Win some-Lose Some

RED BICYCLES

 

On the butcher shop window there is a new sign. I can read almost all of it . 'Red Flyer Bike race Sat. 10 a.m.  Pulaski St. to the corner of Sumpter Ave. 25 cents. See Donnie to enter.' His father, Sam the Butcher,  surely gave him the brown meat wrapping paper for the big sign. Donnie won't take my quarter because my bike is not a Red Flyer. I am really angry. After dinner when it is almost dark outside and the lamplighter is still a block away, I sneak my mom's red lipstick off of her bureau, take it to the sign and run her greasy lipstick over the word 'Flyer'.

 

After breakfast I go to find Donnie to give him my money. He probably hadn't yet seen what I had done to his sign and tells me to leave him alone. 'How many in the race so far?' I ask. He looks a little sad and tells me three. 'Please let me in the race, Donnie. I'll make 4.' With his eyes staring down the street he sees no takers who want to race and shoos me away.  I don't go and instead ask him when he changed his sign. He gets angry and tells me he never changed it and if he catches the kid who did, he'll beat him to a pulp, hang him on a hook in his father's butcher shop. 'Somebody, some girl, used bright red lipstick to ruin my sign. Did you do it, Kathryn?' 'I don't have lipstick yet, Donnie, I'm only 7 ½.' 'Maybe your mom did he,' he suggests. 'Oh, no Donnie, my mom wouldn't ruin her good lipstick on that cheesy butcher paper of yours.' I offer him my quarter, smile, hug him a little when he takes it.

 

Ten bikes are lined up on the butcher's pavement Saturday morning at ten o'clock. Donnie's dad keeps the shop closed on Saturday because it is the day of rest for him and his family. Mr. Feinberg has us each pick a folded piece of paper out of a jar. On each piece is a big red number, one to ten. He has us line up in a row in order of the numbers. When he blows his whistle we are all set and bike as fast as we can down Pulaski to Sumter. Tough on those who get there as the light changes to red.
Eight year old Janet's red hair is full of bobby pins so it won't blow around. She is right in front of me when her front wheel hits the curb and she falls into the gutter. I keep peddling as fast as I can and am now the only girl in the race but not the only person without a Red Flyer. Nick is almost ten and he has a red Concord but, according to Sam the butcher, Nick beats me by two bike lengths. Donnie is disappointed, very upset and angry at himself. He was the one who made up the race and should have won–or so he thinks out loud.

 

Sam helps Janet take her bike home because she has skinned her knee and it is still bleeding a little. We are no longer in order and just go back slowly together. Sam has the prize money ready. He announces the winner, Nick. Nobody is happy, except me. He awarded me second place and gave me my money back plus an extra quarter.

 

I did it. My first race and I made it, came in second and I beat Donnie who still thinks his Red Rider is the best bike in the world.

 

He's wrong.

A Fooler

THE FOUND WEEK-END

 

'Joseph look at me. I want to talk to you but have to talk fast so you can watch Monday night football.  He quizzically looks up from his steak tartare, chews the raw onions, takes a sip of water and waits.
'I picked up a few travel brochures during my lunch break today. Violet, remember the agent we used three years ago? Well, she gave me some hints. France in August is a morgue, unless we want to go to the farm country. Italy is overflowing with college kids on bikes, a lot of drugs.' I take a breath and wait for the expected, 'What's for dessert?' He's such a testy guy, always was, still is.

 

'O.K., put this under your thinning hair. I'm thinking Spain, Portugal. It's
picturesque, has castles, fishing villages, small hotels.' He doesn't flinch, just drops his rolled up napkin next to his plate and asks what's for dessert. Before he heads to the powder room for fifteen minutes, he takes time to simply look at me and say, 'Not interested.' His routine won't change. The next time I see him he will be taking up the entire living room sofa. The t.v. will be too loud for me and he will be jotting down the scores of other games that are already in the fourth quarter. The Rams and Colts are tied and I can see, hear, feel, the excitement of the crowd and Joseph beginning to snore. I am frustrated, angry, talking to deaf ears, 'Goodnight,' and go up to bed.

 

In the morning, we are not exactly civil with each other. Joseph seems unaware of the rift being hammered into our marriage. Maybe it's my fault. I used to be his first violin, now I am his tuba, loud and annoying.
Since Joseph shows no interest whatsoever in traveling and less and less of me, I let up, drop the travel brochures in the recycle bin. Violet I leave hanging in the air. She has called me twice and I have
phumphed and put her off.

 

Where my great idea came from, I'm not sure, but I have one. There is so much hoopla in the papers, on T.V. about Super Bowl time! The wonderful smell of the brisket I have been roasting for two hours, along with crispy, thin sliced potatoes, deep, rich brown gravy overpowers Joseph as soon as he opens the front door. I greet him with a big smile and ask if he would like to join me with a glass of Val Policella before we have dinner. 'Wow, dinner smells good enough to eat. I just want to wash up. Pour us each a tall glass.'

 

I have romantic tall white candles lit on the dining room table. The salad I prepared is extra crisp and full of the red radishes Joseph likes. Everything is going smoothly. No mention of travel upsets our evening together. I am really happy there is no football on this evening. As soon as the table is cleared, I blow out the tall candles that were just about ready to drip on my linen cloth. 'Ready or not, here comes dessert!' On a large glass platter I have put my home made chocolate, chocolate cake molded like a football. Celery sticks make the goal posts. We laugh together. 'Joseph, I have a great idea. Let's give a Super Bowl party here. We've been guests at lots of them and this will be our return party. It can really be fun. You can set up the lottery.'

 

Joseph says neither yea or nay. I continue. 'Let's make it sorta informal. I make a great corned beef and cabbage, don't I? We can have cold beer, sour pickles, dips and I can make a football cake like what we are eating now only much, much bigger. Joseph grabs me, almost squeezes the life out of me but says nothing until he winks and says one word, 'Great,' pauses what seems like forever. He lifts me off my feet and tells me he has a surprise for me. I mutter stupidly, What? Tell me. No, don't tell me. Save it.' Under other circumstances when he says 'Shut up,' I would be angry. This time I sit quietly and listen to him.'This coming week-end we have a reservation at the Hilton across the Bay Bridge. It's brand new. We are both getting massages, going to drive to Annapolis, have candlelight dinners and wild orgies of eating, with no dishes to clean up. How this grab you?' he asks. I call him Josie and he doesn't get angry. 'Josie honey,  I'm overwhelmed. Thank you in advance.' He looks sweetly at me and tells me to calm down. That is the appeteaser.' The week after the Super Bowl and our party we're booked in to tour Spain, stopping first in beautiful Barcelona. I've checked our passports and they are in good order. Violet is handling everything.

 

In the meantime, Wifey mine, let's make our Super Bowl party Super and tonight the most super night of all.'

Strong

BLUE HEAVEN

 

My cough gets worse.  My chest hurts all the way back under my shoulder blades. Harry, most likely has hidden  my cigs, or trashed them all at once. He should know by now that I can find a needle in a haystack, a sliver of glass in my fries, a fly wing in my soup. He means so well but is torturing me with his cleverness. We still manage to go out for dinners once in a while and take home doggie bags for my lunches. No more do we go to the beach that he loves so much as the salty air makes me cough and I shouldn't get sun burned. I haven't lost a lot of weight yet and don't expect to because the doctors are wrong. I don't have the Big C.

 

Today is lady's day and my canasta friends will be here at two. Harry has set up the card table, I am sure, and put some hard candies in the silver dish I use. Without mentioning it to me, he brought home a pound of Doebriner's chocolate fudge, the best fudge we've ever eaten, and put out ½ in the other silver dish, the rest near my bed. Oh, no, I'm not bed ridden but I am weak . Harry lays out the things I mentioned last night that I will wear for my game. Without getting up, I can see my clothes perfectly arranged so I don't have to bend over too much. Oh, how I love him. By itself, a small tear touches my cheek. He will miss me too.

 

My four ladies and myself have been close, warm friends since junior high school. We used to dress alike, wear the same kinds of lipsticks and chase the same boys. Once in a while the green dragon, Jealousy, reared its head and we became three silly teens and me. That nonsense hurt, caused anger but phoo, we grew up, laughing, laughing about our squabbles. Today I am expecting Carla to bring me something heavenly that she baked special for me. I wait for the doorbell and wonder what goody she'll have wrapped up like paper money coming out hot from the press.

 

The sound of Margie's new Saturn pulling into the driveway is music to my ears. I get up from the soft lounge chair, put on an honest happy face, and greet them one by one. There are a few times I can't control my cough and leave the table. Seeing 'the gals' hunch their backs, cover their noses upsets me the most. My partner makes the wrong play causing both of us to be the big losers. I sit there and get a crazy thought. 'Yes, I am a big loser. I'm going to leave my friends, my wonderful Harry.' And then I pull myself together and pay my $5 debt to Carla.  She is kind enough to put away the cards for me and fold  the card table. Fran takes the coffee cups into the kitchen. I hear her rinse them and put them in the dishwasher. The fudge dish is empty so that goes in the kitchen, too. I sit and talk to whoever walks past me. 'Finally, I get the strength to stand and walk to the kitchen with them.
'Hey, Ladies, I'm not an invalid. Next week I am going to bake us something special so don't anybody else do it.' The ladies applaud.

