1971: INCONCINNITY*
(* An archaic word for unsuitability)
I was not surprised when Iris, shapely and bright-eyed, and Jordan, athletic and quick-witted, became infatuated with each other. For one, I had seen the romance building in stages, as if constructed with an erector set. They shared qualities of intelligence, attractiveness and grace. Besides, spring had laid its velvet, aromatic hand upon the countryside and invited all species to mate, although it was a spring too soon warm for some and too late for others as if teasing the countryside with ambivalence.
I first noticed that the two had moved (no strict seating assignments), so the two were sitting in tandem, Iris behind Jordan. I thereafter noticed that, instead of paying strict attention to my explanations, Jordan was often turned around and whispering to Iris. Once I had to pause and to harrumph in order to get them back on the page with the rest of the juniors in my eleventh grade English class. Yes, they were only sixteen, the year when love often first blossoms – callow and naïve.
I admired both of them. One may ask how an adult could admire children, but for me it was retrospective of my own existence in school—a tortuous path of challenges and avoidances. I had been shy, but Jordan was not shy, nor was he a bully. He seemed to stride confidently through his day, but he harassed and put down no other child. He laughed easily, tackled every task with assurance and determination, and if he happened to be off target, it wasn’t by much. I thought he had been blessed with a grand soul.
Perhaps that is what Iris recognized in him. She was quieter, but also had a quick humor and a bright mind. Attractiveness is a subjective quality, but I saw them walking on the same plane. She saw qualities in him that would make a good husband and father. In her, he saw the qualities of a good wife and mother, someone who could stitch a family together and keep it patched and interwoven through adventures and struggles.
Except for their closest friends, I may have been the only other human being, especially the only adult, who had noticed this incipient romance. No other adult in town seemed to recognize it, although I left school each day wondering about it.
In the school parking lot one day I encountered Jordan’s mother, who had come to watch the football team’s spring practice since her son was the back-up quarterback and a starting receiver. (Iris was in the band, clarinet, so she would be on the field, too, at the other end practicing marching routines.)
“Mr. Lowell, how are you doing, today?” Mrs. Perkins greeted me with her usual soft warmth.
“Fine, Mrs. Perkins, and how are you?”
“Good, good. How’s my boy behaving?”
“Now you know he always does well.” I didn’t mention the romance. “He’s one of my best students. You raised him right.”
“Thank you, sir. You’re kind to say so.”
When I stopped at the Texaco station, Mike Bailey, a distant and much older cousin of Iris, filled my tank as usual and commented on the weather. “Hot already, ain’t it? I bet this summer’s going to be a scorcher.”
“You never know,” I said.
“Nope, a body can guess, but that’s right, you never know.”
At the post office, no one asked about the Romeos and Juliets that I might have in my class. They had other adult concerns in mind: the spring crops, the weather, the progress of the football team, the anticipated move of the migrants out of the community before the watermelon harvest, the war. Those were the topics that were being discussed in pairs and small groups.
On the way home, I picked up my two-year-old son from the Zablotsky residence. When I pulled up in their drive, I waved at white-haired Ted, retired from a tire factory in Ohio, who was watering the lawn. His wife Myra, acting nanny, was sitting on a lawn chair in the shade of the carport where Davy was bouncing a red and blue ball and pretending not to notice me, but he knew I was watching him intently. Myra pushed herself out of the chair and brought Davy’s bag of clothes. She opened the passenger door and set the bag on the floorboard. “Hi, how’re things?”
“Okay. How was the little guy today?”
“He’s a fine boy, Bill, sharp as a tack but so good humored.” She looked at me with a mixture of compassion and puzzlement, squinting her blue eyes under the glare of the Florida sun. She said, “I still don’t understand how a mother could leave a year-old baby.”
I smiled and shrugged. I didn’t want to go through the story again, about how things were changing, women were no longer locked into the roles that Myra had played all her life, that men would have to share the home duties more, and that the new women had ambitions like men. It was the story I had told to anyone who asked.
