“Well, of course, that’d make everything better, wouldn’t it?” I interrupt, gripping the phone. “Who needs a bookstore or a cultural center?”
“Riiiight!” exclaims Chrissy, in the Texas-Alabama drawl she’s developed in the 20 years since graduation. “And then, get this, Mary Hirschman--you know, she married Eric Schremms?--well, she says, ‘Yeah, we thought of moving too, but it’s just such a good place to raise children.’” Hysterical laughter fills the Alabama-California phone line connecting us, as we enjoy a moment of common criticism regarding our hometown.
“Really, Sue. You shoulda come to the reunion. You would’ve been pissing. Plus, I missed you. We’d’ve had so much fun talking bout everyone.”
“I know, I know. Maybe in another five,” I say. As I settle in on the sofa for more gossip, my gaze lands on the gilt-edged ashtray resting on the end table nearby—a gift from my grandparents during my last trip home four years ago. Overlapping the city (Incorporated 1857) seal, a red, white, and blue chevron proclaims, “NAGISAW All America City.”
. . . . .
aauuuuuuunk! aauuuuuuunk! aauuuuuuunk! The alarm pulses steadily on and off, so we know it’s a tornado instead of a fire. Clutching my pencil, I feel my blood start to pound, even though Miss Kemp told us this morning that it’s just practice. “Put your pencils and books in your desks and push in your chairs,” hollers Miss Kemp calmly. When everyone is ready except for Susan Pasternak (of course), I look frantically out the window, making sure that a tornado hasn’t come just by chance. What if it’s not really practice? I wonder while searching the sky, and Kristen Wieneke must be thinking the same thing, because she starts to cry.
“It’s okay, Kristen. It’s just a practice drill,” Miss Kemp reminds us, shouting over the alarm. “Now let’s line up in the designated space.” Dutifully, we move out the door and take our places; mine is by locker 45, even though when it’s not a tornado day my locker is actually number 62. I make sure that Matt Lumbreras is right in front of me and Renee Micelli is right behind me, because we have to keep track of our buddies. Miss Kemp says something I can’t hear because the alarm is shrieking in my head, but then she waves and everyone starts moving, so I know we’re leaving.
Once we get outside into the sudden silence, I can see the second graders and Mrs. Chambers in front of us, and without looking back I know that Mr. Fila’s fourth grade is behind us. It’s not very far from the school to the church, but when we pass by the rectory, I imagine that the wind is getting stronger, and I wonder how the eighth grade will ever get inside in time.
“Quickly, but calmly,” Sr. Corinne says, as she moves back and forth between the grades, “Quickly, but calmly.” And I am calm, seeing the gaping church doors grow closer with each step. We step into the lobby’s sudden gloom, and Mrs. Murphy reminds us that the lights are out because if it was a real tornado they might be out too. “Leaders, come and get your flashlights,” she calls, and I scurry to where she’s standing. I take the offered flashlight, shake it, flip the switch, and return to the line, where Matt Micelli is holding up his hand so I can find my space.
The eighth graders have finally made it into the crowded lobby, and just in time, because the first graders begin to cry, and the big kids need to take their place helping the little kids down the stairs so they’re not so scared. The seventh grade helps the second grade too, but this year my class doesn’t need helpers because we know how to do it and we’re not afraid of the basement anymore.
The stairs are steep and they’re dark, so I make sure to shine my light on the ground, so it lights up enough stairs and no one falls. When we all get to our spots where our grade numbers are painted on the floor, Sr. Corrine stands in the middle of the room and tells us that everyone made it down safely. “Very well done, boys and girls,” she says. “It only took us 12 minutes to find shelter.” After we all applaud, she continues, “Now I’m going to turn on the radio, just like we would if this were a real tornado, so we could hear what to do and when it is safe to go back outside. Of course,” she reminds us, “this was just a practice today, so we won’t have to wait for the all clear signal.”
As we stand in the glow of flashlights, listening to the tinny AM station broadcasting country music, I realize that it’s a good thing it was only a practice. I forgot to put my reading book in my desk, and it could have gotten blown away if there was a real tornado.
. . . . .
On the eighth grade field trip to Greenfield Village I realize that Henry Ford and the Ford cars in the pictures and assembly lines displayed in the Dearborn, Michigan, museum are the same Fords as the Ford Motor Company that Alan Tunney, Sandra Kiss, and Joel Tobias’s dads work at. I’m amazed at this glamorous connection, which I didn’t figure out during my third and fifth grade visits, and it makes me feel proud to live in Nagisaw. For the next week, I quiz the adults I know mercilessly, dedicated to discovering my own connection to fame and glory.
“No, I don’t know anyone who drove a Model T; I’m not that old,” my mom disappoints me by saying. “And Grandma Michalski has never driven a car in her life,” she adds, anticipating my next question.
