NO FIFTH TO TAKE

They crept. They crawled. They flew. There were 48 of them singly, but they bunched together into one pile that teases me, pleases me, tortures me. Hardly a day of the following 20 years has passed that guilt doesn’t waggle its way into my mind.

I go back to 1943, walking slowly, theatrically, down the steps from my second floor bedroom to the first floor living room. All of the furniture had been removed, replaced by folding wooden chairs, aunts, uncles, friends. Even my three bosses and their wives looked up at me as I carried my small flowered white prayer book to the pre-planned spot for my wedding. Standing beside my groom, my mind wandered many times, hoping my teen boyfriend would crash through the door and stop the ceremony. Of course, he didn’t but that was what I thought I wanted.

As I dig and dig daily, I cannot hear, cannot recall, ever saying ‘I love you,’ to my new husband. I ease my guilt by telling myself he didn’t say those words to me, and have come to believe myself. But it can’t be true. I am guilty and at fault. My shoulders droop from the pain.

How we argued. We agreed on nothing, not even the color of my eyes. Did he ever tell me I looked pretty in any of the many evening gowns I had later in life? Did he ever tell me I looked beautiful in anything or in nothing? If he did, I am sure I’d remember it. Did I ever tell him he looked handsome? No, because he didn’t. He was a decent looking guy, about 2 inches taller than I, almost bald by 30 but dressed impeccably. I should have told him he looked great in his new tux with patent leather shoes, but didn’t. This was not a tit for tat game. We were so non-demonstrative that life and love slipped away too fast. I could have slowed down the process and take the blame.

For a special occasion I wanted to look great and bought a new emerald green silk cocktail dress. I kept it a secret as, for once, I wanted to please him, hear him tell me how pretty I looked. And I was at my best. He was reading the latest Life magazine, having a martini when I came out of the bedroom. My ‘darling’ husband looked up and in a mean, gravelly voice, yelled at me. ‘Where did you get that horrible dress? I hate that color. Take it off!’ Stay with me while I re-live that moment. I took it off at once and ripped it to shreds, ran into the bathroom and cried over the torn emerald rag. Neither of us apologized and didn’t speak for three days. In retrospect I have accepted the blame, should have shown him the dress, should not have had a fit and destroyed it. Instead, I should have killed him. Drip, drip goes my guilt.

Aside from the bad, I was a good wife, not a loving one, not a sex pot, but a good mother of our three children. We opened a small café and I cooked, cleaned the oven, scrubbed pots, replaced the absent cashier. Without me we would not have one of the most thriving, busy restaurants in all of Oakmont. He thanked me in his own way.

My husband was a giver. If I glanced in a jewelry store window, he’d take me inside and buy whatever I liked. Although I never in 48 years asked for anything tangible, he showered me with presents, furs, trips, a new custom built home. It was for naught. He never held my hand when we walked thru the park, but I never instigated that simple move either.

Only after he became ill, seriously ill, did I realize I loved him without realizing how much. It was macabre but I did love him. Why didn’t I tell him that every day of our lives together? Or a least now and then. I have not yet been able to admit that our less than happy years was anyone’s fault, except mine.

As I sat beside his morphined body, day after day, night after night, I knew too well that his last breath was coming soon and that he wasn’t going to hear me, yet could not utter, ‘I love you, Darling.’ For that and much more, there is nothing more to tell you, except I take the blame.

I was the guilty one from the start. Guilt is hell!

NOW FIRST - - LATER LATER

When I came into the living room, my daughter’s current ‘special guy’ was sitting on my very new carpet. His right pant leg was slightly rolled up, both shoes and socks were haphazardly nearby. I stopped, in shock, seeing Barry picking on his toe nails. ‘What in the world are you doing? Barry? Whatever it is, it is ugly. Please put your things back on. You want to do that, do it at your house, not in mine.’ As surprised as I was at seeing this private display, I was more surprised at Barry’s attitude. I came near to slapping him. ‘What am I doing, Mrs. Parks?’ he asked. What’s so terrible? I have an ingrown big toe nail and it hurts.’ Then go to a podiatrist, Young Man, go home, go sit in the gutter. I don’t care. Just don’t do that here again.’ If I had a saber, I could cut the air into tiny bits.

Anne, now a semi-independent 18 year old, looked adorable. Her blond hair barely touched her shoulders, her dress was becoming, fun and her smile was wide but a question mark was hanging from her lips. ‘What’s going on here, Mom? I heard your loud voice all the way in my room. ‘ ’Ask your friend. Have a nice time and be back for dinner at 6:30.’ Gulp. Anne wanted Barry to have dinner with us. I was on the spot. Barry must have been uncomfortable to and saved the moment.He had to be home as his grandparents were coming over and wanted to see their favorite (and only) grandson. As soon as they pulled away from the curb, I vacuumed the carpet wishing I could vacuum Barry out of Anne’s life.

Our dinner table was set, roast ready, for 6:30. Arnie, my husband, and Bea our younger daughter, talked. By 6:45 we fidgeted. By 7 we were angry. By 7:15 we were worried. At 7:16, my watch set exactly like my computer, Anne came in. She didn’t speak to us and went straight towards her room. I could hear her sobs. Arnie started after her. ‘Leave her alone, Arn. She and Barry must have had an argument. I added softly, ‘I hope so,’ The roast I had tested several times was a bit dry and tough. ‘Bea, help daddy clear the table. I’ll be down soon.’

Anne, fully dressed was lying cris-cross on her bed. One shoe was near her door and I almost fell over it. The other was dangling from her foot. I walked over and laid down on the bed next to my darling. She rolled over. Her eyes were bloodshot, burning with anger. They looked like a bull going straight at the matador. ‘Mother, I hate you,’ she wailed. ‘What’s wrong with you? Every time I sorta like a guy, you chase him away. Paul was a jerk. Jimmy failed a grade in school. Donnie was snippy and too aggressive. Now Barrie is gone too. What’s wrong with him?’ ‘He’s a pig, has little culture, picks on his toenails in public, right in our living room, and sees nothing wrong with that. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, Anne. His folks must have no couth.’

Barry went. Along came Joe, Daron, Brandon. I tried my best to stay out of Anne’s love life. I never questioned her virtue, never got her a blind date. What went on at college was rarely brought up. With great pride we attended her graduation from U Of MD, cum laude, with a BA degree. The graduates paraded down the aisles to shake hands with the university president and receive their diplomas. Tassels tossed and it was over. We joined forces with the other proud parents, pushed, shoved our way, looking for our own kids. ‘Anne, Anne,’ I yelled.’Stay where you are. We’ll come to you.’ The hugs, the pride, flowed over like the Nile in Spring. Next to Anne there was a tall man, his face turned, evidently looking for his parents. Anne touched him on the shoulder and he turned towards us, quickly put out his hand to shake with Arnie.

Anne burst out. ‘Mom, Dad, this is Barry. Remember him, the toe nail reject? Well, now he is your son-in-law. Say ‘hello’ to Dr. Barry Rollins, Podiatrist.’

FADED FRIENDS

At Balansky’s Delly, we never need menus for our grilled hot dogs topped with hot wide bologna, with pickles, lots of pickles included. I like the quartered sour tomatoes while my best friend, Betty, needs a fork to dig underneath to find well-done dills. I slap my wieners with gobs of mustard and nearly puke when Betty uses mayo on hers. Hot Heinz baked beans come in small bowls. All this and heaven too for fifteen cents. We have five cents extra for a glass of Dr. Pepper. I get a great idea. ‘Betty, let’s buy a big bottle of Dr. Pepper for ten cents and we can each have two glasses.’

My scheme works, or did work, until last week when Mr. Balansky walked by our booth, saw the big bottle on the table, folded his arms across his chest and told us to finish our lunches and get out. He pointed his finger at the door. ‘If I catch you trying to cheat me again, I’ll toss you out of here forever, and that will be your mothers, too.’

That was just last Saturday. Today Betty didn’t meet me for lunch. I waited a long time. The waitress kept asking me if I was ready to eat until finally I nodded ‘yes.’ She didn’t have to ask what I wanted as she had waited on Betty and me many times. My dogs came quickly, smelled like heaven but didn’t taste as good without my friend.

‘Mother, have you seen Betty? She didn’t meet me today. ‘No,’ was all Mother said. I walked across the street to Betty’s house, rang the bell but nobody answered. She wasn’t at the park or in the activities room with a teacher planning on a show for all the parents. Maybe she is in the hospital. Maybe she was in a car accident. ‘Mother, the family isn’t home. Where do you think they went?’ ‘Stop bothering me, Esther. I don’t know where they are.’

I ask our butcher and the very old lady who lives next door to Betty, and rarely comes outside. Miss Williams, have you seen Betty today?’ ‘’Land sakes, child, who is Betty?’ I am worried, frightened. Our druggist, Dr. Brown, doesn’t know where they are but did see her father carry two suitcases to his car before the store was opened. ‘They all got in and drove away.’That’s all I know, Esther.’ ‘Thanks.’

The next day I see Betty’s mother taking her milk delivery off her steps. In two seconds I slip on some clothes, any clothes, and race across the street. “Mrs. Tankoos, where is Betty? She was supposed to have our regular lunch with me Sat. and didn’t show up. Is she sick?’ ‘’Esther, my sister invited her to spend the entire summer with the family in Vermont. Betty jumped at the chance.’ ‘But, Mrs. Tankoos, why didn’t Betty at least tell me she wouldn’t be at Balanasky’s, that she was going away?’ ‘Sorry, Esther. Didn’t she tell you?’ ‘No, she didn’t and that was really stinky. Tell her I said so.’

Not a letter, not a phone call, not even a message thru her mother, do I get all summer. In July I ring Mrs. Tankoos’ doorbell. She opens the door and doesn’t seem to recognize me. ‘Mrs. Tankoos, are you sure Betty isn’t dead? How could she go away without telling me, writing to me?’ ‘Esther, Betty is having a wonderful time. My sister likes to travel and will be taking Betty lots of fancy places. Betty will be home the end of October.’ ‘October?’ I ask. ‘What about school?’ ‘My sister will be having a tutor at her house to keep Betty up to your level. Goodbye, Esther.’ I do believe she slammed the door too hard. I leave, more worried than ever.

Charlotte, another friend, but not as good a one as Betty had always been, now has lunches with me at Balanasky’s every Sat.

Leaves are brown, curling up in piles on the pavements. The maple trees have nothing more to free. They are bare. Looking out my frosted front window I see Betty coming out of her house to get the milk and the morning paper. Without stopping for my warm jacket, I race across the street, grab Betty, hug her almost to death. We are both happy. We part. I can’t help but notice how much weight she has put on, how much bigger her breasts have gotten, but say nothing. ‘Betty, why didn’t you write, call me? I thought you were dead.’ She only says, ‘My mother told me not to tell anyone about my summer. It’s a secret. If I tell you it won’t be a secret any more.’

She never tells me and doesn’t ever come to join Charlotte and me for hot dogs with grilled bologna.

FOR THE HAIL OF IT

It’s been raining hail all night. The clunk clink, rat a tat tat drumming on my roof is driving me wild. I need a hot cocoa, put on my slippers and shrug myself into my old-fashioned, but cozy, blue chenille robe. It has become part of me.

The kitchen is next to the stairway. Recently I had an electrician come in to put a light switch there so I can light the kitchen before I go in. It’s great. Right before I step into the kitchen I see the floor looks like a river, an icy cold one. The window over the sink is now glassless. Shreds of the gauze curtain fly in and out the wide open space. I back out, afraid of unseen glass shards. As I stand there alone, frightened, worried, the last pieces of the curtain are pulled outside. The wind has changed directions.

