FROM ASHES

Every seat was taken. Movie goers were still coming in, standing in the back, pushing each other, arguing with the ushers. Daddy, Mama and me, we got there early and had two seats in the middle. Ladies were given little blue tickets with numbers on them. Men got glass ash trays. Children came in free and got nothing. ‘Sarah, hand me your ticket. I’ll put it in my vest pocket.’

‘Daddy, can I sit on your lap first?’ ‘Sure, Cookie, but stand up until the lights go out. I have one Raleigh left and want to enjoy it without setting your hair on fire.’ I stood there and ate my whole Hershey bar with almonds. Mama scolded me, called me a selfish pig for not giving her even one tiny square. ‘Ma, I still have one piece of red licorice. You can have it.’ I knew she wouldn’t take it because she didn’t like the red kind.

‘Ooh, ooh, Daddy. It’s starting. Pick me up!’ Papers stopped rattling, mouths shut, cigarette smoke filled the air. The big fans along the wall didn’t help much. They just moved the smoke around. ‘Look up, Daddy. The ceiling looks like clouds. Ma, can I sit on your lap now?’ ‘Here, Harry, hold my pocket book for me.’

‘Sit still, Cookie. I can’t see the news.’ Nobody could. It went black. Everybody started to stamp their feet, clap their hands. There was a lot of yelling. Even my Daddy joined in, ‘Fix it. Fix it.’ The screen flickered. I couldn’t understand the scratchy voices.’Daddy, I don’t like this movie. I want to go home.’ ‘Sit still. I saved some chocolate malt balls for you. Give Mama one and be quiet.’ A lady behind us touched Daddy’s back and told him to shut me up. That was nasty. I turned around and gave her the raspberries. Daddy gave me a smack on my bottom.

On Momma’s lap I could feel her softness, leaned against it and fell asleep. Clapping, clapping woke me up. The movie I didn’t see was over. The ceiling and side lights were all on. There was a long wooden table on the stage, filled with aluminum pots, bags of sugar, flour, towels, mops, buckets. I never saw this before. A man with a megaphone was shouting out numbers. Happy screams came from all directions. Mostly women waving their little blue tickets hurried down the aisles, received a gift and left. The nasty lady behind Daddy won a lace table cloth.

We just sat. Daddy held Mama’s ticket and listened for her numbers. The table was almost as empty as the seats. Daddy jumped up and ran, climbed on the stage and shouted, ‘I have 391162.’ He got the very last cardboard box. We didn’t know what was in there but Daddy showed us it was heavy and had to be wonderful.

He had to carry it outside and 8 blocks to our house. We stopped every block to let him rest. Mama never let go of my hand. Once Daddy tripped but kept the box from hitting the pavement. Our front white marble steps were cool. Daddy sat there a long time, catching his breath. Mama unlocked the door and made me go inside, turn on all the lights and stop in the bathroom before I got ready for bed. That wasn’t fair. I cried. I wanted to see what was in the box and they let me stay up while Daddy used a strong screw driver to open it. Mama did the unwrapping of beautiful new dishes, a whole matching set for 8 people. We only had three but now she could have company for lunch sometimes. There were four different colors, red, yellow, blue and green. Mama gave me my choice of which would be mine always. I chose yellow. It looked like sunshine.

Within a few days, we mixed blue dishes with red, green with blue. Every meal felt happier. Food tasted better. We had been so lucky and still were. Daddy had finished 3 cartons of Raleighs, sent his green coupons to the company and we received a dozen frosted glasses free.We had more company. Daddy stopped at the drugstore and bought another carton. Mama made him smoke outside most of the time. He smoked and smoked until we got new flatware and he got lung cancer.

I am lying on my bed doing something I never did before, contemplating my navel. An inane late night t.v. comedy show starred two ladies I had never seen before. I didn’t think their discussing private things like inny and outy belly buttons was proper or funny. In forty years no such thought had entered my mind. Now, as lightning flashed between the metal Venetian slats, I looked at mine. Oy, I’m an inny! Is that good or bad? I started to call my friend Millie, but stopped dead when a brilliant flash of lightning seemed to crackle right outside my window. Stay off the phone, Dummy. Call Millie some other time.

I pulled the lightweight quilt over my head and shut my eyes tight. The storm raged. Rain changed to hail stones. They clanked, popped onto my windows, so happy, free, looking for mischief. But, I hexed them, aimed a threatening gun finger to the sky and became Merlin’s wife, ‘Out, out, out damn storm. Begone’. I did not succeed. After every lightning flash, thunder rolled like a barrage of Civil War cannons. Sleep was impossible I thought..

And...it was my last thought before I opened my eyes and saw the start of dawn. Bare traces of light rose behind the 10 condo buildings in my development. Across the parking area I saw a silver Lexus under a broken pine tree. Wet leaves hugged the cobblestones. My car was safely under cover. No one was outside yet. I put on old clothes, ratty shoes and went outside to investigate ‘whatever.’ I looked more closely at the damaged Lexus, then up to god, crossed myself and thanked him for selecting somebody else’s car to ruin.

Neighbors began to appear. We talked. I suggested who should contact management, get a crew out here fast to clean up and went inside. I fixed myself a large bowl of Wheaties with fresh strawberries, made a pot of caffeinated coffee, added a chocolate donut and ate beside the window, watching the progress.

Dawn became morning, bright and sunny. At exactly nine, Millie called. ‘Hi, Millie. You okay? Any damage?’ I asked. She had no trouble. My next question to her was, ‘Do you have an inny or an outy?’ Millie didn’t know what I was talking about and I had to explain. ‘Wait, I’ll look,’ she said. It took only long enough for me to take the last bite of my donut. ‘I’m not sure but think I’m an inny.’

‘Good, Mill. We can stay buddies. If you were an outy, one of us might have needed surgery. Meet me for lunch, noon, Jack’s. Bye’

My day was destined to be great, but to be sure, I made Millie go to the ladies’ rest room where I double checked her inny. We laughed and had our lunch.

ANOTHER PLACE

She had me by the seat of my pants. I couldn’t move and had to give up. The ugly lady in the ugly black dress and huge white hat pulled me down the hall, opened a door and tossed me in. I heard a key lock and heavy footsteps walk away. It was dark except for a trace of yellow light beneath the door. A stinky smell filled my nose. I curled up in a corner, made no noise and just listened to nothing.

‘What’s that?’ I whispered to the blackness. Something was on my leg, moving higher and higher, on to my sleeve, into my hand. Ich! A mouse! I shook my hand hard, banged my foot on the floor. The mouse disappeared, left me alone. ‘Mama, Mama, why did you leave me?’ I cried to myself until I think I fell asleep. That frightening sound again and I straightened my back bone against a wall. Heavy shoes clomped, clomped, came closer. I could not hold my fear and peed in my pants.

A shadow covered the narrow band of light under the door, the door that has kept me prisoner. My pants were uncomfortable, smelled bad. I realized I was hungry, barely breathed, didn’t make a sound. The key clinked, turned, the door opened a speck. With all of my strength I jumped at it, pushed it back. Two hands grabbed me. I kicked the black dress in the belly and was free. The white hat was laying on the floor.

A soft, nice face with a bald head was under it. The person sat up, straightened her black dress, looked at me and spoke. ‘Who are you, Child? What were you doing in that closet? Who locked you in? My voice must have shook as I told her my name was Moishe Gutterman.‘A mean lady in a black dress just like yours put me in the closet and locked the door. I was scared in there. When I heard the door opening, I thought it was the same lady. I am sorry if I hurt you, Lady. Are you okay?’

‘My name is Sister Margaret,’ she said. ‘I’m not hurt. Come with me. Let’s try to find the sister who put you in the closet.’ ‘I’d rather go home, please. I wasn’t stealing anything. I won’t come back. Please let me leave,’ I whined. ‘Of course you may go but I do need your help to find the other sister.’ But, M’am, you aren’t my sister, neither is the witch lady. I don’t have any sisters or a mama either.’

Sister Margaret offered me a glass of milk and cookies, took me into a great big kitchen where other ladies in black dresses with white hats were busy cooking. Of all of them, I recognized one, the mean one. ‘Sister Margaret, Sister Margaret,’ I pointed.‘That’s the one. That’s her.’ ‘You have to be making a mistake. That is our Mother Superior. She would never hurt you.’ The Mother Superior clapped her hands and all the ladies, wearing the same black dress and white hat, formed a line and walked towards a long hall. No one spoke.

One stepped out of line when she saw me, grabbed me by my ears and called me a Yid. All eyes stared at her, heard her wrath. ‘Go back across the street to your Yeshiva, Kid. Don’t ever set foot in this church again. You are not welcome here. Go!’

All the ladies seemed stunned. The Mother Superior hurried to me, held me the way my mother used to do and invited me back as often as I wish to come. ‘Moishe, don’t be afraid of us. The sister who put you in the closet will be gone from this Diocese by morning.

That’s when your god and ours will take care of her.’

DIRTY PLUMAGE

Danny and I had a long marriage, too long at times, too short at the end. It was never a close loving match. We didn’t take long walks together, holding hands, kissing in the park. We didn’t tear each others clothes off after a fun Saturday night with a large group of our country club friends.

What we did do most of the time was argue, about nothing, about everything, until we saw red, were tied in knots, would turn and walk away, harboring anger for days. Yet we knew, between the battles, tough times, there was love, a strange kind, but we did care about each other and did try to reform, overcome our differences, with little success.

We progressed in business, enlarging, sharing friendships. Life was turning beautiful. We traveled, made lovely memories, gave our three daughters large weddings–and I gave them lots of good advice–how not to be like their mother.

At what was the peak of our pleasure, whammo, disaster struck. Danny had cancer. The spoken words welded my heart and mind into one person. I finally became what I should have been many years ago, a caring, loving, sweet woman, wife. It was my awakening.

Simultaneously another eye opener struck. Our friends were fakes. They sat in the same canoe Danny and I sat for years. We had no paddles. Almost all of them swam away from us, drowned. Danny’s good golfing buddies, Gin partners, replaced him, seldom stopped in to say ‘hello’. My close lady friends somehow managed to squeeze in a phone call to me now and then. They faded into my falling tears. I realized they didn’t need me and I had to learn to not need them. Some, but not all, couples came to Danny’s funeral, came to our house where they ate like kosher pigs, told me to call if I needed anything, and were gone.

Never, not a single time in the many years since Danny died, did even one friend call me to have lunch, see a movie. Were they afraid of the only widow in the group stealing their husbands? Balderdash..but for what other reason was I ostracized? Yes, I could have called them, but was too hurt, too proud and found volunteering, helping others more fulfilling than lowering myself.

Last Saturday, out of the blue, a neighbor, asked me to have lunch with her, 2 other neighbors and Beverly Simon, a friend of hers whose husband had died last month. Beverly Simon, my lord, she and her husband Harry, were part of our fake friend group. I wondered if she knows I will be at the lunch, if she has any idea at all of how mistreated I have been for far too many years.

I am going today, will smile, tell Beverly I am sorry Harry has passed–but I will never call her, don’t want her in my life.