His blond curls bouncing, Davy finally came running and jumped into the car, yelling, “Hi, Daddy. Let’s go!”
I laughed and made sure his seat belt was around him and securely fastened.
I asked him what he had done that day, but he played hard to get and didn’t want to tell me until we pulled into our home street. Then he blurted out named activities staccato, so I had to laugh again, and he laughed, too, because he knew that he had amused me.
At home, we both stripped down to shorts and T-shirts and flip-flops. He flip-flopped around the living room while I prepared supper.
I could watch him while I cooked because the tiny duplex in which we lived was just a rectangular box with dividing walls along the north side and a breezeway along the south, so all major rooms were connected in this order: bedroom west, then bathroom, living room, kitchen-dining area. North beyond the kitchen was a utility room for the washer and dryer. Only the bathroom and the utility room had inside doors that locked. The utility room door was kept shut unless I was doing the wash.
The box was inexpensive because during the winter or even warm spring days, I could open the three north-facing windows, the south-facing kitchen window, front door jalousies, and bedroom sliding-glass door. A breeze would swirl throughout the apartment, so I didn’t have to use the air-conditioner.
The bathroom door was never closed because only we two males lived there. If Davy was in the bathroom either bathing or brushing his teeth or doing his business, I was in there with him—unless he didn’t want me to watch. If I was in there, I left the door open, so I could hear what he was doing. He saw me shaving, showering and using the toilet. I believe that was one reason he had become potty trained as early as he had. He saw me using the toilet and decided he’d do it that way, too; he hadn’t worn diapers for over six months. He had a training Johnny, but occasionally he’d use the adult toilet by hanging onto my arm for support while I turned my head away. I still had to wipe him afterward. If I said, “Good job,” he would do a little dance for me and laugh.
He didn’t seem to miss his mother too much. He liked the Zablotskies and he liked me, so he seemed to think that everything was peachy keen. His mother had left for the other side of the state, so she could get a master’s degree, unencumbered, and she had been gone now for seven months—except for an awkward, fleeting visit during the Christmas-New Year break—and wasn’t due to join us again until September.
* * * *
At school the romance between Jordan and Iris continued blooming. They both auditioned for the school play, a mystery farce called Double Dirty. Jordan won the lead, the bumbling detective Jimmy Suede. Iris was good, but I purposely didn’t give her the love interest of the lead. Instead, she played the sleuth’s long-suffering secretary, Modine.
I gave the part of the girlfriend-client Fulova Brite, a cross between Mae West and Lucy Ricardo, to Sherona. I didn’t want to be the flint to the sparking lovebirds. The villain, a snarling evil-doer named Foster Baudylair, was played by Landon Drover, who was Jordan’s cousin. Landon was a bit of a ham anyway, and a hammed-up evil doer was perfect for a farce. The audience could hate him and laugh at the same time.
Of course, when a scene required neither Jordan nor Iris to be on stage, they stood together in the wings, exchanging glances, sharing laughs and excitement when some stage business worked. They especially laughed at Landon’s over-the-top portrayal of the villain.
I was very busy: directing scenes, ordering supplies, constructing sets, gathering props, putting together costumes, making sure the stage crew knew when to do what and were paying attention. Knocks on doors had to happen at the appropriate moment before an actor said, “I wonder who’s there?” When the background lights dimmed and lightning flashed, the rumble of thunder had to succeed, not precede the lightning, but precede the shout, “Oh, no! A storm is near!” If a character said, “Listen. Someone is coming,” the audience should have already heard the purr of an engine and car doors opening and shutting.
Through it all I tried to keep an eye on the lovebirds, but I suppose I shouldn’t have worried so much. They were both brought up in good homes with loving parents and a well-versed moral code, which was reinforced by the rural community. If they touched each other or sneaked a kiss, I never caught them.
We rehearsed the class play during my “free” period at school, so I was dependent upon other teachers releasing my thespians from their classes – a very unreliable ensemble. Therefore, I had a schedule that provided for alternate scenes being practiced, depending on who showed for rehearsal.
