dark-brick house on Mt. Laurel Street where she’d been so happy, and so beloved, the mist was yet more insidious, implacable. What was enveloped in it, what was lost to memory, M.R. had no idea.

  Of those years, M.R. never spoke in interviews.

  Forgetting! M.R. thought of the phenomenon as rather concentrating on the present, the headlong plunge of the present. As, shining a flashlight into the dark, your eyes follow the trajectory of the light, and ignore the penumbra beyond.

  What was essential to her body, like, for instance, swimming—she wasn’t likely to forget.

  Often discovering when she searched among her papers—notes and sketches and early drafts of essays—that she didn’t actually remember what she’d been working on, or why it had meant so much to her at one time.

  Even her handwriting seemed to be changing for she so rarely wrote by hand any longer.

  In our family there is a secret weakness. Not a one of us has been spared.

  She’d never learned what Konrad’s family secret was. Though, now she was an adult, she could guess.

  Oh just some—riddle! Some brainteaser of your father’s you know how that man is.

  Laughing her quick breathless laugh. A glint of fear in Agatha’s large limpid warm-brown eyes that the next moment dispelled.

  “Ma’am?”

  He was no one she knew: the sleek-black-haired young man, wide-shouldered, with dark twists of hair on his chest, shoulders, arms, legs, crudely squatting at the edge of the pool as M.R. was hauling herself out. His eyes lifted with her, as she stepped onto the wet tile floor streaming water down her legs in a way that made her feel intensely female suddenly, and intensely self-conscious.

  The solitary swimmer she’d seen frequently in the pool—was this the same person? He didn’t appear to be a University undergraduate after all.

  Nor anyone in the University community.

  “Yes? Are you talking to me?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You.”

  He’d risen to his full height—inches taller than M.R. He, too, had only just emerged from the pool—his compactly-muscled body glittered with beads of water. He was older than M.R. had thought, in his mid- or late twenties, with a blunt coarse face, a head that resembled a seal’s head, and dark shiny eyes like an animal’s eyes; his sneering smile, teeth partly bared, reminded M.R. of a photograph, or a drawing—the head of a snarling dog from Charles Darwin’s The Expression of the Emotions in Man and Animals.

  M.R. was taken by surprise, in this University setting! That a stranger—an intruder—should speak to her.

  And what an insult it was, that this stranger had no idea who she was.

  M.R. was about to turn away annoyed when the young man gripped her arm at the elbow. “This way, ma’am.”

  She was too astonished to resist. So quickly he’d taken hold of her, in this quasi-public place, in this University setting in which she’d felt at home, she had no way of resisting but clumsily stumbled beside her abductor as briskly and without ceremony he force-walked her along the edge of the pool in the direction of the exit; he addressed her in a low muttering voice that was both soothing and coercive as one might address an animal being led into restraint—how tractable the mesmerized animal, in the clutch of terror! M.R. drew breath to protest, to scream—could not utter a sound—as in the vast pool with its gorgeous blue mosaics and overhead drifting sea-clouds the several swimmers continued to swim laps in their individual lanes like automatons oblivious of M. R. Neukirchen abducted from the pool area as they’d been oblivious of M. R. Neukirchen when she’d been swimming laps beside them.

  Readied you must be readied. Ma’am.

  Behind the University gym there was a paved parking area and beyond this a steep hill and—somehow—unrecognizably—beyond this another paved area like a loading dock where the air smelled of creosote and oily water as by a polluted river and now in the astonishment of terror she was seeing others like herself—women—forced by their male captors to walk along a roadway beside the river like refugees pushed and shoved and spoken to harshly and yet with bemusement stumbling forward in dread of falling for to fall in such a place would be to perish—this was no place for weakness, any sort of vulnerability, female “sensitivity.” M.R. saw that in the company of the sleek-seal-headed young man was another young man who resembled Evander—(but was not Evander)—and another, older man who resembled Carlos—(but was surely not Carlos)—and their eyes upon her were bluntly assessing and all but dismissive for she was no longer a young woman.

  With the others like staggering cattle M.R. was forced past flares of manic flame along a sunken roadway and across a bridge of rust-corroded girders and beneath the bridge a sound of dark rushing water like the cries of the damned. None of the others were known to her as she was not known to them and none wished to reach out to her, to offer solace—as M.R. herself had no solace to offer, in the extremity of her terror. She seemed to know this place—this bridge—the river—but could not recall their names for the names of places were lost to her and soon too she realized that she was bereft of her name and her identification of which she’d been so ludicrously proud—M. R. Neukirchen. No more than a lonely child’s imaginary play-game her life was exposed as the unflattering white-rubber swim cap had been snatched from her head, the straps of the unflattering swimsuit yanked down and torn and tattered and her breasts partly exposed as beneath the bridge the rushing water called to her jeering Did you think you could escape forever? Did you think you could escape this—forever?

  It was meant: her femaleness.

  That she was a woman, in the body into which she’d been born.