At the bottom of the stairs I cock my head, listen for the sleet on the roof and hear nothing. It has stopped. I look towards the sky, grateful to only need repairs not a casket.

The sun fights hard to brighten the early morning hours but there are hundreds, thousands of black, grayish clouds that beat him into submission. From the dry basement I bring up what feels like a ton of old newspapers, papers that I have meant to put outside for recycling for well over a year. Now I’m glad I was lazy. My feet are going to be sopping wet with or without the newspapers. It’s one, two, three and I plod in, laughing as I throw whole sections at a time into the floor flood.

It is still gloomy although it is 8 a.m., magic time. From my stack of business cards in the small table next to the sofa is my insurance company’s name and agent. Damn I’m good. It is right where it should be after ‘Hospitals’. I dial. I dial again, and again. The line is busy, busy. By 9 my finger and I have had it with the re-dial button.

With my car unscathed in the garage I take a ride to Metro Insurance Building. It’s only 20 miles away. Tree limbs block some streets. Saws hum, throwing the dust into the wind and on to my windshield. The windshield wiper is mired in it. I can’t see. I jam on my brakes and pull right towards the curb. Before getting to the curb I bump into a dark brown Lexus and give it a nasty bump. It was empty and I wasn’t hurt.Fortunately I have scrap paper and a pen always handy in the glove compartment. My note is short, my name and phone number. ‘I’m the culprit’ I write. That $500 ding is going to be $2000 when Lexus puts it to ‘Mr. Absent.’

Ah, my cell beckons. Metro is still busy, busy. I’m p-o- ed, scrape the rest of the sawdust off and continue on my way. From the lobby it sounds like Christmas time. Bells are ringing, jingalinging from every office. Mr. Curtis, my agent, is busy and will see me shortly. His shortly is an hour longly. That is plenty of time for my ire to turn to fire. Yes, I stay the course and wait, make my report about the window and then have to see Mr. Grady about the small car accident I had.

With no further trouble I reach home and go directly to the Yellow pages, find ‘Handy Man available day or night’ and I call. He is busy, can’t come until Friday. It is Wednesday and the window has to be replaced, the floor cleaned and waxed. ‘Sorry lady.’ Mr. Curtis is sending The Floor Man to take care of the floor damage on Friday. There is nothing I can do about the delay except eat out with friends and try not to cry.

The sun is shining. Its sunny yellow face peeks out from a mile of long, skinny gray clouds. That’s the instant I feel a change coming. My two large trash cans are upside down and empty near the alley. My two white doves are there, sitting on the lids, cooing to each other. Mr.Floor Man rings my doorbell. Johnny Flore tells me he had a cancellation in my neighborhood and can do my work then and there. He asks, ‘O.K.?, Ma am?’ It’s more than o.k., Mr. Flore. Go to it.’ I smile and wink to him and at him, then add with an even bigger smile on my face, ‘You can ring my bell any time you have the inclination.’

No more smiles, no more words. Saturday evening he knocks AND buzzes and comes in.

CLOSE THE DOOR

Clark kissed Jean. She rolled her body close to his and kissed him back. His lips loved the taste of her heavy cherry red lipstick. The left strap of her white satin dress slipped a little. Clark put it back on her shoulder. Jean pouted those heavenly lips and asked Clark why he did that. His response was simple, manly and mute. He lifted her off her feet, carried her to his bedroom and kicked the door shut. The scene, the movie, ended like that. It wasn’t over for the men or plenty of the ladies in the audience. It seemed the audience was leaving faster than usual.

I saw that old movie not long ago on t.v. and was astounded at how sensual it was, yet not a vulgar word was said, not a bare part of anyone showed. Gable’s hands never strayed over Harlow. His deep eyes, dark, heavy brows, a body any sane woman would be delighted to lie next to - - until - - Gable opened his mouth. It was common knowledge he had bad breath.

I seem to recall seeing that movie when I was about 10. What went on in the un air conditioned room was as unknown to me as how high is the sky or deep the sea. It was meaningless. The funnies, the cartoons, the cowboy chapter followed and I had a good time. Did my mother see it long ago. Did she get it? If she did, why didn’t she send me elsewhere?

Now I am grown up and my own daughter, Fran is ten, and I worry a lot. As my good friend Wilma and I were walking thru the park the other day, with plenty of strollers enjoying the early spring, a fairly young, nice looking man stopped right in front of us, blocked our way. He didn’t even glance at us but opened his pants to expose himself to us and everyone else. To tell the truth, it did not excite me. In fact, it was not a pretty sight at all. People laughed, applauded. I heard shouts of, ‘Don’t waste it, use it.’ Wilma and I hurried towards the park entrance where we told the guard about it. He asked, ‘What was he wearing?’ In unison, Wilma and I said, ‘Not enough.’

In the morning paper I happened to spot on page 22 a few lines about the man in Druid Ridge Park. He has not been identified. There was nothing about him being caught.

I don’t think I am a prude, an old fashioned fuddy duddy, but I find the new morals (or lack of them) obnoxious. There are no restrictions, no taboos on what is said, what is done, even in PG films. Orgies, rapes, murder, the foulest of language bother just about no one. Family films put the family to sleep. I know. I have snored my way thru too many Mary Poppins. Recently I’ve gone to several unrated films with my husband, Jimmy. Sometimes I cover my face when the scene is too explicit, but peep a little. Jimmy makes no pretenses. He breathes harder, rubs his leg against mine. He likes it. I like it, too.

The change of movies appears in the Friday paper. Being an early riser, naturally I see the paper first. I open it to the Calendar section and lightly pencil mark what I would like to see. We seldom forbid Fran to see anything that is open to the public any more. If we say ‘verboten’ that’s the sign to see the movie by hook or by crook.

It’s all so crazy. My world died a long time ago. Young people are the leaders, leading us to heaven on the way to hell. I have given in. I have given up and maybe am already in hell.

SOUR SWEETENER

Rich we are not. Comfortable we are. Christmas has always been weeks of work, plans, fun and excitement. It takes so long to happen and disappears in a wild frenzy of eating, giving, getting and then Larry and I settle down to complete our yearly February plans for a cruise, just a small one, one week of paradise is magical. I want to go thru life this way until we run out of islands.

Young dreams have detours. Our daughter Ruby was named after our trip to Aruba had to be cancelled to await her birth. Sure, I had mixed feelings but when it came down to it, our doll baby more than replaced the rainbows swimming in schools, humming birds drinking their fill from the insides of scarlet red hibiscus. The birds can manage nicely without the constant clicking of Larry’s Nikon.

Ruby smells delicious after her bath. Her tiny fingers curl around mine and I can’t stand it. I am so happy. Larry loves the week-end and parades Ruby around the block, to the park, kitschy cooing her all the way. He matches ribbons to her sweaters and wears a silly grin on his face when a neighbor takes at peek at Ruby. I see them both as one person and my heart fills with pleasure. Sniffles, teething, splashed spaghetti on the wall are part of the loving. We handle it all.

I feel content except sometimes Larry’s tone makes me edgy and I worry what I am doing to annoy him, yet he gives no hint of what is on his mind.

Christmases pass and another is here. Ruby is two and understands presents. She becomes a holy terror as she rips the pretty colored papers off their boxes. That is her present. What is inside is not important. Larry lets her mess up everything, no matter how much the bows and ribbons cost. I try to salvage some but am tsk tsked every time. Ruby can’t lift or move the heavy box in red shiny paper with glistening silver star dust and a huge silver bow. ‘Daddy, Daddy!’ Her little arms stretch out to him. Ruby and Larry love the mess. He goes crazy nuts over the leather bomber jacket I bought for him. ‘Thanks, Josie. I love it. It is so retro!’

All of the gifts have been opened. How can there be nothing for me? My face must match my mood. I am crest-fallen. Larry waves to me, says, ‘So long. Merry Christmas. See you later,’ and walks out the front door. My attention turns to Ruby who is chewing on green ribbon. I pull it out of her hands. Ruby screams her head off. One look at her angry face, green dye on her lips, her cheeks and I can’t help but laugh, take her to the kitchen sink and clean her up. Flash, there is a flash and Larry’s Nikon catches the moment. He gives me a huge hug and a warm, sweet kiss, plus a small box wrapped in newspaper. It feels empty. Puzzlement sparks my eyes. No sexy underwear will fit in this box, not even suede gloves. Paper is inside, a colorful brochure shows Nevis and St. Bart, plane tickets, itinerary for ten days of peace, quiet, lobster fishing, quaint French mortar houses. Words elude me. I jump on Larry’s back and we both fall on the floor. Ruby climbs on top of both of us.

I need a few new clothes, no dresses, no heels, just shorts, tops, sandals. ‘Larry, do you think the mountains will be cool enough for you to take your new jacket? Don’t answer that. I’m kidding. Leave it home.’

February 10 is around the corner. So is my mother. She is delighted to be Ruby’s sitter. My dad will be glad of the rest while Mom stays in our house. Before we go, I fix Larry’s favorite supper for him. He isn’t going to get this in St. Barts. Fresh rye bread for his cold cuts of fat corned beef, thin salami slices, hot sauerkraut, ½ done green tomatoes, two full glasses of Diet Coke. A couple of strong burps and the man is so pleased with himself, he utters. When I die, I hope it’s like this.’ Larry brings Mom over, along with 3 suitcases, a box of shoes, and an 18" walking, talking baby doll for her favorite, and only, grandchild.

The clouds look like white mountains. The lower ones are huge lakes of fluff. There are no voids. Rivers are inches wide. The ocean is missing, hiding from the roaring, zooming planes that go back and forth, up and down, all day. San Juan is coming to meet us. I plant my feet flat on the floor, grasp the arm rest and wait for the turquoise sea , the white caps, to become reality. Steel drums pound as we deplane. My body rocks. We are transferred to a midget plane, holding 8 passengers and a crew of one, the Pilot, heading southwest for St. Kitts. We swoop down between 2 Mt. Everests that are waiting to destroy us, but miss.The other passengers stay aboard.

Our luggage will come the next day, we are told and will be brought to us at La Corniche. A single run-down cab winds us up the mountain. A woman with a large blue apron greets us in the tiny lobby with a ‘Bon jour.’ I look over the 4 hard back wooden chairs and the two love seats with matching flowered chintz, a small round wooden table, perfect for solitaire. Larry and I make strange eyes at each other and if we had our druthers, we’d druther be elsewhere.

A blond haired boy about 12, wearing tan shorts and high socks, tells us lunch is ready, motions for us to follow him. The dining room has 4 tables, a magnificent view of the Carribean, and no diners. The young boy pulls my chair out for me, bows and leaves us alone. Bottled water, uniced, is on the table. Larry opens one and we toast each other. Within 15 minutes the Master of the House and his wife arrive. She has taken off her apron. He is carrying a tray of lobsters, trapped only a few minutes ago. My eyes bulge at their size. I salivate. ‘Madam, would you care for a cold beer, a lovely salad before I prepare the lobsters? We grow our own vegetables so everything will be fresh.’ Larry and I use the little French we know. ‘Oui, Madam, oui. Merci.’Boiled skinless potatoes, fresh crispy bread accompany the beer. Larry and I eat with relish, anticipating the lobster. We are not disappointed. The lobster is nothing like those I’ve had before. The shells are orange red, strong and sharp. I cannot crack them. Larry does it for both of us. Chewing the tender meat is almost unnecessary. It is sweet and spicy at the same time. We are filled and the shells are empty. The young man clears the table and brings in large slices of still warm lemon meringue pie. We force ourselves to take a taste but then empty the plates in jig time.