The two I could depend on were Iris and Jordan because they were both “A” students and responsible, so they made up missed work and continued to perform well on tests. They could always talk their way out of American History, the class they shared during my “free” period.
Sherona was the problem: she had a natural-born stage presence, but she was not the best academic. Her math teacher was reluctant to release her. “She needs every minute I can squeeze out of her,” he told me. “I hate math,” she told me. “I can balance a checking account, read meters, assemble according to directions, but I don’t see the use of algebra.”
That was hard to argue against, but I tried. “Learning to think in various ways is part of being educated.”
“Then maybe teachers should learn my way of thinking.”
Sherona had been forever late to class, which had prompted me to see her acting possibilities. Even if she was standing nearby when the tardy bell started ringing, she waited until all other students had scurried inside, and then, only then, would she whirl in, pause, so everyone could see her—always stylishly appareled—and announce, “Let the class begin.”
After a month of such entrances, I held her after class and said, “Sherona, I want you to come out for the school play. I think you’re a natural.”
She laughed, rolled her dark eyes and said, “I thought I was in trouble.”
“Punctuality is a virtue, but I can see you want notice, and you’ll never get notice like you will get on stage.”
She laughed again, even though now there was a hint of self-consciousness in her eyes because I had plumbed her motivation. “Ok, Teach, I’ll come out for your play.”
So to help her along, I let her and Jordan rehearse their scenes in class once I had everyone else working at their desks.
She didn’t remember every line exactly, but once she had grasped the gist of a scene, she was magic: without a spotlight, the stage lit up around her. I worried that she might outshine Jordan, the lead. When they rehearsed in class, the other students stopped and smiled with wonder at her performance. (That was good publicity. Word got around that the play was entertaining.)
However, since Jordan did remember every line and was intelligent enough to improvise whenever Sherona was slightly off dialogue, their scenes went well, so well indeed that onlookers might think those two were the two who were seriously infatuated.
* * * *
Meanwhile at home I had my own serious infatuation with Davy, who continued to amaze me because he was such an upbeat child. I had read that playing music (Mozart was recommended) was good for a child’s cerebral development, so I often played records in our evenings together. Unfortunately, I didn’t have Mozart. Instead, I treated my son to the Beatles, Jimi Hendrix, Led Zeppelin, The Rolling Stones, Janice Joplin and The Doors. Sometimes, I’d play an air guitar to accompany the music. If I did so, Davy would mimic me, our elbows bent appropriately, our digits fingering the air—probably off key but in rhythm—our torsos bending at the waist, our heads bobbing back and forth. A peeping Tom would have seen on the window shades “Little” and “Big” lip-syncing in silhouette tunes rocking and rolling out into the night air: “Hey, Joe,” “Ball and Chain,” “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds,” “Time Is on My Side,” “Whole Lot of Love,” and “Love Me Two Times.”
After a while, Davy could air guitar without me.
I got him to bed between eight and nine every night. Sometimes he wouldn’t go to sleep, but would stand up in his crib and call, “Daddy?”
I’d walk back to the bedroom and look in to see him standing up.
He would smile, his eyes round and gleaming with glee, laugh and start bouncing up and down.
“Ok, go to sleep now.”
Then he might call out, “Daddy? Water?”
I’d take him a small glass and hold it so he could sip a little.
Finally, he’d go to sleep. Then I’d walk softly back and do the thing that parents most love to do: look at their sleeping child.
His crib was near the sliding glass doors and on a moonlit night, a moonbeam would slip through the part in the curtains and light up his face in the crib. I would stand there, looking down at his cherubic face and think, “If anyone dare harm this boy, I will be on them like a werewolf for revenge. If I can give my life to save his, I’ll do it without blinking. I’ll take the silver bullet and feel blessed.” My heart would become so full that tears would be forced up and spill down my cheeks.
