Momma, Why?

Saturday was hot. A desert July hot day. My apprehension, mild, as it is usually is on a new project, had begun to build as I read through the pages of notes before I left the office. The woman I was to interview had been abused from birth and the tale begun in the twenty-four pages of notes submitted, promised to be unusual. Overwhelming, according to the editor's notes.

I pulled over to the side of the road to review the notes once more before meeting Diane. This was a suffocating mistake! It was too hot. But I wanted one more look at the notes before the interview. I realized two things. First, the person who wrote the notes was intelligent, very intelligent. Second, this was going to be a lot of work. Her formal education had clearly been short- suited. I would have to impose structure and grammar without distorting the power of her story as she told it. I set the sheaf of papers aside and started the engine. The blast of cool air erased the headache I was growing and I moved on to meet my client.

The directions she had given me on the phone were good. They were sufficiently detailed that the absence of that section of Palmdale from my ancient Thomas Guide didn't matter. I had no trouble finding her house in the modest well-kept neighborhood in which she lived.

Included in the notes were several drawings by Diane's son, James, Jr., and a photo of Diane as a young girl. I had studied her face for a long time, fingering the edges of the photo trying to absorb some idea of who she was. I kept looking for something that would give me a key to unlock the feelings behind the words on the pages of notes. Had she mailed the notes to us hoping to find someone to turn her story into a - what? I puzzled on this question more than once in the week between finding the request in my in-basket and my first phone call to her. I got no answer from my mind other than a disquieting sense of urgency. A plea almost, as if I had the life line in my hands, her lifeline, and was hesitating to throw it.

Right turn, 1772 Cobblestone, 1775, then 1778. Well, I was here. The heat weighed on me as I gathered my interviewer's paraphernalia, beating me on the back as I bent forward into the back seat of my Ford to pull the box out of the car. Tape recorder, pencils, paper, and her notes, all there.

Diane saw me coming and opened the door of her house to greet me. I received a rush of friendliness, a feeling of openness and true welcome from the attractive woman standing in the doorway. What had I expected? Some poor down-trodden soul, red eyes, and all? Not really. But I found myself much relieved by the impression received of the person in the doorway.

"Hello, Diane. I presume it's you. Sorry I took so long to get here. My hour-long delay in the trip from Los Angeles to Palmdale was occasioned by an altercation between a big-rig and an embankment that had slipped into its path." We talked about my small journey and settled at a table neatly placed by a window looking out onto a small vegetable garden. It seemed a lot cooler inside although there was no air conditioning that I could detect. Somehow the breeze passing through open windows on one side and out others on the opposite side fended off the dry monster outside.

She produced three glasses and a large pitcher of fresh lemonade. As I wondered about the third glass, a nice looking gentleman entered the room, smiling as he placed a plate of cookies and fruit on the table.

"Nancy, this is my husband, James. He is on his way out, but wanted to meet you before he went."

We exchanged pleasantries and he departed, thanking me for taking an interest in his wife. Diane poured the lemonade, pushing the unused glass off to the side.

"Diane, I would like to tape everything we talk about, if that is all right with you. That way I won't have to try to remember it all or write and talk at the same time. I will just put this little flat mike here between us and turn on the recorder. That way we will have our hands free." (And I must admit, the fruit looked inviting!)