Bev’s mottled colors smeared my rainbow. Now she will have to find that pot of gold on her own. Enough coins are in my pocket and I can do without her.

RESIGNED

Rumors fly thru cyberspace into churches, synagogues, temples, fields, mountains. God, the Omnipotent, is resigning from his/hers/ its position and will listen to the pleas of those who want the job.

The world goes wild! Millions, billions of ill-equipped fools get on their knees, kneel, prostrate themselves, cover their heads, uncover their heads, pray for guidance, acceptance. Church bells ring, mullahs climb minarets, adjust the loud speakers’ volume to their zenith and call to Allah, ‘Take me. Choose me.’ As god rejects them, each dies on the spot.

Devout Catholics light candles, make donations to their churches, cross themselves, count their beads. God smirks and smites them all. Shamans have goats brought to them. As they slit the animals throats, they chant words their followers don’t understand. The smiters gurgle and drown in their own red blood.

Chickens squawk as they are twirled in dizzying circles. Pounding drums, bare feet suddenly are still. Feathers fall from the birds leaving them naked and dead. Voodoo nights are over.

The Lord almighty sees, hears and fears that the peace he wants on earth is never going to be. He has noone to advise him, knows his plans have back fired, gone awry. Should I cast another plague on earth and let even the innocent die? Should I use all of my power to create a flood greater than Noah overcame? Should another Santorini explode, kill killers along with babies? Or should I let N. Korea, Pakistan, the USA explode all of their atomic, hydrogen bombs at the same time?

Between his thoughts, he sees an infant boy, lying on a soft white pillow. The babe is about to be circumcised. The Mohel stands ready with his sharp knife and practiced hand. Parents, grand parents, circle the scene. The Mohel cuts–cuts too much. The child does not whimper.God knows then he has found his successor. ‘Little One, Little One, hear me thru your silent pain. Your blood flows. Your family grieves. Come, come to me. I have chosen you to take my place. Come sit with me and learn.

After the Apocalypse in 2012, I will be gone. You will have a clean slate. I give you only one warning, BE WARY OF SNAKES.

AS I SEE IT

Do you ‘sleep like a rock’? Do you ‘swim like a fish?’ Do you ‘sing like a bird?’ If you do, I’m writing to Ripley. Comparisons annoy me. Most are ludicrous.

I sleep because I’m tired, the day is done. My body, my mind need a rest. Sleep comes, not always easily but it comes, stays a while and leaves.

I can swim but have no fins, no gills, no long training skills to make me a champ and if the water isn’t too cold, too rough, I can enjoy a short swim in a long pool.

I can’t sing like a bird but my voice is adequate, can carry a tune. If I sing along with Barbra or in the shower, I’m great... but trills and tweeting while swallowing my wormy breakfast is a terrible thought.

Yes, I do make comparisons often myself, like when I last baked a chocolate cake that didn’t rise, didn’t have the courage to send it on its way down the garbage disposal and left it on the counter for three days until it was ‘hard as a rock.’ And that wasn’t very factual either.

‘Put some ice in it. This water tastes like pee,’ my neighbor once told me. ‘Joe, if you really need it, here’s the ice. When did you taste pee last? Maybe it is better now!’

Whether my walk looks like a duck or not is debatable. My tail doesn’t stand up, waggle. My arches are strong, my feet not webbed. ‘George, if I walk like a duck, you smell like a pig,’ I tell my close friend. That wasn’t nice. It isn’t even true. I never smelled a pig.

Ah, Sally told me yesterday, as she watched me think, then write and write, ‘You are something. You are smart as a whip.’ I told her not to flatter me but I don’t know how smart a whip is, so maybe what she said was wrong.

Possibly I’m a rarity but I don’t like my air conditioning at freezing ‘70.’ Mine is set the way I like it ‘78.’ George stops by and as soon as I open the door for him, he remarks, ‘Christ, it’s hot in here.’ I don’t like to be called Christ. I have stopped arguing with George about how hot hell was went he visited last time and lower the control to 76, turn on a ceiling fan, put a chair directly under it and tell him to sit there or leave. He sits a while and leaves.

Just today Sally said to me,’ You don’t look good. You are white as a ghost.’ I raised my arms over my head, moved close to her face and loudly shouted, ‘BOO!’ Poor Sally, I darn near scared her to death. ‘Sally, I’m beat. I’ve exercised for 45 minutes, rode my bike for two miles in the hot sun but surely am not as white as a ghost. Maybe I am as white as a freshly laundered high count cotton sheet.’ Sally tells me to take care of myself and goes home.

And–because I am what I am ‘silly as a goose,’ FORGIVE ME, go have a nice day.

WINGLESS ANGEL

The alarm clock shattered my interesting dream. The pillow over my head, I laid there locked in the story that left me only flecks of where I had been , what I had seen. Closing my eyes did not help. I didn’t get a chance to use the pen and notepad I keep on the nite table for these rare occasions. Frank pushed his cold foot against my back, grumbled, ‘Get up, Sleepyhead. ‘ ’Jump in the next lake you see, Mister. Just don’t push me. I’ll get up when I’m ready.’ He pushes harder and I fall on the cold wooden floor between the bed and the scatter rug, recover and ram him with my pillow. We laugh and cuddle.

The November sun is almost high enough to blind us. Frank tells me to close the Venetian blinds. I glance outside, start to pull the shade and let out a scream probably heard in China. I jump in the air, then in my nitegown run down the stairs, yelling all the way,’Frank, Frank, what is that in front of our house?’

The latch on the front door sticks for what seems forever, but opens. The coldness of the morning doesn’t exist. My bedroom slippers and sheer gown are enough. There in front of me is a clean, shiny 2001 white four door Ford, a huge red bow on its roof. ‘Oh, my god.’ Wearing a smile as wide as a six lane turnpike, Frank saunters out of the house. He looks so comfy in his faded blue warm-up suit. ‘Happy birthday, Honey.’ Windows open almost in unison. Neighbors wave and wish me well. I haven’t yet realized I’m almost naked and when I do, I cover my boobs with both arms and run into the house. Instead of Frank giving me a jacket to warm up, he removes my nitegown and warms me on the living room floor. I thank him for both surprise gifts.

After I have read and done my best to understand most of the car manual, I’m ready to put a little mileage on my white car. It’s November but I don’t care. I take out of the closet a white wool dress that has seen too many winters, a white bulky knit coat sweater and find white summer ear rings in my junk jewelry drawer. I fly on gossamer tires to my Mom’s. The few miles are smooth. I have set the radio to FM. There is no static and Frankie and I walk the beach at Ipenema. I am warm without the heater being on.

My side window is open ½ way. I bear right, reach the E xpressway on ramp and enter the line of traffic. Wham, bam. I am struck, struck so hard in my left eye that I almost lose consciousness. The shock, the pain is unbearable. With my right hand I grab at my face, cup my left eye and pull off the road. In my hand I mentally see and feel my eyeball. It has to be there, squashed and bloody. I sit still, shaking, scared to look. Cars innocently race past me. Those entering the Expressway ignore me. I just sit, afraid to do anything, afraid to do nothing. A deep breath and I try to pull myself together, begin to wave out the ½ open window, using my left arm. A few people most likely think I’m being friendly and wave back. Idiots.

One car slows down and I motion to him to park in front of me, help me. After my brief, stuttering explanation I ask if he is strong enough to look in my hand and maybe see —I cannot even say the words of what I expect to be there. He nods and tells me to do it slowly. ‘Miss, your eye is in place. There is no blood, no gore. Can you drive?’ I don’t want to shake my head. Maybe I will loosen a nerve and the eye will fall out. ‘Take the first exit ramp and go home.’ A double thank you, a warm touch of his hand, and he is gone. Some measure of relief overcomes me. I sit there, can’t seem to start my car. Tears fall from both eyes.

At home I foolishly lie down, don’t call Frank, don’t call my opthamologist, don’t think that the hit in the eye could be forming a blood clot. What does come to mind is ‘what hit me. Where is it?’ I go out to my new white car and start to feel the carpet, reach under the passenger seat and find something. I take it into the kitchen, put on the bright light over the table. Looking at it, I still don’t know what this strange object is. It is about 2 inches long and rectangular, made of stone. There are brown small markings all around it, reminding me of American Indian patterns. A hole goes thru the center. It could not have been thrown through my car window. It was not shot from a rifle. The only possibility I can figure out is it fell from a passing car or truck and was then propelled with great force by a speeder, richocheting into my open window.

Twenty five years have passed. With the slightest imagination, perhaps thru a dream. I still feel that shock, sometimes realize what would have happened if a bullet got me. The reefer holder stays in a small wooden bowl on display on my etegere–

But the good Samaritan who stopped to help me is gone, except in my mind–and I have no name for him.

A BIG STEP

I am sucking my thumb. My mother gives me a mean look, walks over to me and pulls it out. She lightly taps my hand and silently says, ‘No no.’ Mama’s lady friends ignore us, keep talking about a war someplace and their card games. Mrs. Fried asks me what grade I am in, but I don’t answer. My mom answers for me. ‘She’s in first grade and loves school, don’t you, Loie?’ I don’t answer her either, don’t even nod a yes or no.

Charlene, one of my two playmates, adds, ‘Loie loves finger painting best. Everybody likes painting, even the boys. Mrs. Solomon, did Loie tell you the teacher taped Loie’s painting on the front blackboard this week and gave it a gold star as best in the class?’ Somehow my thumb is in my mouth again. It just goes by itself. I walk around behind Mrs. Fried hoping she won’t see what I’m doing.

Charlene follows me, takes my free hand. It feels nice. She asks our mothers if we can go to story time at the library after lunch. ‘Sure, who wants to stop at the drugstore lunch counter first? It’s on the way.’ Everybody says, ‘I do,’ except me. My thumb is busy and slobber is running down my chin. All I can do is nod ‘yes’. Mrs. Fried offers to drive. At the counter she spots three empty stools next to each other and takes them. My mom stands quietly behind a lady next to us who looks like she is leaving. The lady doesn’t like anyone on her back and tells my mom not to push her. She is having a coffee refill. Mom steps back a little.

Mrs. Fried orders two shrimp salad sandwiches on rye and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on white bread and a glass of chocolate milk for Charlene. ‘Loie, would you like a pbj like Charlene?’ I really don’t want it but if I shake my head no, I’ll have to tell her I’d rather have a fried egg sandwich on an English muffin. My dumb head nods ‘yes’ to the pbj. Just as the slow lady next to me finishes her coffee, our lunches come out. The waitress clears the one spot, takes a damp paper towel, gives it a swipe and puts my mom’s shrimp salad in front of her. I only eat half my sandwich. It is too dry and sticks in my busy mouth.

Next stop is story time. Charlene and I sit together on the floor. I count 14 kids. I show Charlene a 14 with my fingers and she takes her own count. ‘Ha, you’re wrong. There are only 13.’ I point at her chest and shake my head ‘no’. She gets it. She hadn’t counted herself so I am right!

