Chapter 15
The Jinx
I soon forgot about my crooked teeth. Then, one Sunday, Daddy announced that he was going to the Worcester Art Museum. I don’t know what led to this event, but a day when Daddy wore his wedding and funeral suit was a big deal.
“Can I go too? Can I?” I asked him excitedly. I was ten years old. He agreed, and I hurried to get dressed. No one else was interested, so I seized the opportunity to visit a place that was new to me in a city that was unfamiliar, even though I had no idea what a museum was. I wore my blue plaid dress with a white collar and black patent leather shoes. We drove to Worcester, parked the car on a side street, and approached the grandest building I’d ever seen. As we climbed the wide front stairs, a man with dark eyes and a deep blue suit stood guard. He offered a half-smile and reached for the polished bronze knob to open the door for us. With the swing of that door, we left the modern world behind. Everything inside felt ancient—the entire scene seemed as old as Noah. We had learned about ancient peoples and places in Religion class.
The walls, the fluted columns, and the pale mosaic floor were in shades of off-white, tan, and light brown. I imagined this must be like the place where Jesus overturned the tables of the money changers. I read the words carved on the stone floor out loud. Worcester Art Museum.
Daddy confirmed that, yes, this was Art. Real Art.
Once we had handed our coats to the checkroom lady, we stepped deeper into the building, where one room flowed into the next. Columns embellished with intricate leaf patterns supported arched openings, and two staircases lined with brass handrails led to the upper levels. I rushed to the top of the stairs, where I could look down at a detailed mosaic of a hunting scene created with tiny pieces of stone chips in the center of the entry courtyard.
There were lions, antelopes, and a crocodile in this tiled artwork, and hunters on foot and horseback. Combat scenes unfolded between man and beast—with spears, arrows, and whips being used as weapons against a vast array of animal claws and teeth. Trees heavy with juicy, ripe fruit hung at every corner of the masterpiece. Sunlight poured through numerous glass skylights above. I glanced up just in time to see a pigeon overhead as a shadow quickly swept across the floor. My footsteps echoed click-clack, click-clack on the marble as we entered a room showcasing dozens of larger-than-life marble heads on pedestals. I read the labels on the wall and learned these were Roman and Greek sculptures. The next room featured a medieval chapel with a vaulted ceiling illuminated by a single dim electric candelabra beside a stone fireplace. We proceeded into the galleries of Asian and European art. Then, we entered a room filled with silver—an array of perfectly polished teapots, trays, cups, and flatware, all monogrammed in script lettering and sparkling under glass cabinets, many labeled “Paul Revere, Silversmith.” Could this be the same Paul Revere we learned about in history class?
Although Daddy didn’t say much as we wandered through the museum, keeping a distance from me with his hands clasped behind him and his face expressionless, we still went to the art museum on occasional Saturdays or Sundays. Whenever he pulled out his shoe polish kit from beneath the kitchen sink and began his ritual of applying paste wax, I knew we were going. After finishing his shoes, he’d put on his pin-striped suit. While he stood unsmiling and attentive in the kitchen, one of us kids would carefully whisk away any lint from the last time he wore it. It was a solemn ceremony, brushing the backs of the legs, the shoulders of the jacket, around the buttons, and down the sleeves as he held out his arms. After we finished, Daddy would return to his bedroom to check in the mirror. He nodded, not so much in approval but more like a lack of disapproval, and we were ready to go.
I was the only one allowed to go to the museum. Not Sharon. Not Dicky. Indeed, not my mother. Mummy didn’t care about art museums, and neither did my brother. But surely, my sister might have wanted to come along. It was never discussed. I never asked her if she was interested, and Daddy never asked her either; I never heard anyone question this arrangement, so I accepted my good fortune without hesitation.
Although I believed our car trips were special, my father never spoke to me. I quietly enjoyed riding in the backseat of our ’49 Plymouth coupe, soaking in the scenery, storefronts, billboards, bridges, and children on bicycles.
One time, we were driving down Shrewsbury Street, a steep road in the city not far from Bell Hill. At every traffic light, the street was slick with puddles of oil and fluids leaking from the inefficient, lead-spewing cars of that era.
That morning, as usual, the hill was bumper-to-bumper with Saturday morning shopping traffic. Two lanes of cars filled the road in both directions while shops on either side conducted a brisk business. We were at the crest of the hill, about to head down the other side, when I heard a sound. Daddy pumped the brakes repeatedly. Then, frantically. The brake pedal thumped hard against the floor, and soon, we were careening down the hill, going faster and faster. And faster still. Daddy pounded on the horn, and the blaring parted the cars in our path like Moses parting
the Red Sea.
I was frozen with fear in the backseat of the Plymouth, gripping the door handle for dear life and holding my breath in wide-eyed terror. Daddy yanked the steering wheel left and right, then turned left again, swerving around one car after another as our speed increased. Faster and faster, we zigzagged through traffic. Everything was a blur. Daddy pulled hard to the right—this was a time when drivers didn’t have the ease of power steering—and I shut my eyes as our car lifted onto the two passenger-side tires. We veered into an empty driveway next to a gas station, and the driver-side tires returned to the ground as quickly as they had lifted, heading toward an uphill slope behind the gas station. No trees or buildings blocked our path. There was nothing for us to hit. After we came to a jolting halt against a soft bank covered in weeds, I was still too terrified to speak. I didn’t dare look at Daddy. He opened his door slowly, climbed out, and stepped forward a few paces, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands. He turned and glanced at me.
“You’re nothin’ but a jinx,” said Daddy.
I didn’t know what a jinx was, but I knew loathing when I heard it. I didn’t mind that he never spoke to me during those museum visits, but this settled it. Even though he included me on the trips, I was not in his favor and would never be.
Maybe letting me come along to the museum was his way of trying to like me, but it
obviously wasn’t working.
He stood there smoking his cigarette down to the filter. He threw the butt on the ground, stubbed it out with the toe of his shoe, and then walked to the front of the gas station. When he returned to the car, he started it up and cautiously drove around to the front, where an attendant lifted the garage door to a repair bay. Daddy drove in slowly. I stayed in the car while the mechanic raised it on a lift. I sat still, hoping nothing else would go wrong. I’d already caused enough trouble. Daddy stood on the sidelines, smoking more cigarettes while the mechanic repaired the brake line and refilled the brake fluid. Daddy paid him with cash, and without a word, we returned home.
Once he was settled in the kitchen with a cup of coffee during supper, Daddy told Mummy what had happened. He said we had lost our brakes and that I was a jinx. It had been all my fault.
Can you imagine?
Mummy continued to drink her black coffee. No response.
No disputing that I was a jinx and had caused the breakdown!
I had a sick feeling in my stomach. I kept my mouth shut.
Years later, when I had a car of my own and lived on Cape Cod, I developed an irrational fear of my car breaking down if—and only if—I drove over the Sagamore Bridge heading north. Heading north over the bridge meant traveling off Cape Cod and driving a greater distance than usual—like those trips from home to the Worcester Art Museum.
For years, I worried about flat tires, overheating radiators, and having water in the gas tank. I could never relax until I reached my destination. I knew I wasn’t capable of causing danger just by being there.
It was an ugly association caused by the jinx business that Daddy put into my head.