 

Well, things don't always work out the way we plan. Harry has to call the ladies and cancel our game. Harry held my hand when Dr. Feinberg told me I am out of remission and have to start chemo again. 'Dr. Feinberg, do I have a choice?' I ask. 'Yes, you can go on getting worse or try to hang on.' Harry cried when I told the doctor, 'I've had enough. Let me go.' 'Don't try to convince me otherwise. Let me go.'

 

It takes longer than I expected but my time has come. I close my eyes gently but can see thru my thin, dark eyelids, Harry is standing next to me. I leave, go on a long journey, thru a white room, into a tunnel with a bright light at the end. A strange feeling surrounds me as I rise, rise, don't stop rising until I see blue clouds and a golden gate opens for me.

 

This can't be heaven. The clouds are blue, a soft puffy blue. There is no god sitting on a throne. But this is surely heaven and I will stay here to wait for Harry.

Improved hearing

REFLECTIONS

 

The phone scares the beejesus out of me. It can only be Sharon. She's an early riser, ready to get the day going by 7:30. Mandy, my twin sister, sleeps in the twin bed next to mine. We both wake and cuss.
'You answer her this time,' I tell Sandy. 'Fat chance,' she mumbles, pulls her blanket over her head and waits, probably listens while I give Sharon hell. 'Sharon, cut out this crap. No, we can't go.' We know her well enough that she has plans ready for today, tomorrow, the entire summer.' I put the receiver down more loudly than usual.

 

Mom, taps on our door. 'What does she want you to do now, Girls? I think your friend Sharon has a mental problem.' I apologize and have to tell her, 'We don't know, we don't care. The phone rings again. 'Mandy, it's your turn. You talk to her or just hang up.' Hanging up won't solve anything, she'll call again so I answer. Sharon's words spurt out like July firecrackers. 'Have you been outside yet?' she asks. I reply with one word, 'No.' Then the spiel begins. 'Isn't the sun already covering half your bedroom floor?' I look and sure enough it is. 'Yes.' There is elation in Sharon's reply to my single word. 'Then get ready, we are going to the new swimming pool that opened on Frederick Rd. last week. I hear its big, has a sliding board and lots of guys.' I tell Sandy what she wants us to do together  and she tells me loud enough that I don't even have to tell Sharon what she said, 'No way. We're not going to that new pool. You can go if you want. We wont mind.'

 

With her anxiety out of our way, Sandy and I dress alike in casual jeans  and try to figure out a way to get Sharon off our backs. We set the breakfast table and wait patiently for Mom and Dad to join us. Mom starts right in. 'Girls, what are you going to do about Sharon? She has become a pest, disturbs our family. What's with her, any idea?' Sandy and I do our sister act and shrug our shoulders together. Mom changes the subject and asks what our plans are for the day. 'So far, none, Mom, but we'll keep busy.' Dad kisses us each on the head, whispers, 'Love you all' and is gone in two shakes of a lamb's tail.

 

Just Mom and us having orange juice  oatmeal, toasted English muffins with gobs of butter together is nice for ten minutes. There is a knock on the front door. I whisper, 'Shh. Make out we aren't here.' A too familiar voice calls, 'Mandy, Sandy, I'm packed. My Mom made lunch for all of us. Bring your stuff down.' Opening the door I speak for my clan. 'Sharon, go away. Didn't you get our message? We aren't going to the pool. Go yourself or find somebody else. Bye.' Without actually slamming the door in her face, I shut it with meaning and hope she gets it.

 

Mom has a bridge game in the afternoon. Dad won't be home before seven. Sandy and I will watch Oprah, read. If it isn't too hot, we might even take a nice long walk, stop at the library or get the bus for the Mall. I peep out the front window and darn if Sharon isn't sitting on our curb. Unhappily I take a deep sigh, call Sandy to look at her, see how lonely she is. Guilt begins to cover both of us. Guilt dribbles to our hearts. We open the door and call to her. 'Sharon, what are you doing here?' 'Waiting for you two sleepy heads. My Dad will be driving by soon and he'll take us. Where are your things?'

 

I look at Sandy. Sandy looks at me. 'We have to go with her. Her Mom went to all the trouble to make lunch for us.' Sandy speaks up first. 'You win again, Sharon. We just get our bathing things and some money. Want to come inside and wait? She has to watch for her father and we don't have much time but make it just as he drives up.

 

What a jolly, happy man he is. His face shines like  polished moonbeams. From his wallet he offers us each five dollars that we thank him for but do not accept. Sharon sits in the back of his car with us and not for a minute does she take a silly grin off her face. We are just about the first ones at the pool and have to wait a few minutes for the lifeguards to get the doors open. The dressing area is big, clean, has at least a dozen hair dryers, big soft terry towels, lockers with keys at no charge. We change quickly, wear our flip flops and go out to the pool. Two diving boards already have guys jumping up and down then swanning into the clear green water. There are stations for buying soft drinks, sandwiches and small tables with red wooden benches for snacks. One entire section of the grounds has shade trees and lunch tables. This is really super! 

 

Sharon jumps in the water, swims the length twice and comes out breathless. She sits on the grass near us and tells us how happy she is that we came here with her. I answer honestly, 'We're glad too,  Sharon, aren't we Sandy?' 'This was a good idea,' we tell Sharon, hesitate until I get the nerve and speak  up, 'Sharon, please, I beg you, my parents beg you, not to call us so early every day.' I have more to say but hold my tongue. Sharon's face turns white, then red. I try to believe it is the pool water that has made tears fall down her face, race wildy into the brief bra of her swim suit.

 

Sandy kicks me, tells me to shut up. The surprise bowls Sandy and me over. Sharon stands up straight, explains her mother has told her the same thing, that I have made a pest of myself. 'My Mom is right. I am thinking about it, reflecting on the me that is me, and have some corrections to make in my ways.' She wipes her eyes, gives us a big smile and goes over to bring us all Root Beer Floats.

 

As the straws slurp and make a lot of noise, we girls laugh. The next to speak is Sharon. Somewhat shyly, slowly, apologetically she asks, 'Can I call at eight instead of seven thirty?

Backward and forward

PLAZA SWEET

 

The famous, sometimes infamous, Plaza in New York City is my destination. It's been years since I've been there and don't quite know what to expect since Eloise, the mischievous imp, turned into a movie heroine of sorts. My cab pulls up to the curb and just as I remember, a tall, neat attendant perfectly outfitted in his tan coat with chest adornment, perky visored cap, greets me and opens the cab door for me. The cabby  unlocks the trunk. With what seems great ease, my two heavy suitcases and roll-on, plus my big, old-fashioned hat box enter the Plaza.

 

The first thing I really notice is the beautiful wall-to-wall carpet has been removed showing off the original gorgeous white tiles. I love them but instantly feel out of place. Then I smell the sweet, gentle aroma of the perfume that used to get into my bones, make my nose itch and get angry at myself for not recalling its name. I am escorted to the check-in counter that is as pristine as twenty years ago, surely longer ago than that. The young lady behind the desk smiles, let's me see her perfect white teeth and slides the registration book to a  position where I can sign my Jane Hancock. I must show valid ID before I get the huge room key and a welcoming, soft greeting, 'So nice to see you again, Mrs. Feldman.' That's a bit much as I doubt she was out of diapers when I was here last.

 

My registration clearly shows the cost of my room and bath. When I had called for room 407, my honeymoon room, I was told it was occupied but I could have 412 with a lovely view of Central Park. The cost almost floored me, $525 a night. Ronald paid, I remember clearly, $49 and we stiffened at that. Since then I have learned the original price of a room, a good room, at the Plaza was $2.50 a night. It is unimaginable, isn't it?

 

My unpacking takes time. Why did I bring so many things? I don't expect to bump into Eartha Kitt, Liza Minelli at Palm Court where I will wear my old style big hat with a black flower in the band and let people look at me. This place used to be celebrity heaven, always enjoyable even if Ronald and I stopped in the coffee shop. I am having trouble opening two new jars of face and body creams and check the phone listings. Sure enough, the Plaza still has a butler on every floor. Josh, on my floor, knocks at my door the moment I hang up the phone. He doesn't even need a screwdriver,  just twists and they open. So it cost me five bucks, I don't care. I like breathing my inheritance and feeling the past overtake me.

 

The maid knocks gently, tries to stop me from hanging my things in the closet, putting undies in drawers. 'Madam, I'll take care of everything for you,' she says, gives a small curtsey and removes my hat from its box, laughs a little, and asks me how old it is. 'Older than you, My Dear,' I tell her and her mouth falls open. 'More than twenty?' she asks. 'Yes, thirty at least.'

 

I am more tired than I expected to be, lie down on the velvet chaise lounge to rest for fifteen minutes, open my eyes and an hour has disappeared. It is 4 p.m. tea time. My brown silk suit with wide lapels, trimmed by the long perfect pearl necklace Ronald gave me as a wedding gift will turn a lot of heads. I dress, leave my opened cosmetics on the dressing table and saunter to the elevator as if I were the Queen herself. The door opens and I am the only one aboard except for the operator who is almost a spitting image of the midget who wore a red outfit, brass buttons and pillbox hat with a dumb looking strap. All he ever said was 'Calling Phillip Morris.' boring commercial, indeed. He smiles at me and I smile back at him.