Grandma McIntosh informs me that the only one in our family that has ever worked in an auto factory is my dad, but I already knew he worked there and it’s not the Ford one anyway. My Great Uncle John worked at the sugar beet plant—the one that belches black clouds that smell like burning cookies—, her dad owned a freight company, my other great uncle was a farmer, and my grandpa works at a cemetery. I already know that grandma works at an office, because I get the computer punch cards to use as flashcards for science and English words. Not as exciting as Ford Motor Company, I decide.
My Uncle Paul’s answers bring me no closer to kinship with Henry--or even his son, Edsel, the one he named a bad car after. No one in our family ever appears to have worked for Ford, and I can’t help but wonder if that’s why we don’t have a swimming pool, like Sandy does, or a camper trailer, like Alan’s family uses in the summer. Instead, I learn that Grandpa Michalski made steel at Gray Iron Foundry when he was young (not even whole cars, I am devastated to hear) and then, up until he got cancer and died when I was four, he worked for Chrysler. Uncle Caz worked for Chevy after he was a cop and before he retired. “Is that Chevy, like our Nova?” I ask, wondering if Uncle Caz made our car himself.
“Yeah, sure,” Uncle Paul says and I think I may be on to something here. “No one works at any of those places any more, though,” he adds. “They closed the plants down. Not enough work.”
“How come?”
“Well, they’re not making as many cars as they used to.”
“But everyone we know has a car,” I exclaim. “Linda Sheridan’s family even has two and you have three if you count Justifiable Homicide. And at Deerfield Village they said that hardly anyone used to have a car before Henry Ford. Don’t they need to make even more cars now?”
“Well, sure. But more people make cars now than did back then.”
“You even got the Japs coming here with those tiny cars,” Grandma interjects from the sewing machine.
“Not big, like Uncle Paul’s Cadillac,” I state proudly, because I know that Uncle Paul’s good car is important, coming out of the garage on Sundays or for bowling league nights. I remember entering the dazzling green vehicle and sitting carefully on the soft, cream-colored leather seats on the way to my sister Sarah’s First Communion last year, and I get a bit hopeful. “So is that who you work for? Cadillac?”
Unfortunately, it’s not Cadillac or Ford that Uncle Paul works for, but Nagisaw Steering Gear—the one auto parts manufacturer left in our town, he explains. I guess that I’ll have to work there, I decide. Otherwise I’ll have to leave town to work for Henry and the Fords. Or the Japs.
. . . . .
“Is Delbert McManaman your father, son?” the tall cop asks, training the flashlight on Mike’s recently earned license. Finally, I think, a question with an easy answer--not like Where’d you get the beer? How much have you had to drink? or Where are you going? (As if there is anywhere for teenagers to go in this town, I can’t help but think.) “Yes, sir,” Mike replies in his best Catholic school voice, hardly slurring at all.
The cop tells us, “Stay here,” and walks back to the patrol car where the short cop is talking on the radio. Warily, the five of us stand behind the station wagon and shift from foot to foot, sweltering in the late May heat, even though it’s 8:00 at night. Mike chews on his bottom lip. Denise and John settle on the curb. I’m not worried about any of them: Mike seems to be holding it together despite the lip thing, Denise has had practice with cops, and John has drunk only two beers since we picked him up half an hour earlier. I’m mostly worried about Chrissy, as she’s already thrown up twice since we went to Immerman Park after school. I move closer to her, nervously glancing at the cops, who are talking quietly. “You all right?” I whisper. “Not so great,” she moans, and I discreetly rub her back.
Denise and John spring up from the curb, signaling the return of the cops. I desperately concentrate on looking innocent. Denise helps the equation, I figure; she still has her St. Pete’s uniform skirt on, since we hadn’t managed to make it to her house between school, the park, and Melissa Spencer’s upcoming party. I suddenly wish I had worn my pink shirt instead of this black one, and my denim skirt feels too short. And why did Chrissy have to wear Jordache’s with that cut off shirt? Besides, what if these cops know the joke Officer Bob made when he came to the pep rally last week to talk about alcohol: “When you find four Catholics, you’ll find a fifth.” The uniform skirt might not be such an advantage after all, I think.
The tall cop turns to Mike. “Okay, son. Take the beer over to that storm drain there,” he says, pointing toward the corner. Mike stoops and picks up the case, reduced by only three cans since we snatched it from John’s father’s basement bar, hopefully unnoticed due to our practice of rotating our pilfering between the many well-stocked “adult” provisions available in our middle class, Midwest homes. Setting the Schlitz (beggars can’t be choosers) on the ground, Mike turns obediently to the cops. “Dump it out,” Short Cop says, gesturing to all of us. We glance at Tall Cop cautiously, hesitating over the case. “Go on,” he urges. “We ain’t got all night.” Denise, John, Mike, and I obediently reach into the case, grab a sweat-slicked can and crack it open. I try and make it look awkward, like I’m not used to doing it. Chrissy wobbles slightly behind us. John and I block her from view, taking up as much space at the drain as possible, making it look like a four-person-only job. Four more “psst” and pours each, and the silence booms. The entire time all I can think about is whether anyone driving by on Gratiot knows us and how pissed my mom is going to be, considering the fact that I just got ungrounded Sunday.