  She had known this—had she? She had not known this, she had cast the knowledge from her, repelled, disbelieving. She had not loved any man, really—she had not had any child nor had she ever been impregnated, the thought had filled her with anxiety, disdain. For that was not her. That was not her wish.

  They had come for her and for other women who had been over-cautious of their lives, who had hoarded their bodies as they had hoarded their souls. Now it was time, now all was exposed, the comfort and deceit of their names—“identities”—the pathos of their lives.

  For it was the way of nature, women were possessions of men—fathers, brothers, husbands. It was not the way of nature, women were possessors of their selves, their bodies. She would be mated—she would be impregnated—too long had she escaped this life of the (female) body—the profound and inevitable life of the (female) body as at the foster home long ago the boys had forced younger frightened girls to squirm and squeal and kick and flail beneath them but Mudgirl had been spared, it was Mudgirl’s wish to believe that she had been spared, the sharp-elbowed boys, loud-laughing boys, doglike, crude, cruel, blank-eyed—afterward threatening to strangle the girls if they “told”—though maybe it was a joke and not a threat—all that happened, a joke and not a threat—and not real—as much of childhood was (possibly) a joke and not real and in any case lost to
memory as when Mrs. Skedd asked if those little fuckers had touched her and she’d shook her head mutely and evasively and Mrs. Skedd chose to believe her or in any case not to further inquire and when she’d hidden—crawled into the smelly dark space beneath the stairs—when the man with the spiky hair pulled her out by the ankles laughing—it was out of instinct as now out of instinct she dared to pull away from the others, crouched and cringing and to her relief she found herself beneath the bridge somehow, or—this was later, farther along the roadway—this was hours later—crouched beneath a road in a drainage pipe, naked, shivering, yet eager with relief—eager to believe that she had escaped, and must now make her way back home—wherever “home” was—by cunning, like a wild animal; by night, that no one would see her; crouched in the filthy drainage pipe for how long until there came a scrabbling, a sudden flash of light, hooting and laughing and she’d been discovered hiding, in the pathos of hiding, but the men had tracked her down of course, hauled her out by the ankles so that her body was scraped, the skin broken and torn and bleeding Did you think that you could escape—this?

  Along the river were warehouses and in one of these she was taken into a large barracks-type room with other staggering stunned exhausted and terrified women, blank-eyed women, broken women, their shame was such they could not bear to acknowledge one another, and she was one of them and not distinct from them or among them and in a place smelling of creosote and dirt she was thrown down and the remains of the ridiculous swimsuit torn from her and a male figure—a stranger—mulish, heavy—without a word forced himself upon her, grunting with effort, forcing her to lie still and her legs apart—with dry, brute force she was entered—her head struck against the floor—Uh! uh! uh! Trying to scream but again no sound came from her throat—trying to fight her assailant, her rapist, kicking, squirming, clawing at him until he knelt above her and slapped her, shut his hands into fists like rocks and struck her, the old cuts on her face sliced raw, her face lacerated and bleeding and yet she fought, in a frenzy of terror she fought, in terror of her life she fought, and somehow—later—when he’d finished with her, or had in disgust grunted lifting himself from her, to depart—she was crawling in an open field—she had escaped, had she?—or they had finished with her and so she was alone now crawling like a wounded animal her body racked with pain and her face bleeding yet there came to her ears the excited cries of crows—a flurry of black-feathered wings in the jungle-like trees at the edge of the field—and there, the King of the Crows flying above her flapping his wings in fury—whether protective of her, or punitive, in disgust of her like the others, she didn’t know.

  Hurry! Here! This way!

  Crouched over making her way like a grotesque broken-backed creature pushing through grasses and into a marshy area where her feet sank into mud and insects hurtled themselves at her exposed face and skin and overhead the King of the Crows continued to shriek Hurry! This way! This way! and she came upon an open area near a shallow stream in which countless bird-tracks were tamped into the mud like crazed and deafening languages warring with one another and it was her task to make sense of this, it was her task though the human brain could not make sense of so many languages, such vastness, as overhead birds called and mocked and the King of the Crows shrieked at her but she was too exhausted to continue so slept where she lay in the mud her hair caked with mud, mud in her nostrils, her mouth she thought I will dream now of God. This is a place only God can redeem. When she wakened she saw that the sun had a belated look in the sky as if this were a day out of some past-time now lost and recoverable in memory only by the most extreme effort of which in her weakened state she was not capable. And in this open space she was naked, terribly exposed, vulnerable and small and her breasts were aching and sensitive with wounds, bite-wounds, where her rapist had sunk his teeth into her—had he?—the nipples torn as if violently sucked-at, bitten. And in this too she was given to know Not one thing that has happened to you has not happened to others before you. In this way even her pain was a rebuke to her.

  Yet there was beauty even here, that was a rebuke to her despair. On all sides the mudflats riddled with galaxies of flittering light-puddles—a vast broken mirror reflecting a broken sky.

  On this mildly overcast day the sun was unnaturally strong. Even behind a scrim of clouds like half-shut eyes the sun was unnaturally strong.

