Marvels: Maggie, part 4

By DarkMark

It would be a lie to say everything was easy between us and Maggie from that point onward. All of us tried, I think, including her. But she was a human being, as were we all, and human beings are never angels.

Her table manners were, at the start and often afterwards, atrocious. She had been accustomed to snatching food wherever she could find it, eating it as fast as she could, often on the run, and dealing with the digestive problems afterward. When my wife put a large bowl of creamed corn on the table, Maggie's instincts kicked in and she dragged the whole thing over to her plate and dug in like a madwoman. About as much corn was on her face as was in her body. The girls were aghast. Dorrie hollered, "Maggie, no!" and I got up from my chair.

Maggie froze like a scared rabbit. A little corn dribbled down her spoon and splatted on her dress. Dorrie saw it, transferred a percentage of her shock and anger to fear, and lay a reassuring hand on Maggie's shoulder while I went behind her and replaced the corn bowl in the center of the table. The kids told me I looked like a new-painted fireplug at that moment. I could believe it. I was resisting my automatic Daddy Impulse to grab the offender and put her over my knee.

But I knew she had to regain the training we'd given her during our earlier stay, and Doris did too.

"Maggie, that's bad manners," she was saying. "I know you're hungry, but you have to wait till you're served. And only take the food that's offered you. Okay?"

"O-okay, Mrs. Sheldon," said Maggie, the spoon in her hand at half-mast. "You aren't gonna, uh..."

"We're not going to kick you out, Maggie," I said, taking her napkin and wiping off her dress. "But you are gonna learn how to eat like a little girl, not like Mowgli."

"What's a Mowgli?", she asked.

Beth said, "He's a little boy that grew up in the jungle. I read about him in The Jungle Book and it's good."

"Sure enough," I said. "Now. Maggie. You do remember we had this problem when you first came here, right?"

"Right," she said, looking at her lap.

"And you do remember we had to train you out of it?"

"Right," she repeated.

"Are we gonna have to do it again?"

"No, Mr. Sheldon."

"Well, try to watch yourself," I said. "If you live with us, you have to live by our rules. And one of our rules is: good manners. You understand?"

"I understand, Mr. Sheldon."

Doris said, "I'll see about some more corn, Phil."

"The corn is fine, Doris. We can all have some. Now. Think you're ready for some gefilte fish, Maggie? Like your mom never used to make?"

"Yes, Mr. Sheldon."

"What do you say?"

"Please?"

"Say it to Doris. She's the one in charge here."

"Please, Mrs. Sheldon, may I have some fish?"

"Certainly, Maggie," said Doris, and ladled out some on her plate. Maggie sat there, hands in her lap, till Doris said, "You can eat it, dear."

She devoured it inside of thirty seconds. "May I have some more, ma'am?" she said, and burped.

Beth and Jenny were giggling. Doris looked at me. I said, "You may, if you eat slower. But wait till the rest of us are served. And Maggie?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Don't be in such a hurry. You've got all the rest of your life in front of you. A lot more than I've got of mine."

I think she may have nodded, slightly, but I don't recall her saying anything. In that, she was smarter than me.

Of course, compared to some other things, the early mealtimes were a paradise. There were the times in which, for example, we went to movies. How the hell could we even take her to a drive-in? So one of the girls would have to babysit with her and miss the show. Or Doris would heroically volunteer to stay behind. I could tell from the look in those large globular eyes that Maggie knew she was missing something, an experience of communal fun that the rest of us could have at will, but from which she was shut out. It hurt her and it hurt me a bit, too. But I was determined the family was going to go on as normally as possible.

Finally she just said she didn't need anybody to sit with her and that we could all go. So, reluctantly, we did. It was a spy picture and Beth and Jenny both came back breathless, recounting the heroic deeds of the good-guy agent, the wacko secret weaponry, and the fiendish bad-guys who made HYDRA look like the Welcome Wagon. She liked hearing about it, but you could tell that she was wistful about never getting to see it, or any other movie. True, she had the TV, and watched it assiduously. But it wasn't quite the same.