An endless moment later, and the empty cans are sitting in a heap by the side of the drain. “Pick em up and throw em over there,” Hostile Cop says, wiping his brow and pointing to the dumpster on the side of the building. “I’ve got it,” I say hurriedly, and Denise takes over my job blocking Chrissy. I drop only one can, quickly pick it up, and return to the drain to receive our judgment.
“You kids are clearly up to no good,” begins Short Bad Cop. “I personally think we should take ya in, let yer parents sort it out.” When he pauses, I recognize that, despite everything, my mom hasn’t had to come to the police station for me yet.
“However...,” says Good Cop, and I can breath again. “We’re gonna let you off this time. It’s early and you seem like good kids.” None of us respond, not wanting to jeopardize the decision. During the rest of the lecture, over the faint droning of oft-heard “responsibility” “opportunity” and “future,” I yearn to be in the car. Sensing the end of the lesson, I turn my eyes dutifully to the cops, nod, say “Yes, sir.”
“Wait, son,” Good Cop says to Mike as his partner returns to the cop car. Seeing an escape opportunity, the rest of us race slowly to the station wagon, swarming around Chrissy, John practically lifting her into the back seat. I look out the back window at Mike, who nods somberly as Good Cop talks to him. When Mike finally joins us, John asks, “What’d he say?” “Ah, just some shit about my dad and him being partners before,” Mike says, shrugging.
. . . . .
“Don’t be such a Jew,” Russ told Denise when she was double-checking the math on the bar tab. “I’m not his Nigger,” Brian stated when explaining his refusal to help his dad with some chores earlier that day. Lying in bed in the harsh light of Christmas Eve morning, the sound track of the previous night’s festivities keeps replaying in my mind. I had eagerly anticipated the previous night’s reunion with my friends, and, indeed, we had a great time catching up on the adventures we had during our first semester at different colleges. Now, however, rather than the stories of classes and romances, these comments echo in my head.
“Come on. Time to get ready for Grandma’s,” my mom yells from the next room, and my sister and I scramble to get ready. As we pull out of the driveway and turn left instead of right, I am immediately reminded that for the first time ever, we won’t be celebrating Christmas Eve in my grandma’s old house—the house where we’d spent every holiday since I was born. In September she had sold her house, and my Uncle Paul (who had previously lived with her) bought a house for the two of them on the west side of town. There had been a lot of talk about the old neighborhood “going downhill” in recent years, which I have finally realized was a reference to the increasing number of African-American and Hispanic families buying the homes that once belonged to the European immigrants. Like my Polish grandmother, most of these early settlers are now taking part in a secondary migration—if only across the river to the relative “safety” of the West side. Indeed, few will venture back to the East side for any reason. Even my grandmother has started attending a new church, abandoning the parish she has been a part of for over 50 years, rather than reenter the community she has abandoned.
My grandma seems to be happy with the move, though. There is a shopping center in walking distance from the new home, and, while I miss the single heating unit that blew hot air into the dining room of the old house, both she and my uncle enjoy the luxury of central air and heating. Besides, I tell myself, I am now too old to play on the hopscotch pattern integrated into the turquoise and pink kitchen linoleum of the previous house.
And, even if the home is new, my family is the same as ever. Three of my five uncles and two cousins are already at the house by the time we arrive, and heated debate about the upcoming college bowl games is in full swing. They pace and swing their arms emphatically as they argue over colleges they had never attended and athletes they have never seen. The most excitement seems to be reserved for a single player on a Big 10 team, and my ears perk up, since I attend Michigan State—another school in the conference. “Sure, white guys are quarterbacks,” my Uncle Chet explains seriously, “but to have a white kid beat out one of them black boys at running back—now that’s something to be proud of.” Everyone is in agreement. “Sure thing,” Caz agrees. “They might be lazy as shit otherwise, but those boys sure do know their sports. Hard to beat ‘em.”
“Anyone want some fresh-baked bread while it’s still hot?” my mom asks from the dining room. The sound of her voice and the pointed glance in my direction help to relieve some of the pressure building in my head and heart. “They’re good men,” she whispers to me as I stand aside to wait for my own piece, avoiding the stampede of giants. I know this, and I remind myself of it throughout the rest of the festivities, planning to talk to my sister later tonight about what she heard. And I look forward to the end of winter break and my return to college.
. . . . .
After another hour of divorces, deaths, and sarcastic commentary, Chrissy has caught me up on 20 years of Nagisaw lore. “I’ll send you the memory book soon,” Chrissy promises before hanging up, “so you can see who’s bald and fat.”
Putting the phone down, I think about my hometown and the way I always knew I had to leave Nagisaw and the Midwest. It’s a place that is a part of me, yet I’m also an outsider there now. I pick up the ashtray given to me by my grandparents, absently finger the chipped edge, and read aloud to the empty room: “All America.”
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