It has been a long day and I am exhausted. ‘Let’s take a nap, Larry. When it’s dark we can go outside and touch the stars. The moon coming over the mountain has to be worth our getting up. We expected peace and quiet but not this much.’ ‘Rest is good, Josie,’ Larry says, ‘ but lets start thinking about next February. I need company, some night life.’ ‘We have plenty of time to think about it, Darling.’

Christmas does come faster every year and this year we have cancelled St. Kitts so we can be at home with our daughter, Kitty. We won’t ever plan on going to Cartagena. What kind of name would that be for a daughter or son? We’ll wait and see what comes in a few more years. St. John’s? Maybe we’ll go to Maryland and see Ft. Mc Henry.Say, Henry is a pretty good name.

LITTLE GIRL–IN WAITING

I guessed. ‘ Raisel, my sister is going to make me an aunt. Right, Mom?’My sister, aged sixteen and only four years older than I am, holds her tongue, studies her shoes and stays silent. ‘Why do you say that, Darling?’ Mother asks. ‘Because, because you and Daddy were whispering in the hall and you whisper too loud. ‘Raisel, are you getting married? Can I come to your wedding?’ Mama pushes me, tells me to be quiet and go downstairs. ‘I want to go to the wedding, please, please.’ My sister starts to cry.

I go downstairs, out the front door. Roz, my best friend, and Harold, are trading Dick Tracy/Prune Face cards on his steps. ‘Hey, Roz, guess where I’m going.’ She looks up for a second and asks where that might be. I almost shout. ‘To a wedding, to a wedding!’ Barely a mumble comes from her throat. ‘That’s nice, and who is getting married?’ I blurt it out. ‘My sister.’ Roz replies, ‘So what’s the big deal? Will I be invited?’ ‘And guess what else, Roz, I’m going to be an aunt!’ Again she asks, ‘So what? I have five aunts and hardly ever see them except on Yom Kippur.’ ‘Well, I’m not going to be like your fuddy duddy aunts.

‘You know my mother doesn’t hear so good and when she whispers I can hear her even when she is upstairs. I heard her tell Raisel not to worry. When she gets married her new husband and the baby can live in our house. Imagine, a live baby, a real baby. I have to take good care of my dolls in case the baby is a girl. Roz goes her way. I go mine, back into the house so I can learn more about the wedding. Maybe Mama will buy me a new dress.

Mom, Dad, Raisel and Joseph are sitting around the kitchen table. Nobody is smiling. I walk in and Daddy tells me to go outside and play. They are having a private conversation. What can I do, but go?I sit alone on our gray stone front steps, counting the red streetcars going downtown and the ones coming back headed for the car barn. Joseph comes outside, pats me on the head and says, ‘So long, soon-to-be-sister-in-law.’ Wow! I hug him. He doesn’t want to be hugged and walks away. Supper time is quiet. I ask questions about the wedding, the baby, get no answers. Daddy finishes his coffee, smokes a Raleigh, and goes in the living room to listen to Jack Benny. I clear the table and go in to sit on his lap. ‘Sssh sssh. Hope Rochester is on tonight too.’ ‘One thing, before Jack says, ‘Jell-O again. Am I invited to the wedding?’ He shakes his head hard and says, ‘No, you are going to be Maid of Honor, so stop making so much noise. ‘Do I get a new dress, Daddy?’ ‘That’s a second question. You said you only had one, but NO, no new dress.’ Tomorrow our family will meet Joseph and his parent’s at the Rabbi’s house in the afternoon, 4 o’clock I think Mama said. There will be no music, no dancing, just us and the Rabbi. It is my turn to cry and I do.

The service is in Hebrew, takes too long. Joseph steps on a glass that is wrapped in a cloth napkin. The Rabbi says Mazel Tov. Joseph kisses Raisel and we go to our cars. ‘Aren’t we going home, Daddy?’ Daddy keeps his eyes on the busy street but says nothing. I recognize where we are headed and when Daddy parks in front of Shumsky’s kosher restaurant, at last I am smiling. Joseph’s parents park behind us. There are many customers but we have a reserved table and are greeted, seated quickly. The waiters, as usual wear, black pants, long sleeve white shirts and large white aprons tied twice around their bellies. They walk around our table and throw rice at Raisel and Joseph. Some people clap. Dinner is great. Everybody eats too much, drinks too much wine, begins to talk to each other. I have no new dress, no wine and no money to buy my sister a wedding present. This turns out to be the saddest, happiest day of my life.

What I DO have is patience..and I AM GOING TO BE THE BEST AUNT EVER.

YOU CAN’T CATCH ME

It’s almost Christmas. Ma is baking and I’m her #1 ace helper. She tells me to get the cookie cutters and doesn’t have to tell me twice. I know exactly where they are, in the tall white kitchen cabinet next to the hall door. It’s knobs last week were orange for fall but now are green for holly. My Ma is not only a good cookie maker she paints, too. In spring the knobs are yellow. The porch chair is yellow all over so daisies aren’t lonely. When Ma sets her mind to do anything, especially paint, look out house, look out me! Daddy and I need an okay before we can open or close anything when work is in progress.

Ma knew where the cookie cutters were, too. She took me with her to buy them last week and I made all the choices. First we went to Woolworth’s. They were already out of some of the ones I want so Ma took me down the street to McCrory’s. I picked out 2 Christmas trees, a star, cane, heart, puppy, 2 bells, 2 Santas , 1 reindeer and 1 gingerbread man. Mama and the saleslady made me count them over and over just to learn that 12 is a dozen, a dozen is made up of 12. At the open market we bought little bags of jimmies in all colors, red buttons, silver balls, cherries. Ma already has a 5 lb. bag of flour and a dozen brown eggs in the kitchen. She says they are just the same as the white ones but cheaper so that is the kind we use. When my friend, Shirley, sometimes has lunch with me and sees the brown eggs in the ice box, she wrinkles her face, holds her nose and says, ‘Ich.’

‘Zelley, wash your hands real good and dry them until they hurt. Then flour the rolling pin and be careful. Always remember that my pin belonged to my mother and her mother before that. It will be yours too one day.’ While I’m doing those things, Ma has spread large sheets of wax paper almost over the kitchen table. She has sifted the flour with the salt, cut in the Crisco, added some sugar and water and kneads them together into one big, blob. Then she cuts that in half and starts to roll the dough. I watch her carefully. Before the dough gets a chance to stick on the rolling pin, she flours it again. It gets flat, flatter and flatter, rounder and rounder. I get breathless watching her.

We have 4 large cookie sheets greased and ready. ‘Zelly, it’s your show. Start cutting.’ Ma examines the sheets to make sure there are no dry spots, none that are too greasy and with a large spatula picks up the stars, the Santas and fills two trays. I keep cutting. ‘Zelly, when I tell you, look carefully at the clock and tell me exactly what it says and I’ll tell you what it will say 10 minutes later. Do it right or the cookies will burn.’

I cut every kind of cookie we bought. Something doesn’t look right. ‘Ma, I only see 11 kinds of cookies on the trays that are finished. We are supposed to have 12, a dozen. I figure out which is missing before Ma can. ‘The Gingerbread Man’ isn’t here.’ We look and we look. Ma goes out to the trash can to see if it was left in a bag by mistake. No, it wasn’t. While she is out there, I hear a strange, tiny, squeaky sound coming out of the kitchen cabinet. ‘Ma, I think we have another mouse in the kitchen. Does Daddy have another trap?’ The noise moves around. ‘Ma, the mouse is in the kitchen drawer.’ She screams and runs out.

I am not afraid and open the drawer. There is the Gingerbread Man. He’s crying. ‘Please don’t put me in that hot over, Little Girl. Last Christmas my mommie and daddy went in and never came out.’ I lift the little Gingerbread Man by his green knob, stand him on the floor and he runs, runs, singing all the way, ‘Run, run, as fast as you can. You can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man.’ I chase him out onto the porch. He jumps down the steps, one at a time and keeps on running. ‘Run, run, as fast as you can. You can’t catch me, I’m the Gingerbread Man.’He’s right. I couldn’t catch him. He disappeared into last nite’s snow.

‘Zelly, what are you doing on the porch? Come right in or you’ll catch your death of cold. Did you find the Gingerbread Man cutter?’ ‘No, Ma, maybe McCrory’s didn’t put it in our package.’ ‘What a shame, Darling. I was going to give him little licorice eyes and red cherry buttons.’

‘That’s okay, Ma. We have plenty Santas. May I have one now?’

MATTER OVER MIND

I'm doing a a bit of self-acclamation this morning. 'Matter Over Mind' is my 700th story written in this series, one day at a time. While I may have bored you, annoyed, dismayed, amused you, what keeps coming out of my mind amazes even me. And while I'm grand-standing, I add, becoming 85 on 12/24, I am quite sure you agree that I am Wonderful LOL !

‘Do it, do it! Do something, you sloth!. I am quite good at lecturing myself, knowing I’m a blazing coward who will probably end up in a glass coffin with people paying 50 cents each to look a real nitwit. All the world spins around me and I sit on my ass trying to hear the whirr it makes.

Max, my twin brother, cornered all the guts available in the Tyson family. While I sit here contemplating my navel, he is bungee jumping in Maine. I’m in Maine, too, sitting at a wooden table. The bench is so weather worn it has splinters. Rough waves pound the coast but I watch for the waitress to bring me 2 super duper giant lobster claws with gallons of melted butter. A little titter rises unannounced in my throat. Letting all this butter send my cholesterol numbers off the chart is dangerous and I am satisfied for a while that I have had the courage to go at least this far, take a chance on death in my own dumb way.

As the last big white juicy lobster lump slides down inside of me, Max appears, muscles bulging, wind-blown, without a scratch or bruise I can see. He sits beside me, calls the waitress, asks for a lobster salad, easy on the mayo and a large Evian. ‘You should have come, watched at least. What a thrill! I almost burst with excitement falling 300 feet, pretty damn close to the cliffs, bouncing up, dropping, bouncing up, until finally, I slowed down and was reeled in safely. It was awesome.’Just listening made me queasy.

‘Max,’ I said, ‘You know I love having you as my twin brother, don’t you? Well, I wish you would stop regaling me with your daring-do. Sooner or later our twinship is going to be a onesome. You are going to be crushed, ridden over, blown up or swallowed by a python.’ His attention is elsewhere. He chews on the hard heel of a braided bread. Down to the last few crumbs, he puts them on the palm of his hand and terns swoop down on his arms, his head. I grab the over-sized menu to chase them away. ‘Come on, Max,’ I beg. ‘Those things carry ticks. They crap on everything. Let’s go.’ We walk down the broken sea-shell path to my car. The keys are in my hand. Max grabs them and jumps in. No sense arguing. I become the passenger and shrink into myself.

‘Brother Boy. Tomorrow you are going fishing with me. Don’t say no. If you snag a tarp, I’ll help you pull it in. Turn around, look, look at the sea. Isn’t it gorgeous?’ ‘Yes, it is but it is also deep.’ He gets me mad and calls me ‘Baby Poop.’ I can flare up but know how to calm myself. This time I am out of control. ‘You want to go fishing, go. I’m going to the artists’ colony in Brisbane, try to do a quick water color, maybe put your fishing boat in the scene. I’ll drop you at the pier and be back for you when?’ ‘When I get there, Bro.’