 

An immaculate young women leads me to a small table in Palm Court. The stained glass ceiling still lets lovely colors fall on the white table cloths. Each color brings me thoughts of times I spent here with friends, many friends. Seated at the table nearest me are six young women. The lean to each other and speak in soft tones, giggle. There is no doubt in my mind that they are discussing me. Let them. They are bold, wear tight clothes. Under their table I see their dresses well above their knees. I can hardly contain myself and will show them what class was and is. From my purse I remove my long amber cigarette holder, put in a long Phillip Morris cigaret and flick my silver lighter.
A most reserved gentleman is at my table immediately. He begs my pardon and advises me to snuff my cigarette as smoking is not allowed. I do as he suggests but leave the no longer smoking cigarette in the holder. He thanks me and disappears. The ladies watch me. I watch them and revel in my world of what was. They will never have what I have 'memories, wonderful memories.'

 

I sign my check without a moment's discontent. Can't help it but  seventy five dollars for a cup of tea, a dab of caviar on a cracker, a small bowl of bouillabaisse and cup of tea is a bit much.

 

My experience is worth it and I add a twenty dollar tip, have my chair pulled back for me, receive a small box of sweet, deliciously sweet,  chocolate covered malt balls and nibble them as I leave Palm Court for my afternoon walk thru Central Park.

Give a little-get a lot

HOME AGAIN

 

My sixth birthday is coming soon. I am really excited, know which friends I want. Last night I dreamed about the birthday cake my mom will bake for me and know how good it will taste. I'm going to help her.
I want two layers of yellow cake between chocolate. The yellow should taste like orange. Raspberry preserves, my favorite, goes between the yellow layers. Thick, thick chocolate icing swirls over the whole thing. My Mom can put a few of her pretty white flowers around where she writes in pink ' HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SUZY.'

 

Mom pats the kitchen chair and tells me to sit down to go over the guest list. I sit wishing I was older and my feet could reach the floor. Mom starts. ' We'll invite Aunt Rose, Aunt Marie, Aunt Katherine and Grandma Sophie, Cousins Roslyn, Betty.' She stops to take a breath and think, but I interrupt. 'Mom, this is my party. I want my school friends here, not a bunch of old ladies.' What a mean, nasty look Mom sends me. She stands tall, shakes her finger at me and asks, 'Do you own this house, Suzy?' I scrunch my eyes, make them narrow and just answer 'No.' 'Are you paying for this party, Smarty?' Again I say, 'No.' 'Suzy, are you going to bake the cake, mail the invitations, set the table, have fun, games, buy prizes for your friends?' I must be honest and tell her 'No.' 'Then Miss Still Little Girl, shut up. Don't give me and Dad orders. Your party is going to be lovely, fun. You'll get a lot of presents. All you have to do is give me the names and right addresses for your class- mates and lick the stamps.  You, I and Daddy will discuss the games. Now not another word. The family I want here will be invited and you will be very nice to all of them or forget the whole party. Want a glass of milk and a cookie? I've got things to do?' my Mom says and leaves me upset, crying and drinking my milk.

 

Mom almost cancels my party after I got all the addresses she wanted.
Dad tells me stories of things he wanted when he was my age and how he never got most of them. He pounds his chest like Tarzan and let's me know he turned out fine without them and I should be more cooperative with my Mom. I ask him what that big word means.
'But Dad, she isn't cooperating with me,' I whine. He spanks me, not hard, just enough for me to keep my mouth shut.

 

Party day is here! Mom bought me a new pink dress and black patent leather shoes. I look at myself and am so happy and grown up.  Every single friend I invited answered my invitations, (the ones Mom wrote on pink paper).

 

Mom thinks of everything, cares about us all and has padded chairs for my relatives so they can be together in the sun room and still feel like they are at the party table with me.

 

All of my aunts, cousins and Grandma Sophie come early and bring the best presents.

Woof, woof

KNICK, KNACK

 

Tango is outside. I can see him peeing on our mail box pole. By the time I brush my teeth, he comes bounding up the stairs, jumps on my back and I fall on the bathroom mat. He can still smell my Barbasol shaving cream that I had washed off, licks it until he decides to untie my shoes. Time is short this morning. I tell him that but he doesn't understand me yet. I leave the bathroom and remember I left the water running in the sink. Another few minutes wasted. There is barely time for me to take a swig of cold O.J. and manage a cup of black coffee, a hug for Bev, and get to my car.  I try not to pay attention to Tango's barking, try to forget the fluffy ball of fur that came to live with Bev and me a month ago.

 

My sister, Madeline and her husband had considered moving to a new condo but cancel when they learn no pets allowed, except fish. That is understandable as is her change of heart a second time. Maddy cries to us, begs, pleads for us to take Tango to our hearts. 'We can't sell him to a stranger, Bev.' We understand that too. 'We'll come visit, take him for Sunday walks now and then.' Until we give in I fear Maddy is going to need a psychologist, go on mind pills. 'Maddy,' I whine. 'I work 8 to 10 hours a day. Bev has her life, her world to handle. We can't play with Tango, get him to the vet for check ups, walk him three or four times every twelve hours. No can do.' I turn numb when I see her eyes turn red, tears running down her face. I get an okay from Bev and concede to give him a one week try-out.

 

Tango takes to us like whipped cream clings to chocolate pie. I order a new front door with a doggie entrance. Maddy offers me the $100 cost plus $50 for installation. I start to accept it but Bev is shocked, calls me 'cheap' and embarrasses me badly. After only two weeks Maddy calls  only on Sundays and Wednesday evenings. They have not visited us nor Tango, have kept no promises of walks. This I don't understand at all. I get a chilling thought that if I die, maybe my sister won't even come to my funeral. Bev and all of the kids and some of the parents in our neighborhood have fun with Tango. Grumpy old widows, men pushing eighty are afraid, want no parts of a frisky dog. I understand that.
Tango sits calmly in the bathroom, waiting for me to shave. He loves the smell of the cream and whines expecting me to give him some. I'm tempted but keep control. Send him out and close the door.

 

Bev and I have a simple routine worked out. While I have my usual quick breakfast, Tango goes thru his own door, meets some other dogs, annoys Mrs. McCartney and comes back when he hears me start my car. Bev opens the door to wave to me and Tango seems to sprout wings to fly inside and jump on her. Today is different but I don't know it until after I get back from Stein's Delly where I have lunch almost every day. There are a few business calls and one nervous, excited one from Bev. Tango never came in when I drove away. She has been out looking for him, calling him since ten o'clock.  'Bev, he'll be back. I can't do anything you aren't doing. Call him. Ask our neighbors if they've seen him. Call me back about 2.'

 

No Tango when I get home. The house is empty, sad. I decide to drive to Petco, get a new toy for Tango and a huge box of Doggee Bones. I crush the bones with a hammer, put them in a plastic bag and start walking around the block, all the time calling, 'Come, Tango, come.' Somebody stole him. I call the police, the SPCA. No sign of our dog.
Bev and I eat listlessly, check the port door and go to bed.

 

Barking wakes us just as we are about ready to fall asleep. Like crazed idiots we hurry downstairs. There must be ten dogs on our pavement, up the path to our front door.  They seem to have eaten all the crushed Doggee Bones. Tango is the last one in line. Parading himself to the front we see a cute little black poodle close behind him. I lock the door, give both dogs a bowl of water and pieces of Doggee Bones I still have in the car. ' Look at these two. Cute, huh? I used subterfuge to make the capture. My mom had taught me that if you want your dog to be your friend, sing to hm, 'Knick Knack, paddy whack. Give your dog a bone, your old dog will come rolling home.'

 

In the morning I located the owner of the poodle, returned her to the lady along with half a dozen Doggee Bones.

Weird, Really Weird

THE UNKNOWN 

 

'There you are. Come out! I see your long Titian hair fluttering every time the wind blows.' She never answers, never holds back her hair in a net of any kind. I hit the small fancy gold bucket Khana gave me to lure our enemies into the yellow grass. My cloven feet move slowly, carefully thru the grass that barely covers my naked head. The fluttering Titian's hair braids itself into a long snake and wriggles itself towards me like the Mighty Side- winder, barely disturbing the grass. What has happened to the one of the red hair? Has she melted? Is she now as bald as I?

 

Khana slinks thru the yellow grass, now tinged with red on the edges. Surely the red is from the red haired one who is there to lay her eggs in this, the darkest blue of all caves. Tecumsha is the princess and mistress of the cave and, it is said, slays all interlopers who have more than one eye. They are tasty. The bones of her meal are laid in the cold rippling stream that never ceases running to an endless end. Two baby lizards crack their shells, squirm free. Their eyes are too big. They stare at nothing until Khana's golden bucket sounds. It frightens them enough that they slide into the cold water that turns one green and the other a bright pumpkin orange. They each prefer the other's color and fight, hiss, eat each other until nothing is left except orange and green stones in the water.

 

Whirr, Whirr, the rusty noise is shattering. Khana and Tecumsha take turns sounding the gold bucket. The two Bilohs that survived the leaking moon dust and sharp metal traps plod thru the deserted yellow grass. The still whirring wheels inhale the bleached bones, the heavenly aroma of Khana's golden bed. The baby snakes spit out orange and green gases..

 

'It is time', Tecumsha announces to all who have gathered, ' Follow Khana, ask no questions and you will be rewarded handsomely.' The blue, the green, orange white, gold, strange assortment moves as one. They are encased in a transparent bubble. Khana pushes it with her feet to the edge of a mountain and it tumbles down, down, for endless time. It bursts and all the colors rise to the sky, make an arc that will remain forever. Khana and Tecumsha smile. Their mission is complete. The world has its rainbow.