  Waking to the marsh-smell in her nostrils, her hair and mouth and the King of the Crows overhead in a tall spiking conifer bereft of nearly all needles and twisted like a misshapen spine yet here too there was a strange sort of beauty as in the sleek-black-feathered bird with the mad yellow eye and Mudwoman was given to know, she was impregnated; and what would come of the rapist’s seed jammed up inside her, she had no idea.

  “Oh. God.”

  She must have fallen asleep, the heavy book had fallen from her hands and wakened her with a jolt.

  Quickly she stood: what time was it? Where was she?

  . . . in the library downstairs at Charters House. Barefoot and but partially dressed and shivering convulsively like an inmate deranged and terrified in some corner of some mental asylum of long-ago in the aftermath of a dream so visceral it would seem to have had no visual or intellectual or even emotional content whatsoever but to have been the equivalent of having been trapped inside a clanging bell or dragged behind a speeding vehicle along a graveled roadway and yet she would not succumb, she would not give in to whatever this was, whatever vision, or whatever failure of vision, for she was strong and determined and she was M. R. Neukirchen—she remembered the name, in triumph—and it was a good strong respected name—it was her name—she would bear through this day as through the other days for as long as she was capable and so she would make her way back to the second floor of Charters House and try to sleep until it was time for her to get out of bed with the twittering of the first birds and make her solitary way to the University gym to the cavernous University pool which opened at 5 A.M. for solitary swimmers like herself and if this day was like M.R.’s other days she would arrive no later than 5:30 A.M.

  This is my life now. I will live it!

  Mudgirl, Cherished.

  May–June 1968

  On the Convent Street bridge they were walking together. Though she was not really a little girl any longer yet Mrs. Neukirchen held her hand firmly and warmly and Mrs. Neukirchen was telling her a story as Mrs. Neukirchen often did at such times when they were alone together in her soft breathy-girlish voice that made Meredith think the story had really happened though this story was in fact a fairy tale—one of the happy-ending fairy tales and so fit for a child to hear—“Little Briar-Rose.”

  Such happiness! Mrs. Neukirchen and her little daughter walking together close together, on the narrow pedestrian walkway on the Convent Street bridge.

  Though Mrs. Neukirchen had to walk slowly because of her swollen legs and ankles. And Meredith had to walk slowly to keep pace with her mother though Mudgirl would have liked to break free and run, run—run across the Convent Street bridge like a restless little mongrel-dog, that wants only to shake off her mistress’s grip and escape.

  Escape where?

  You have already been there. And there is nowhere.

  “Little Briar-Rose” was—almost—a scary story because Little Briar-Rose was cast under a spell by a cruel witch and slept and slept and slept for a very long time until awakened by a king’s son and Mrs. Neukirchen did not seem to comprehend that the story was scary for it ended with the words And then the wedding of the king’s son with Little Briar-Rose was celebrated with all splendor, and they lived contented to the end of their days.

  If you did not hear the ending of the story, it was a scary story. But the ending was meant to change the story as if you could change a story backward.

  And uttered in Mrs. Neukirchen’s special storytelling voice and in a trance of concentration Meredith was staring through the bridge railing at t
he water rushing below whispering and laughing quietly and a shivery sensation rose in her and she heard herself say as if it were the river speaking through her, “Did you find me somewhere—Momma—and bring me home?”

  It had been a hard thing to learn, to say Momma. As she’d been instructed to say Momma, Daddy like a deaf-mute child instructed to mouth sounds she can’t hear. And now, she had said a wrong thing. As Mudgirl should have known. As Mudgirl did know, in the startled and appalled aftermath of her question that so resembled a fairy-tale question naïvely put to a fairy-tale stepmother.

  Mrs. Neukirchen stared at her horrified. Her soft raddled-pretty moon face flushed with blood and her eyes were damp with hurt and reproach.

  “ ‘Find you!’ ‘Bring you home!’ What on earth are you saying, Merry? You were always ours—God sent you to us. Out of all the world—you are our daughter.”

  Mrs. Neukirchen’s voice quavered with hurt and indignation. For where a stepmother is hurt, there is indignation as well.

  Mrs. Neukirchen did not release Meredith’s fingers but squeezed them harder. Traffic was passing over the Convent Street bridge causing the old wrought-iron bridge to vibrate and shudder and the planks to rattle and beneath the bridge where Meredith was staring the river was swift and purposeful-seeming. Mrs. Neukirchen continued to speak but Meredith heard only these desperate repeated words—“You know that, Merry, don’t you? Out of all of the world—God brought you to Mr. Neukirchen and me—you know that?”

  Was this so? Mudgirl could not recall.

  Confused with the whispery-laughing river-sound was a memory of—a house that wasn’t the Neukirchens’ house but a smaller house—a woman’s nasal-sharp voice calling Jew-ell!

  But really, this memory was lost. Smudged and faded like a weatherworn billboard. As poor wheezing Puddin’ whose stumpy tail wagged so eagerly even in his last, elderly months had begun to fade—they had loved Puddin’ so, and Puddin’ had loved them so, but one day Puddin’ was gone and it was not good—“healthy”—to brood upon Puddin’.