The story today is ‘Peter Pan’ and we all clap. When Wendy flies, the teacher flies and lets us wing around the entire floor. Two boys spritz us as they try to make propeller noises. The crocodile is coming. We all pretend we are scared to death. Our teacher, Mrs. Clinton, acts for Wendy. She sings too. ‘I Don’t Want to Grow Up’. I hum in my head.

Our moms are hiding behind a tall book case. Once in a while I see my mom peeking at us, smiling. Wendy is home. Story time is over. Mrs. Fried and my mom come to get us. She can still lift me up and does. I get a huge hug and a kiss. ‘Charlene, you were having so much fun, you didn’t suck your thumb even one time. I could tell you were singing under your breath, ‘I Don’t Want to Grow Up’ weren’t you?

Guess what, Darling. You are doing it anyhow. I love you.’

MATURATION

My sister, 8 years older than I, argued, fought, all the way to maturity. Mom’s voice still rings in my ears, ‘Stop it you two or I am going to get Dad’s strop and stop it my way.’ Josie would fly from our third floor shared bedroom to the street before I would have time to pick up half her junk still laying on the floor. Her pals would be outside. Mine were invisible.

Daddy would give us each 15 cents on Saturdays, 10 cents for the movie and 5 cents for candy. Josie was smart and bought the candy in Dominic’s, next door to the movie. They sold it 3 for 10 cents. Josie never asked what I wanted and bought what she liked.

Mom and Dad lectured us a lot, told us we were sisters, (no surprise to us) and that we are supposed to love each other, not fight all the time. We did improve but it wasn’t easy and took so long, I just about gave up. I can still see the scar, 22 years later, that Josie cut on my wrist. She apologized, told Dad and Mom it was an accident. I didn’t believe her then and still think she extra cut me. Josie said she took Mom’s big knife out of the kitchen table drawer because she was Black Beard and I was a lowly, bad sailor and had to be punished. Whammo, I saw her hand fly at my lifted arm to scare her away–and that is when she got me! Josie was punished. Dad gave her no allowance for two weeks and she could not use the phone at all. That made her madder at me than ever so we argued some more.

It took five years and Mom getting cancer to settle us down, stop fighting, be sweet, be nice, never mean in front of her. She suffered enough without our quibbling. In the evening Josie and I sat near her bed and she tried to tell us funny stories about the times we were young and stupid. They weren’t funny then or when she recalled them.

Josie was 22 when Mom died. She worked in an office and helped out at home in the evenings and part of the week-ends. I cleaned, even ironed my own clothes, did my homework without being told. Once in a while we’d bring up old hurts and were able to lay them to rest forever.

Years grew zephyr wings, flew so fast, as did I. Josie and I moved a thousand miles apart, almost as far as our childhood love was. It was the night before Yom Kippur, 2002, the holiest night of the Jewish year, the time to cleanse one’s mind, one’s soul, to ask god’s forgiveness for past sins, to ask to live another year. My phone rang and I heard Josie’s familiar voice. I gave her a warm friendly, ‘Hi! How are you? The family?’ I detected a slight delay in her reply. I gabbed to break the ice. She told me to keep quiet. ‘Rhon, I have to tell you something I’ve never told a single soul on earth. Just let me get it out!’ I am shaking. Is she ill, getting a divorce, but do as she asks and keep quiet.

‘O.k. Here goes. It’s Yom Kippur and either I do it now or die with it buried in me. Remember when you begged Mom to let you try on her diamond wedding band and all of a sudden it disappeared? My, lord, how we searched the hallway, into the kitchen, down the stairs in case it rolled down. We never found it. You were only 5 or 6 and Daddy punished you. I am sure that was the only time he hit either of us with his strop. Your little hynie was black and blue all week.’ ‘How could I ever forget that, Josie? I couldn’t see my hynie. You could and laughed, told me I looked funny. Criminy, why are you telling me this now?’ I wait.

‘Rhon, you are still my little sister, I found the ring and never told. I have kept it in my own wedding ring box all these years and want to send it to you. Mom would want you to have it, not me, the thief. May I send it to you? Can you forgive me, Rhon?’

‘I hurt. I can’t believe that you have had the ring all these years while I have talked myself into believing I dropped it.’ I take a deep breath and choose my words carefully. ‘Sister, you did a terrible thing to let me feel guilty and Dad and Mom hold the loss against me. Please don’t ask me to forgive you. It is not my place.

Go to Shule Friday for Yom Kippur, ask god to forgive you. Ask him to grant you life for the coming year...and when he does...come visit me, my Abe and your 2 nieces. Bring me the ring.’

FULFILLED

It’s a gray morning. My husband, Nates, left for work an hour ago. I have washed, or rather my new machine has washed, two weekly loads of too many soiled items. The dryer did its job and I have ironed all the shirts, blouses and pillow cases that I had any intention of doing. My mother taught me there is a place for everything so put everything in its place. Done, Mom.

Ellen DeGeneris and Barbara battle for guests, for more viewers, expecting to have their contracts renewed shortly. They both bore me. I start to read a new book by one of the ever-growing Kellerman family and poof, I nod off, wake to find it is only 20 minutes since I started to read. Frou Frou, our gorgeous white Persian cat, sits near my feet, her tail rhythmically tapping Jonathan Kellerman’s book.

Strong coffee is needed to get my juices flowing. The last piece of strawberry shortcake will allow a bit more fridge shelf room. Good excuse, Fran. I take it out and devour it with no guilt.

Rain has started. I love the sound as it makes rivers down my windowsand am delighted that my car is still in the driveway, getting a good wash. This week I won’t have to pay $8 for a no-hands wash. It’s a freebie.

The few cars that pass my house have their headlights on. Yellow coronas look like sunshine, offer no rainbow. I watch for the mailman. He’s a little late today and I tell myself I don’t care–but I do. With the end of the month looking me in the face, I expect my bank statement, bills, ads, requests for donations, maybe a Thanksgiving invitation. The mail truck is coming down the street. From our hall closet I take an old, beat up sweater that I know I should toss, but like today, it comes in handy some time. It happens to be red, matches my red and white polka dot umbrella. It’s cheery. I try to whistle a happy tune but not even spit comes out. The mailman has left the flag up and the box only partly closed. Stuff, stuff, sticks out. Goody, I will be busy. Nates will be pleased when I balance my check book with the bank–if I do.

Ads, coupons, junk mail go directly into the trash. The load is much smaller. My check book and bank statement go to one end of the dining room table. The other end receives my charge account statements and all the items I’ve charged. The job doesn’t look so overwhelming when everything is in its place, Mom. Except for two stragglers. Jan’s is one. A smiling turkey invites us to dinner.

One curious item is left. It is from Faye’s Boutique in Ill., a name that sounds slightly familiar. Inside is a check for $150.00. It’s written on a Wachovia bank in Oregon. Then I remember the letter I received six months ago that I have a credit due from their store in Atlanta. It’s been there for one year, asking if I want a check or continue the credit. At that time I called Atlanta, explained I have no record of a purchase or credit, but if they say I have it, ‘Please send me a check.’ It came two weeks later and I deposited it. What I know is I had never been to Oregon or Atlanta, never heard of Faye’s but accepted the gift. And here I sit trying to get my records in order, faced with a dilemma, do I return the second check, spend it on myself, deposit it? Can I be selfish, be a thief, maybe go to jail?

The rain has stopped, the sun is shining, my face is smiling. I am holding the check, thinking evil thoughts. Faye has made a second error. A clerk may lose her job. The entire ½ mile trip to my bank, I still debate the issue of honesty and selfishness. The devil clarifies it and the teller hands me the 150 one dollar bills I ask for in 10 plain white envelopes.

I dust off the top of an old hat box on the top of the bedroom closet, open it and see a black felt memory of the hat I was wearing when I met Nates. Nine envelopes go under the hat, one in my purse. I feel the pressure of being a thief and add being a sneak, hiding something from my husband, from everyone. My bank statement gives me 50 cents more than my own record so I add the 50cents to my balance rather than look for the problem. All charged items are correct so I write the check. I call Jan, and with excitement in my voice, tell her how happy we will be to come to Thanksgiving dinner. ‘Great,’ she replies, ‘Will you make your cranberry-orange dish for us? We’ll be 14.’

The day is done and a new one dawns. My first stop is a privately owned french bakery where I get fresh croissants on Thursdays. As I leave, I purposely drop a dollar bill near the door. The next customer picks it up, Abracadabra, it disappears into her purse. I sense her saying ‘this will be my lucky day.’ A bill goes in my next door neighbor’s mailbox. She shrugs, looks around, folds it and comes running to me to tell me Santa Claus must be here early and asks if I received a buck.

The children’s book department at Barnes & Nobel is delightful. Many times I’ve bought books for my kids, birthday gifts for their friends there. The low center reading table is filled with the newest stories, ‘Bad Dog, Marley,’ ‘Good Night, Moon’, ‘The Pig Who Loves Cheese.’ I put a bill in each of the ten books, stand near the cash register and watch the children find them. I am having so much fun. An adorable little black girl, in a pretty pink dress, finds two bills and hurries to tell her mom. The mother tells her she can use the money towards buying another book. ‘Yahoo’.

I still have money and drop bills in Santa’s kettles, go ‘Ho Ho Ho, back to the bewhiskered bell ringers. I feel like Mrs. Claus might feel. My walk is springier. I don’t argue so much with Nates. My funds are shrinking too fast. I take the last of them to the super market where I buy almost ripe nectarines, delicious green California grapes, peaches bursting with sweetness, want the bing cherries but think better of that. I also buy a roll of red satin ribbon, sit in my car and tie each bag of fruit with a bow. My last stop is a nearby retirement home, one I have never visited until today. I locate the manager and ask if I can give the fruit to a few residents. ‘You don’t have cherries, do you? They can swallow the pits and we would be sued.’ ‘No, Ma am.’I give them out to an idle group silently sitting in a circle in the lobby.’Wrinkles, drooping eyes, smile to me and that makes me smile back. One lady stands, gives me a hug and a thank you, then walks away, down the long hall.

Until now I have never told a soul about my small gesture and still feel a bit of guilt giving away money that wasn’t mine, console myself that I deed a good deed.

Faye’s no poorer. I am much richer. Another Christmas will come with Easter well before it. Next time, when I do this again, using my money, Nates won’t even ask me what I want it for.

TURN YOUR CHEEK

The teen skate boarder passes my house. He’s wearing a subdued plaid pattern of shorts, below a long tattered white T shirt. With barely a glimpse of his face, I know he is good looking. His shoulder length brown hair flies wildly behind him. His youth and speed invigorate me until I realize his shorts are too long and most of his rear end isshowing and he revels in it being seen. There is no sign of underwear.On the back of the T shirt is a large red devil, its tail erect between its legs. I find it cheap, vulgar and ugly. The image of the skater and his red devil I throw in the gutter.
That is when I get my come uppence. The devil rises, gives me hell, leaving plenty for himself. ‘That young man isn’t hurting you, is he? Why does he have to be what you think is best? Look in your baby books and you won’t always have on a diaper. Your rear will be getting a washing. There’s one I remember when you went skinny dipping with your girlfriends and boys were hiding behind the trees, getting a good look at you. You don’t like the image of me on that T and I don’t like you! The devil melts in flames.