 

The two leaders fill the little gold pot with coins and bury it at the end of the rainbow.' Go look for it. You may be the lucky one to find it some day.'

 

 

 

                                      

Sliding Home

ACCIDENTALLY

 

I can feel the cold in my sleep. I twist and turn, try to cover myself more warmly with the comfy flowered quilt my mom and dad gave me for my birthday in November. Where the devil is that quilt? Damn, it's laying on the cold floor. Nothing I can do about it except get out of bed, pick it up, spread it tighter on the bed and crawl under it until morning.

 

As long as I'm up, I glance out the window and can't tell if its morning or still night. I hear the roar of the north wind, focus on the line of trees along the street and see the promised snow coming down in slanted sheets. A loud, 'Yeow!' flies out of my throat. Oh, my god, we're going to be buried alive, house and all, if this snow doesn't let up.

 

I turn on the t.v., channel 58, to prove to myself that I am not insane. Mary McCormick, wearing a silky dress, bare shoulder and a red Santa Claus hat on her head, lets me know it is 5 a.m. and the temperature is 32 with north winds 35 mph. All schools will be closed in the morning. The storm is expected to lessen by noon. I take note of 'expected' don't know which 'noon' she means.

 

Dad and Mom must be dead to the world. They evidently don't hear me re-make my bed or turn on the t.v. Dad snores a little but not enough for Mom to complain to me. At 5:05 I am back in bed and why not? There's no place to go for a few days no matter what time I start my day. Maybe it's mental but my quilt just isn't warm enough. That's when I realize the heat isn't running. Knowing nothing whatsoever about the machinations of turning it on, I simply choose to put on a pair of faded old style aerobic socks and stretch them up to my knees. Not enough. Over my pajamas I add a sweater, put my pillow over my head and manage to curl up into a ball.

 

Somehow I guess my eyes closed themselves because I didn't see daylight arrive, but it has. Stepping onto the wooden floor, I realize it is not as icy as it was. Fully dressed in my night time attire, I go downstairs to make a cup or two of hot chocolate for myself. Criminee! Mom is already there, perking coffee. We see each other. Only she shrieks, 'My god, Daughter. The circus won't be in town for months. Are you going to wear that clown outfit you slept in when it comes?' I look myself over and realize how silly I look. 'Sorry, Mom ,' The house was so cold and my picturing us all encased in ice, I needed every ounce of what I am wearing.' 'So, why didn't you turn the heat higher? Dad and I snuggled close all thru the blizzard and weren't cold at all.'

 

'Good question, Mom. I've never even looked at the AC or heat unit. You and Dad take care of everything for me and I didn't want to wake you to do it.' My explanation is not satisfactory. She takes me by my hand as if I were ten years old again and gives me a lesson on the simplest of gadgets. The room temperature is now 68 and has a way to go before I take off my clown outfit.

 

Snowflakes flutter down. The tree branches must have been too heavy to hold the wet snow and are almost bare. The sun seems to be merely a fuzzy blur but it is welcome. There is no traffic on our street. The paper boy has made no footprints to our door. Not a single bulldozer to clear the street is anywhere around here. Therefore, ergo: neither I nor Dad can go to work. Mom will find plenty of odds and ends for me to do. My second cup of hot cocoa is empty. I wash my cup, throw the empty packet in the trash and go check on Mary and her weather prediction. Egads! Mary is not there. No one is. Evidently thru the miracle of electronics from another state, I can tell my Mom that schools are closed until further notice, that snow clearing has begun. Roads are icy. Do not drive unless necessary.'

 

The day is dull enough for me to play Solitare, straighten a drawer or two. If the morning paper came, Joey's footprints have been obliterated and I see no sign of them dissolving in the snow. I re-read parts of an old favorite book of mine, Jane Eyre, and live again with Jane. By two p.m. Dad, Mom and I are watching for our mailbox flag to signal we have mail. Is mail in it or, is the flag frozen, or has our mailman been unable to deliver no matter the postal oath, 'neither dark nor sleet, nor storm of night shall keep us from our task.'

 

At five-ten p.m. when the little sun shine we had has totally left the sky, loud thumping sounds come from the steps to our house. I am the first to investigate what it might be. There is our mailman holding a few pieces of mail. 'Want to come in for a few minutes, warm up, have a cup of coffee?,' I ask. There is a bit of hesitation on his part but he accepts, steps into the foyer and puts his almost empty sack on the floor. Unfortunately, he slips and falls, saved from too much harm, by his heavy jacket and corduroy pants. He does not want my help as he tries to stand but I give it anyhow.

 

Mom has coffee waiting for him on the kitchen table. 'Take off your jacket, give the cold a chance to warm up,' I suggest. He does and we chat for fifteen minutes. He's edgy, must go. With only two more stops to make, I invite him back to have dinner with us. He knows my name, I know his and I have a gut feeling his ' accidental' fall is only the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

 

I whisper a silent prayer to whoever may be listening,' Please let it snow hard again tomorrow.'

To My Antonios

How do I love thee, my Antonio? I must tell you honestly that for months it was sporadically. I vomited, wretched out my guts, ate plain crackers all day and you had no idea that I wanted to die. And  now you are here, my little precious son, and my stomach still churns, my heart races and a warmth comes over me, fills my soul when I look at you.  My belly gurgles with delight. What a beautiful tan face you have. Your skin makes me think of olives growing in the sun. Your black shiny eyes can already follow my finger and I know you are going to become a genius some day. When you burp, spit up your milk, I do not smell its sourness. I wipe your precious face and believe you are smiling to me. Look, look at me, my treasure. I inhale the smell of you, wash and powder and hug you softly.

 

Some day soon, you will feel strong hands lift you high in the air, maybe spin you around, hold you close to his body, carefully not letting his brass buttons hurt you. You will love your daddy, Antonio, just as I do. We will wait together, here in our small apartment. If you hear a loud knock at the door, know it is your Daddy. Cry, make noise, I will fly to get you, race to the door and wait for but a second until Antonio Sr. hugs and kisses both of us. Can you picture this my little son?

 

No, you cannot but let me draw a picture for you as I see him. He is six feet tall. His back is straight, his muscles bulge from his dress uniform. His feet from so much marching are almost flat. And when he holds me close, those muscles bulge, hard as rocks. His last letter mentioned that he has received new special, comfortable shoes from his captain. Antonio, your daddy always asks me how much you have grown, if I show you pictures of him. Daddy used to have a mustache but not any more. And what a dancer he was, is! What fun we had together. And smart? My heavens he is smart and I can already see you will be too. Are you hungry, my little Antonio? I will fix your Pablum and give you a new treat today. I bought you some Gerber baby fruit. You are going to love it. Stay in your playpen. Someone is at the door. I’ll be right back, my Precious.

 

At the second knock, I call out, ‘Wait a second, I’m coming.’ I open it and cannot believe what I see. ‘Antonio, Antonio, my god, Antonio. I throw myself on him, hold him so close neither of us can breathe. A deep, strange voice pierces my ears and I pull back, look at Antonio and it is not my love. It is a stranger in uniform with an envelope for me. I cannot take it from his hand. But wait, he is smiling. That is not what officers giving bad news do. He tells me to read the message in private if I like. I tear open the envelope and scan it in a second.

 

I cannot help myself and start to cry. ‘Antonio, Antonio,  you are on your way back to the States and will arrive Saturday.’ My joy runneth over. ‘Thank you, thank you,’ I repeat to the messenger again and again.

 

Then he grabs me, gives me a huge, strong hug and thanks me for the one I gave him. ’Wish I had somebody like you waiting for me, Miss.’ He salutes me and drives away...and I must wait two more days to introduce my Antonio Jr. to Antonio Sr. 

 

In the meantime, I’ll treat Jr. To Gerber’s strained peaches. 

The happening

THE ROCKER

 

'Louie, come back in the kitchen, I have a nice surprise for you,' Tillie calls to her husband who is checking the cash register drawer. Louie doesn't come because he is partially deaf in one ear and has to keep his attention on what he is doing. Tillie peeps out into the store and sees Mrs. Birnbaum enter, almost pulling her daughter Hilda in with her. Hilda is shouting, 'I want to go to Macy's. They have prettier tap shoes than this old store.' Louie is close enough to hear her degrade his store, takes her hand and calls her, 'Sweetie.'Come, Mammaleh, put your feet in this machine and I will turn on the magic. I will even let you see your own bones right thru your shoes. Stand still.' Louie looks and sees there is still some room for growth and lies a little to Mrs. Birnbaum. 'My friend, there is some room for Hilda's feet, but not much, maybe a week or two. You want to take a look? ' He knows his customers and suggests she get the tap shoes now instead of coming back in a few days. Hilda stands firm, her arms across her blouse. 'No, I want to go to Macy's.' That digs into her mom's guts. 'We will see what Louie has or you won't be in your tap recital at all.' From the back kitchen, Tillie blows a whistle and shouts out, 'Louis, I'm still waiting for you.'

 

Mrs. Birnbaum cringes. 'Your wife, she still nags you?  I never nag my Sydney, do I Hilda.?' 'Oh, no, Mama, you never nag him.' Smugly Mrs. Birnbaum says, ' See, I told you. Tell your wife you have a customer and she should leave you alone.' Louie does not answer but brings out a shiny black patent leather shoe with a wide white silk tie instead of a button. 'Try this on, Sveetie. How does it feel? Plenty of room for your toes? The heel is a perfect fit.' 'Louie, I'm still waiting,' rings out from the kitchen. 'And how much are these inexpensive shoes going to cost me, Louie?' 'Only eight dollars. Macy's, I know are ten.' The deal is done, the ten dollar bill goes into the cash register. Mrs. Birnbaum looks over his shoulder to see how much money is in the drawer, pulls back and is handed two crisp one dollar bills and a hand shake.

