I Am Banished (Part Two)

See Chapter One

My Uncle Who Was a Success is Uncle James.

 

Who was (and still is) a professor of Materials Science and Engineering. He was born in America, but is basically an Englishman now. Living about 45 minutes from London.

 

From the title of his academic appointment it might seem that he would be a hard man. Rebar. Concrete. Carbon fiber. Titanium.

 

But, mostly, he just laughs. His sense of humor is almost alarming, and I started calling him - Chuckles”  after only a few hours exposure to his relentless hilarity. That was a nasty gesture, on my part: indulging my instinct to make fun of someone I barely knew.

 

But that venom quickly drained away: since this amiable man -  with his Savile Row bespoke suits, his friendliness, and his willingness to see the humor in just about anything -  was such a nice contrast to my Alleged Father, and my Uncle Danny (My Uncle Who Was a Failure).

 

Danny and Daddy were the - serious” brothers: with a current of sober solemnity running between them that -  after it was discovered what I had been doing in the quiet village of Utopia -  allowed my Alleged Father to accomplish my quick exile from America entirely by remote control.

 

Once He had learned that I had Sinned, and Sinned in such a way that Aunt Billie (Uncle Danny’s wife) could not forgive me, He did not see me. Or speak with me.

 

Everything I needed to have, or needed to know, arrived in a large Air Express envelope. A huge amount of pocket money (to remind me how prosperous He was, and how lucky I was to be associated with Him). Different species of airline tickets (puddle jumper to commercial jet to jumbo jet). My itinerary. And a photograph of my Uncle James, who had only seen me as a toddler, and who I would not recognize.

 

After a day or two of waiting in the quiet village of Utopia under Holy Interdict, I had hoped that there would be some relief during the ride out to the little airfield outside the town of Elsinore -  with just Uncle Danny and me.

 

I was sure that Danny didn’t hate me with a righteous hate.

 

I hoped to hear him say that he was sorry that things hadn’t worked out. Perhaps shake my hand: confirming his belief that I was not a steaming pile of s**t.

 

But the warm air of summer had no influence inside that rusty old truck. As the soybean fields, and the hay bales, and the rows of high corn swept past, Danny kept his eyes on the road: probably remembering the most draconian verses of the Old Testament (maybe the one where the Lord kills the poor sap who touches the Ark of the Covenant).

 

Danny did not speak to me on my way out -  and did not relent in any way.

 

Even though he didn’t know half the things I had done in his miserable little village, the cold frost of righteousness was on full blast. And I let him think what he wanted to think. (To my regret, now, since he was killed in a farm accident while I was in England, and I never saw him again.)

 

Aunt Billie -  who we will meet later -  stayed at home while my exile began. Not looking at me as I was ushered out the door. Already beginning her recovery from my iniquity with Bible and brownies.

 

Although, in theory, she is still alive somewhere, after our stormy months under the same roof, she disappears from my life, too -  without a ripple -  after I was tentatively welcomed across the Atlantic.

 

Rain was dancing across the British Air windows as we descended into Heathrow: sliding into low clouds and damp. But -  in contrast to my subzero farewell from my other kin -  the UK felt almost tropical.

 

Chuckles (Uncle James) had a sign bearing my name. Wearing a jaunty touring cap, and a tweed coat, he gave me the once over, but had nothing at all to say about the way my breasts seemed to be struggling to get out of my elastic top.

 

Or about the way my jeans seem to have been sprayed on my body using some mysterious stuff that looked like cloth.

 

I was received with complete affection, small gifts, a parade of jokes, and a limo hired for the occasion.

 

If James was disgusted with me, like virtually everyone else, he was a wonderful actor.

 

As for me, I had plenty of time during the trip to attempt to steal minibottles off the flight attendant cart -  and time to consider what Uncle James had in store for me.

 

My Alleged Father -  who was certainly no idiot -  had never concealed the fact that he thought James was the smartest of the three brothers. My father just wished that James could be a little more serious.

 

Of course, I got that impression, too (at first): as James put aside some time for me -  putting his classes, his research, and his consulting business on hold for a couple of days to guide me around the epic sprawl that is London.

 

I remember it going by pretty fast. Differently colored Tube lines, running past stations with odd English names (Barkingside? Cockfosters?).

 

The Tube was like a magic carpet, in one sense. We would descend in one place, and pop up in another.

 

Up on top, it was a kind of salad of buildings and taxicabs from old movies, and every kind of Third World person you could imagine milling around. The city was -  and probably always will be -  very young: since it is the place where a young person comes to make her name, build her bank account, move to a higher floor, and get an office with a view.

 

There was a little bit of America there, but not much: as I was continually amazed at the British capacity for absorbing warm, bitter liquids.

 

And then there was the weather. The possibility of owning an umbrella had never entered my mind back in the States. In London, I discovered that hunching my shoulders and just pretending that it wasn’t drizzling right down the back of my neck did not have any practical value.

 

I was being looked at by boys, and wanted to be looked at by boys. That felt like Power, at the time. But it was hard to hold their attention if I looked like a drowned rat.

 

In a shop that sold nothing but umbrellas, I picked the most garish one: Pluto the Dog (under license from Disney) on a yellow background.

 

My Uncle thought it was funny enough that the shopkeeper ended up selling two of them, and -  the rest of our time in London, as it rained every day we were there -  we did a stellar job of reminding Londoners about Mickey’s faithful dog, as we walked side-by-side from one historic site to another.

 

These days, when it rains, I have something black and practical that folds up very small.

 

But I still have Pluto in the closet: as a reminder that my Uncle -  portly, distinguished, and a kind of genius in his own way -  had been willing to walk around a very distinguished, cosmopolitan, and sober city with an umbrella that made other people laugh, and made him laugh every time he looked at it.

 

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