Mary Jane Jessica Blau (namjoon book recommendations TXT) 📖

wondered if I was a bad person for havingdeceived my parents, or if I was a bad person for allowing myself to criticize my parents for being racist (and square!).But I couldn’t not feel critical. I was unable to unsee what I’d seen of them this summer.

On Sunday morning, my mother came in without knocking and woke me for church. I had fallen asleep when the sun was already up, so likely had only slept an hour.

“I expect you to wear pantyhose with your dress today.” My mother was as upright and stiff as a broom. This was her way oftelling me she was still angry and I was still being punished.

“Okay.”

“And I want you to stand in the front row of the summer choir. You need to let the congregation know you haven’t changed.”

“Okay.” I had changed. But what would anyone see? That I knew my parents were racist? That I now understood that cleanlinessand order were nice, but giving love, feeling love, and showing love trumped housework? That I had seen that adults weren’talways right and could be just as confused and make just as many mistakes as kids? That I knew that when people messed up,they still deserved our love and affection? That I had been listening to amazing music made by many different kinds of people?That I was certain that sex wasn’t just something to be ashamed of or to hide, and that some people navigated it in ways I’dnever before imagined (open marriage!) and that didn’t make them perverts? That I’d experienced how good it felt to wear abikini and feel air and water on my skin? Or that it was okay when I thought of a penis while looking at a cucumber (or azucchini) and knew I wasn’t a sex addict?

“If anyone asks you about the picture in the paper, I want you to say that you were working as the summer nanny for Izzy Coneand just happened to be pulled into the picture.”

“Okay.”

“If they ask why you were in that neighborhood, I want you to tell them that Dr. Cone had requested a certain record that was only sold there.”

“Okay.” I couldn’t imagine anyone other than my mother asking why I was in that neighborhood, though maybe someone would askwhy I was in the photo. The caption below the photo had said that Jimmy and Sheba were “passing through” town, and that theyloved Baltimore and loved Night Train Records: The Greatest Record Store in America. No one else in the photo, besides Gabriel,was named, though the caption did list a couple of the records Jimmy and Sheba had bought.

“Do you have a pair of pantyhose with no runs?”

“I’ve got a new pair of suntan-colored L’eggs.” They were sitting in the white plastic egg they were sold in.

“Good. Store them neatly back in the egg when you’re done with them.”

“Okay.” In sixth grade I went to a slumber party where the birthday girl took all her mother’s L’eggs pantyhose eggs and handedthem out so the empty open halves could be used as fake breasts under our nightgowns. One side of the egg was slightly pointyand one was round, so we swapped until we each had a matching pair.

“And maybe a hat.”

“Mom. It’s 1975. No one wears a hat but the eighty-year-old ladies.”

My mother was unmoved. “We need to restore your reputation.”

“You’ve never worn a hat to church. The only hat I own is that pink one Grandma Dillard gave me and I’ve only ever worn itin Idaho.”

My mother looked at the ceiling as if she were working this through. “Fine. Pantyhose. And no runs!” She shut the door behind her when she left.

 

The kids at Sunday school acted like they hadn’t seen me for months, though I’d only missed a single week when we’d been atthe beach. They were all cute and funny, but I was missing Izzy terribly and would have rather not seen any kid if I couldn’tsee her.

Mr. Forge, the choir director, was also excited to see me. “Mary Jane! You were fraternizing with Jimmy and Sheba!”

“Yeah.” I tried to remember what my mother wanted me to say.

“Did you just happen to be in the record store?” Mrs. Clockshire asked. Mrs. Clockshire was round in every way. Even her openpalm looked like a perfect circle.

“Yeah. With Izzy. The kid I’ve been taking care of all summer.” My face burned and my heart hurt. I longed to be back at theCone house.

The rest of the choir gathered around me. I felt like a fox cornered by dogs, but no one said anything about the clothes Iwas wearing in the photo. Or the neighborhood Night Train Records was in. Or even that Jimmy was leaning into my ear. Theywere simply excited that I’d met Sheba and Jimmy.

When it was time for the service to start, I went straight to the front row of the choir seats, just as my mother had instructed.I looked out into the pews and saw my parents. My father was staring off into space. My mother was watching me as if I werea recent parolee with a flight risk. I offered a small half smile. She did not smile back.

When the choir stood for the first song, I started out singing quietly, but eventually let myself go with it. Mr. Forge liked throwing a modern song in every week and this Sunday he had chosen “Imagine” by John Lennon. He changed the words, though, so we sang, there’s more heaven instead of no heaven. He also changed no religion to no warring.

When the song was over, I looked out at the congregation. Most people had a look on their faces that let me know they lovedthis song and how we’d sung it. My father was still staring off into space. My mother had no expression. Maybe she was sotraumatized by my photo in the paper that getting through church this day was painful for her.

I glanced past my mother and almost screamed. In the back row were Jimmy, Sheba,