Worse yet was when the girls started talking about the women in the movie. The regulation for most spy movies was that no female between the ages of 16 and 40 could be seen without exposing their navel, and a bikini was as much a prerequisite for them in these films as a suit and tie were to get into a good restaurant. Hey, I'm not complaining, even though Dorrie noodged me when I became a little too observant of Ursula Andress.

"Dahliah Lavi, she's Jewish, too, and she looked great," enthused Beth. "I wanna look like that when I grow up. Or get to high school. Whatever."

"Gotta get out of your training bra first, sis," said Jenny, and Beth grabbed her neck and started shaking her vigorously in mock-strangle. Then they split up and faced each other, arms wide.

"We're gonna do it just like James Bond's gypsies!" hollered Beth, and made for Jenny.

"Yeah!" agreed Jenny, and correspondingly made for her. I stepped in just in time to grab both in a hand apiece and play gypsy chieftain.

"Break it up, both of you, and don't play rough in your good clothes," I said. "Get in your jammes and get to bed, both of you. Or I'll smack your little tuchises. Go."

"Okay, Daddy," said Jenny.

"All right, Daddy," said Beth. "Good night, Maggie."

"Good night," said Maggie, sitting in front of the TV and watching the start of the 10:00 news. Then she said, "Jenny. What's a bikini?"

Jenny paused, then grinned and said, "You mean, 'What isn't a bikini!'"

Beth co-giggled and said, "Yeah, what isn't? Like everything!"

"Girls," I said. "Maggie, a bikini is a bathing suit. Very small, in two pieces. Girls who wear it have to be awfully built, or awfully daring. Or both."

Maggie said, "Gee. Do you think I could wear one, when I get older?"

Silence.

Doris, who had come on the scene late, said, in a grand attempt at a save, "Don't worry about that, dear. The only girls who look good in a bikini are in the movies."

"Oh."

More silence.

"Put the girls to bed, Dorrie," I said. "I'll be up in a moment."

"Okay," she said. Beth and Jenny looked back as their mother shooed them upstairs.

I stood and massaged my forehead, not looking at her or the TV as the announcer's shpiel went on. "Got anything you want to talk about, Maggie?"

"No," she said. "That's okay."

"Sorry if the girls made you feel bad," I said.

"I feel all right," she told me.

"Okay," I said. "All right. If you're sure of that, I'm going to bed. I--" I turned on my heel and looked at her. "Listen, Maggie, if it makes you feel better, I'm not the kind of guy who could parade around in a pair of trunks on Muscle Beach, either. Like Doris said, that's all for the movies."

"I understand," she said.

I sat down beside her. "I don't...Maggie, I don't have all the answers. I can't cheer you up all the time. I can't even cheer me up all the time. Understand?"

"Mr. Sheldon, I'm not worried. I know what I look like, and I don't even look as good as Herman Munster on TV."

"That's not true. Herman is uglier than both of us put together. But he's nice."

"And I know I'm not going to go out and have boyfriends like Jenny and Beth will. But that's all right."

I reached out and squeezed her little hand. "You've got us, you've got a roof over your head, and you've got three square meals a day plus what you sneak out of the icebox when we're not looking. That's not everything, Maggie, but that's something."

"Yeah," she said. "But I wish for one day I could look good in a bikini like a movie girl. I wish I could even look as good as a Barbie. Or as Beth, or Jenny."

"You look just fine, dear."

"No, I don't. No, I don't," she whispered.

"Well, what do you expect me to do?" I stood up, before I even intended to. "It's what God gave you, Maggie. Just like he gave me what I've got. I can't do anything about it. I'm doing the best that I can. Can't you? Well, can't you?"

She looked up at me and I felt like apologizing. But I didn't. God help me, sometimes you just get sick of walking on eggshells. But you still feel like a crud when they break.

"I can, Mr. Sheldon," she said. "And thank you for everything you've done for me. I really, really appreciate it."