Gerald, my neighbor, insists his manicured lawn always be perfect, maintained grass height 1 ½ inches. And he doesn’t do it. His son Steven, spelled with a ‘v’, not ‘ph’ has to mow the lawn twice a week. But today he sits on the mower, slamming the steering wheel, cussing loud enough for me to hear every effen word. Children walk by. Mothers nudge their kids forward.

‘Dad, it’s broken again! Steven whines. His father comes out, walks swiftly to the mower, and bangs his son hard on the top of his head. Steven grabs it to protect himself and yells, ‘Stop, Dad!’ ‘What do you mean, it’s broken? If it’s broken, you broke it, Idiot! Get off and figure out what you did wrong.’ Dad, I was riding peacefully in circles like you taught me and all of a sudden this thing stopped dead.‘ ’Jesus, Boy, you are stupid. Did you fill ‘er with gas?’ ‘No, I thought you did.’

The drama is over but not my anger. Gerald is a goon, a dragon who treats his son like grist for the mill. He can be heard cussing his son, even across the street. Steven finishes the lawn, rides the mower back to the garage, looks at his dad walking back into the house, puts up his hand, pretends he has a gun and goes ‘bang, bang.’ One of these days ???

At the center of the home owner’s cul de sac I smell fragrant cinnamon coming from Bea’s open kitchen window. Her house is the only one with the kitchen in the front facing east. She insisted it be that way, paid the architects a lot to change the design, get special permits. And I often smell cinnamon when she is baking buns and coffee cakes. I want to ring the bell and invite myself in but never dare.

She is not a nice lady at all. Several neighbors have complained to our Board that she doesn’t put her trash can lids on tight enough. Raccoons and dogs upset them, garbage brings rats. We have barbecues but Bea never comes. She has a barbecue of her own but doesn’t light it.From her front window she can see children crossing her lawn and scares them away. Guests sometimes park in front of her house when there is no other spot available and Bea will put a note on the car windshield not to park there again.

I don’t like her but try to give her the benefit of the doubt as to why she is the way she is. Maybe she couldn’t have or didn’t want children.Her deed does not list a husband. And I know something I don’t think my other neighbors know. Living next door to her, I’ve heard her car motor start 2, 3 a.m. I see her fill her car with cartons, bags. In warm weather when the windows are open I can smell the cinnamon. Bea is selling her baked goods without a permit. Neither our Home Owners’ Association or the county allows this.

I understand and keep my mouth shut won’t even open it if some day she actually offers me a cinnamon bun.

UNFIT

It’s Monday and I want to make an appointment with my doctor of Family Medicine, also known as my Internist. At 7:59 a.m. I dial 486-2409. The battle begins. A machine says, ‘Thank you for calling Dr. Olivera’s office. Regular hours are 8 a.m. to 4. Please call back.’ Ok. It is then 8:01 and I call back. The machine tells me to call 911 if this is an emergency call. ‘Well, Voice, this is not an emergency,’ so I keep holding the line for ten minutes, talking back to dead air, ‘No, I am not in pain, but your office system is making me sick.’

My watch reads 8:10, the same as my computer time. At 8:15 a human insults me, ‘Please hold the line. I have seven calls ahead of you.’ If I were a little bit stronger, most likely I could have bashed my phone to little white bits. Why do I do this to myself? The same crap happens every time I want to make an appointment, ask a question, get an Rx re-filled.

Trying to calm myself, I go out to my small but satisfying garden, snip a few roses and my finger. ‘Ouch!’ Maybe I should call the doctor now and be honest, this is an emergency. A large thorn is stuck in my thumb. I’m bleeding. Damn, why if I had to do something so dumb did I do it to my right hand? I can’t get the thorn out with my left one. My left hand was part of the package my mom got when I was born. I hardly use it, can’t write with it, tie my walking shoes, hold my coffee cup. I’m good for nothin’.

‘Marie, Marie,’ I call to my next door neighbor. ‘Can you help me?’ From her second floor dormer window, Marie calls back. ‘What do you want? I was just going to the toilet. ‘Hold it a minute. I need you to get a thorn out of my thumb before I bleed to death!’ Marie runs down stairs and performs minor surgery. First she scrubs her hands under very hot water, takes a good look at my finger and I think she is going to puke. But no, she goes to her emergency kit, pours rubbing alcohol over her eyebrow tweezer and pluck, out comes the thorn. I am treated to a swab of neosporin and a Mickey Mouse band aid. ‘Thanks, Doc!’

I also thank the inventor of push button dialing. If I had to use the antiquated round dial, I’d have to wait for my husband or use my nose. The left fingers simply don’t do circles.

I dial 486-2409 again, hit #8, the secret code to reach somebody who will set up an appointment for me, eventually. The line is busy. After 3 more tries, I’m in. ‘I’d like an appointment with Dr. Olivera. He’s been my doctor for 15 years. I have questions that need answers. How’s next Wed., in the morning?’ ‘Your name and birth date, please.’ I give it quickly yet hold the line for close to 10 minutes while the lady is most likely making appointments for the entire city. Music plays. Vivaldi is about to put me to sleep, when the operator tells me the doctor is booked all next week and then leaves for a ten day vacation in Mexico. ‘I can set up an appointment for you Wed., a week from today, with the doctor’s new P.A. Is that O.K.?’ ‘No, it is not O.K. I want to see Dr. Olivera.’ What am I to do? Every single day, a few times every hour, t.v. commercials push another new product. The colors are awesome, the singing bees stupid, even the Viagara updates suggest I talk to my doctor about such and such or it might cause a heart attack or a stroke.

‘If I can’t see Dr. Olivera, you find me a fully capable doctor, not an assistant, someone I can talk to or tear up my entire folder.‘ I hear the operator laugh and then I am disconnected. I fool her. She must be sitting there waiting for me to call back, but I don’t. Tomorrow is another day, #8 to leave a message and when I give her the message I intend giving, she’ll hang up on me too. I’m getting very nasty, fed up with ‘ask my doctor’ baloney. The lousy automatons are driving me insane. I’m so upset, I really do need a doctor. My heart is pounding. My blood pressure is heading for the stroke territory.

There’s a knock on my door. ‘Janie, it’s Marie. How’s your finger? Still got it?’ ‘Do me another favor, Marie. Dial 486-2901, then hit # 3. Give whoever answers my name and birth date 11/11/52. Ask for an appointment next Wed. with Dr. Olivera about 10.That’s all you have to do except say ‘Thanks. I’ll be there, and hang up.’

Marie sits down, removes her always handy little black cell phone from her back pocket and dials the number. Instantly, or even faster, she gives my information to somebody. Marie says what I told her to say, including the thanks and I’ll be there.

However, I don’t get it. If I could use my left hand like ordinary people do, I’d make a strong noose, hang either of the doctor’s receptionists or myself.

I wait for Wednesday and am not surprised. Dr. Olivera has gone to Mexico and I will be seeing his PA.

A MEANING ALL ITS OWN

I stop in my tracks. The beautiful lady in Nieman’s window just winked to me. Did my eyes deceive me or did she really wink? It must have been the lighting, the sun, but I don’t think so. That was a wink! I look at her again and am positive a slight smile makes her cheeks glow. Stay, stay, your lunch appointment will wait a few minutes. A little imp inside my gut tells me what a stunner Ms. Kimmel is, what an asset she will be to the ladies’ department. Panache is her middle name. A wait may do her good. I tell that mischievous imp to jump into the fountain, I’ll get to Romano’s when I get there.

Did kids drop a load of chewing gum around me? My feet feel glued to the pavement. Move feet, move. Over my shoulder I see the lady in the window again. Nobody else stops to gaze at her magnificent face. A bag lady bumps into me and I feel my back pocket to be sure my wallet is still ok. The face, the magical face, has a single tear on its cheek. Am I awake? Am I going bonkers? The tear is small and disappears before it reaches her lips. If I am dreaming, don’t anyone wake me. The sun’s rays make her turquoise eyes shine, putting the stars to shame.

A well-dressed woman, obviously with money to spend, looks at the mannequin for a moment, seeing only the emerald green gown and diamonds on its ears and arm. With no hesitation she goes in the revolving door and heads directly for the escalator. Oh, my beautiful lady may soon be naked. Ms. Kimmel must be stewing. Tough!

Imagination takes over. A tinkling piano plays in my ears and Jimmy Durante taps me on the back. He’s singing his favorite song, ‘Did you ever have the feeling that you wanted to go, yet you wanted to stay?’ He wrote that for me. He doffs his fedora, cocks his head, gives me his Ha cha cha and vanishes in thin air.

O.K., Mister. You are late enough, more than is polite. Go! Nieman’s is only a city block away from Romano’s. The traffic light is on walk but I trot. Easily I spot Miss Kimmel. She seems at ease and is sipping a Silver Mist cocktail. Her silk suit is emerald green. Lovely, simple diamond earrings hang low, touch her shoulders. A twinkling turquoise eye winks at me. The corners of her mouth come close to a smile. I offer her my hand and an apology for being a few minutes late. Her shrug of acceptance will do for the nonce. But- she goes on. ‘I thought you weren’t coming and I almost cried but wiped away that silly tear before you saw the baby me.’ Glancing at her Silver Mist she smiled her angel smile at me and I saw her face, her magnificent, magical face.

I sat down, ordered a double martini, extra dry with a twist and spoke silently to god

‘Thank you, thank you, Lord. Thank you for the preview!’

ARTISTE

Usually by 8 a.m. I have started to sharpen my mind, think, try to conjure up a daily new story. Today, however, I was overwhelmed by an uncontrollable desire for a Dunkin’ Donuts chocolate covered do-nut. Prepared to write while I nibbled my treat, I had my writing book and several pens ready to think, to get started. My fingers didn’t want to turn a page. My mind stood still. Not a trace of a story was on ‘hold.’ I ordered a coffee re-fill and a glazed donut, ate at a snail’s pace. Nada.

My fake Rolex watch told me not to dicker around, go to the park, sit a while, watch the squirrels, and something will come to me. What the hell, I told myself, go for the short ride to Westmore. With the lot almost empty and my choice of benches, I chose the closest green, worn wooden one, bedecked with carved initials on every slat, even on the back rest. My ass sat down on LS, GD and a swastika. Empty pages of my book opened in the breeze as I stared blankly at the trees.

Come on, Man, think, think! Empty holes bored into my skull. Ah, hope was on the way. A tall, gray haired man pushing a wheel barrow walked slowly towards me. As he drew closer I realized his load was wet cement. Around his waist was a rope that held a trowel. He passed me and stopped near a pile of bricks and a hand written notice, ‘Public facility under construction. No trespassing.’ A tiny spark twinged my mind but not enough to start words flowing.