My painting is horrible. I crush it and drop it in a trash barrel. Daylight is disappearing. By 7 I am worried. The Clifford Max was on is in port but Max isn’t. I hear only the waves lapping at the pylons. Lanterns shed little light on the pier. At 8 I call the police who check the passenger list of the Clifford and tell me Max was not on it. I drive as fast as I can on this zig zagged road, reach our cabin and almost have a heart attack before I get the door open. Max is sitting on the faded over-stuffed wing chair, a Heinekin on a small round table easily in his reach. He jumps up, crazed, almost frothing at the mouth. He grabs me, hugs me tight. ‘Baby, I didn’t go fishing. I goofed around and then went up to watch you paint. You weren’t there. Nobody knew you. Your car was gone, so I hitched a ride here to wait.’

I couldn’t help it. Max did care about me. I hugged him back, joined him in a beer and we made plans for a hike up to the top of Rocky Point in the morning. My brother only said, ‘Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.’

VULTURES

About 1/4 of my large extended family fills every chair in my Grandma Abigail’s living room. Floor space is at a premium. I don’t know many of the cousins, 2nd cousins, even great aunts and great uncles. They haven’t called or visited my Grandma for years, nor bothered with birthday or Christmas cards. Only recently have I realized they have been biding their time waiting for this day. I would spit on them if I could.

Grandma was 92, had a slow gait, normal aches and pains that she bore with few complaints. Her mind was still sound. Last night she called me to invite me for tea with fresh baked blueberry biscuits in the morning. How, why, would I refuse? Grandma said ‘goodnite’. As she lowered her phone, I thought she said, ‘goodbye.’ In the morning I knocked on her front door but she didn’t answer. My key easily opened it. No tea was boiling, no biscuits were on the table. Upstairs I found her in bed, thin snow white hair brushed neatly over her shoulders. Her flannel nite gown demurely covered her legs to her ankles. On the unruffled blanket her hands were clasped almost as if she was praying. I closed her eyes as mine filled with tears.

She and I had discussed funeral arrangements for her when that time comes. They were simple. Grandpa had passed 15 years ago and she wanted to be near him. I felt a warmth imagining them back together for eternity.

Today that vision is clouded by too many greedy people, sitting in the parlor, dining room, some holding lists in their claws of what they intend to get. My great-uncle Bob was born when my grandma was 16. She claims she reared him well, but he didn’t learn. He sits at the end of the dining room table, fiddling with the gavel he uses at the Elks’ meetings. He bangs it on the wooden block and becomes too authoritative, extremely obnoxious and insincere. His voice is gravelly.

He begins. ‘Dear Family, this is a sad time for all of us. Abigail has passed and will be sadly missed.’ I keep quiet and cringe. ‘Her time with us was long. She knew, was ready and chose her own time. I don’t have to tell you but will. I am the estate Trustee. This house is to be sold with the price, above closing fees, taxes, attorneys, Trustee fees, going to the Lutheran Church of Our Lord. That has been designated in Abigail’s will. There are some stocks to be sold to cover funeral arrangements, any debts I find, attorney fees. I don’t think any of us will have to put our hands in our pockets.

Sweet, dear Abigail, who I loved since I was a child, is gone. I have not yet found any written instructions of who gets her personal possessions. However, since I am at that point, as family elder and trustee, my wife and I would like to have for our home in Michigan this beautiful dining room furniture. Abigail knew I loved the softness of the Stickley’s cherry wood, the big hutch that she over-stuffed with too many worthless plates. Are there any objections?’

There is silence. Hands begin to jiggle, beg for the next item. I want to shoot these vultures. Lucy has already taken Grandma’s cameo brooch off the bedroom bureau and pinned it on her blouse. Grandma had told me it was for me. Clear red rubies circle the face. Around them perfect pearls make a lovely frame. Glenda speaks up sharply.‘Who said you could take that, Lucy? I’d like to have it. ‘Too late, Glenda. It’s mine now.’ Great Aunt Matty, who looks like she is going to join Grandma soon, raises her hand to ask for Grandma’s double strand of pearls with the opal clasp. She wants to give it to her grand- daughter a a graduation gift.

Great Uncle Bob raps for silence. ‘Quiet down, Family. This is what I suggest we do: Let’s elect a committee of five to go over your written requests and make fair decisions Abigail would have made if she had all of her marbles.

At that I boil, can keep my mouth shut no longer. With some reservations, I stand, walk to the head of the table, surprise Uncle Bob and pull the gavel out of his hand. I bang it just as loud as he has been doing. A buzz of clicking tongues circles the room. ‘Aunt Amy, Clem, Mary, George. You are the rare one as you have been kind and caring of Abigail going way, way back. The rest of you are crud under my feet. You didn’t know Grandma was alive and deserve nothing. But–I am not a trustee and have no authority. If I did, I’d throw you out of this house.’ My dander overflows. ‘Great, but not really great, Uncle Bob is Lord and Master. I have two requests. Grandma treasured her ancient photo album. She shared it with me hundreds of times and I want it. The other is that Grandma told me again, just last week, that she wants to be cremated, have a prayer and then I should put her ashes next to Grandpa and shut the door. Are there any objections?’Not a sound is made, not a hand rises. I see their selfish minds rejoicing, one less person to divide the loot.

With my shoulders drooping as low as my spirits I walk to the living room, take the photo album off the coffee table and go back to stand beside Uncle Bob.

‘Cremation will be Sunday 11 a.m. at Harrison’s Funeral Parlor, 515 Chase Ave. Burial service will be Monday at my grandpa’s grave in Heaven’s Gate Cemetery, Rte. 6 to Military Rd. 1 p.m. Ten family members attend the cremation.

I and my grandfather are the only ones to know Grandma Abigail is at peace.

A STAR FALLS ON ALABAMA

Evening is deciding if it should come or let the pink marshmallow clouds drift a little longer. I watch them move thru the sky, cross my fingers and wish for a mile long fork so I can reach up, poke one, bring it to earth, where I can feel it, taste it and die sweetly.

Addison is a small town. Mama told me only 726 people live here, including my Daddy, Mama and myself. I’m eight years old and I can go where I like, walk, run as long as I am careful and don’t get hurt. She calls to me in her strong voice. ‘Selma, come home. Supper is almost ready.’ As I walk a little faster, I pick up pretty stones from the side of the road. Not one is super special. I toss each towards the cold creek that always gurgles to welcome me. It’s just an itty, bitty creek, perfect for Addison. There are places where I can jump over it and not even wet my shoes. Today it seems angry. It is swollen, noisier than usual. Not one stone I throw makes it across.

Mama calls again. ‘Daddy’s home. Stop dawdling.’ Oh, yes, I hear her but I have to dawdle. There’s a glint, a glow close to the water’s edge and I have to have it. Supper will have to wait. I’ll will be punished but take off my shoes so I don’t get Mama angrier when I come home with damp shoes. I park them comfortably on the edge of the road.

The shiny thing gets brighter and brighter. I have to squint or I’ll fall in the water. A squeaky voice says, ‘Help, help me if you can.’ I look behind me, twirl all around, see no one. The voice starts to sing the same words again, gets as far as ‘Help me,’ and there is only the sound of the water rushing by. ‘It continues, -‘Or you and the world will be sorry.’ The glow begins to shiver, fade. I keep my eyes on it as long as I can as it grows bigger and bigger, but not as big as I am. The glow that had winked now twinkles. I sing to it, ‘Twinkle, twinkle little star,’ and the twinkling stops. The talking does too. I try to talk to get the twinkler to say something. ‘My mother will be looking for me soon. I have to go, little glow stone. Goodbye.’ It works. ‘Lift me up. Lift me up. Help me go home.’ It looks like the glow is crying. It is wet on one side. I try to lift it but it is too heavy. Help comes! ‘Mama , Mama,’ I plead. ‘Help me. This stone can talk, really, really. It wants me to lift it so it can go home.’ Mama spanks me softly on my tush, laughs at my foolishness. Easily she plays my game, lifts the strange twinkling blob, fearlessly holds it in her hand and whoosh, it flies away. We both stand there, surprised, even frightened, waving goodbye. Mother and I walk home together. She lectures me, calls me a naughty child, a dreamer.Supper is good, especially the Angel Food cake Mama made while I was at the creek. I get a big slice and then ½ of one.

At 8 o’clock I go to bed. A familiar voice comes thru my open window. ‘Look up, look way up into the dark sky. Look at the one star, the lowest to the earth, below the clouds. I am twinkling for you and your Mama. You saved me. I’m almost home. Tomorrow the pink marshmallow clouds will visit you again. They are our gift to you for making me, my brothers and sisters happy. I learned a lesson and will be more careful from now on. Thank you.’

My window curtain rustles a little, my eyes close, and I wait for tomorrow.

CHALLENGE II

I really did get 15 -- without knowing anything about car lugs. I half-cheated on the window shade but think i would have gotten it anyhow. Be as honest as I was and let me know your score.

http://bit.ly/6hLlQW

CHALLENGE!

Don't tell me you CAN'T, you don't WANT TO, you are TOO BUSY. I've started a new story 5 times and can't get past the first paragraph. For me it lies in something I don't think I can even image. Please help. Take a breath and try to write the next line or two to put me on a path I can follow. I WILL finish it and let you now the results.

My niece, Alicia, called Monday for a Wednesday appointment. I fit her in at two between Weise and Colburn. Wednesday, 2 p.m. came but Alicia didn't arrive. This was most unusual. She is a stickler for time. I gave her 15 minutes leeway and put her out of my mind. At 4:30 I called her. The usual message sweetly asked that I call back or leave a message. With a lilt in her tone, she said , 'Thanks, Angels' and I left an angry memo. 'Alicia, no more favors. Next time you do this to me, I'm charging you like I do for other malingerers. No more favors. Call to re-set.' My release served only one purpose. Alicia has to learn she is not Queen of the May.

Thursday morning I found out why Alicia hadn't come in. She was dead!

Murder? Accident? Suicide? Drugs? Rape? Choose and do a paragraph. YOU CAN WRITE. I may alter what you come up with but the push will be good for me and you might enjoy the challenge.

LIFE’S LIES

Nick expected me to be ten minutes early. He also arrived ten minutes early so he wouldn’t have to cool his heels to wait for me. I trained him well and he has me trained too. Pleasing him and myself works.

My neck is long and slender, perfect for the warm, bulky turtle neck sweaters I adore. This morning I choose a heavenly blue cashmere cable stitch in a blue that hints of turquoise. My straight leg slacks are a shade of turquoise that emphasizes the tint in the sweater and makes my eyes pop. I feel great. I look great, want only Nick and am willing to wait for him.

He’s my dream come true, good looking, close to six feet tall, smart, ambitious and still single. It’s beyond my comprehension but I take it with thanks. I love him. He loves me. It shows in his dreamy green cats eyes. His hugs, kisses, groping, make my blood boil. It just comes naturally that I lean into him and respond with my heart and body. We are two fish hooked on a single line.

It’s Saturday, our regular relaxing zoo day. The colder the day gets, the grayer the sky, the more I snuggle up to him. Nick smiles and pushes me away. ‘Cut it out, Casey. How can I drive? You’re going to kill me one way or the other one of these days. Right?’ My squelch shuts his mouth. ‘Well, Darling, at least if I’m close, we’ll both die happy.’