"Uh, thanks," I said. "You're very welcome. We still love you very much."

"But why did God give me this? Is He that...that..."

"No," I said. "No. You can't go around blaming God for things like this. Like I can't go around blaming him for, I don't know, Hitler and all. I'm very tired, Maggie, and I gotta get up in the morning. Good night."

"Good night, Mr. Sheldon," she said. "Can I ask you something else?"

I looked at her. "I guess."

"Why do you only have half a Bible?"

I wonder if I did a double-take, figuring that one out. "Oh. You mean, why is ours just one Testament, instead of two?"

She nodded. "You don't have the stories about Jesus in yours."

"Well," I said, "there's a really good reason for that, Maggie. You see, Christians believe in Jesus. But we believe in God."

"Christians believe in God, too," she said. "They've got his name all over the place in their Bible. Don't you love Jesus, too, Mr. Sheldon?"

I exhaled. Phil Sheldon, Boy Rabbi. "Listen, Maggie. If you'll stop asking questions like these, I'll get you a Bible with both halves. Just don't talk about it to Beth and Jenny, okay?"

"Okay. Why not?"

"Because I said so!"

I waited till I was upstairs before I looked towards the ceiling and said, "Forgive me."

I also prayed for the strength to resist embarrassment when I went to the bookstore and asked for a Christian Bible.

I hope the first part of my prayer worked a lot better than the last.

-M-

So. Was Maggie always a little darling, the kind of kid with an ugly face but a heart as big as the little girl in Sorrowful Jones with Bob Hope? She was not.

As time went on, she sometimes became a whiny little pain in the ass. Sorry, but it is true. At first she was willing to share Beth's and Jenny's toys, their Barbie dolls and Mystery Date game and the cowgirl clothes that fit her--usually just the hat and the vest, and I had to stride into my darkroom and bust down laughing when I saw her in that; you would have too, believe me--and all the rest of their stuff.

But all people are possessive, and Maggie was a person.

"Why can't I have a Robot Commando?" she'd whine at the breakfast table.

"Because a Robot Commando costs over twenty simoleons and I am not shellin' out that kind of cash for a kid's toy. Period," I said, finding the sports page as advantageous to hide behind as my old man had.

"But I bet all the kids have one," she pleaded. "Please?"

"I know three kids that don't," said Doris, "and they all live in this house. And I know one kid who's gonna finish breakfast in the basement and skip lunch if she doesn't straighten up."

"Oh," said Maggie, and sniffled some.

"Maggie," warned Jenny, her hand clenching and unclenching on her milk glass.

Beth remained silent, which was the best thing she could do.

"Young lady," I said, pulling down the paper enough to where I could look at her, "you are part of this family, and being part of this family means accepting the authority of the man in charge. Which, come to think of it, happens to be me. You have toys, do you not?"

"Well, yes, but--"

"And you are allowed to share the toys of Beth and Jenny, are you not?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Sheldon. But--"

"'But' is an annoying word and I wish to hear no more of it at this table. Or I promise I will cause you to remember another butt, the kind which is spelled with two t's. Do I make myself clear, young lady?"

She was still sniveling.

"Do I make myself clear?"

Beth and Jenny knew what I was doing. I'd been firm with them in similar situations, and you damned well have to. If Maggie was going to be part of the family, she had to learn the rules. Doris stayed out.

"Yes, sir," she finally said.

"Good," I said. "Now let's have no talk about Robot Commandos, unless it's some newfangled gimmick Moshe Dayan is using against the Arabs."

"That'll be the day," said Jenny, smiling.

Paper came down, glare went out, Jenny shut up, paper went back up again.

Then came the time in which Beth and Jenny came to me, which I knew would happen sooner or later, and asked me why they weren't getting as much attention as Maggie. Actually, what happened was they both came up to me and Jenny said, "Daddy, why don't you love us as much as Maggie?"