 

Louie walks slowly to the kitchen. 'So, Tillie, what's so important you had to nag me in front of Mrs. Birnbaum? I could have lost the sale if you called me one more time.' Tillie can't help herself and starts to cry.
Her husband of fifty-five years doesn't love her anymore.  She turns away, her back to him, leans against the small wooden table and looks out of the window, sees only the garage where shoe stock is stored. It badly needs painting. Pulling herself together she turns again to her husband and hands him the pie she made for him while he fiddled with Mrs. Birnbaum and her spoiled Hildie. 'Happy anniversary, Louie! Just look how high I made the meringue for you. And I toasted it just tan enough for you to enjoy. The lemon chiffon is exactly just right, a little sweet, a little sour. Taste.' She kisses him on his cheek and he kisses her back, barely touching her lips.

 

He takes his pie and sits down in his favorite place, the rocking chair with the faded cushions Tillie made herself for their thirty-fifth anniversary. He relaxes, rocks and eats a second piece of Tillie's delicious pie. The bell over the store door jingles again. Louie doesn't hear it, keeps eating the pie, licking his lips and fork. Tillie motions to him she will see to the customer. Two rough looking men are already inside the story, heading for the cash register. Without a single word, the taller one fires at Tillie. Blood spurts like a geyser from her breast. Louie doesn't hear the shot and sits in his rocker, still relishing the gift Tillie made for him. Mrs. Birnbaum comes into the store to return Hilda's tap shoes, gets a fast look at what has happened and runs outside, screaming for help, 'Call the police, 911!'

 

She drops the tap shoes on the floor and runs to the kitchen, screaming loud enough for the dead to hear her, 'Louie, Louie. The police are in the store and you have to come right out to see them.'

 

'Thank you, Mrs. Birnbaum, do me a favor. Tell them I'll be out as soon as I finish my anniversary pie.'

 

He rocks and rocks, eats and eats. It is about the last thing he ever enjoys.

M- I- S- S- I- S -S- I- P- P- I

THERE I WAS

 

My hearing aids are carefully kept in a gray felt case in the middle drawer of an antique desk I bought myself for a birthday gift back in 1950. Supposedly it belonged to Mark Twain but no emanations of his genius transferred to me, except maybe one. It was odd and usually happened in the late afternoon when the sky was fading into night. I smelled cigars. If I knew a good one from a bad, I would guess these whiffs were mediocre, not fit for a king but good enough for Robert E. Lee.

 

I've had a lady bug crawling thru my mind and body since the library teacher read stories to first graders about Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn. They enchanted me. I badly wanted a raft, a good friend and a mighty big river.  My mother had no idea of where my mind often was and kept buying me dolls, little ones, big ones who talked and walked.  Even though they bored me, I pretended I loved them and let my merry-go-round mind hear clanky muffled music.

 

When she passed, my ties to our old house passed away, too. Slowly the staleness, stacks of saved dolls dissolved in my tears and I set out to find Tom and Huckleberry myself.  I took a three day cruise down the Mississippi, sat on a hard  wooden deck chair, its padding shabby, staring out at the muddy water, small waves and big circles. Tom dropped his oar from the raft. Huck didn't hesitate and jumped into the river. He had to get that oar back, fast, before the raft hit a shoal and they would both be marooned there forever. If Tom drowned, Huck would be alone. He swam as fast as he could. I woke from a short nap. My face and  my blouse were wet. The deck around me was dry.

 

My plan was to visit Calavaris County, maybe find the Celebrated Jumping Frog that once was there, or its descendants. A statue, a big one, stood in the town square with a short bio of Mark Twain. Did Calavaris bring him his fame or did he bring fame to Calavaris? Tom might have known know but I didn't. I stood in the hot sun and read about Mark, suffered the loss of two of his children, saw a daguerreotype of Clara, the only child of his who lived to adulthood. Little sad shivers cooled away the heat. The smell of ink, the cacophony of pounding presses, beckoned Samuel Clemens into a printer's shop. I saw him walk in and I followed. Those presses had claws, grabbed him, awakened his mind, loosened his stubby fingers. The stories wrote themselves. The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calavaris County met Tom, Huckleberry and me. We become one.

 

It was time to leave, find my place in reality and I fly home, see my dolls still sitting on shelves, waiting for me to play with them. I didn't. I looked out the kitchen window and realize the back porch needed painting and most likely so did the entire house. Outside was an old chair that had seen much better days. I leaned against it, smelled a cigar and the old chair became a white wicker one. Mark's wife had placed a pitcher of iced tea on the lopsided table. It didn't fall off. There were several tall empty glasses and I had no idea at all who else was coming. Laughter surrounded me. Tom and Huck , their pants slightly torn, appeared from nowhere. They looked around, asked me where  Mr. & Mrs. Clemens were.

 

The smell of a strong Cuban cigar stopped  me from moving, from replying. I couldn't figure anything out--yet knew for sure-- there I was.

 

 

Which way?

AL'S ALLEY

 

He thinks he owns it and acts like he does. Al, a sixth grader, has taken possession of the alley between Langford St. and Smallwood . It's a busy shortcut for us kids who live in row houses and have to go to Elementary School #102. Nobody like's Al and he hates all of us...unless we put a penny in the tin tea can his mother gave him. She might not know he cut a hole in the top and grins as he makes a chink, clink sound when our pennies go in. We feel lucky when it rains so our parents walk us to school with their umbrellas, or if their Dad's have a car, a few of us can get in together.

 

Charlie Carruthers and Donny Meade, 4th graders, are talking about doing away with Al or setting his house on fire. Nobody listens to their dumb ideas. As far as I know, we kids haven't told our parents about Al the thief who is taking away our penny candy money, telling us when we can walk thru the alley and when we can't. Until he stole our alley, I saved my pennies for a Saturday movie or deposited them on Wednesday in class when the bank lady came. She always puts a little American flag sticker on our clothes if we save money for the future.

 

I am getting tired of being ordered around by Al and think maybe I should just go the long way to school, cross the street car tracks, wait for the traffic light and forget about Al. I do that by myself for two days straight and miss all the morning fun in the playground. It doesn't take long for me to realize that the long way is the right way. Officer John notices me at the crosswalk. 'Where have you been, Little One?' He asks me about my friend with the beautiful long blond curls and my other friend, Molly. I'm afraid to tell him the truth about Al but manage to tell him a little bit. He stamps his foot, twirls his billy club and almost explodes. 'Cynthia, he can't do that. He is breaking the law.  Don't talk about this to anybody until I tell you to. And don't take the short cut anymore!' I have to promise and kiss my little finger for him.
Oh, how I want to tell my mother and father about Al and what Officer John told me, but I promised I wouldn't and don't. Monday I go the long way and don't see Officer John. Lucy, one of my friends, is with me because I told her how much nicer, prettier, the long walk is. Another policeman is taking John's place. His name is Harland. He takes a group of us across the streetcar tracks at one time. 'Is Officer John coming back soon,' I ask him. 'Oh, yes. He had something important to take care of today and most likely will be back tomorrow.' Lucy and I thank him for taking us across. We each have our pennies and stop for ½ sweet pickle before we go into school.

 

Sure enough, the next day Officer Joe is at the corner. He takes me aside to tell me a secret. 'Cynthia, Al isn't going to take anyone's money away again. He knows now that he broke the law, stole pennies, and he is having a trial for delinquents March 4 in the Court House. Tell your friends to tell their parents to come to the hearing. I can promise you, Al will never stop you or anybody from going where they want again.

 

He hands me a big, heavy bag of pennies and asks me to deal them out to my friends who take the short cut. I put 15 in my lunch bag, give Cynthia the same, wave goodbye to Officer Joe. She and I will deal them out tomorrow, maybe have a little party after school.

To Each Her Own

ONE FOR THE MONEY

 

'Heidi, put some salted peanuts in the little white dish that's on the card table. You can take two or three, no more. Aunt Blanche and Uncle
George are coming over again to play Canasta. Be sure to say 'hello' to them, then excuse yourself and go to bed. 'Mom, can I listen to Inner Sanctum?' 'Heidi, dear. Is your homework all finished. Did you check it carefully?' 'Yes, Mother,' I reply. 'OK,' she tells me to put lights out at nine.'

 

At 8:30 our door bell rings. Daddy in his brown bedroom slippers that have leather heels, clomps to the door.  Loudly he welcomes his brother but doesn't mention Blanche. I sit cross-legged in the upstairs hall , waiting to see Aunt Blanche. Daddy asks for her coat so he can hang it in the hall closet but she isn't ready yet. She stands there saying nothing, waiting for my mother to come out of the kitchen. Mom appears carrying a tray with two bottles of Ginger Ale and four glasses on a tin tray. She asks my father to get the bottle opener, a couple of paper napkins and a bucket of chopped ice. So far I haven't heard her even say 'Hello, Blanche.' My aunt seems unaware of the snub as she slowly removes her coat, turning in circles for my parents to see her new fur coat. 'Look, Sarah, isn't this coat beautiful? George bought it for my birthday.' I know she knows I am listening as she is really talking loud. 'Sarah, look, feel it. This is real Persian lamb. What do you think?' My mother is silent for too long. 'Well, Sarah?' As if my mother was talking about fish she bought, she replies with no emotion, ' It's nice, Blanche. Wear it well. Let's play cards.' I know my mother better than she knows herself. She enjoyed hurting Blanche.