The dashboard thermometer shows the temp dropping fast. It’s 39 with a wind chill of 28. Parking will be a cinch. I can’t hold back. ‘Nicky, it’s awfully cold and getting colder. I bet those polar bears won’t even come out to the pool today. My sweater is not enough. I’m going to freeze. What do you say we turn about and head home? We can get a warm, cosy fire going. I can raid your fridge and fix us a nice dinner.’

My Dr. Jekyll becomes Mr. Hyde. My love becomes a stranger. He pounds on the edge of the steering wheel, honks wildly to nobody. Watching him, I expect froth to spew from his lips. ‘I drove all this way for you, Casey. It wasn’t my idea to race the snow storm and now you are worried about the polar bears instead of me. Did you give me a single thought about maybe skidding, having an accident? No, you didn’t. This was all Casey, Casey. You looked so gorgeous when we met, I could refuse you nothing but you are a dumb cluck. Don’t you read the weather reports or watch the weather channel? I’ll take the blame. I should have refused to go.’ He clams up, has spoken his piece and says not another word all the way to my apartment.

I make many attempts to sooth him, apologize over and over, sink lower and lower, ashamed of myself. He should apologize to me but leaves me dangling like a woman on a hangman’s noose.

By the time he gets home, I have left at least six voice messages. Mr. Hyde hides. With caller I.D. he knows I am calling, won’t answer. I call from my friend’s house, my mother’s, from the gas station. He guesses and I quit.

Desperation wins. I knock on his door. The safety latch is touched but doesn’t drop. I’m ready to get down on my knees, apologize again, hug Nick until he almost stops breathing. My heart is going to burst. The door remains shut. A voice calls out, ‘Nobody’s home. Go away.’ Another voice, a familiar one, ‘She’ll go away.’ There are soft, barefoot steps. The door cracks open. I can barely see a macho man’s bare muscles tensed up. I catch a very quick glimpse of extra brief, blue briefs.

It was wondrous while it lasted. I slink out. Tears fill my eyes. I go home and destroy everything blue in my closet.

SHAKE, RATTLE AND DIVE

I hold on to the chair back as the floor starts to move. The sheer drapes over the terrace door slide to the side. Behind the sofa a glass lamp falls on the floor and shatters. An ear splitting siren warns me not to take the elevator. The sign on the door advises, ‘Use the stairs in emergency’. I hesitate long enough to open the room’s safe, take out the two good pieces of jewelry and my cash, toss them in my purse, open, close, lock the door and walk hastily towards the stairs, remembering the 6 doors I counted when I was given my room. A young couple are holding hands at the elevator. The guy pushes the down button time and again, angry because it is so slow.

Of the 20 or 30 people in my wing of the Atlantis only ten are in the hall. Nobody gives a damn about the foolish young couple until I do. ‘Didn’t you feel anything? Follow us. We’re all walking down.’ A light goes on in his woozy brains. He walks fast, steps in front of me, holds the stairwell door open for our group and falls in last.

The sound of hurried feet clanking on metal steps echoes from the ground up. If the circumstances were different, I might have thought it musical. There is no panic. I, for one, hold the railing tightly, just in case. The ‘in case’ happens. A strong tremor shakes the building. A crack zigzags down the windowless wall as far as I can see. Our overhead lights remain steady but our pace slows. As we reach a landing, we see a large red eight on the door. Two strong voices reverberate from below. ‘Pick her up. You men can carry her a few flights. Move, move now!’ We keep going.

I think I hear sirens but the noisy, frightened guests, one of which I am not ashamed to say I am, talk, yell, cry too loudly. The heavy metal door at ground level is held open. Sunshine streams in. A fire hydrant to the right has torn open and has flooded the street. Traffic moves slowly thru it. Where are all the shoppers? Where are the fire engines, the ambulances, ladders climbing 18 stories skyward? What do I do now? Where should I go? Questions with no answers swirl, make me more nervous. Everyone who comes out of the Atlantis door looks as bewildered as I feel. The young couple who I convinced to use the stairs, gives me a dirty look. I blink and they evaporate.

Down the street groups are sitting around the Algonquin fountain, chatting, sipping cocktails. My toes begin to quiver. I feel the earth move a little. Traffic pulls to the right to let a creepy ambulance pass. Children have taken off their clothes and are romping in the still strong flow from the broken hydrant. Closer to them, the cold of the water slogs into my shoes, strikes me like an electric eel protecting its cave.

The Algonquin snobs run for cover as gun fire strafes their tables. I can’t stand the thunderous noise, kick at nothing and yell at the top of my lungs, ‘Get away. Get off of me!’ With inhuman strength I push them off. My satin comforter falls on the floor. I fall on top of it. Something smells bad. It is my own sweaty body.

The T.V. remote is still where I left it when my eyes began to droop last nite. It was eleven and I had had a busy, unproductive day. As I push the clicker to ‘off’ the room moves. My feet tingle. ‘Earthquake,’I scream and dive under my bed.

FOLLOW THE LEADER

‘Get the Dickens off my property, you whippersnappers!’ Daddy yells at the five young children who like to take the shortcut across our lawn to get to their hide-out in the alley. His Billy Goat Gruff voice makes the children run as fast as their little legs will carry them. They always wag their tongues at him, make ugly faces. Then the race begins. Daddy has a cherished barber strop that belonged to his grandfather and he whips it, cracks it over and over as he reaches for the last child who somehow manages to wiggle, squirm out of the monster’s hands.

Dr. Robinson, is the father of two small children and 3 grown-ups, including me. We are 7, 8 and 10. The 5 kids who are running, screaming from the monster aren’t really afraid of him. They know this is ‘a forever’ game as they tease each other. Daddy says he believes there may be a budding actress in this new group.

Mother often gets in the fray. Still wearing her large white kitchen apron, usually spotted with the dinner she is serving, she waves her black frying pan at her husband and chases him who is chasing the girls. He slows down, makes a huge threatening fist and lets them go.

His good humor, love of children, turns to burning wrath when he catches lazy drivers using his private driveway to make an illegal U turn into the busy thoroughfare. He has reported the danger to the police many times. They consider him a grump and ignore his protests.

On a fairly quiet Saturday in June Dad and Mom come home from Synagogue service, sit down in the yellow metal chairs on the front porch to discuss the Rabbi’s sermon when the world almost ends. The driver of a Coca Cola truck, filled to capacity, must have missed his turn two blocks back, sees Daddy’s private driveway and takes a wide fast turn in, misses most of the concrete and runs the truck up the brick steps to the porch. It knocks over the wrought iron railing and stops. Only because Mom & Dad saw it coming, heard the screeching and managed to get in the front door, did they survive. The police wake up, place a large sign on the edge of our property, ‘Private Driveway. No U turn. Violators will be prosecuted.’ The sign does not stop the intrusions. All it does is increase Dad’s anger and Mom’s mighty efforts to calm him, keep his blood pressure down.

Daddy gets a new, fantastic idea. He’s going to have a low brick wall built around the whole house so the driveway won’t be seen by traffic until too late. I didn’t actually witness this but the story quickly reaches the entire close knit neighborhood. Our next door neighbor came running into our house to save Mother. She took a chance because she was sure my mother was being murdered by my father. Mother is poised in the kitchen, her black skillet over her head and a bottle of unopened kosher wine in the other hand. ‘Sammy, Sammy, you are a crazy man. You belong in the nut house. I promise you, Darling, you order one brick to make a wall around this house, the second brick will beat your brains into a pulp.’ Sadie, our neighbor, tells the other neighbors how Mother chases Dad down the cellar and locks the door. In 5 minutes, he is in front of her, trying to kiss away her anger. ‘Dumkoff, the cellar door to outside wasn’t locked.’ Mother pays no attention and warns him again. ‘David, I mean it. I’m not kidding. Put up a wall and you will lose your wife, maybe your life.’ Sadie says she never butted in. All she did was watch and listen to the craziness and went home.

School is over for the summer. The race is on with new kids running across the lawn. Those who were in kindergarten are older, smarter, are now in the first grade. A policeman takes them across the street instead of their moms. They wave to Daddy, turn away and let the babies play.

Rain is due. The sunny sky darkens. The children scurry across the lawn and race to the hiding place. Daddy follows them, cracking his strop. They escape and Daddy comes home. The spring storm is fast. Little paper match books wash down the gutters into the sewers. Daddy watches from our porch as the children come out of the alley. Something is wrong. He counts five. There should be six. He counts again. One child is missing. He jumps down the steps too fast not realizing he has twisted his ankle. The little girls turn around, come to help him. All he can say over and over is, ‘Where is the little girl with red hair and a red cap? Did somebody take her?’ Sally, only 6 says, ‘Dr. R,. you mean Josie, right?’ ‘Yes, yes, Josie. Where is she?’ Her mommie came to take her to the dentist.’

My daddy sighs with relief, invites the 5 little girls onto the front porch and brings them each a Dixie Cup of ice cream with chocolate sauce on top. He asks the children if he can have the movie star lids.

They don’t answer. They eat all the ice cream, lick the chocolate off the lids and hand them to their friend

OH, MY PAPA

I should have been, most certainly could have been, a better father. Now as my hair visibly gets whiter and whiter, disgust in myself is grinding me down into mincemeat. Clouds almost obliterate the rear view of my mind.

Love, sweet, stupid love, made me a big man at sixteen. Sex mademe a foolish boy. It was free, available and far better than looking at Sears & Roebucks drawings of ladies’ underwear. Candy was handy. Candy made after class work better than just dandy. I passed with honor grades but failed protecting us. Fear, shame knocked me over when she whispered in my ear I was going to be a father. Her mother had surmised it when she heard her daughter throwing up every morning for a week. No such thought came to Candy. All she had was an upset stomach. Neither of us had ever heard of ‘morning sickness.’

Stuff hit the fan. Clandestine meetings between our families kept the event quiet for a while. Candy was insatiable, insisted on meeting me under the football grandstand every day. She wasn’t afraid to get preg–she already was.

The Catholic Gordons were not devout church goers, but deeply instilled in the beliefs of their childhood. Their daughter was going to be a mother and I was the father and there would be no abortion, no adoption. Period. My parents put up a strong argument but lost. I moved into Candy’s room that had a single bed. Her father brought up an old army cot from their basement for me. My double bed with a coil spring mattress was wasted, empty. A family decision was made that we were not to marry until a few days before the baby would be born, just in case the baby didn’t survive. How thoughtful of them.

Every hard, lumpy night on the cot brought silent tears to soak my pillow, drown out Candy’s light snoring. The girl I had thought I loved needed me but I needed room to breathe and watched for the right moment to get away. Time was almost up. Mrs. Gordon drove Candy to the obstetrician’s for possibly the last time. With no plan set, I stuffed my clothes into a tattered suitcase and a large, strong shopping bag. The 33 streetcar left me at the Greyhound station where I was able to remove five one dollar bills from my shoe for whatever was ahead of me and a ten to more than cover the bus ride to Tampa.

There a glass of milk with a package of peanut butter crackers sufficed for supper. From the small table next to mine I confiscated today’s newspaper that still had the want ad listings. There was nothing for me. ‘Walk, Mister, get busy,’ I told myself. That was much harder than I had thought. My suitcase was growing rocks. The paper shopping bag was on the verge of disintegrating. The day was waning and I had no job, no place to stay and not much money. I walked right past it, did a double take and came back to see if the large and busy auto repair shop could use a semi-novice. An oil covered mechanic who looked older than my grandfather was surely going to throw me out. Somehow he must have felt sorry for me, was about to give me a hand out when I told him I need a job and a place to stay for a few days.