As if the bricks were feathers I felt them encircling my legs, my brain, sealing away forever unwritten words. My body was working. I could walk a little, talk a little but still not think. ‘Hey, Old Man, what are you doing? Are you a Gestapo agent? Are you going to put me in an oven?’ He only grunted. I watched him build a square block, motion to me to come close. This might turn into a story yet so I closed the empty space between us. His bony hand, long fingers with broken, dirty nails, patted the brick block. With his eyes he told me to sit on it. Without trying to think, I sat down. The old man showed me what to do, bend my right arm slightly, put my hand on the edge of my seat. Using motions, I was to lean forward, put my left hand on my forehead as if I were deep in thought. The wheel barrow moved closer to me. Oddly the cement was still wet. He ploughed up a trowel full and quickly, deftly, while I sat as still as if I were already in rigor mortis, covered me to my brow. The problem intensified. I could not think my way out of my position and now I couldn’t move or see. A blank blackness descended. Near my right bent knee I felt a scratching in the cement. Backwards he had etched his name, ‘Rodin.’ Loud enough for me to still hear, I picked out a few words. ‘Now you have time. Think, think, forever,’ followed by the clattering of the wheelbarrow moving away.

A squirrel ran across my foot, startled me awake. I jumped up from the initialed bench, particularly noticed the swastika, sat down again, opened my book and started to write this bizarre story.

STAND BY ME

Time can fly. A moment can be an entire stage play, with only one ending–the curtain comes down. Curtain calls rarely happen when tubes are in every orifice; when saline drips drops that sound like thunder; when a slow heart suddenly clip clops like a horse training for the Preakness.

Jay is pale. His yellow, dry skin no longer absorbs the daily moisturizers. For much of his lingering time, he sleeps, no longer snores. I miss that familiar sound and wonder now why I used to kick him or bang on his back to stop it, let me sleep.

Miss Flagstad comes in, empties the urine bag, checks Jay’s vital signs, lowers his thin blanket and gently massages his bed sores. He knows I’m by his side and whispers thanks to me and turns towards the twilight forcing its way into his window.

The supper cart rattles in. I crank up Jay’s bed enough so he can lean against 2 pillows. His face is sweaty. I wash it softly with a cool cloth and then run a comb thru the few gray hairs he still has on his head. He looks at me, smiles. As best as he can he tells me he loves me. There is orange Jell-O on his tray, not his favorite flavor, but he manages to swallow a cube. The tomato soup doesn’t look too terrible. As I put a spoonful towards his lips, he smacks my hand away and in a voice stronger than I have heard in days, he yells at me. ‘For god’s sake, tell me what you are feeding me before you toss something at me. I have to know what is coming!’ His face is knotted, angry. My apologies are accepted as I had never considered a situation like this.

Time to break the anger and I laugh out loud, ’OK, Honey, here comes the choo choo. Open wide. Vanilla ice cream is coming in.’ Jay starts to laugh and almost chokes. Taking control he rests a bit and falls to sleep again.

It is not yet dark and I wish I could get a little sleep myself. The door opens and in come two husky men pushing a guerny. They maneuver next to Jay and begin to lift him onto it. My faculties come alive! ‘What are you doing? Where are you taking him?’ The taller man tells me the patient is due in radiation. ‘You are taking him nowhere. Get the devil out of here. You must be in the wrong room!’ ‘We have orders Ma’ am.’ ‘Yes you do. MY orders, leave Mr. Tatum alone.’ They push the clickety clack guerny out the door and I never hear from them again but the head nurse gets a mouthful from me. What would have happened to Jay had I not been with him? Would a leg have been amputated? The possibilities boggle my imagination. A new fear clutches my heart.

The night nurse arrives and I pounce on her. ‘ Have the lounge chair near the window removed now. Have a single cot brought in, with a decent pillow and cover. I am sleeping here next to my husband from this moment on. Put the charge on my bill. I am staying!’

Jay stirs and makes an attempt at clapping his hands. ‘Good for you, Darling. I do feel better when you are here. While I still can remember, go to the lower drawer in my desk, find my will and the letters that are in a red rubber band. Do it before my big breakfast comes and you feed me. I only want the letter addressed to Adele. It tore my heart out to write it, to have disowned her, but she broke mine first.’

The mushy oatmeal is almost cold when I return with the letter. I put a pen in Jay’s hand. With his faltering fingers he manages to add, ‘I loved you little girl no matter what you did, where your path took you. I forgive you.’ The pen falls on the floor. Jay closes his eyes for a moment. I hear a low rattle, a gasp. His eyes open and he is gone.

THESE ARE REALLY TICKLERS

http://bit.ly/FnN7P

INGRAINED

I was anxiously waiting for three letters. Mom told me to stop worrying, letters take long. Some days I don’t go out at all until the mailman comes. Before he has a chance to drive away, I’m outside pulling open the aluminum door to our mailbox. Ads, a few bills toward the end of July and a now and then letter from Grandma, zilch for me.FAU, U of MD, U of VA, must not have received my college applications. If I had written to Harvard or U of PA, I would have had turn downs fast. That wouldn’t have upset me as much. The only thing that might have bothered me was I would have had to save the $100 required just to apply.

My Dad and Mom have always pushed me to excel, become a doctor, a nurse. I think that began when my Aunt Mollie gave me a toy doctor’s kit for my 7th birthday and I pretended to take everyone’s pulse, temperature. I put band aids on noses. I made a sling out of my mother’s head scarf and made my Dad wear it to dinner one night. What a memory that is. He couldn’t cut his roast beef and it slid off his plate onto his pants. Grease got all over them. Mom made me take them to the cleaners and then took thirty cents out of my allowance two weeks in a row.

That must have been when I gave up medicine and decided to become a beautician. It would be great for me to cut off all the golden curls my friends had, making them have straight hair like mine. Once I put red ink on my stiff bangs, spoiled my blouse and Mom’s kitchen towel. She made me keep my bangs that way until they grew long enough to start to trim, little by little. It took three weeks and by then I didn’t care. In fact, I liked the red and considered trying blue ink the next time. Dad warned me and there was no next time.

By age fourteen my foolishness had almost disappeared. My aims were high. I would become a professor at some college, subject not yet considered. I studied in high school, learned about everything. Just learning was prime to me. Dissecting a frog was simple, even exciting. English kings in order for the 15th and 16th centuries were a cinch. Book learning was simple.

What was hard was making friends, goofing off. There was not enough time for me to cram all I wanted to know into my cranium. The girls were boy crazy. The boys were sex starved. For me, my footprint in cement, a star named after me, was my goal.

‘Mom, Mom, two answers at once. Look, look! FAU and U of MD. You open them. I’m too excited, too nervous! Open which ever is in your right hand. That will be the right one for me.’ ‘FAU will be pleased to enroll you in Psychology One beginning August 3, 2002.’ The beautiful liquid words flowed like the Blue Danube. ‘I’m going, really going to college, Mom.’ MD’s reply was a carbon copy of FAU, except it gave my dorm assignment. Dad was thrilled, calmed down and then checked the tuitions. FAU was $2000 more a semester than MD. Dad wasn’t happy about that and told me how much closer MD was to home, less air fares, less traveling time. ‘Keep that in mind, Darling.’

I can’t tell him I don’t want to be close to home, I’m going away to become another person, to be somebody important. ‘Dad, I’ll get a job on campus, make up some of the difference for you. Please let me go to Florida. I don’t like the cold, the snow, the heavy clothes.’ Dad comes back at me with Virginia being almost half way, no hurricanes. I whine for FL. Dad gives in and kisses me on the top of my straight hair.

Theresa and I bump into each other as we reach our shared room at the same moment. She flits in and takes charge. The bed near the window is yours. I’ll be near the door. We can switch whenever we want a change. Ok? Please don’t call me Theresa. I don’t want anyone to think I’m a saint. I’m not. Tess will be good. Let’s get out of here, look around, check out the guys.’ ‘ You go, Tess. I want to unpack and go down to the quad, find the bookstore, and buy what I will need for classes. Come with me.’ Tess is not interested, does an Indian war dance around the room, waves and is out to hunt.

In the full length mirror that hangs precariously on the bathroom door I take a long look at myself and am not happy with what I see, a lonely three years of books, term papers, cafeteria meals, letters from Mom. There has to be more to college. My shadow speaks to me. ‘Change yourself. Dream a little. Be incognito for a while. Be under police protection. Be exciting. Get out of here. Go meet people. You can unpack later. The store will be in the quad tomorrow.’ My right hand pulls my new bedspread off, tosses it on the floor and I stand still, trying to digest my own advice.

The bedspread remains where I threw it. I knock on the door to the next room. A handsome young black man opens the door, gives me a wide smile with glazed white teeth. ‘Hi, I’m Evie, and only want to say hello and get to meet my neighbors, classmates.’ Kimba invites me in but I have more doors to approach.

Tess is back in our room when I return. She has a cig hanging from her lips. It has a smell I know from high school. ‘No smoking in our room, Tess, or even on campus. Please douse it.’ ‘You don’t like the smell. Get out,’ I am told. I pick up my bedspread, put it neatly back on my bed and go down the hall, down two flights and find the bookstore.

INGRAINED

I was anxiously waiting for three letters. Mom told me to stop worrying, letters take long. Some days I don’t go out at all until the mailman comes. Before he has a chance to drive away, I’m outside pulling open the aluminum door to our mailbox. Ads, a few bills toward the end of July and a now and then letter from Grandma, zilch for me.FAU, U of MD, U of VA, must not have received my college applications. If I had written to Harvard or U of PA, I would have had turn downs fast. That wouldn’t have upset me as much. The only thing that might have bothered me was I would have had to save the $100 required just to apply.

My Dad and Mom have always pushed me to excel, become a doctor, a nurse. I think that began when my Aunt Mollie gave me a toy doctor’s kit for my 7th birthday and I pretended to take everyone’s pulse, temperature. I put band aids on noses. I made a sling out of my mother’s head scarf and made my Dad wear it to dinner one night. What a memory that is. He couldn’t cut his roast beef and it slid off his plate onto his pants. Grease got all over them. Mom made me take them to the cleaners and then took thirty cents out of my allowance two weeks in a row.

That must have been when I gave up medicine and decided to become a beautician. It would be great for me to cut off all the golden curls my friends had, making them have straight hair like mine. Once I put red ink on my stiff bangs, spoiled my blouse and Mom’s kitchen towel. She made me keep my bangs that way until they grew long enough to start to trim, little by little. It took three weeks and by then I didn’t care. In fact, I liked the red and considered trying blue ink the next time. Dad warned me and there was no next time.

By age fourteen my foolishness had almost disappeared. My aims were high. I would become a professor at some college, subject not yet considered. I studied in high school, learned about everything. Just learning was prime to me. Dissecting a frog was simple, even exciting. English kings in order for the 15th and 16th centuries were a cinch. Book learning was simple.

What was hard was making friends, goofing off. There was not enough time for me to cram all I wanted to know into my cranium. The girls were boy crazy. The boys were sex starved. For me, my footprint in cement, a star named after me, was my goal.

‘Mom, Mom, two answers at once. Look, look! FAU and U of MD. You open them. I’m too excited, too nervous! Open which ever is in your right hand. That will be the right one for me.’ ‘FAU will be pleased to enroll you in Psychology One beginning August 3, 2002.’ The beautiful liquid words flowed like the Blue Danube. ‘I’m going, really going to college, Mom.’ MD’s reply was a carbon copy of FAU, except it gave my dorm assignment. Dad was thrilled, calmed down and then checked the tuitions. FAU was $2000 more a semester than MD. Dad wasn’t happy about that and told me how much closer MD was to home, less air fares, less traveling time. ‘Keep that in mind, Darling.’

