Can You See the Wind?

by Beverly Gologorsky

Genres: Family Life; Feminist; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

A story of family--whether the one you inherit or the one you create--bound together and torn apart in the struggle for a better world.

Change rarely comes easily or without a fight. In her much-anticipated fourth novel Beverly Gologorsky takes a close, loving look at the members of a working-class family in the Bronx, each in their own way struggling for a better world. At the heart of the story is Josie, a young woman whose fraught relationship with her family is further stretched by her commitment to anti-Vietnam War activities and her deepening relationship with a rising star in the Black Panther Party. Her brother Johnny is a police officer, rough and judgmental. Closest in age to Josie is sweet Richie, who, inexplicably to her, has just become an enlisted soldier. Her sister Celia is pulled toward activism in the women's fight for equality, but paralyzed by fear for her eldest son who may or may not have blown up an enlistment center. Their lives intertwine through acts of violence, loyalty, and, above all, the bonds of family love and loss. One thing is certain--that in the long run of life, change is inevitable.

Release date: February 8, 2022

Publisher: Seven Stories Press

Print pages: 256

Sample

 

-1-

On the El train platform beneath a bruised sky, Josie takes in the tarred rooftops of the stunted gray buildings that make up the Bronx. This is where she was born. But being born somewhere doesn’t make it forever. She reads books, though her mother regards them as dust gatherers. It used to annoy her, and maybe it still does. But protesting her mother’s attitude would do no good. Perhaps it’s because her mother wasn’t born here and simply can’t understand what’s important to Josie. What’s difficult, though, is growing up within a family where everyone sees her future through the tiny lens of his or her own life. It makes her want to shout no, but she’s learned to abide.

She exits the subway and heads to the Peacock Cafe, her Greenwich Village weekend sanctuary where artists, poets, and political people congregate. Captured by their conversations, which are rarely whispered, she learns a great deal, especially about the Vietnam War, which is on everyone’s lips.

Maisie and Nina, two NYU students, invited her to join their table several weeks ago. They, too, are actively part of the growing antipathy to the war. Their certainty about their beliefs impressed her at once. And their assumption that she shared their views pleased her.

She didn’t mention that her brother Richie had signed up for the army. It’s still possible that he won’t pass the physical. He has allergies, needs glasses. He used to memorize the school eye chart, because who could afford glasses? He says the army will teach him a trade, even fix his teeth, and besides, he’d be drafted anyway. She didn’t want Richie to enlist, pleaded with him, but to no avail. They’ll equip him to kill for no good reason. Some men have it in them. Not her brother. The war will devour him.

Finding a table for three, her eyes rest on the wraparound mural of the Amalfi Coast, near where her parents were born. The mural is old and flaking in spots, but the green-golden mountains atop the blue sea are beautiful to behold.

Maisie swings in on a gust of cold air. “Forget coffee. We’re going to a meeting. Nina’s already there.”

She follows her friend through a maze of university hallways to a classroom with a closed door. Seated inside around a table are Nina and two men. Maisie introduces Josie to Lowell and Ben. With only a nod to her, their talk continues. With their excited voices and gesturing hands, their conversation could be mistaken for a run-through of a play without costumes.

“Did you read McNamara’s spiel in the Times yesterday?”

“They lie without batting an eye.”

“Do they think we’re idiots?”

“They’re murdering in our name.”

“Not my country right or wrong.”

“Hey, the Communists are landing at Malibu.”

“They’re easy to see, green scaly skin.”

“They can’t fight this fucking war without us.”

“We have the power to make a difference.”

“We’ll escalate every time they do.”

“They can’t get away with sending more troops. Wake up, campus! Wake up, people! We’ll get the message out.”

“Whatever actions we take will feed into the DC march. Who in their right mind wants this obscene war? I’d rather be jailed than kill innocents.”

“Don’t waste time telling us what we already know,” Nina says. “Talk about ideas.”

Empty coffee cups line the table like soldiers.

“Spray-paint antiwar slogans. At dawn,” Lowell says.

“Where?” Nina asks, impatient.

“The Midtown building that houses Honeywell offices. The bastards make cluster bombs. But we should wait until Monday when people return to work,” Ben says.

Their optimism is infectious, a kind of blind faith. Their faces unchecked by negatives, success is a given. The energy, certainty, the whole scene, charges Josie’s brain; only their sense of entitlement feels alien. It’s as if they can have what they want by declaring it so.