‘Will you be a go-fer, run errands, bring my men the tools they need, clean up the oil?’ ‘I’ll do anything you ask and learn at the same time. I’m smart, graduated with honors from high school.’ ‘Young man, I’ll give you minimum wage and a place to stay for a week. Let’s see what you’re made out of. My office isn’t the Grand Hotel but it is air conditioned and has a sofa that I use when I need a nap. Stay away from my files, my desk, my appointments. ‘Shake.’

Mr. Shapiro liked me. I liked him. I was doing a good job but had pain in my heart. What was happening to Candy, my baby? I couldn’t call her as maybe she, or the police could trace the call. I let it go one night, two and felt worse and worse. Saturday I spent two bucks for the round trip bus ride to Sarasota, called my parents who weren’t home and then rang Candy. I was sweating like a pig stuck in the mud. As if everything was normal, I said, ‘Hi, Candy. How are you? Did you have our baby? Girl or boy?’ Candy didn’t answer my questions. She screamed so loud I dropped the phone for a minute. ‘Where are you, Bastard? You good for nothing piece of crap. You took advantage of me. I should have charged you with rape.’ She kept on going. ‘Jennie, your daughter, needs you. She needs milk, clothes, diapers, money! I’m stuck here being mother, nursemaid, chief bottle washer. I can’t look for a job. My parents get little sleep. Come back, come back.’ ‘Not now, Candy, maybe never. Try to forgive me. I’ll send money for both of you, as soon as I get a raise. Tell your Mom you have to go out dancing, have a good time now and then. Otherwise you’ll never find a husband. She’ll know you are right and you will smile again. Tell my parents I called them but got no answer. You’ll hear from me regularly. I promise.’ Candy slams the phone. I hang up my end and spend a quiet day enjoying the beauty of Sarasota, the Gulf and am back in Tampa by 7:30 p.m.

I do keep my promises to Candy and one time she let Jennie say ‘Da Da’ over the phone. I dried my tears on my shirt, took Leona to dinner and bed.

ANCHORS AWEIGH

Too many times to count I’ve heard my now almost ancient mother squabble with her sister, Becky, about nonsense, mundane ‘what ifs’I don’t eavesdrop, exactly. It’s always the rise and pitch of their discussions that draw me in.

Recently I learned they have a joint saving account at Bank of America. That day Mother’s voice was particularly strident, almost staccato. ‘Why didn’t you—deposit your $200 this —, Becky?’ My aunt snapped back. ‘Because I have enough money in our cache to cover my cremation and yours if you change your mind. Mil, I can do better with my money from now on. I might decide to eat lunches and dinner out for 2 weeks, not have to cook. I hereby officially vote that we stop adding money into the bank’s coffers and let it lie there, paying us pennies a month. ‘Mil, you have no worries. Your rich son, Ralph.’ Mother stops her before she says another word. ‘Becky, for 30 years I’m telling you my son’s name is Rolf, not Ralph. Learn it before I die and make me happy.’ ‘OK. Rolf isn’t going to let you rot at Dansky’s. He’ll cover any difference in case we both live extra long and prices soar. Millie, you want to lie next to Bernie and be eaten by worms. It’s your choice. I want to go out in a blaze of glory. Send off fireworks,’ Becky lived here!’

I can’t stand this morbid conversation and make an effort to be nonchalant. I go in the kitchen and interrupt the big two person meeting. ‘Anybody want something from the fridge? I’m opening a large Pepsi, I announce as if I were pouring god’s nectar. Mother is steaming. I see it in her eyes. ‘Go upstairs and help your son learn his Mahfter for his Bar Mitzvah.’ She has upset me. ‘Ma, you’re so loud. I couldn’t help but hear some of your conversation with Aunt Becky. It’s so damn morbid.’ ‘Didn’t I tell you not to use the word ‘damn? It’s a bad word.’ ‘Mom, you have good years left in your crotchedy old soul. Cut out this talk.’

So you know, Phyllis. Good. Am I right?’ My lips freeze. My tongue feels swollen. I can’t get too deeply into this discussion. Aunt Becky winks to me. ‘Listen, Mammeleh, I was about to ask your stubborn mother to go on a cruise with me. I’ve done all the paper, telephone work and have a beaut selected. I already chose our cabin. It’s mid-ship where the movement is hardly ever felt. There is a bank of elevators near by but no too close. The ship was just christened, oops, circumsized. It is the Golden Dream. Her sister ship is the Silver Dream. Flying from Miami, we cruise the Mediterranean for two full weeks. Listen to this, Mildred. There are hosts who dance with the single ladies, play cards, accompany them on tours. There are widows and widowers aboard and sometimes matches are made. I’m going, Mil, with or without you and will be taking some of my share out of our account. You will be notified exactly what I take.

My mother looks like she is going to have a stroke, not that I have ever seen that happen to anyone. She gets stern. ‘Becky, go. You are younger than I am and will live longer. Go if you want. Leave me here! How can you go and miss the Bar Mitzvah?’ ‘Mil, we’ll be back in plenty of time to buy new gowns for the four formal nights a week .’ Becky, I get seasick in the bathtub.’ The ship has stabilizers. There are pills, patches, injections. You won’t get sick.’ ‘Becky, I’m not a good dancer any more. My feet hurt all the time.’ ‘Sister, listen to me for once. You are worrying for nothing. We’ll throw coins in the Trevi fountain, see the Louvre, the Coliseum.’ ‘I’ve seen all those things more than once on the geography channel. Coins in a fountain? That’s for teens. I wouldn’t throw my lire away. ‘ ’Millie, stop, stop now. You are being mean, trying to ruin my awakening. I am going to live, live until I die. Right now I am going home to figure just how much money to take out of our kitty! So long, You Old Witch.’ Becky holds her head high and walks out the door. Mother calls after her, ‘ Becky, Becky, Darling. I’ll think about it.’

WATCH YOUR STEP AND GET AWAY

Something very strange is happening to me. At best I hope it is just to me and that my situation is not contagious. I am taking precautions. Around the story you are reading, I am building a wall that cannot be penetrated. Listen to me. Stay away! Let me be. Let me ramble. If you hear muttering, put bees wax in your ears or plugs, if you have them. To those who are out to get me, demons, devils, sons of bitches, get away from me.

You ‘things’ walloped me yesterday and again today. Give me a chance to recoup, will you? It was only 8:30 A.M. and I hoped you were sleeping so I took a chance and e-mailed an invitation to a friend I haven’t seen in too long a time to meet me for lunch at Tzatskee’s. I hit ‘send’ and before my note could possibly get thru the maze of cyberspace, I received a fantastic invitation from Carl, a former hot flame, inviting me to a fabulous shmorgasborg at the Hilton. He came in last nite on business and only has today. I am not the kind of person to cancel an invitation because I have something better to do. Whoosh, I had to thank Carl with regrets, ask him to call me, and sat alone the entire day. Nogoodniks, get away from me. Leave me, my small pleasures be.

Which one of you trolls took away my anticipated joy last week? Had you been watching me, waiting to turn me into a gray pot of porridge? Do you float over my head, walk behind me, sit in the chair next to me as I go from one eye specialist to another for over two years? Did you give me back my childhood 20/20 vision and then, with no warning, take it away again? You must have heard me elating to my mother that I had almost three hours of total eye comfort that day. My eyelids weren’t boiling steel. The corneas were clear, my eyes azure blue and I didn’t feel them at all. It was like being eight again. They were there, just like my nose, my mouth, simply part of me. It was wonderful and I had to e-mail my friends about the miracle. I hit ‘send’ and Indian fire arrows hit my eyes. I close them gently, keep them closed, hoping for relief until I fall asleep. They hurt when I wake. Why, why, are you jinxing me? Who is that trying to climb up my wall, maybe attack a visitor? Nobody can come in, not god himself. Your broken claws won’t get thru the bricks, or into my psyche again. Out, out and away! You strip me, take away every small pleasure that touches me. Why?

I know you know my 50th birthday is Christmas day and Mom and Dad are planning a big surprise party for me at the Chevalier. I, like you, sometimes am sneaky, sometimes clever. I don’t let them know I know. Not once have I mentioned my birthday or even the word ‘Christmas.’ A few times I’ve practiced in front of the mirror in my bedroom how to look surprised. This party is going to be my first since I was 10. I am bursting with excitement. Aunts, uncles, cousins I hardly know will come out of the family cracks. My few friends, the gals where I work, maybe some of my many doctors’ techs will fill the ballroom.

I tell Mom I have a date to go to dinner and Mass on Christmas and am having one of my nice dresses cleaned and pressed. Most important, I add to her pleasure, ‘and I may not be home until morning.’ She is happy and doesn’t guess my subterfuge.

And then you flying bastards do it to me again. You send that rinky dinky Chevy into the rear of my car and me into on-coming traffic. I’m lying here in the hospital trying to get your attention, since you can’t scale my wall. My hip and pelvis are fractured. I am out of ugly words for you but am on the verge of using some of them on my parents.

They went to a friend’s house for an elaborate Christmas dinner. There was no surprise party for me planned. But still, I was surprised–no party, no Happy Birthday, no present, unless you call a plant, delivered to my hospital room, a present.

I have a lot of time, close to a month, to lie here and plan. I’ll destroy you sooner or later, and I think it will be sooner. Carl sent me flowers. Nurses administer new eye drops on a timed schedule and I can now read a book using new bifocals.

When I feel you, see you setting up to harm me, I’m taking a detour and you will all be trapped in my box and I may be living with a stranger.

PERSONALLY, I DON'T EAT RIBS

I cringe. Neatly dressed, a smile on her face, menus under her arm, she quickly looks me over and asks, ‘How many, Sir?’ The question has become familiar, is dehabilitating. The answer, ‘Just one,’ still hurts. I’ve been here many times, seen many hostesses come and go. I give this one a month at best. She seats me at a small table, at the end of a row. It is directly next to a serve station where trays rattle, waiters argue. I slip her a buck and am moved to a more comfortable, but still loud, spot.

Mulligan’s is a so called ‘sports bar’ that is usually packed for lunch and dinner. Calling it a ‘restaurant’ would be wrong–there is no ‘rest’ here.Huge t.v. screens spew football, basketball, diving competitions. The noise can burst ear drums. Fouls bring grunts, first downs, whoops of joy. I can hide here, eat a rack of delicious ribs and not worry if I get grease on my tie. There have been a few hot, boring days where I have worn a sloppy white t shirt here, emblazoned in red ‘FU’ and noone has ever asked me if I went to Florida University.

Above the bar, in a more or less separate room, are many silver trophies that aren’t silver and were never awarded. It’s a bunch of hype, atmosphere. I can eat quickly or linger over a beer, a second one without getting a dirty look from my server.

Tonight the air is chilly, my apartment lonely. I don’t like being a nobody, a ‘one’ yet had to get out among noisy, happy people. Almost an hour has past and I’m feeling slightly guilty holding this table. As I try to find my waiter for the check, I stop. My soon-to-be Ex is coming down my aisle with a man I’ve never seen before. I hate him at once and raise my large menu to cover my face. It knocks over my beer and foams over the left over ribs. I feel all eyes on me. Addie would have to be blind to not be aware of the commotion I made. A waitress doesn’t want Addie’s clothes soiled so turns her and her ‘friend’ around and takes them towards the bar.

While I and my messy table are being cleared, an adorable young waitress wearing short shorts and a tight Mulligan’s knit shirt over her growing breasts, says to me, ‘Don’t fret, Sir. Let me help you wipe your slacks.’ I reluctantly thank her but think it best I rub the grease (as best I can) off of my crotch. Being suave is not possible. ‘Just let me have my check and I’ll be out of your way.’ I give it a speed-o glance, give her my American Express card and wait and wait for her to return. My charge card goes safely into my wallet and I leave a hefty tip, squeeze out of the booth and head for the exit.