 

I go to my room, close the door and turn on Inner Sanctum. Whispering comes to me from my parents' room. Once they are in bed I can almost make out what they are saying. Daddy's voice is rough , Mom's is soft. Dad slams his fist on the bureau. Then there is silence. Before I go to school in the morning I realize my parents aren't talking to each other. This coldness lasts for three days and nights. I have become their whipping post. Do this, do that, don't you dare! I ry to stay out of their way and set the dinner table without being told.

 

It's Wednesday night again. Aunt Blanche and Uncle George are not coming to play Canasta. My parents are actually going to their house but I am not invited. At the door, Mom calls me. 'Come here, Heidi. Come quick. I want to show you something.' She is waiting in the hall, wearing a Persian lamb coat with a matching hat. My eyes pop. 'Heidi, isn't this beautiful, just like Aunt Blanche's.' Then her eyes change, her finger shakes in my face. 'Don't say a word. My coat is not like Aunt Blanches. Mine is fake fur. I shopped all over Newport until I found this perfect copy. Doesn't it look real?' What do I know about fur? Nothing. But I know I have to praise her new coat. 'Mom, it is beautiful and it looks gorgeous on you.' Daddy too  sternly tells me to 'Hush.'

 

They are ready! They are set! And away they go to Aunt Blanche's house.

Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life

PIPE DREAMS

 

It's a wonderful morning! The early sun is shining just enough to take the slight chill out of the air. My little sister, Mandy, is having her tenth birthday party at one today . It wasn't easy to get her to agree to a limit of 30 guests but Dad was boss and Mandy gave in.  Mom and I are already fixing favor bags for all of her friends. Had Mandy been given the privilege of inviting all of her friends, our walls would have bulged, maybe  exploded.

 

Mandy is a rarity for sure. Her smile can cure anyone's doldrums, take away the  measles' itch  It isn't easy keeping her from giving away whatever she has to whoever would like to have it. Just last week, Mrs. Schwartz, our neighbor on the right, returned a brand new book of Grimm's Fairy Tales for me to give to Mandy. Her daughter told Mandy that she loved scary stories, and whamo, bammo, it was hers. I heard Mom scold my sister who cried that she knew all the stories and wanted to give it to her friend. 'Give it back to Rachael, Mom.'

 

The kitchen is busy. Janet, my oldest sister, is wrapping small favors in colored cellophane, pink ribbons for the girls and blue for the boys. Mom made an unusual decision this year and gave in, ordered the three tiered birthday cake from the bakery instead of doing it herself. Instead she made peanut butter cookies, chocolate crowns and chocolate chip. By the look of it, she has enough to freeze for Christmas.

 

Without being asked, I warned Mom not to use the glass jars she has been accumulating for months for the bubble water clay pipes. 'Skip it, Mom, the jars spill, break, ruin  party clothes. 'They'll mess up everything.'  For once I was right and had to hurry to two five and dime stores to buy enough commercial bubble makers by 11 a.m. Mandy really wanted to use soapy water. 'Mom, it's much more fun.' Finally, she lost one minor battle.

 

I stay outside to direct the kids to go around the back entrance, that's where the party is. Mandy waits there, greets each one. Nobody is real dressed up but they are all clean, happy and expecting a good time. Mom has two ponies, real ones, waiting to give rides. Aunt Tillie asked to be at the party so Mom  oked it if, she would dress up and act like a fairy queen. Aunt Tillie surprised us all and did it. Presents go on the picnic bench. A Pennata hangs on the de-leaved maple tree. Aunt Tillie supervises the busy imps. Mandy has a constantly changing group around her.

 

Acting quite grown up she gets everyone's attention for the bubble blowing game. A jar of gooky suds and a wand goes to each guest. She stands on the picnic table bench and announces the rules. 'Eyes shut. Breathe deeply. Blow the biggest bubble you can and stay with it.'

 

Mom, I and Aunt Tillie don't understand what she is doing but her friends open their bubble jars and follow instructions. Colors float. The bubbles are extra big. Pink ones tinted with orange fly over the house. The children stare. More colors, green and blue, each bubble bigger than basketballs. Everyone is pointing at how high they are going.

 

Mom looks around, doesn't see Mandy and begins to worry herself and then me. The children are no longer waving their wands but bubbles rise from the jars. Are the children bored? I can only count 20. Where did they go? And then I see where they are. They are inside the bubbles, sailing above the maple tree. Waving,  laughing, they are definitely having fun. The bubbles come lower and lower, touch the ground and go 'Pop . Ten more children fly away, higher and higher they go and safely come down. The last group waits impatiently but has a turn.

 

I count and we are all here except Mandy. Aunt Tillie rides one pony into the back yard. Mandy follows her on the other. Aunt Tillie takes center lawn and calls us all to attention. She explains that she had always wanted to be a Fairy Queen, even when she was 10 years old and now she knows how to be one.

 

'Come on, Kids, follow the Queen, to the Pennata and then I'll have a chance to stay Queen while everybody eats and enjoys the party.' She points her wand at the Pennata and it starts to swing all by itself.

PERFECT TIMING !

BEGORRA!

 

Clyde is wearing a green hat with a little feather in its band. Where he got green lipstick, he'll tell me later. Right now he looks damned stupid to me. Clyde's last name is Schwartz. I can't get a sensible answer from him about why he makes St. Patrick's day so important every year. Once he gave me a cock and bull piece of garbage that he had a great (5 greats going back) Uncle Duncan who was in the court of Mary Queen of Scots. I called him on it. 'Prove it, Clyde.' Of course he couldn't.

 

6th Street, on the east side, is bar-ville in Bloomington. Doors bulge. Blacks, Mexicans, Israelis and, believe it or not, some true blue Americans pile in. They hoist their green beer in toasts to Erin that rise from every nook and corner, bar and table. Green shirts, ties, raggedy sweaters surely have come out of bottom bureau drawers, boxes in basements. My lack of greenery makes me a rarity. I am stared at, laughed at. My order for an unadulterated Schlitz is 'accidentally' knocked over and runs down my white shirt.

 

Women buy the cheap green wigs from the display on the sidewalk and actually come inside wearing them over their long blond hair. Clyde Schwartz, my drinking buddy, takes a shine to a real looker who happens to have another admirer who happens to have ABS bursting thru his green T shirt. I slap my buddy on the back and as loudly as I can, I call him 'Clyde' hoping the beast respects the Irish name and moves elsewhere. My ruse does not work. As the brute of a man walks towards Schwartz, the swish of his hips become noticeable to me. He ignores the babe and settles down between two guys at the bar. In the wink of an eye his stein of beer is before him. As he lifts it to his lips his shillelagh falls down. He bends to retrieve it and follows his cane. Not a soul glances at him, except maybe me, and I don't care if he stays there or gets up.

 

Whatever is used to turn golden beer green also seems to make it more potent than I remember it was when Schwartz bought me a pint last year.  Is my vision blurred? Three dwarfs, who must be a branch of some leprechaun family, come in the door. They look stunned, frightened, as they are lifted on the shoulders of the nearest drunks, one of which I happen to be. The dwarf on my shoulders is not just 'wee' , he's a 'she.' Her voice squeaks like a trapped mouse when she tells me to giddy-up. I don't want to go faster unless it's toward one of the exits. Lowering myself to my knees, I am able to send the lady on her way.

 

Freed, I look for Duncan and spot him standing at a table that has a large bowl of pretzels on it. Hands fly in and out of it, making them unattractive to me. 'Hey, Duncan,' I signal. I'll get the check. Let's get out of here. Meet me at the exit with the green sign.' All done for another year.

 

 Duncan and I walk towards our apartments. 'Dunc, are you really related to the Irish?' I ask. He looks at me as if I asked him if he had sex this week. 'Yeah, yeah, someplace long ago. My father happened to like Jewish cooking so I turned out to be a Schwartz.'

 

'Say, I believe you. Could there be an Irish connection between you and Duncan Hynes?' 'Sure, anything is possible,' he replies. 'Then,' say I, 'do you think you can get me a free dozen of their great donuts, assorted? I'll split them with you.'

 

 

Pose

FACES

 

Blue eyes, blue as the sky on a warm, cloudless summer day intrigue me, silently ask me to look into them. Instead, I shy away, not wanting to intrude on the lady's thoughts. Her full, soft pink lips must taste like ripe raspberries waiting to be picked. Between the two is her perfect aquiline nose. It is the exclamation mark that pulls the beauty together.

 

There is a woman sitting beside her on the subway train who is physically from another world. She is a wrinkled crone who reminds me of the wicked witches in the childish stories my mother read to me.
Her steel gray eyes, droopy yellows bags below them and enough black curly hair on her chin to call for a shave are interesting but disgusting. Narrow lips that expose rotting teeth when she coughs do not increase my desire to get home for a good dinner.

 

The two ladies do not acknowledge each other as they stare at passengers coming on and getting off. My busy mind absorbs their faces as if they are golden nuggets, models that I retain mentally for use on the canvases I paint.