I can’t tell him I don’t want to be close to home, I’m going away to become another person, to be somebody important. ‘Dad, I’ll get a job on campus, make up some of the difference for you. Please let me go to Florida. I don’t like the cold, the snow, the heavy clothes.’ Dad comes back at me with Virginia being almost half way, no hurricanes. I whine for FL. Dad gives in and kisses me on the top of my straight hair.

Theresa and I bump into each other as we reach our shared room at the same moment. She flits in and takes charge. The bed near the window is yours. I’ll be near the door. We can switch whenever we want a change. Ok? Please don’t call me Theresa. I don’t want anyone to think I’m a saint. I’m not. Tess will be good. Let’s get out of here, look around, check out the guys.’ ‘ You go, Tess. I want to unpack and go down to the quad, find the bookstore, and buy what I will need for classes. Come with me.’ Tess is not interested, does an Indian war dance around the room, waves and is out to hunt.

In the full length mirror that hangs precariously on the bathroom door I take a long look at myself and am not happy with what I see, a lonely three years of books, term papers, cafeteria meals, letters from Mom. There has to be more to college. My shadow speaks to me. ‘Change yourself. Dream a little. Be incognito for a while. Be under police protection. Be exciting. Get out of here. Go meet people. You can unpack later. The store will be in the quad tomorrow.’ My right hand pulls my new bedspread off, tosses it on the floor and I stand still, trying to digest my own advice.

The bedspread remains where I threw it. I knock on the door to the next room. A handsome young black man opens the door, gives me a wide smile with glazed white teeth. ‘Hi, I’m Evie, and only want to say hello and get to meet my neighbors, classmates.’ Kimba invites me in but I have more doors to approach.

Tess is back in our room when I return. She has a cig hanging from her lips. It has a smell I know from high school. ‘No smoking in our room, Tess, or even on campus. Please douse it.’ ‘You don’t like the smell. Get out,’ I am told. I pick up my bedspread, put it neatly back on my bed and go down the hall, down two flights and find the bookstore.

LOOK AND LISTEN

Morning has taken its first tremulous steps into the dark night sky. An almost buried thought comes to my mind just as I remove my nightgown. I freeze, open the linen closet and remove two large yellow terry towels. One I wrap around my nakedness. The other I hang on a door hook. I’ve been testing the sink water that takes much too long to reach my shower. It is just beginning to get warm. I let it run until it is good and hot. The sink tap goes off, the shower head is ready to spurt. But a chill comes over me. I’m not going to remove my towel.

Using what I believe to be good reasoning sense, I feel someone looking at me thru a telescope, someone like Jimmy Stewart. He watched a murder across his apartment’s courtyard, one almost like mine. Hitchcock and Jimmy are long gone but the premise still lives. Can there be another murderer, maybe two? I ask myself, look in my mirror and say, ‘If he is coming after me, sneaking peeps, getting his jollies, No more, Fella!’

To cut the sneak’s chances of seeing me, I lower the dimmer before my robe falls to the floor. He won’t see me. I can hardly see my lufah, my shampoo. My shower is a disaster. I do what I have to, wrap myself in my handy towel before I take a step out of my dressing area, dry off, try to relax. Ray must be frustrated, missing his kicks.

I get mine from in the sky. A dragon, stands on his hind legs, long, strong talons ready to devour a hook nosed old lady, wearing a white pleated cap that has caved in on top. A baby pussy cat sits inside the cap. Its whiskers flutter and fly away. My eyes are there so I mis-button my blouse and have to start again at the bottom. It is only July but Santa has a pack on his back. I think he has been taking statins as he looks too thin to me. His white beard remains long and keeps a baby elephant from falling to earth.

The red sun starts to turn yellow. Clouds evaporate. From the 3rd floor across the courtyard, something shines. The sun makes it glitter. It must be a telescope. It has to be a telescope. This may be my imagination, but maybe not. From my kitchen what-not drawer I find the list of condo residents, done in building sections. There is no listing for Jimmy Stewart. But in building H, across from D ( my building) there is a Jimmy McLagen. Could that be Victor’s son, a mean, tough man if I ever saw one in the movies? I dial. 452-2901. A child’s tiny voice answers on the third ring. ‘Daddy is in the bathroom. Please call back.’ I don’t bother. Mr. McLagen has not been watching me.

But maybe someone else has. Tomorrow I’ll leave my dim light off, stay cool and keep my eyes on the sky parade.

GILDED LILY

'Go to bed now. I’m telling you for the last time. Go or I’ll drag you upstairs. I’ve got other things to do besides being your mother.’Little Lily stood there at the bottom of the stairs, defiantly ignoring her. ‘But, Ma, I have to tell you something. It’s important. The house is on fire! Save me, save me, please.’ Her busy mother chastises the child for such a fib. ‘The Lord is going to punish you for such nonsense.’

The five year old Lily starts to go upstairs. Holding the railing, she gets ½ way up, sits down and throws her beautiful Betsy doll as far as she can. ‘Ma,’ she cries, ‘Betsy just fell down. I think she is dead. Please call Dr. Gold. He likes me. Tell him to bring me a chocolate lollipop this time. I didn’t like the lime one.’ Another two steps up going backwards. One of her pink fuzzy bedroom slippers falls off and tumbles down to the last step. ‘Ma, Ma, help. Mr. Wiggly jumped off my foot and slipped. He’s down in the hall. Will you see if he’s okay and bring him to me with one of your ginger snaps and a glass of milk?’

‘Lily, get to bed. My Mah Jong ladies will be here soon and I have to finish up. Stop bothering me.’

Lily hears her open the basement door but can’t see her. The doorbellrings, rings again. ‘Ma, your ladies must be here. Open the door.’ Lily has finally reached her room, starts to go in, and sees a yellowish light outside her window. Something is happening. From her window she can see people running across her lawn. There is a lot of noise. A fire truck screeches into her driveway. One, two, three, four men, carry a big hose across the street to a fire plug. Somebody smashes the kitchen window. Lily hears heavy feet running up the steps. A fireman holding a big axe sees her, zooms her into his arms, and runs down and outside. ‘Ma, Ma, save me. Help. A man is going to hatchet me into little pieces. Save me. Save me.’ The Mah Jong ladies are huddled together near the curb. They run over to Lily, gather around her in a circle. ‘Your momwill be okay. Her arm is burned a little but she is going to be okay. She has a burn on her arm so she went to the hospital. Don’t be afraid.’ Mrs. Bradley asks Lily to come stay with her and her daughter for a day or two. ‘Can I play with her dolls and use her paint set?’ ‘Sure, Honey. I baked cup cakes today. You can have one after breakfast. We’ll have fun.’

‘Mrs. Bradley? I told Mom the house was on fire. She didn’t believe me and told me to go to bed.’ ‘Really, Lily? Didn’t she go look? Didn’t she smell smoke?’ ‘I dunnno. Ma doesn’t pay a lot of attention to me.’ ‘Well, little girl, there’s nothing much we can do here. The firemen will board up the window and doors. Let’s go to my house.’

‘But, but–did somebody save Mr. Wiggly? He was trying to escape the fire and fell down the steps. Can I tell you a secret, Mrs. Bradley? I think, am almost sure, Mr. Wiggly lit the matches Mama keeps on the cellar table. He doesn’t like her sneaking cigarettes. If Ma asks you about the matches, tell her Mr. Wiggly did it or she will blame me.

I tried once and couldn’t light any. Did you know I was five last Saturday?’

CIVIL WAR

‘Don’t push me. I don’t have to like the ballet just to keep up with your snooty friends! You want to go see men prancing around like fairies with their dicks in cods, go. Go with Claire and Josie. In fact, ask Willie to go along. He’ll swoon over the men.’

Anne battles back. ‘I went with you to see ‘Chicago’, the hot dames, skimpy costumes, the gyrations. I saw you perspiring, your eyes on young breasts, long beautiful legs. Open-minded me went along and enjoyed every minute. You, on the other side, are an idiot!’

‘Oh, I’m an idiot am I? Who makes the money in this family? Who keeps tabs on expenditures, needs and gives you all you want? I fill the cars with gas, figure out the tips at your elegant restaurants, don’t I? The answer, dear Wife, is I do!’

‘Is that so, Brad? Without your father being Board Chairman at L.B.Fox you might be selling toilets. You have no class and the older you get, the more pain in my ass you become!’

Willie can’t listen to the constant hassle anymore and butts in. ‘You two are disgusting. Cut out the bickering. Cut it out now. Your foolishness is hot enough to set your house on fire. And you, Brad, slandered me. You insinuated I am a fag just because I enjoy ballet. You owe me an apology.’

Anne, like a silly child, sticks her tongue out at her husband and declares, ‘Nyah, nyah . Willie has you pegged. You don’t even know anything about your friend. If I were Willie, I’d clobber you. You are a sad representation of manhood yourself.’

‘Willie, who invited you to butt into our conversation? You want to go to the ballet, do it. Go home, go to hell, I don’t care!’

Willie’s face reddens. He almost explodes. ‘I am going nowhere except to order 12 tickets to George Balachine’s Nut Cracker. Tickets go on sale Sept. 4 and will be sold out in a week. Interested? I can try for 14.’ You will know everybody. It has been settled, I’ll put the fortune on my charge card temporarily and everyone will pay me in cash. Anne and you will be my guests. I’ll explain a few things as the program moves along. Once you get a decent taste of it, I bet you’ll be hooked.’

‘Ok, Willie. I’m taking you up on your offer. If I don’t, Anne may never speak to me again. And that may be the best thing that happens to me today.’ Anne looks like she swallowed a cat. She’s elated and hugs her ‘idiot’ husband, smooths his limp hair out of his eyes and winks to Willie.

‘By the way, Brad, two of the tickets are for me. My girlfriend, Babs is coming. She’s hot. Keep your hands off her or you’ll feel mine in your belly.’

POURQUOI

She’s late. She’s late, for a very important date–and I am that date. I’ve paced back and forth in front of Le Petite Moulin Rouge, a small bistro on a dead end street in Buffalo. It’s my favorite eatery. An old scarred upright piano sits on a corner platform. La Lille, a fading chanteuse who still charms me into spasms of pleasure, sings a few songs between nine and nine thirty each evening. I believe she warbles, trills for the thrill with no salary. The applause of the audience, never more than 20, buoys her spirit, keeps her alive as does the applause and the paper money put into her hands as she leaves the stage.

Ma cherie, Renee, isn’t in sight. I pace enough and go inside where I am greeted like le roi. My petite table is neatly set for two and I am upset enough to take the chair facing La Lille and letting Renee face the wall, if she ever gets here. The door creaks a little. Its sheer white dotted Swiss curtain rustles as my date enters. ‘Bon sir. Bon soir. Pardone’ moi,’ she giggles and rushes over to me. She is so irresistibly adorable I almost sweep her off her feet.