* * * *
At school, I ran into a hitch I hadn’t expected: the principal, a white man who had become an educator in the days of segregation, didn’t want the play to go on. He told me to stop production. He did this in the men’s restroom to which he had followed me, so no one else could hear him. He was one year from retirement, and I was sure that some outside group was pressuring him. I knew the problem was racism: some of the whites in town didn’t want to see a production with black actors in starring roles. I was defiant. I told him I refused to stop the play, which was very far along; I told him to do his worst to me, but I wasn’t going to cancel the play and disappoint the students. He would have to make me stop, publicly, in front of the media. I also said I would write a letter to the county superintendent to see if he condoned this action. The principal backed down.
The play was only a month away from its premier, so we had to run through whole acts with all the crew and cast in the auditorium. To do this, we stayed after school an hour and ran through one of the three acts. (Myra agreed to keep Davy the extra hour.)
The first act with its exposition and complication went well. Fulova came in, hired Jimmy Suede, made passes at him, and he began sleuthing to uncover the thief and murderer—Foster Baudylair.
One real-life, first-act complication occurred: Iris became a little jealous because Jimmy Suede and Fulova Brite kissed at the end of the last scene. After the scene, I saw Iris and Jordan exchanging words sharply, her eyes like needles, his wide with bewilderment and denial. He said finally as she walked away to gather herself, “It’s part of the play.”
I knew that I would eventually have to talk to them, but I didn’t want to stop the momentum of the play. After two weeks, we had gone though each act twice and smoothed out performances, getting the timing down, changing emphasis if a scene wasn’t working.
Now was the time to rehearse the entire play. From experience, I knew that three full-length rehearsals should be enough. The first one to get everyone, actors and crew, aware of his or her responsibilities and timing and the length. The second one to let them feel the play and understand how it should be performed to have the effect we wanted. The third one, the dress rehearsal, with all the costumes and makeup applied, so they could enjoy getting lost in the characters and the drama and the comedy without the pressure of an audience, although I usually invited the principal and staff to watch with us. They were my canaries; if they laughed at the appropriate moments, I knew the play was working. The principal didn’t come, but the secretaries and custodial staff did, and they laughed when I hoped they would.
* * * *
During the full-length rehearsals, Myra kept Davy until I finally pulled in late at night, tenderly picked up his sleeping form, laid him carefully on the back seat, his bag on the floor to soften a fall if he rolled over, which he never did, for I drove slowly and cautiously. Once home I reversed the process, carrying him from the car to his crib. That happened only three nights.
However, that time did hold a moment of anguish. I hit Davy, for the first and only time.
I was washing dishes when I glanced into the living room and saw him trying to insert his fingers into an electric socket. I shouted “No! Don’t do that!” and began walking toward him. He decided to test me and stuck his finger in the plug again. I sped up and slapped his hand down while saying sternly, “No! Don’t do that!”
He pulled his hand back but didn’t cry, and looked at me for explanation for doing such a thing to him. “Listen,” I said. “Don’t ever put your fingers or anything else into those wall sockets. It’s very dangerous. It could hurt you.”
He remembered that tone of voice, so a couple weeks later when he tried to imitate my cooking on the stove and was reaching up for the handle of the pot of hot soup and I yelled again—“No! Don’t do that!”—he pulled his hand down and looked back at me and mouthed “No.” I went over and lifted him up in my arms and pulled his hand down, so he could feel the heat of the burner and the steaming soup. “Hot,” I said. “It could hurt you.” I brought his hand back, but then he held it out again to feel the heat and said, “Hot, ow!”
“Yes.”
“Don’t do that.”
I smiled and said, “That’s right. Don’t do that.” Then I kissed his cheek and sat him down.
At supper, he looked at his steaming soup, then at me and said, “Hot.”
I laughed and dipped a spoonful for him. “Here, I’ll make it cooler by blowing on it.” I blew until the steam stopped rising, then I put the spoon to his mouth. “Go ahead.”
He took a taste and said, “Not hot.”