When the hostess, who in my mind won’t be at Mulligan’s long sees me,she smiles a brighter smile and mentions my ‘Just one.’ ‘Why do you come here by yourself? There is a little Italian restaurant, Gnocci’s, only two blocks away. I go there alone every Monday. Want to try it with me? I’m quitting this lousy, noisy place at the end of the week. You and I can maybe enjoy being just two. What do you say?’

I give her a gentlemanly going over and am quite pleased.‘I say, OK. Can I meet you outside of Mulligan’s at 8 next Monday?By the way, my name is Jeb. What’s yours?’

WHERE THE WIND BLOWS

He walked through the door looking almost like he used to look. I only noticed a touch of gray on his moustache. His smile was contagious. I grinned and must have looked like a Mama Baboon who has just nursed her baby. My heart beat fast. Questions exploded from my lips. ‘What are you doing here? Where did you go? How are you? What brings you to Campfield again?’ As soon as I paused to breathe, Siggie answered ass-backward. ‘Remembering, caring about you could be denied no longer. You bring me back to Campfield. I am fine, healthy and happy. I went to Borneo, Bora Bora and New Guinea. Now my exploring days are over and I am here only because you are. How about shutting up for a few minutes. Don’t you want to be hugged, squeezed, kissed with fervor?’

As wonderful as that sounded, I did not jump at the offer. ‘Not so fast, Gulliver. Haven’t those places entered the 21st century? Are there no email stations, no pens, no paper, no postage stamps? How could you just pack your bags and leave me without a word of where you were going, why and when you’d come back? How could you be so cruel? So, back off, Siggie. I’m not a door mat for you. Just because I loved you doesn’t mean I still do. Go to a hotel or go sleep in the zoo where you’ll be right at home with the smells.’ I open the front door for him but he stands still. ‘I’m serious. Get out!’ He goes and I watch him walk down my driveway, enter a less than new car that looks like a rental. Unbidden tears form a stream down my chin.

I manage to keep busy, read, watch t.v., meet Millie for lunch so I can get some help, some relief for my quandary, while barely standing the silence of my phone. Normal calls annoy me. I cut off my friends too abruptly, bang the phone down rudely on all pitchmen. Millie at least listens to me, understands the unhappy, fearful year that has past but makes no suggestion as to what I should do. We finish our coffee and end the conversation. She drives me home.

As soon as she pulls into the curb, I see a note on my front door, jump out of her car and barely say so long to her as I fly to see what awaits me. It isn’t a note. It is a large manilla envelope held to the door with duct tape. Removing the tape also removes some of the door shellac. I fume, take it inside and curse Siggie. The envelope is fodder for National Geographic, beautiful, professional looking shots of jungles, naked blacks, snakes, waterfalls, wildly painted faces. The last picture stops me cold. It is of me in my wedding gown with Siggie beside me in his tux. I put everything back in order and close the envelope with the little metal clasp.

Somehow I am plastered to my kitchen chair, don’t want to get up. My mind is a Mixmaster, churning the good, the bad, the love, the anger into one big bowl of crap, of indecision. Had I felt the way Siggie did, could I have left him without discussing the future? I don’t know. Maybe. Had he told me and I told him to go to Borneo, wouldn’t I have still been angry? Damn right! I don’t know. I don’t know what I would have done with just a little consideration given to me. I don’t know what might have been but do know now.

My phone rings. It’s Siggie, I’m sure. He says, ‘Hello, My love.’ I reply, ‘Goodbye, Siggie,’ and hang up.

UNEXPECTED EMBERS

From my office to Gate 24, down 3 flights of unclean metal stairways, my fast walk takes me through a seedy neighborhood. Most shops are boarded closed. The pavements have not been swept in months and depend on the wind blowing the papers into the gutters. As I walk I stay alert, watch what is ahead of me, listen to the rear, stop only for the two traffic lights, and sometimes curse them.

Christmas season arrives faster every year. How did 2001 get here when it seems merely a month ago it was 1995? With the inadequate bonus I expect this year, I am mentally preparing to notify Simon and Sullivan that I am retiring Dec. 31. The line to take my place will be long so I don’t feel guilty.

A dollar in Santa’s kettle, a few quarters in the blind man’s cup and I am almost past the last frightening spot on my route home. I’ve passed it coming and going day after day, evening after evening for three years, crossing the alley as fast as I can-–but today–I can no longer ignore it. The smell of smoke, the chanting of Christmas carols draw my attention into a world I have forced myself to ignore.

A tall, black steel drum spits out sparks. It is surrounded by a small group of bedraggled men and women, warming their hands over dying embers. Move, go home, I tell myself but my feet and heart won’t obey. ‘Hey, Jiggs, unload!’ I see Jiggs sidle over to the drum. Probably he was once tall but now his spine is crooked and bent. He digs into his bulging pockets and pulls out single pieces of coal, dropping each carefully and somewhat gently into the dying flames. Tiny sparks rise and fly away. The circle of friends, lost souls, moves closer. A woman with a gray knit cap that has ear muffs helping her bear the cold but making her hearing less than it could be, loudly says, ‘Bless you, Jiggs’ and he replies, ‘You’re welcome Melinda. Wish I had more.’

Mel turns towards the man beside her. ‘What are you grumbling about, Gabby?’ ‘Damn it, look. A spark burned a hole in my sweater sleeve. I could have caught on fire. This is my only sweater. If I had another, I’d donate this one to St. Mary’s Church. It would match the holiest item at the altar.’ Everybody laughs. ‘Don’t worry about it, Gabby Boy. I’ll steal you a new one if I can ever sneak into Walmarts.’ That brought a smile and little tear down my cold face.

Suddenly I am under a microscope. All eyes are watching me. ‘What do you want, Lady?’ a gruff voice asks. I can’t speak. Even if I could, I have no answer, no idea why I intruded. Jiggs, the man who donated the coals to the fire, tells me not to stare at him and his friends. They aren’t freaks. I stand still, try to not to shake, feel stupid.

Darkness is almost around me. I have to catch my train. Somehow, unbidden, the strap holding my purse slips off of my shoulder. The catch, untouched, opens. My hand goes in, finds my wallet and without counting, I empty it, except for two one dollar bills that will get me home. I hand nearly one hundred dollars to Gabby. ‘Spread it around,’ I suggest, wish them all a better Christmas and leave.

As I reach the street, I hear the group singing ‘Jingle Bells’. I feel a bit better than when first I turned into the alley and softly sing ‘Jingle Bells’ too.

MEDICINE WALK

I was down in the dumps, not really covered in garbage, but lower than I like to be and needed a boost up. The sky was a dismal slate grey that was about to cry. My umbrella had been whipped out of my hand by a mighty gust of wind only a week ago. It soared north into oblivion.

And now today, damn it, I stepped on my own shoe lace. It broke and I tripped, fell down hard, scraped my elbow. Trying to stand, my ankle hurt enough that I had to limp. Stumpy’s was the closest place to rest, get a cup of Joe. As the red neon delly sign blinked on and off, I smiled at the perfect name, Stumpy’, exactly how I felt. In truth the name should be Dumpy’s. Only my aches and malaise gave me the courage to enter. It was as I had heard it was, not fit for man nor beast.

The sound of the squeaky door didn’t cause Adolph to raise his eyes from the racing sheets of today’s paper. A yellow #2 Gray Arc pencil was behind his ear. The sharpened point of another he put on his tongue, moistened it a bit, and jotted down his bets on a small spiral pad. ‘Hey, Stumpy,’ I called. ‘Look over here. You have a live customer. How about a cup of Joe, black, hot and an Equal?’ His reluctance to even look my way made me continue my disgust. ‘Stumpy, lock up your place and go to hell.’ I limped out wishing I could change the delly name to ‘Dumpy’s.’

After just a few steps on the concrete, I felt the discomfort in my ankle, considered for a minute it might be chipped, cracked, broken. I put those thoughts behind bars and hobbled to a bench that seemed about 10 miles away. It was concrete painted white at one time, now covered with graffiti, dirt, chewed gum. There were little drawings in black of hearts, flowers. No question the same artiste did them. Covering parts of three slats was a colorful polka dotted rainbow. That was where I chose to sit. Was I imagining it or did my rear end feel warmth emanating from the colors? I slid back and forth testing the difference. There was one but I could not account for it.

It was all too much for my unhappy mood so I left it for the next sitter to ponder. As I went slowly down the street to the 16th Ave. bus line, I turned and noticed I had been replaced on the bench by two pure white pigeons, cooing, pecking at each other, most likely getting ready to mate. ‘Hey,’ is that my trouble? Is that what I need? A wild, exciting afternoon of sex?’

I walked a little faster, reached a Mobil gas station that had a public phone near the entrance. Damn, I had no change but was inspired enough to go inside the small store, get a cup of Joe, change for two ones and dialed 402-741-5682.

A voice oozing with sweetness and practice said, ‘Hello. This is Daphne.’

FINDING FRED

Fred looked glum. His eyes drooped, watered. I could feel the tenseness in his jaw. It made me grit my own teeth. His open hand slowly knotted into a fist. Still sitting on his favorite backless bar stool, he reached for the plastic bowl of peanuts, ate a few and threw the rest directly at the mirror behind the bar. A giant crack ziggzagged from the bottom to the very top. The other drunks at the bar didn’t notice, didn’t care about the mirror or Fred. They went on sipping, nipping as if their ears were stuffed with chewing gum.

One of the frequent customers yelled out, ‘Hey, Nat. Didn’t you notice Blotto just broke the big mirror?’ Nat threw his arms up in exasperation, took a deep breath and exhaled. ‘Don’t anybody worry.The glass won’t break. It’s glued to the backboard. Baker’s good for it. Next drink is on the house!’ The sitters and the standers applauded.

Fred, the creator of the pandemonium, got up, took his Visa card from his wallet and handed it to Nat. The curious twisted and stood tip-toed trying to see the charge slip, but Fred signed it fast and it went into the cash register like a rattler that has already made up its mind to strike. Fred gave a mischievous smile to all, bowed, threw a kiss and with a final, ‘Good nite, Jerks,’ walked out on fairly steady feet.

He only had a short distance home and made it even shorter by going through a back alley. Dogs barked. A few residents turned on their rear outside lights, saw nothing unusual and in a few minutes, it was dark again.

Fred, surprising himself, didn’t stumble, didn’t bump into any garbage cans loaded for Tuesday’s pick-up, didn’t step in any brackish stagnant water. The brisk night air almost cleared his head. After the last house in the alley that still had a picket fence, Fred turned right and was on his own street. His new white Mazda was in front of his house, wasn’t stolen yet.

‘Wha–‘, was all he could say. That was when the lights went out, Fred’slights. Nothing else happened until Fred opened his eyes in what smelled like, and looked like, a hospital. A total void filled his mushy mind. The emptiness of time, the lack of blackness scared the bejesus out of him. He tried to sit up, figure out where he was and why. Gently two large white hands, topped by a resonant black voice, pushed him down on whatever the lumpy thing was that was under him. Beep, beeps echoed from one ear to the other. There was an old fashioned blood pressure cuff wrapped around his arm. The voice told him to lie down, keep still.