We need not select a wine. A perfectly aromatic Val de Daque awaits us. A taste is poured in my stem glass. I sniff it, watch the legs shiver, smell a slight hint of berries. I nod my approval. Les cartes are absent as dinner has been arranged. Escargot, lobster bisque, duck l’orange, pomme de terre, string beans au buerre, more than enough for two. We dine slowly with relish and desire. As I stare into Renee’s blue eyes, they sparkle. I lose control and drop my fork. We laugh.

At 8:45 the pianist enters, seats himself at his imaginary grand piano, and plays ‘La Vie en Rose.’ La Lille, wearing a long, simple black gown, grandly tosses her white feather boa around her neck and walks to center stage, no more than six steps. All flat ware is silent. No glasses clink. La Lille does not sing. The pianist looks at her, concern showing on his wrinkled brow. He plays her opening song again. La Lille stands still, looks directly into the single low watt spotlight. I, closest to her, see tears beginning to overflow her eyes. My compassionate Renee’ goes on stage, puts her arm around La Lille, and in her halting French, says, ‘Chant avec moi, s’il vous plait.’ My sweetheart sings one verse in English. La Lille repeats it in French, hugs Renee’, blows kisses to the surprised audience, waves and with great simplicity explains, ‘Je suis mal. Au revoir, Mes Amis,’ and leaves. Everyone is stunned. We applaud until our reddened hands ache. She does not come back. My perfect evening, my important evening, is still important. Our dessert, chocolate mousse, waits for us. We devour it, lick our lips, hold hands and talk about La Lille. Our waiter brings the check on a small black tray. He places it in front of Renee’. Without asking why, she opens her purse and takes out her charge card. As she places it on the tray, she screams, ‘What is that? What is that?’ I hand her the red velvet box. As I knew it would, the diamond ring fits her perfectly. The remaining diners stand in unison and applaud as Renee’ and I kiss.

Valet brings my car, my bride to be and I look back at the bistro and see La Lille behind the white dotted Swiss curtain, waving adieu.

AMERICA – I LOVE THEE

Zara, walking behind her husband, sweats, can hardly breathe. Her blue cotton burka touches the ground. She is clumsy. The meshed grill over her face allows in barely enough light to see. This is her destiny, her fate and has been since she was eleven when her parents sold her to Ashmal for two sacks of wheat.

They do not walk far, but far enough for her to catch a glimpse of two women wearing dresses who are coming out of a place that sells fried chicken. The smell crosses the dirty street and snakes into her burka, making matters worse, if possible. One lady’s dress is red. ‘Infidel’ she thinks and then re-thinks, ‘No, it is the burka that is a sin. A red burka will never happen. ‘ Ashmal stops to buy a sack of expensive rice, imported from China. He hands it to her to slip under the burka and carry it home. First they go to prayers. He prays to Allah while Zara fakes it. They return home to their 5 children. The rest of the day she cooks, cleans, plays a bit with the children and prays 4 more required times to her own secret place. With pork being forbidden, Ashmal had a non-muslim slaughterer kill a chicken in a ritual way. Ashmal enjoyed his dinner and was ready to enjoy Zara.

There is always talk amongst the women after prayers. Iffah and Tahira stand in the shade outside the mosque doing their best to speak thru the grill. Three throats are dry. Three women smell their own perspiration. There were three known beheadings of five Muslim women the day before , women who had deserted Islam, put on dresses, got office jobs using computers. Daily women who have forsaken Allah’s commandments are pulled off the street by the Taliban, beaten unconscious and left to gather flies.

Zara is afraid, afraid she is on the sword’s point of making a decision. At home she cuts open a juicy pomegranate, sucks out the red wine and gives small slices to her children. If I stay, I will always be a slave. My life will be unbearable. If Ashmal let’s me go to school and somehow I get work, I may die for my cause. What will happen to my children? There is no one to ask. Iffah and Tashira cannot be trusted. Ashmal has to divorce me if I ask, but it will take time and he will re-marry.

Weeks creep by. Zara itches in her burka and out of it and the old ways, join the upcoming revolution, give her children the chance she never had. Ashmal is feeling nice and is letting her walk behind him to the city. As he passes a stall, Zara sees a box of silk scarves, picks out a few and steals a red one that goes inside her burka. Two sins, stealing and to make it worse, a red one. But she does not call on Allah to forgive her. She fingers the scarf in secret. The red is her blood on fire.

The time has come. She pushes Ashmal off her body and lets him see the red scarf around her wrist. He hits her, hits her hard and simply denounces her by saying the three right words and the divorce procedure goes into affect. For three months they must share their house but have no marital relations. Zara was free, was going to live with Ashmal for a year as he must provide for her and the children.

Zara took her red scarf to the Red Zone Bldg. where she joined with other modernists, paraded, was beaten a few times but so far has survived and progressed. The children are learning from her and will be free one day—if the Taliban disappears. If not, they and Pakistan may disappear.

Zara has applied for a passport and will take her three oldest children to America. The Red Zoners will be there to greet them.

OXY OR NOT–A MORON

I was so sadly happy. I was free, out of the marital handcuffs I’d worn for 35 years. Each year the woman in my life got stronger while I caved in and grew weaker. ‘Bill, haven’t you even noticed the kitchen cabinet counter tops are looking poorly? I think its time we go granite like Dean and Marie. Jessee and Babs love their new kitchen. Christ, our formica has had it. And while we’re doing it, I’d like to put in a single Dutch sink instead of the tiny two part one we have. I’ve hated it from day one when we moved in.’

‘Evelyn, that will cost thousands. I know you. You’ll want a new dishwasher and electric oven. No, we can’t do it now! Don’t you read the papers, watch CNN? We’re in a recession. Who knows what will be? Old Hank can let me go whenever he finds he has to cut someplace. Jimmy, you know Jimmy who has three year old triplets, Hank dropped the ax on him two weeks ago for no reason I can see.’

The doorbell chimed. I opened it to a stranger who nodded and walked right past me. ‘Hi, there, Mrs. Smulyan. I’m a few minutes early. Hope you don’t mind.’ My ears stood up like a bunny’s. Wifey dear and the granite salesman pulled me into the kitchen. I fumbled a bit, ‘Mr. Uh uh Harrison, my wife has jumped the gun. I’m not ready for this now.’ ‘I’m here already. No obligation.’ He smiled and continued his spiel of great selection, reasonable prices, fast delivery.

It took three months to get the granite color and vein to please Evelyn. I was glad of the delay. The single white country sink did look much better than the stained stainless steel. Burnt rust tile flooring, a new dishwasher were my limit. Sure it was. I was head of our house, wasn’t I? Next to the dishwasher our old tan Kenway ruined every- thing. I tried desperately to control Evelyn and myself but she wangled a good deal with Sears if we also bought the double refrigerator. The room was set and looked, I admit, super. What didn’t look good was my checking account. It was just about to the empty red line.

During week-end mornings, I was busily idle reading temp wanted ads, not applying for any. No question, that kitchen deal hit me hard. Before our renovation, Evelyn played bridge once a week with the same three friends, rotating houses. Whamo, she made new friends, played three times a week and always in our house, showing off, serving cakes and cookies made in her new double oven.

Ev had heard it on the grapevine and confirmed it when she talked to Marie. She and Carl were taking a three week cruise on the Crystal Moon. ‘Bill, please Bill, can’t we go too? I’ve checked and there are a few upper deck cabins still available.’ ‘Come on, Kiddo, I’d love to go but we can’t afford it now. If Old Hank doesn’t come up with my bonus Christmas time, we will be in serious trouble. So it’s ‘no.’ ‘Well then, can we fly to Cancun for a few days? Lots of deals available. We can have fun! No telling who we might meet, even a movie star taking a break.’

It turned out I was wisely foolish. On the plane Evelyn waved to someone a few seats back from ours. I looked, didn’t recognize the man at first. A flash-back struck me. It was Mr. uh uh Harrison, the kitchen man. Need I go on with my tale of woeful joy? Ok., I will.

Ev and I settled into a comfy room. There was a large basket of welcoming fruit on a round marble cocktail table. We each had a juicy piece of papaya, changed into swim wear and went to the beach. Careless, stupid, I didn’t listen to Evelyn and got a bad sunburn, enough to keep me on our terrace the next day, while my wife lathered herself again with sun screen and went down to the water’s edge. Trouble started. She and uh uh evidently got chummy there and on our bus ride to the ruins.

What I got was a shock. Separation papers were served to me within a week of arriving home. It was for the best. Evelyn had her kitchen. Old Hank gave me my salvation bonus. I was able to locate and buy a perfectly comfortable one bedroom condo without financial stress, without a rope around my neck and without Evelyn.

DEAR SO AND SO

‘You know what, Marshall? I’ve come to a point in my life I have to tell you something, something I’ve lived with and accepted much too long. Hold your tongue and anger, just read and if you blow up, I’ll be glad. Don’t bother replying, I’m not going to open anything more from you. You are going to write me off and I don’t care.

Marshall, I’ve never, never liked you, going back to our kindergarten days when Miss Wolfe put you in charge of giving out our daily battle of milk and a straw. You always bent my straw, dropped it on the dirty floor. I had to ask Miss Wolfe for a clean one every time. She called me ‘Careless.’ That was plain mean, Marshall.

And we fought all the time. You’ve always been taller and smarter than I was and you flaunted it, made fun of me. Your voice has grated on me for as long as I can remember. Think about the many times you made me go see Tom Mix on Saturdays even though my favorite, Hopalong, was playing at the Rialto, right next door. And then you really hurt me. You took away my first girlfriend, Phyllis. I put a hex on you that worked a little. She didn’t like you very long and kissed Harold behind the apple tree in her back yard. Phyllis didn’t come back to me either.

Now that you have grown up and are getting old, I realize you are a rat fink. Lies, you lie to me, tell lies about me. Some of your nasty stuff has come back. True the teller shouldn’t have spread the ugliness you put out there but you were my friend and should never have passed dirt on.

And where is the fifty bucks you ‘borrowed’ last year to pay off a gambling bet? It’s time to pay me off. Send me my money and include thr $125 I had to pay to repair my car! You know it was your fault you scraped my grey Camry in my driveway with your red car. I wasn’t even home.

And how about the time, not too long ago, you brought me a dirty sex book while I was recuperating from my by heart surgery? Smart, Marshall? No it was dumb, stupid!

This is it. I have let off some of the boiling steam I’ve carried around and want it off my back and you out of my life. ‘

I seal and stamp the letter, put it on the small table near the front door and will personally hand it to the mail man when he comes this afternoon.ANDY_____________________________________________________ Dear Andy,

Today is my 50th birthday and I’ve been enjoying it, looking at old 8 millimeter films, photo albums, a few silly mementos and you were everywhere. You have been a big, important part of my life. You’ve made me laugh so many times. ‘I’d tease you, argue with you and you’d try to it me, get back at me. The more you tried, the angrier you got, the more I teased you. I still laugh but now that my toys are gone and I’m a big man, I realize I was wrong and want to apologize to you.