I stopped in the middle of my typing a letter to Jameson and said, "That's ridiculous, Jen. Both of you are my daughters and I love you like no other. You ought to know that. What's the problem? Really?"

Beth spoke this time. "Because you and Mom hardly spend as much time with us as you do with her."

I ran my hand through what was left of my hair to give me time to think. "You know why we're spending time with her, darlings. Think. Has Maggie received the schooling you have?"

"No, but--" said Jenny.

"And therefore, Mom has had to put aside a certain section of the day in which she teaches Maggie things, right?"

"We know that, Daddy," said Beth. "It's just...it isn't like it used to be anymore."

I paused, sighed, and showed them my open hands. "How could it be, honeys? Really? Are you really feeling neglected? If so, I apologize, believe me. Or is it jealousy? If so, I think I can understand."

"It's a little of both, Dad," said Jenny.

"But how can you understand?", said Beth.

"Because Daddy, as you well know, came from a home which had five kids in it, and two were born after him. You think I didn't get jealous of the little intruders? The ones who got fussed over by the folks who just got done making him? Or her? You bet I was jealous. And I won't say I got over it, quite. But I learned to live with it. And it was great, when the last one came along and the one before him had to live with it, too."

"We don't want her out, Daddy," said Beth. "We just want to know you love us more."

"More than what? More than her? Is that what you're wanting me to say?"

No answer.

I looked around to see that Little Orphan Annie wasn't lurking about, though she could be awfully hard to find when she wanted.

"First off, please note this: that there is a love between father and daughter that nothing comes between. Absolutely--nothing. We made you, you are our flesh and blood, despite the mess you leave in the bathroom, Bethie, which you are going to clean up, please, and despite you leaving your underwear on the floor of your room, Jenny, which you are going to pick up directly, we love you both unconditionally. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, Dad," said Jenny.

"I understand, Daddy," said Beth. I hoped they did, as I was in no way competition for Robert Young on Father Knows Best.

"You also must understand that daddies and mommies can't go around saying, 'I love you, I love you, I love you' all the time. Not even to each other. In family, this is usualy a given. Even when we bust your tuchis for something. Understand?"

Beth nodded, and Jenny followed suit.

"The message is that love is always there, as part of the landscape. Sometimes, like the landscape or the wallpaper, we ignore it. If it does its job well, perhaps we're entitled to. But take it away...and you will know about it immediately. Because something will be perceptibly not there. If I suddenly tomorrow had the wallpaper torn away before you got back from school, you would notice this, right?"

"Right, Dad," said Jenny, playing her part.

"But normally you would pay no attention to the wallpaper, other than your usual, 'This is yucky, Dad, why don't we get some cool wallpaper?'" Giggles. Good sign. "So if I withdrew love, I believe you would notice it immediately. I am right, no?"

"You're right, I think, Daddy," said Beth, tentatively.

"I'm right, you know, Beth. So I do not think you are perceiving a lack of love. Most likely, you are perceiving a lack of attention. Think this is the case?"

"Well, it could be, Dad," Jenny offered. "Maybe, like."

"You used to read stuff to us and play Monopoly with us and talk about getting to see World War II and the heroes and everything," said Beth. "And all that other stuff."

I mused. It was true, I hadn't been haunting Park Place or Boardwalk very often lately. "So you want more Monopoly? It can be arranged, sport."

"It'd be nice, Daddy."

"And you want more war stories? I can tell you about the time I charged up San Juan Hill with Teddy Roosevelt and his Rough Riders. I was pushing a scooter at the time." More giggles. "But I have a feeling that what we have here is just a modified little-brother syndrome. Little Brother is here. He gets the attention. Why don't I? Wah!

"And I guess the real answer is that little brother needs the attention to help integrate him into the family. Even somebody like Maggie, who is, what, ten years old now?"

"Since July 15th," said Jenny. "I asked her."