‘Mr. Foreman, do you know what happened to you? You were found unconscious on your own pavement, by Officer O’Halley. He walks the beat in your area every night. He had no idea how long you had been laying there and called for assistance.’ Fred’s brow knitted tightly. His eyes squinted as he tried to focus on the voice, the place. ‘ I think maybe my wife’s boyfriend cuckolded me when I got home earlier than they expected. You go out and tell Maggie she can sit in the hall forever or until one of us dies.’ ‘The lady outside said her name is Hilda. Do you know her?’ Barely able to answer, Fred told the voice that he knew a Hilda in high school but never got in her pants.

‘Stay quiet. You are going downstairs for a cat scan. So far you aren’t all the way back with us. Dr. Merson will talk to you when you return. Close your eyes.’ Fred follows orders and goes back into the void he didn’t understand the first time. Loud beeps, green, blue, white gowned people push him, prod him. He feels nothing. His eyes are closed but he sees clearly thru the lids. There is a tunnel, a brightly lit tunnel, and he walks towards it. Something smells good. He opens his eyes all the way and almost leaps out of bed.‘Hilly, Hilly, Sweetheart. Where have you been? Oh god you smell so good, like melting chocolate pouring over vanilla ice cream. I’ve been away, don’t know where I was, but do now.

Sit down close to my bed. Hold my hand and tell me that you love me.’

‘That’s easy, Fred, I love you.’

INDECISION

I didn’t want to go—I didn’t want to stay, but knew a year had somehow gone up in smoke while my grand daughters had become teens and I played Ms. Rip Van Winkle. Their mom, my sister Thelma , was ill, severely ill. Yes, yes, she needed me. I wanted to be there, hold her hand for most-likely the last time, yet cringed imagining it. My mental battle ended.

Ensconced in a rumpled hospital bed in her living room, she was ashen white. Her hair had turned thin, stringy gray. Yet, I was sure I saw her eyes sparkle a bit, her mouth turn up into a smile, when she saw me. Gumption was still a big part of her. Thelma tuned into me, corrected my grammar, my pronunciations, making me laugh. We laughed together, trying desperately to hold back the tears.

The house was too hot for me. The thermostat was kept on 74. My nieces would not allow me to open a single window as more germs might come in. Unlike me, I slept naked, sweating thru the nights. Each morning I straightened my bed, made neat hospital corners. Tom, my brother-in-law, didn’t like my corners. A few times I caught him outside my room trying to look nonchalant. As soon as I said ‘Good morning,’ and walked to the stairway, he made a mad dash into my room, pulled out the hospital corners and left the sheet loose, touching the floor. It wasn’t easy, but I kept my mouth shut. Each evening I shook the sheet that had been dangling, did my corners, and left them like that. It was a silly, childish battle that I eventually lost.

Aside from that, Tom, was always pleasant to me. He sat by Thelma’s bed, caring for her, feeding her, reading to her. Not once did he raise his voice, let his shoulders droop. The girls went on school buses daily, came in to talk to Thelma as soon as they came home. I grocery shopped, fixed good, tasty meals with plenty of left overs for the freezer. Still, this was not my house. There were rules I had to follow. ‘Don’t waste water, particularly hot water. Turn faucets off tightly; take quick showers; put nothing in the toilet except what normally goes there. What else is there? I asked Tom and was told too much toilet paper at one time clogs their pipes and there are floods. There I was, unable to use too much water, but should flush more than once rather than put too much tissue in the bowl. ‘Whoever makes the flood cleans it up!’ I was careful not to be ‘IT.’

After dinners, when the kitchen was clean, Thelma had her last shot of morphine, my nieces joined me in the den. They hugged me, pulled childish memories from my creaking mind of games, songs that Thelma and I experienced. They wanted to know about our parents, where they came from, were they old, mean, handsome, ugly. Did they speak English? Was Grandma a good cook? I regaled them with stories. Sometimes I couldn’t hold back my tears, especially when I realized Tom was not with us. He sat by Thelma’s side until he said, ‘Goodnite’ to us.

Thelma’s life had been too short–too long, she passed on the ninth morning of my ten day visit. That too, was too short–too long.

Tom had a lot to do but surely took a minute or two to pull out my hospital corners before he took me to O’Hare.

THE FIXER

A good man is hard to find–but I found one. My Jerry loves to hate me. We argue like two robins digging for the same worm. My guy is a worker when the work is to his liking. Long, quiet hours fly by when he is writing a story, painting his memories onto his trusty big screen Gateway computer. His tales are saleable but he’ll never be an earnest Ernest Hemingway. Am I complaining? No. Our fridge is full. Our small house in Florida is cozy and we have no snow shovels, no skid chains in our garage. And if we did need those like we did in Boston, who would push that shovel all the way down our driveway so Jerry could get to his publisher on time? I would.

Over and over and over he has hammered it into my brain, ‘I’m not handy with tools. I write. You fix.’ And that is the basis of our ‘get along’ marriage.

Our children, Ira 10 and Jennifer 7, somehow scratched our refrigerator 6 unfixed months ago. Their apology did not help. I nagged Jerry, nagged him until I was sure, it was one nag too much and he would throw in his sweat towel. Finally, with my arms folded across my chest, I took a stand. ‘Jerry, shut down that ‘puter’ now or I’ll shut you down and you can sleep in the garage. Go to Davis’ Hardware. Don’t come home unless you have a large can of Johnson’s white spray-on semi-gloss paint. You are going to paint the fridge door today. Not tomorrow, today!’

Ocala rain is semi-rare but this day it hit hard. I heard Jerry drive into the garage, heard the door slam and in walked my sopping wet, sour-faced husband. ‘Wait! Wait, don’t paint yet. Jenny had a jelly sandwich while you were gone and I have to wipe her fingerprints off the fridge. Then you cover the handle with tape. Okay, ready. Hold your hand steady. Go slow. Don’t rush. I’ll be right back.’

Jerry takes a strong stance, aims at the door and screams. I hear the can fall to the floor. ‘What was that? “ I yell. My handyman comes running towards me, his face, his hair, his eyeglasses speckled white. ‘I guess I had the nozzle pointed the wrong way. Get my glasses off of me. I can barely see. He was a sad sight. I tried not to laugh but laughed loud enough for Jenny to come see her father. She joined me while Jerry told us both, ‘I told you 15 years ago, I can’t fix things, Dora. ‘ Holding the can, he starts to hand it to me, accidentally hits the ‘spray’ button ruining Jenny’s dress. ‘Give me the darn can, Klutz. I’ll paint the door.’

The incident is an inspiration. Non-stop Jerry writes for one month, hardly stopping for lunch. ‘The Painted Loser’ floats from his Gateway. I am the first to read it, which I do straight thru. His agent says it is far, far the best Jerry has ever done and gets it to Macmillan Inc. Publisher overnight express.

While we wait, I ask my fixer to take care of the clock over the kitchen sink. It has stopped. I look at the little lambs jumping over a fence dozens of times a day. Dumb but cute. ‘Jerry, come on. Any idiot can fix this clock and you are not an idiot. You just wrote a Hemingway book. We might get rich. ‘Criminy, I can’t fix a clock.’ Try. You can fix this one. Now you are a real writer, maybe you can also fix a simple clock.’ ‘OK, I’ll try but don’t expect miracles. I’ll initiate the work bench you bought me for Christmas two years ago.’ Two strangers , my husband and my clock go down the steps to our basement.

In less than five minutes Jerry hands me the clock. ‘I think I fixed it.’ ‘What is this wet stuff coming off the back?’ I exclaim. My hands feel greasy.’ ‘All it needed was oil. I put some in the two holes on the top.’‘Oiled it? My god, Man. It worked on batteries, you ruined it. My lambs have died.! ‘ I throw the clock in the trash can, get my umbrella and head to Best Buy to find another battery operated clock.

I’ll have a new clock and an old husband, and hope I never have to oil Jerry.

POW WOW

The wind is fierce. It’s only October 3 and the chill goes thru my clothes, digs into my bones. Maple leaves haven’t yet begun to turn gold, red. They flutter, whirl like dervishes, drop in corners and die. Who has stolen Indian Summer? My suspicions fall on the new housing condos on the outskirts of Savannah. Two of the buildings have become home to the Muscogees and Hitachi. These were major, important tribes during the Confederacy. The Chief, Mico, made the village decisions, all against the North.

On the way to work I often see large groups standing in double circles. What are they doing I wonder. They are dressed neatly, American style, no moccasins, no beads, no buffalo skin robes. Yet, on lovely spring days, with my car windows open, I swear I hear chanting.

They are loners, mingle rarely, I am told, with the mixed residents in our other two buildings. None have offered to be on the Boards, committees of any kind. As far as is known they don’t even gamble.It’s no skin off my back. I don’t care what they do or don’t do as long as they cause no trouble. At this point, I have begun to wonder.

The red bougainvillea at the entrance to #2 Condo, the one where Maggie and I have a lovely 3 bedroom apartment overlooking the 6th hole of our 18 hole championship golf course, has suddenly, unexplainably, turned brown, drooped and died. The Building Captain in #1 has asked to have it replaced, but funds are not available at the moment. The replacement will have to wait for spring. No complaints, requests come from #3 or #4. Their grass seems greener than ours and their bougainvillea is radiant, climbing to the sky.

Charlie Gluck, Board Pres of 1 & 2 has invited 3 & 4 to attend our Halloween dance that is now only one week away. Not one Muscogee has replied. We are not ostracizers. They are all welcome to use our large pool, club house, golf course but no, like Garbo, they want to be alone.

#1 and #2 occasionally, have a delinquent resident, which requires a fine. The Muscogees not only pay maintenance fees on time, they are early. Two large manilla envelopes holding alphabetically arranged checks are on management’s desk, entered, deposited while #1 & #2 are still waiting for the slow one’s to cough up. The wind continues to blow hard. All of the pool furniture was put in storage after Labor Day but the water has not been drained yet. During my usual early morning walk towards the picturesque golf course, I have to pass the pool. It looks like algae is forming. Moving closer, I see not the algae but a small child bouncing up and down on the end of the low diving board. My heart starts to pound, almost jumps out of my mouth. I stifle my shout and run towards her. One mis-step and goodbye Kid. No one else is near. Slowly, quietly, I approach. Whoosh, she slips and is in. The water has to be cold and well over her head. No thought, I’m in, reaching for her. The little girl starts to cry, then laughs, ‘Gen, Gen.’ I assume she wants to do it again

The Club House is the closest building and that is where I go. The heat is on and feels somewhat comforting. There is a stack of pool towels near the door waiting to go in storage. I rip it open, undress the child and am astounded. The she is a he. The long, black, wet hair had me fooled. Once he is dry and wrapped up like a mummy, I tend to my own discomfort. The little boy’s name is Muhikoo. I call the Captain of building 4 to tell him to locate Mihikoo’s parents. I will stay with the child and wait. Within 10 minutes the Club House is packed with noisy, grateful Muscogees. Muhikoo’s parents are eternally grateful to me.The father removes his jacket and puts it around me. ‘Keep it, he says.’

In two languages the ‘thanks’ cover me and I appreciate them but am still cold and must go home. I am surrounded. The tribe has formed two circles around me. They chant. With shuffling, soft steps they go round and round me. Every face has a smile.

They are still there as I open the door, hunch my shoulders, head into the strong wind. Maggie has left our door unlocked. She has dry, warm clothes for me laid out on our bed. We don’t talk about what happened until I have had a short nap and realize what might have happened had I not noticed the child where I never dreamed a child would be. The near tragedy had been averted.....

and at our next Board meeting, five Muscogees attended.