 

When the door opens my mind does too. It shifts to the first passenger to get on after the crowd leaving hurries to their next destination. A man is fortunate and grabs the only empty seat. He is swarthy, muscular, evidently who works hard with his arms and back.  I think perhaps he is a ditch digger, builds roads, schools, even a tall skyscraper. This man's eyes are slits, busy gray eyebrows accent the width of his W.C. Fields red nose. His fingernails are cigarette stained, striated, trimmed very short, leaving no room for dirt to accumulate. A tan sweat-stained cap sits backwards on his balding head. It denotes his wish to remain young while his form denies it.

 

At the next stop, 28th St., a tall woman wearing a multi-colored fringed shawl around her shoulders and carrying a soon-to- appear child in her belly gets on. I am the only one who offers her a seat. Her tan face smiles at me. In it I see love, sweetness, flames of anger, despair and hope. As I stand, the subway car lurches. She grabs the leather strap hanging from the ceiling and drops her shopping bag. A snippy kid runs and tries to sit down where I had been. Before he bends his knees, with one strong hand, I lift him up, move aside for the pregnant woman to be seated. It is a glorious moment. Passengers applaud, I bow in thanks.

 

As the kid moves down the aisle away from me, I can see his tennis shoes don't match, can see he needs a haircut but then again, maybe it is a new style of disarray that is currently going around, or his Dad hasn't given him money for a cut. I want very much to see his face, see what he is made of, but cannot. I come to the conclusion that his shift to the next car is to avoid the police who may be searching for him. He may feel my eyes on his neck, be angry, upset. As if he reads my thoughts, he stands next to me, staring hard as I look at him. For a boy so young, his face is troubled. A healed, but very visible scar slashes his right cheek from the bone to the corner of his mouth.  I picture him as my next art subject, know what kind of frame I will use. He is inside of me.

 

The lovely woman and the pregnant woman get off together at 32nd St.
and are swallowed up by the mad rush of offices letting out at 5 p.m. 46th will be my stop but I am not yet sated studying faces, emotions. There, across the aisle from me is a busy lady. She leafs thru papers that are not stapled together. A few sheets fall on the dirty floor and I can see her snarl, cuss a few words as she tries to retrieve them. No one helps her. I would if I could reach her but am blocked.  Her round almost pudgy face gets red as she unsuccessfully tries again to pick up her papers. Well plucked penciled eyebrows furrow. A loud sneeze from the passenger next to her, makes her roil in anger and distaste. The man beside her pulls clean Kleenex from his jacket pocket, wipes his nose and offers her an unopened pack for herself. I can tell what she is thinking. His hands are full of germs. I watch her head simply show him she doesn't need his Kleenex. I file her face inside a red ball of anger, see the train nearing 46th, stand wedge close to the door and am first off.

 

I reach for my wallet so I can grab a cold drink from a vendor and it is gone. There is no sense trying to return to the train because the door is already closed and the train is out of sight. So is my wallet. What a stinkin' kettle of fish this is. I will have to get a new license at the DMV, new Social Security, Medicare cards, contact all of my charge card companies to stop all charges. Oh, god, what am I going to do now?

 

My message machine in the hallway is blinking. A thin, unfamiliar voice asks me to call 516-213-8790 as soon as possible. 'Ask for Willy.' I dial, he answers.  'Mr. Clarkson?' the voice asks. 'Yes.' I'm the boy on the subway who you kept staring at. I found your wallet when you got up and then couldn't find you. Come get it, nothing has been taken. I have to stay home with my mother tonight.' I get directions to his apart- ment, drive my own car there thru miles of traffic and am there in a half hour. Willy lets me in, hands me my wallet. I hand him a fifty dollar bill, and thank him with all my heart. The next morning I start a a new art project, an oil of Willy. It takes a few weeks to get it the way I want it to be, but there on his thin white cheek I paint a small angel with transparent wings. I put a wart on his chin, frame it in white enamel wood and take it to show him and his mother. They love it, want to keep it, but I intend selling it.

 

I promise them ten percent of anything I make and in only one month bring them $200. Everybody is happy.

THE WAIT

TO MY ANTONIOS

 

How do I love thee, my Antonio? I must tell you honestly that for months it was sporadically. I vomited, wretched out my guts, ate plain crackers all day and you had no idea that I wanted to die. And  now you are here, my little precious son, and my stomach still churns, my heart races and a warmth comes over me, fills my soul when I look at you.  My belly gurgles with delight. What a beautiful tan face you have. Your skin makes me think of olives growing in the sun. Your black shiny eyes can already follow my finger and I know you are going to become a genius some day. When you burp, spit up your milk, I do not smell its sourness. I wipe your precious face and believe you are smiling to me. Look, look at me, my treasure. I inhale the smell of you, wash and powder and hug you softly.

 

Some day soon, you will feel strong hands lift you high in the air, maybe spin you around, hold you close to his body, carefully not letting his brass buttons hurt you. You will love your daddy, Antonio, just as I do. We will wait together, here in our small apartment. If you hear a loud knock at the door, know it is your Daddy. Cry, make noise, I will fly to get you, race to the door and wait for but a second until Antonio Sr. hugs and kisses both of us. Can you picture this my little son?

 

No, you cannot but let me draw a picture for you as I see him. He is six feet tall. His back is straight, his muscles bulge from his dress uniform. His feet from so much marching are almost flat. And when he holds me close, those muscles bulge, hard as rocks. His last letter mentioned that he has received new special, comfortable shoes from his captain. Antonio, your daddy always asks me how much you have grown, if I show you pictures of him. Daddy used to have a mustache but not any more. And what a dancer he was, is! What fun we had together. And smart? My heavens he is smart and I can already see you will be too. Are you hungry, my little Antonio? I will fix your Pablum and give you a new treat today. I bought you some Gerber baby fruit. You are going to love it. Stay in your playpen. Someone is at the door. I'll be right back, my Precious.

 

At the second knock, I call out, 'Wait a second, I'm coming.' I open it and cannot believe what I see. 'Antonio, Antonio, my god, Antonio. I throw myself on him, hold him so close neither of us can breathe. A deep, strange voice pierces my ears and I pull back, look at Antonio and it is not my love. It is a stranger in uniform with an envelope for me. I cannot take it from his hand. But wait, he is smiling. That is not what officers giving bad news do. He tells me to read the message in private if I like. I tear open the envelope and scan it in a second.

 

I cannot help myself and start to cry. 'Antonio, Antonio,  you are on your way back to the States and will arrive Saturday.' My joy runneth over. 'Thank you, thank you,' I repeat to the messenger again and again.

 

Then he grabs me, gives me a huge, strong hug and thanks me for the one I gave him. 'Wish I had somebody like you waiting for me, Miss.' He salutes me and drives away...and I must wait two more days to introduce my Antonio Jr. to Antonio Sr.

 

In the meantime, I'll treat Jr. To Gerber's strained peaches.

HELP NEEDED

 WANDA

 

My new day worker Wanda, no wanna. I answered her ad in the Morning  Journal and at that time she sounded knowledgeable, pleasant and fun. The only problem I heard then was her English was almost non-existent.  Having interviewed at least ten others, I gave up and decided to give Wanda a chance at keeping my home in good order, to have meals ready for me, my husband and daughter, explaining at the time, not sumptuous fancy ones, just simple, tasty, attractive meals. She would have to keep the house clean and in good order. Wanda told me on the phone that she was 22 but when she came to my door, I accepted her small fib as I figured her to be no more than 18.

 

Her arriving exactly at the time I asked her to be here, 9 a.m.,  was the time she rang the doorbell. Good omen. I greeted her warmly. In the foyer Wanda looked quizzically at me. 'Wach u wahn me to do, Meeses Coleman?' I replied, 'Please separate the laundry in the basket next to the washing machine and do one load at a time.' 'Hokay, I can do that.' While my husband and I were having coffee in the kitchen, she called me from the basement. 'Meeses Coleman, can you please show me how to start your washing machine? I never seen one like theese before.' I looked at Lance with dismay, left him sitting alone and went to show Wanda how to turn a dial to read 'on.'

 

Upstairs I handed her a list of what she was to do today. She read it, pointed to the word 'vacuum' and asked me,' What is theese word, Meeses Coleman?' I told her and used hand motions to show her. Wanda's eyes lit up when she understood. 'Where is the machine? How you say that word again? ' I repeated it. I showed her. 'Wanda, I'll be home about four o'clock. My daughter, Kelley, has a key to come in and knows you will be here so don't be frightened. See you later.' I gave Lance a quick kiss and left him finishing his coffee.

 

At exactly 4:15 I arrived home and found Wanda watching t.v. with Kelley. Lance's and my coffee cups were still on the kitchen table. 'Come here, Wanda.' I showed her the cups  and asked why she hadn't washed them and put them away.' Her reply threw me. 'You didna tell me to do that, Meeses Coleman and I would not open your cabinets without your hokay. Hokay?'

 

I was perturbed and asked her to sit down with me while I explain what her duties are again. She looked sad and worried. My temper cooled a bit so I could speak slowly, take her thru the house again and give her more explicit directions. 'Wanda, I'm home earlier today than usual so you don't have to prepare dinner for us but tomorrow you will have to do that. Fresh vegetables are in the refrigerator drawer, ground beef is in the meat section. Take what you need from the pantry, set the kitchen table for three. Everything is in the kitchen someplace, spices, onions, bread, just look and you will find what you need. Straighten the bedrooms, clean the bathroom. Can you fix a nice dinner and do the other things too?' 'Si, Meeses Coleman. I am good cook. My Mama mia loves what I feex.' That set bells ringing in my mind. 'Wanda, we don't want enchiladas every night, in fact, not at all. Do you have any questions, Wanda?' She shook her head 'no' and shrugged her shoulders at the same time. I had to ask her if she meant yes or no.