You blamed me for taking your first girlfriend away, but I didn’t. Phyllis, that was her name, wasn’t it? She was a goofy boy crazy girl who liked little Kenny and kept trying to make him jealous. Did you know she married that shrimp who grew to be 6'2"?

And didn’t I give you ½ of my Good ‘n Plentys at the Sat. movies and never took any of your Walnettos in exchange? Whenever you got in any kind of trouble, big or little, I was there for you, wasn’t I? Remember I got your impounded car off the police lot and never told you wife it was over parked at a strip joint? Anything I ever discussed with our friends that concerned you was not new stuff. It was already passed around. If you think I instigated any rumors, you are wrong. You are my friend, my best friend.

By the way, enclosed is my check for the $175 I owe you. Let’s get the guys together for a gin game soon. OK?

Marshall

NOT MY THING

The white clouds are flat and grey on the bottom. They look like they are just about ready to take a nice cool swim in the Atlantic Ocean. Small, low, almost tender waves roll onto the clean tan beach. It’s pocked with footprints, some coming towards me, some going to meet the clouds. How did Columbus, Vespucci keep their ships afloat, going, going like the Energizer battery? I swear it looks like over the horizon the ocean will drop into a huge hole and will create the largest roaring waterfall on earth. The sun, the sand, are on fire but the breeze blows and cools the shade where the palm trees line the Alameda.

I sit in the semi-comfort under a shaded palm thatched hut, listening to chit chat in Spanish, crying babies. For sure the sun’s reflected rays are going to get me no matter which direction I look so I try not to castigate myself for being here. The sun and I will reflect together for a short while.

Hopeful swimmers carry colorful buckets and shovels for their kids to amuse themselves while they wade out a little and plop into the chilly water. Let them. I’ll stay dry and sand free. Coming towards me, each carrying a folded aluminum chair, is a couple who look happy, babble in French while I believe their dark skin says Mexican or perhaps Haitians. They lean their chairs against my table and sit opposite me. We talk and I learn they are Caucasian from NY, vacationing in FL for the ‘season.’ Every day they are at the beach for hours. Not only will they have dried up, cracked skin, coarse hair, before the ‘season’ is over, they will be accepted in Harlem as one of their own. And before long, may be patients at the oncology dept of Sinai Hospital.

Excitement, people running to the water’s edge. I sit where I am.A baby, barely toddling, squirmed away from her mother who was reading a child care magazine. The mother finally looked up and the baby was floating, face down, just a few feet out in the water. A swimmer was about to step onto the beach, saw the baby, carried him in and started careful, light touch resuscitation. It worked. The gathered crowd applauded. The careless mother packed up her book, , her miscellaneous items, the baby’s water bottle, some towels, and without bothering to put on her bathing suit cover, managed to carry the baby too, and left. Good riddance.

Along the paved path tall palm trees stand like soldiers on parade. Their fronds shade the street not the beach, yet one after another I see people sitting under them without noticing the sun moved away long ago. What they may enjoy is the tickle of black ants running up their legs. I wouldn’t and so I sit under the palm thatched hut, noticing, watching others, some who watch me.

Mother’s loudly instruct their kids to use the outside shower, ‘Get all the sand off your feet. Dry them before you put your shoes on.’ I am close to the shower and enjoy the kids glee and splashing. That is interrupted by a lady ( I use the term loosely) about 55, no less than 20 lbs. overweight, wearing a bikini three sizes too small. She drinks from a fountain, keeping it running with her left hand, as she uses her right one to remove the thong from her crack. If I were her husband, I’d have cracked her.

A few passersby glance at me and must wonder what I am writing, but don’t ask. I wonder, too, what am I writing, why am I here. The narrow attractive wooden bench is hard. So is the table that gives me no comfort at all. The hands on my watch seem glued in place. 40 more minutes left before I can walk to my parked car to meet my son who has been swimming and getting sun burned for an hour. He is right on the time he said he’d be back.

Hopefully my sigh is unheard and my joy is invisibly inside of me.

EPIPHANY–BEYOND WORDS

We were so unsophisticated, my teen boyfriend and I, but didn’t know it, didn’t even know the meaning of the word. Love, we held hands, kissed and stopped. Jack knew there was more and I thought so too, but didn’t know what. At almost 18 I began pushing marriage on Jack. It was what my high school girlfriends were doing, ‘getting hitched.’ From his life’s savings and his Dad, my boyfriend managed to buy me a 3/4 carat diamond engagement ring. I flashed it to everyone in class, especially those who didn’t even have a boyfriend.

My parents and Jack’s met and made plans for a small house wedding. In bringing those long ago days to mind I believe that is when the 100 years war of arguments began. How many guests? What to serve that was filling and not costly? Where we could go for our three day honeymoon? Where would we live? ‘Oh, no, No, No, I won’t live with my parents and I’m not going to your house either. Your sister is a pain in the neck and will pry into every thing, butting into our business!’ Jack countered all of my negatives. We argued constantly. Usually I won.

We found a small three room apartment on a quiet street we couldn’t afford but my parents subsidized us for a few months. I had a job, $12 a week, 5 days 8 to 5 and 8 to 12 on Saturdays. The street car fare took $1.20 out of my pay. Did I think or worry about my husband transferring to two street cars every day? Not often. It was my ride that was full when it reached my stop and I had to stand all the way to downtown daily to be in my cluttered office where most of my life was spent.

By then I knew what came after kissing--a baby. ‘Do I have to have this baby, Jack? I don’t want it.’ He hugged me tight and we argued for days. That time he won and I never regretted giving in.

Our kitchen walls were faded, needed at least a gallon of paint. Without asking, I took a dollar and ½ out of our saving envelope and bought light yellow and painted the walls myself. Jack was surprised and yelled at me. He hated yellow. We fought over the done deed until he finally let it go and I think he learned to like yellow.

So many times I hated him, mumbled that under my breath, wondering if he was mumbling under his. I thanked him for the box of dark chocolate covered cherries he brought me after his busy Saturday job. and then fell on him, fell hard. ‘You know I don’t like dark, why didn’t you get milk chocolate?’ I watched him go in the kitchen, slam the candy box on the table and then rip it open and stuff his mouth with the candy, devouring every bit. He shook his finger at me and yelled, ‘Now you don’t have to eat that damn dark chocolate!’ Then he ran into the bathroom and threw up in the toilet. I followed him, wiped his forehead with a damp wash cloth, flushed the toilet, cleaned up whatever missed the bowl and cried on his shoulder.

More stupid, mean, thoughtless things went on year after year. We never let up except for the few good times that were out weighed by the devil who had hold of us. Alone I tried a marriage counselor because Jack said it would do no good, we’d be throwing our money in the garbage. I quit after two sessions. He and I talked divorce many times but didn’t have a great desire to go thru with it. Too much was involved. Our battles were deeply ingrained in our ways. Life without them would be dull.

The time came to pay the piper. Jack got sick, really, really, sick. The Big ‘C’!’ My support, my caring was all I had to offer. It became my life.At last he was my reason to be. I told him, ‘Darling, I would gladly take your place in ½ second if I could.’ He heard me, smiled from his hospital bed, ‘Oh, no you wouldn’t.’ How could I not laugh? Tears, tears ran down my face. ‘Jack, Jack, don’t go, don’t leave me. I love you! His bony hand came from under his blanket. I reached for it, squeezed itr gently. His eyes fluttered for a moment and somehow from deep inside of him he managed to raise his voice loud enough for me to hear him clearly, ‘I love you too, but don’t tell me what to do.’ His voice got soft. His eyes closed and I told his deaf ears, ‘You won this won, Jack.’

I turned, walked down the hall to get a nurse.

PANDORA

The two middle-aged ladies are having a cocktail at a busy Saturday nite bar. They chat gaily with friends who drop by just to say ‘hello.’ For those who don’t know it, Lisa and Fran , I can assure you are not floozies, not looking to meet men. Both have healthy husbands, teen children and what seems like near perfect marriages. It’s 10:30. They call for the tab. Each hands the bartender a charge card. ‘Split it in half.’ They toodle oo a few friends and go home.

On the back of the bar stool is Fran’s light green cashmere sweater. Somebody is going to steal it. I casually walk over, take it with me. I mean to give it to her the next day. But don’t. I keep it, fold it neatly and put it under my old dress shirts, the ones I should give away some day.

In the morning I go to my garage, check to be sure my tires are inflated ok and open the big wooden crate that’s against the side wall.It doesn’t block my car door at all. There’s plenty of room for both of us. A slightly stale, but wonderful , odor comes out like a snake from a Hindus woven basket. On top is a baby’s blanket. It’s a bit shabby but still smells of talcum powder. I caress it and think of the nanny who didn’t notice the baby drop the blanket on the grass.

The worn high top sneaker makes me laugh. It not only smells of sweat, I can still see the runner bending to pick up his other shoe and poof it was gone. As he hopped around looking for it I told him I saw a bull dog slobbering on it and then walking away with it in his mouth. ‘Why didn’t you get it back for me?’ ‘I don’t like dogs and they don’t like me. That’s why.’ ‘What did he do with it?’ ‘I don’t know and I don’t care.’ I left him hobbling to his car.

There is little on my agenda for today, or most days, since I lost my job at Home Depot. A new house is under construction close to mine and I have applied for work as a carpenter’s helper. But today ‘a hunting I will go.’

A young lady I have never noticed before zooms past me on a skate board. She’s pretty. Smart too. Wearing an electric blue helmet with lightning over the ears, knee and arm pads, she won’t be in danger. I watch her make a quick turn and disappear. No sense chasing her, she’s too fast for me. But then I hear the roller blades again, see her bump into a green park bench, somersault and land in the grass. A velcro knee pad comes loose and falls 10 feet away from my feet. In a flash, I roll it up and walk away fast. This one is a treasure. It has grass stains and a spot of her blood. I turn, see she is fine and is looking everywhere for her knee pad. She ain’t going to find it. Before I stop at a cart for a dog with kraut, mustard and relish I toss the pad in my car trunk. The vendor doesn ’t notice a quarter laying under his cart. I pick it up. In the morning I start on my new job but first I put the pad in my trove and the quarter in my pocket. My new boss walks around checking inventory, tools, doors, window frames. Saws buzz in my ears, give me goose pimples. Mr. Smart Ass won’t let me use the saws yet. They are dangerous and he will have to spend time with me, time he doesn’t have. I wham in rivets around the automatic garage doors, sweep up tons of saw dust, take it to the big dumpster next to a Johnny on the Spot. In the spring it will all be lovely soft green grass. Twilight descends. I am about to drive home when I notice a small wrench sticking out from under an as yet not installed toilet. Purposely I drop my empty lunch pail close to it, bend to tie my shoe and swoosh the wrench into my pail.

At home I look at it carefully and wonder why I took it. There were three new ones in different sizes on my tool peg board. I paid cash for all of them. Price tags were still visible. Not once did I use any. And last month when my washing machine broke down, I couldn’t fix it and had to call a plumber. He borrowed two of my wrenches and only gave one back. I bet anything, he has a treasure trove someplace too.