"Good. Well, understand this. Though Maggie is a nice little girl, a really nice one, what did she have for a family? A dad who lost his job, a mother who was not, let's say, affectionate, and a school system that kicked her out because she looked the way she did. But I've been in the War, little girls, and I've seen people who had lot worse face jobs than Maggie. Bullets and shrapnel or even flying wood fragments'll do that to you. Believe me. And they had to go back to the real world and try to find a way of fitting into it, too."

"Could Maggie have plastic surgery, Dad?", asked Beth.

"There's only so much plastic surgery can do, honey. Maggie's eyes, and face structure...well, they could be modified. But there's no way she's ever going to look like you, or you. So she just has to live with it. Just like Benny Bates, a PFC I knew. He got the end of his nose knocked off by a bullet. Don't ask me how such a shot can be fired, but I've seen it. Now he wears a kind of bandanna thing around his schnozz, and they call him the Bandit, especially when he wears a hat. But a kinder guy I never knew.

"But now, I want you to do something for me."

"What would that be, Daddy?" said Jenny.

"I want you both to tell me what you think of Maggie. Honestly."

"Honestly?"

"Yeah."

"Well, she still eats too much," said Beth.

"Mm-hmm."

"She whines too much, too. She's got kind of a whiny voice," Jenny opined.

"In this, I assure you, she is not alone in this household. What else?"

"We wish she could get out with us, Daddy. If we went someplace that nobody saw us--"

"No, no, and no. Period. You know why. What else?"

Beth said, "We wish she could go to school with us. And meet all of our friends. She's like a--a prisoner here."

I was silent for a long time. Beth was absolutely, completely, one hundred percent right.

I finally said, "It's how it has to be, kids. Someday, maybe, things will change. But for right now--it's how it has to be." Pause. "What else?"

"I wish she was my sister," said Jenny. She pointed at Beth. "'Cause she's bound to be better than this one!" She was laughing before she got to the end of the sentence.

"Oh, yeah?" said Beth, grabbing her shoulders. "I think she is my sister! And you're the mutie! Mutie, mutie, MUTIE!" They were both shaking each other in mock-fun, but I cut it down, much as I hated.

"Beth. You don't ever say that word here, okay?"

"Which one, Daddy?"

"The one that starts with 'M'. I love seeing you both having fun, but the M-word is like the N-word, or the K-word, or even, God help us, 'Christer.' So there are some words we do not say in this house. Right?"

"Absolutely right," said Beth.

Jenny smiled smugly.

"She's not an M-word, she's just a dope!" Beth finished.

Both started trying to brawl like Marlene Dietrich and what's-her-name in DESTRY, and instead of pulling them apart, I called out, "And you come in here, little miss busybody."

Obediently, Maggie poked her head around the doorframe. "How'd you know where I was, Mr. Sheldon?"

"My super-secret daddy sense," I said. "You want to listen in on a conversation, you do it inside the room. Okay?"

"Okay," she said. She was smiling. Beth and Jenny, rolling around on the rug, waved hi to her and went back to trying to mash each other's face into the deep piling. I contemplated them, then turned to Maggie.

"Well, Maggie, looks like we'll be the only ones wanting to play Monopoly around here. You know where the board is?"

Both Jenny and Beth stopped and raised a hand apiece. "I do," they chorused.

"You think we should let those desperate she-cats sit down and play with us at the same table?" I asked.

"Well, I don't know," said Maggie. "If you say so, I guess. I wouldn't doubt you."

It was as close as she'd gotten to a joke in a long time. I smiled, picked her up by the armpits, and smooched her on the forehead. "We're a bad influence on you," I said. "Before long, you'll be making your living as a comedy writer on TV."

She hugged me. I put her down, disengaged her, and turned her around to face the door. "The Monopoly board. Go." I gave her a pat between the shoulders, and she ran off to find it in the hall closet. Beth and Jenny were right behind her.

I sighed again, and looked at myself in the reflection of a glass that covered an award-winning pic I'd taken of Captain America and Bucky with some Italian prisoners in 1943.

"Hello, warden," I told myself, very softly.

My reflection did not smile back.

To be continued...