 

'Wanda go home now. My husband will let you in at 8:30 in the morning. Don't be late. He has to leave for work then. OK?' 'Si, Meeses Coleman.'
She left and I sighed with relief. I improvized on a bagged salad, zapped frozen baked chicken breasts, fried slices of jams dripping syrup and called my family to the table. We sat and discussed Wanda and how unimpressed I was with her knowledge and vocabulary. 'Lance she is never going to work out for us. Tomorrow I'll pay her today's wages that she really didn't earn and let her leave. I'll pay her half day for that too. Lance surprised me when he told me I was being hasty and  suggested I give her another chance. Against my better judgement, I agreed.

 

'Don't anybody do the breakfast dishes. Let's see if Wanda takes care of them.' The few dinner left overs I put in the fridge, left a note on the table for Wanda to take them for her lunch. I came home to find tacos ready to be heated. The table was set for four instead of three. I can only assume she expected to eat with us. 'Lance, I have to let her go.The clothes she put in the washing machine are still there, washed but not dried.' He knew I was right. ' Let her go.'

 

In the morning I waited for Wanda, mentally prepared to give her two days pay and let her go. When she rang the doorbell, I got cold feet. Wanda came in, shook my hand,  looked me right in the eye and said, 'Meeses Coleman. I cahn not work for you. Your washing machine do not dry clothes. I have nobody to talk to all day and I like company. Ma Mama cita wants me to go to school to better learn Henglish so I can be smarter, get better job. I have to queet.' I honestly felt sorry, had compassion for her, wished her well, gave her the extra money. Three times she said, 'Gracias', opened the front door and disappeared. It was clear to both of us that Wanda no wanna work for me. I got  the phone book and called the employment agency I had used once. A new, experienced day worker will be at my home 8:30 the next day.

 

I am smarter today than yesterday. It will take Wanda longer.

The Winner

OLD MAC DONALD

 

His beard, measures from the bottom of his chin to his waist, twenty nine inches long. Over his fat girth and to his ankles it reaches sixty-two inches. Old Mac's beard is perfectly groomed and fulfills all the rules for the Beard Contest. No hair color or bleach is allowed. Ironing it straight is tabu. Cocky he is because he knows for sure that nobody within twenty miles of Bradford has a beard such as his.

 

Tilly, his wife of forty-eight years, uses a yardstick to measure that beard of his every Sunday before church. Sometimes she uses a yard stick, sometimes a tape measure and sometimes a metal refractor. It now grows slowly but does grow. Old Mac insists on using only Lux flakes to wash it. Tilly does the three needed rinses in her former best big wash tub and dries it between white sheets of clean wrapping paper. At the last measuring it was sixty three inches. Old Mac thrives on the compliments he gets. What a sight he is when he walks down Main St. His beard is parted perfectly in half from his chin to his shoe tops. A black rubber band every twelve inches keeps his still auburn hair from flying wild.

 

The yearly contest at Falcon's Arena is scheduled for one week from today. This contest is always a crowd pleaser. Other contests are for sideburns, mustaches and they attract close relatives while the beard one draws the crowd. Not until the entries are known has there ever been a beard to really challenge Old Mac's. This time there is a serious competitor.

 

So far no one has seen Handsome Harry as he calls himself. He's from Bell Town about eighteen miles north of Bradford. His entrance papers state his beard to be 70 inches long. He has never shaved since puberty and he is now eighty two years old. A photo of him has been enlarged and hangs in the window of the Sheriff's office.

 

A black Mercedes, chauffeur driven, rear windows darkened, arrives in
Bradford the evening before the fair, the long beard contest. It stops at the Bideaway Motel. The desk clerk welcomes the chauffeur and guides him with his beach umbrella covered boss to connecting rooms on the ground floor. As soon as they are settled he notifies the sheriff that the beard contestant has arrived. It takes only moments before Old Mac and the entire town know that Handsome Harry has arrived and where he is staying. The only bar/lounge in town fills quickly. Bets go down. Laughter roars from table to table.

 

Breakfast for two is delivered at 7a.m. to the two men in the motel. Before eating, the driver, also his caretaker, check's Harry's beard and checks it again after breakfast. He brushes off a few crumbs, smooths the white beard with his hand until it almost shines. From the car he brings in a round roll of feather encased in a double layer of Saran Wrap. Harry stands on a chair while his driver most carefully wraps his beard up to Harry's shoulders where he secures it with red suspender clips to Harry's shirt. It holds securely. The contraption won't fit in the car so they walk to the fair grounds.

 

As they are no more than fifteen feet from the entrance, a black and white dirty mutt attacks the strangers. He nips the driver's leg and bites right into Harry's Saran wrap, drooling all over the perfectly groomed beard and running away with a chunk of it in his teeth. The driver gets Harry back into the car, drives up to the contest quarters to explain that Harry will forfeit his entry fee as he is no longer eligible. .

 

Old Mac's crowd is really disappointed. Everyone gets their money back from the pot while he struts around until he spots Tilly wearing a blue ribbon. She won the bake contest with her lemon chiffon cake. He gets the $500 the winner of the beard contest was promised and together
they go home and plan for next year.

Autumn Falls

FALL

 

It's very early. The sun has barely lightened the sky. I will be the first kid on my street to be sent to Hyman's bakery for fresh baked morning breakfast rolls. Believe it or not, I am glad to be first. September is ending today. Maple branches  barely move but overnight their red, orange, yellow and brown leaves fall silently to the ground. They crust the sidewalk and crunch with every step I take. I love it, love the sound and sing as the leaves fly up, touch my ankles, dance around my shoes. The bagged still warm Kaiser rolls are comfortable against my blouse.

 

My Zaidi used to sit with me at the window and watch the leaves start to grow and grow, watch zxvcbxthem nod and shake in summer storms. I am sad a lot because I don't have him any more. Mama tells me he is in heaven and may be watching leaves made of real gold and rubies fall around him. Sometimes at night when I can't fall asleep I try to imagine that but instead I picture him walking with me and my eyes cry a little until sleep comes.

 

Today Mama is fixing a treat for my school lunch. I watch her cut thick slices of white meat from the roast chicken we had for dinner last night. She puts the slices on a good, but no longer warm Kaiser roll, adds lots of chicken schmaltz, a little salt, and wraps it in Cut-rite waxed paper. I get five cents to buy a soda and five more if I want a bag of Planter's peanuts. Water from the hall fountain is all I need. She would make  sandwiches for my Zaidi and me sometimes on Saturday and if there were no leaves, we would be happy just taking a walk to the park or sitting in the house to play cards.

 

September is totally gone. School has started. The air is already cool enough for me to wear my heavy white turtle neck sweater. Mom looks me over and tells me I have out-grown it and and should let my sister Sylvia have it. 'Mama, I need my sweater. I want to go find the biggest, prettiest leaves I can for Miss Darcey. She has given us a leaf project. On Monday mornings we each are supposed to bring the ten prettiest or biggest maple leaves we can find to class. We will each show ours and the class will vote on the best. The best will go in the scrapbook Miss Darcy brought to school Friday. There will be room for the name of the winner and I want my name and leaves there. You'll see, Mama, I'm going to win this week.' Oh, my wonderful Mama. She offers to help me search but I tell her that would be cheating. I get a pat on my head for that and she shoos me out the front door.

 

The leaves don't smell right. They are damp and their corners turn down. I gather the best I can and carefully lay them down flat on newspapers on the cellar floor, hoping, praying to my Zaidi to make them pretty again. As soon as I wake up in the morning, I hurry to the basement to see my leaves. They look terrible, all shrunk up, no color left in them at all.

 

'Mama, Mama,' I call her to come downstairs. 'What can I do, Mama? I can't take these to school.' 'Darling, you can do nothing. It didn't just rain on our sidewalk. Nobody will be able to collect them either.' I feel a little better, get dressed, have my cereal with strawberries in the Buck Rogers bowl that Mama bought for me. The sky is getting lighter. I pray the sun will come out soon and dry what is on just our sidewalk.
When I have finished breakfast I put on my white turtle neck sweater again and go to check the weather.

 

I am too quick and skip a step. My ankle twists and I fall flat on my face, on top of the miserable looking mess of leaves and yell for my mother, my sister, my Zaidi. 'Help! Help! Come help me. Fall fell and so did I. Mama , Mama, I'm hurt. I broke either my nose or my ankle.'

 

Mama, Daddy and even Sylvia come to help me. They all look me over and tell me I will survive. Daddy is extra nice. He tells me I can stay home from school Monday, only Monday, and by the next Monday the trees will still have enough leaves for me to find. Maybe he is right.
He carries me into the house and lets me lie on the living room sofa, something only he has been allowed to do.

 

Sunday night, the night before I will be up early to gather my own leaves, I think, think, real hard about my Zaidi, ask him to help me find golden ones with rubies on the tips. I hear his shaky voice and feel his arm around me.  Zaidi tells me to look under the stairwell to the basement and I will find some real beauts.

 

I look after breakfast but don't find any. It doesn't matter. Zaidi is allowed a mistake now and then.