Later, after I had looked at him one more time in his crib, I climbed into bed and thought that I was as happy as I had ever been. There’s a saying: Absence makes the heart grow fonder. However, what I realized was that the absence of the bickering and conflicts that his mother and I had had was a relief. I understood for the first time that there had to be something fundamentally wrong with our relationship and that the marriage wasn’t going to get better. Divorce seemed the only option, but the Zablotskies or anyone else didn’t need to know, not yet. I also knew the answer to Myra’s wondering query: unhappiness, but I wouldn’t say so to her.
* * * *
The night of the performances, I took Davy with me since I was no longer working and could sit and watch both him and the play and the audience reaction to it. We sat in the back row near the aisle, and he was the star of his own little show because every woman in the audience wanted to come up and comment on his curly yellow hair. Inevitably, they would ask about the mother. “She’s away at school,” was all I said. Each night I fed him, dressed him in pants, shirt and shoes, then myself in a suit and then we went to see the debut, then the second performance, then the finale.
He loved it and wanted to go on stage where the lights were brighter. At least once during the show I’d have to take him to the restroom; and, once, for water. I held him in his seat while he squirmed, looked around, fidgeted and finally fell asleep in my arms. Every night I carried him out to the car and placed him in the front seat with a blanket around him. He never lasted awake the entire play
Sherona and Jordan were stars and the rest of the cast supported them well, especially the ham Landon. The audience laughed at the right moments and applauded heartily at the curtain. Mrs. Perkins and her kin were proudly there, as was a section of Baileys across the aisle, but they never saw Jordan and Iris together, except on stage . . . as if a fairy had misted their eyes.
We had standing-room-only crowds every night. After the final night, I counted the receipts and found over $3000, enough to finance next year’s play (four times the stipend I got for producing and directing it). Then I took Davy home.
The play had been a success in many ways—educationally, culturally, socially, and financially—and after it ended, only two weeks of school remained.
The next Friday I held both Iris and Jordan after class. They came to my desk, but I waved to the student desks. “Have a seat. This will take a few minutes.”
I could tell they had no idea what I was about to say.
“You know what this town is like . . . the races don’t get along that well.”
They nodded.
“I wish I didn’t have to say this to you, but, for your own sakes, I do. In twenty or thirty years, your kind of relationship will probably not be such a big deal, but now it is. I understand the attraction. You are both good-looking, intelligent people. It’s natural that you would be attracted to each other, but it’ll never work . . . at this time . . . in this town.”
They had smiled slightly when I said they were smart and attractive, but frowned when I said it wouldn’t work.
“Iris, you should know that you are putting Jordan in danger . . . at least of physical assault . . . if not worse. Your family would never approve.
“You also have to think of children. Both of your families would have trouble accepting any children that you had.
“Personally I don’t care. I love both of you, but do you understand what I’m saying?”
They nodded with sad comprehension. I hadn’t said anything that they didn’t already know, but hearing it from an adult that they respected, reinforced the unsuitability of the situation.
“I haven’t mentioned this to anyone else, so it’s just between us. If you really care about each other, you’ll give each other up because you don’t want to ruin the promise that both of you have. You are both bound for success, so control your emotions and make the wise choice for now. When you are adults and if you still want to be together, you’ll know what the risks are and whether a life together is worth the risks.”
School ended, and their relationship ended, as did my marriage, but I’ll remember that bifurcated, loving spring forever.
END
This is another almalgamated story in which two stories are threaded together although the actual times of the two stories may not have coincided because the narrator is remembering them years after they occurred. In 1971 I was teaching in a small town in Florida. The town's schools had been integrated for about four years, but prejudice still remained; for instance, one bigoted father told his son that the son couldn't live at the father's house if he was going to play football on a team with blacks. However, the son, who was a promising linebacker, loved football, so he moved in with his uncle during football season. A bigoted teacher at the middle school told me that he put all the Mexican students in the back and ignored them; "They aren't Americans, so why should I teach them?" was his rhertorical question. This is a question that other Americans are asking again because of the current immigration crisis.
What is the most renowned story of interracial love? I give you two, both written by William Shakespeare: Othello and Anthony and Cleopatra.
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