“Are you with us, Josie?” Ben whispers, his bright eyes playful.

She nods.

“We’ll meet back in this room at four, and bring slogans. Okay, let’s split.” Lowell calls it as if it’s a football move.

She, Nina, and Maisie head out together. The freedom of their long gauzy skirts only adds to her desire. These are the women she wants to live with, though she hasn’t told them so. But wanting and getting are miles apart.

“How about ‘No more war’?” Nina suggests.

“Too general,” Maisie says.

“‘US out of Vietnam’ is the point.”

“Perfect,” Maisie says.

“Two more?” Nina says.

“Painting the same slogan everywhere is powerful,” Josie offers.

“Yeah,” Maisie agrees. “One strong one. It’s what Madison Avenue thrives on.”

“Fine,” Nina says. “I’m out of here. You guys heading to the café?”

“My job search begins this minute,” Josie hears herself say.

“Where?” Maisie asks.

“Around here.”

“Part-time gig after school?” Maisie asks.

“No, full-time. I’m moving out of my parents’ place. I’ll need somewhere to crash, a couch or mat, a key in my pocket. I’ll chip in for the rent.” Her words as eager as her wish.

“We have a pullout,” Maisie says more to herself. “How long would you stay?”

“Till I find something I can afford on my own,” she promises herself.

“Okay with me,” Nina says. “It’s eighty a month. Could you swing twenty?”

“Absolutely. Can I move in this weekend?”

“There’s no room for more furniture.”

“My clothing, a clock . . .”

-2-

People dash past Celia with enough purpose for one to assume they’re on the way to significant destinations. Or it may simply be to escape the cold, raw wind. She, too, rushes, but it has nothing to do with weather. She’s late for work.

When the alarm rang this morning, no one budged, including her. Then they were all scrambling at once to get ready.

As usual Quincy was first in the bathroom, while Miles waited slumped in a chair, his eyes open but still asleep. If she’d asked what time he went to bed, he would have been upset. He’s seventeen, easily upset. Sam was the only one not waiting for the bathroom. Her husband had named the first two boys, but she had fought against the youngest becoming some musician’s afterthought.

Someday she’ll toss out the alarm clock and lie in bed in a gorgeous haze of unscheduled pleasure. On that day money will drop from heaven. What’s money really worth, Celia? That’s Paul’s singsong cadence in her head, instructing her to take it easy, cool the sweat, lighten up, go slow. But her babies, who are no longer babies, need everything. By now Paul is in Ontario. One more gig in Canada, another in Albany, then home for a while. His kind of music is on the wane, though he’s still on the road more than she’d like. He’s also getting high more often than she’d like. No worse than a truck driver taking NoDoz, he assures her. Her husband lives on the edge by choice, a man who’s been backslapped by mobsters, fooled by tricksters, slipped the occasional hundred-dollar tip by the slumming mink crowd. He offers his experiences to her lovingly, in detail. And she’s a sap, has been, will be, and so what?

The three-story Bronx factory building is on Third Avenue in the shadow of the El train. Celia hurries up the three flights between narrow dark walls that reek of old fruit. As she pushes open the heavy metal door, it all looks the same as yesterday: rectangular room with two large windows, a cutting table, four rows of six sewing machines, ceiling lights, tiny lamp in each work space. She sews silk and nylon material into slips, sometimes negligees. She is one of twenty-four seamstresses paid by the finished garment. Some days she can earn twenty dollars, less if there’s lace to apply.

At her workspace is a pile of cream-colored satiny pieces cut to become thigh-length slips, the kind that movie stars wear under their dresses. She considers taking one for Josie, then turning back the tally. Everyone does it.

Blowing dust off the surface, she threads the needle and switches on the machine. To keep the material from bunching up, she needs to hold each piece straight and tight with elbow and wrist as her fingers pass the seams under the fast-moving needle. Her foot pedals the treadle automatically.

“Celia, I need a favor.” Artie’s large hand appears near hers. “Stop a minute. A shipment of silk came in this morning. It’s a one-time order. Kimonos. I need people to stay several hours longer. I want a few dozen by tonight. Say yes.”

“What about my sons?”

“Call them. Use the office phone.”

“My sister’s coming for dinner.”

“You’ll be out of here by seven, not a minute later.”

With his bushy dark brows, curly black hair, big round shoulders, he could pass for a caveman. Except he’s too young, maybe forty, though some of the women believe he’s older.

“Seven p.m., that’s a long day. I get double time after four.”

“What union is this?”

“Celia deluxe.”

“Okay. I can spring for three hours.”

“Everyone who stays will expect double!” she shouts at him as he disappears into the glass cage of his office.

When the noise of the machines subsides, she weaves her way to the back room to find her sandwich in the fridge, then sits across from Denise and Adele at the long table.

“Vi’s coming in tomorrow. Artie told me.”

“For bookkeeping?”

“For cooking the books.”

“She’s not an accountant.”

“But Vi’s his wife.”

“Not much of one, I hear.”

“Rumor, rumor.”

“Maybe, but Artie’s looking old for his age.”

“It’s good his wife controls the money,” Celia says, wondering how much Paul will bring home.

“It’s not all she controls.”

“A woman with her hands in the till is better off than one with her hands on a prick. Remember that.”

“Adele, you’re too focused on sex.”

“I am?”

“The whole week you’re bringing up men’s private parts,” Denise says.

“Is that true?” Adele asks Celia.

Celia nods. Talking about nothing that matters is their route through doors usually kept locked.

“Jesus, what do you think it means?”

“Oh, you don’t want us to speculate.”

“Denise, leave her be. She’s worried. I understand.”

“But you know where Paul is when he’s not at home. Adele hasn’t a clue.”

“How long has it been this time?” Celia asks, not wanting Paul to be part of the conversation.

“Four days. I spoke to his friends on the construction site. Either their lips are glued, or they really don’t know where he is.”

“It’s classic. They get a whiff of forty and go nutsy. If you were rich, you could buy him a Jaguar, let him race around Montauk, get in touch with his aura of eternal youth.” Denise waves her arms as if invoking some spirit.

“Why aren’t you thinking hospitals or police or accident?” Celia asks.

“Adele, do you want sex morning, noon, and night? Do you have a life outside of bed? A few days holed up with young flesh, he gets it out of his system, returns, and can’t do enough to please you. On the other hand, if you don’t hear from him after a week, change the locks and good fucking riddance.” Denise takes a bite of her sandwich.

“You’re probably right.”

“What do your daughters know?” Celia is curious about fathers in other people’s homes.

“I don’t want to sully the bastard in their eyes. I say he’s working construction in Baltimore and I’m not sure when he’ll return. My oldest looks at me with pity like she knows something I don’t.”

“Are you staying to work on the kimonos?” Celia asks.

“Would you list our choices?”

“Hi, I’m home, finally.” Celia shrugs off her coat, kicks off her shoes, and joins her sister and sons on the floor where a half-eaten pizza pie is cooling on the coffee table.

“Richie got the date for his physical,” Josie says.

“He can’t follow orders,” Quince says.

“He won’t make it through basic,” Celia adds, eyeing the dark cabinet where red wine waits.

“Something else too. I found a job as a hospital file clerk. I’m moving into Manhattan. Don’t even think of arguing. No more will I be stuck in this borough. I want life,” Josie announces.

“Life?” Celia repeats.

“This isn’t it.” Josie gestures toward the room. “I intend to have a thousand million experiences and not remain hidden in the closet of a family.”

“You’re in your last year of high school.” A waste of words. Josie’s as stubborn as their mother and twice as determined.

“School’s a joke. I learn nothing. I’m bored. I can take courses anytime.”

“You and Miles are college material.”

“Where’s it written that everyone has to go at eighteen? You could attend college now, Celia. Rules about how and when to do things, it’s a setup to make us imitate our parents’ lives. Not me.”

“Will you make enough to pay the rent?” Miles says.

“I’m sharing an apartment with two women.”

“Will I see you as often?” Miles asks.

“Your school is within walking distance of my new apartment.”

“Miles needs to come home after school to take care of his brothers.”

“Stop trying to hold it all in place, Celia. Everything is changing. It’s in the air, a wind blowing many voices. I’m paying attention. You should too.”

“Mom, it’s about being young,” Quince informs her.

Her sons seem mesmerized by Josie’s pronouncements. She, however, finds her sister’s notions irritating and adolescent.

“Listen up. I have a letter from your father.” She dips into her purse for the envelope and reads.

To my Son-shines,

Last night, when I began to play, I heard your voices, bass and treble, thick and thin, the sounds around you. Rain on car tops, gravel underfoot, ...