KIDS

FIFTH MORNING

 

We walk slowly, pace up and down the long tiled floors. There is little we can do except hold tight, pray to whoever, whatever has been programmed into our hearts, believe that our daughter will come back to us, smile again, be the little princess she has longed to be since she received her very first Ginny doll. On hot summer days I played with our Sandy in the cool of the basement. She always took the role of Ginny and I was Ken.

 

The two lovers had bathing suits, dresses, sweaters, everything except one important one, Ken had no suit. Each play afternoon Sandy dressed Ginny in her  wedding gown  and I would top it with a golden crown I made out of foil gift wrap.  Ken she clothed in whatever I could buy for him but suits for boy dolls just weren't made. Whoever would wait on us at Bloomies' told her the same thing each time, the company does not make suits for him, there is too little demand.. He is a sportsman. My little girl was really fussy and begged me over and over to make one for him but just threading a needle is as much as I can do and even for that I must get my bifocals. No question in my mind and Sol's that our daughter was obsessed. We considered taking her to a psychologist but held off, waiting for her to grow out of such nonsense..  I tried hiding both dolls, made up a silly story about the boogie man wanting playmates who took them to his house.

 

Sandy's disappointment, anger at us, turned her away. She ate her meals with us and then run off to sulk in her room. For her sixth birthday, we gave her a lovely party, invited twelve friends who she had stopped seeing. They all brought really nice presents that she opened and closed again right in front of them. I nudged her each time to say 'thanks'. When everyone left, she told me to give the toys and books to poor children.

 

Wailing again, 'Ken needs a suit so he can marry Ginny,' she secluded herself in the basement. I could hear her talking to him, promising soon he would have a suit.' Now and then I came to believe I heard him   answer, 'Good.'

 

Maybe I needed the psychologist. My friend, Mary, suggested Dr. Kilburn who concentrated on me, not Sandy, insisted I talk about my self but every sentence I managed to get out had 'Sandy' in it somewhere. I gave him his $150 and didn't go back. Our little angel grew more solemn, didn't come in from the garden for supper last night. Calling her brought only silence. She was not in anyone's house even though I went to strangers, seniors, teens. Sol hurried home from work. We couldn't find her. The police took her description and would be on the lookout for her. Two days and two nights and there was no word. The police considered she had been abducted.

 

The third night we received a call that Sandy was in All Saint's Hospital. She had evidently fallen or jumped off a workman's ladder and was found unconscious in debris behind rose bushes. The house was empty as the workers were off for the week-end. A Mr. McLaughlin, spotted her, crumpled up in a ball, alive, breathing and found her breathing but unable to speak on Monday morning., but either unable or unwilling to speak to him. He called the police and 911 immediately. A soft spoken police captain notified us they believe Sandy had been found and had been taken to All Saints' hospital on Rhinegold St. Faster than a bolt of greased lightning, we were at Sandy's bedside. The floor nurse told us she did not respond to people but ate her breakfasts, then cried most of the day.

 

I held her sweet little fingers. Sol and I talked to her about getting well so she can come home and play with Ginny. A slight twitch in her hand let me know she heard me. I stayed there all night, the next day and night. Sandy's color improved. She touched my face but still did not speak.

 

Neighbors kept calling, leaving messages, wanting to be there for us. Lois, who lives next door to us, made a great suggestion. 'Why don't you make a wedding suit for Ken? That's what Sandy always cries about.'
'I can't sew,' I reply and get laughed at. ' Here's my seamstress' phone number, Call her. Take Ken over there and she'll make one in five minutes.'

 

What world had I been living in? Where had my brain been?
Before the next morning came, Ken, dressed in his coat and tails, a black cardboard top hat on his head, was in a deep white gift box, wrapped in silver paper, tied with a big blue bow. Sol and I got special permission from the floor nurse to see Sandy before her morning shower and breakfast.

 

'Look, Sandy, darling. Open the box, a special visitor has come to see you. His wife-to-be is in there too. Open it! Open it! Sandy looks a little dazed, says nothing but follows instructions. Sol and I help her untie the ribbon.

 

Shrieks of excitement fly from her mouth, her eyes sparkle. She kisses both dolls. Her first words are 'Thank you. Did they have a lovely wedding?' I describe the imaginary wedding as Sandy drinks her cold orange juice, hugs us, and wants to go home so she can take off Ken's new suit and let him play tennis with his wife.

 

 

Faltering

NO END

 

Sleep is, as usual, fitful, frightening. My relaxing in a warm tub, even a now and then shower that ruins my hair do, an occasional Ambien, hasn't worked. Is it too much to ask, oh, lord that I wake and feel the warmth of the sun, see its yellow and orange glow in the bathroom mirror? Smile?' What I do see, feel, is my damp nylon nightie and pale tear stained eyes above gray bagging folds. I am a mess through and through with no red exit sign over my bed.

 

My 'secret other' has found another, more than one other. His 'stopping by' when he has the urge or when his other fillies are more exciting, become fresher fish to fry. He makes no bones about it. I am stale bread. Dad and Mom have asked me too many times, 'Where's Johnny?' and then leave me alone in my room to pout and cry as quietly as I can.

 

It's Saturday, I mean Saturnight, when I hear his familiar knock on the door. Mom calls to tell me Johnny is here and I tell her to tell him 'I'm not.' Dad greets him with his usual smiling face and warm handshake, offers him a beer or hard drink. I want to kill my father for being so nice, so cordial to my one time heart throb.

 

I stay in my room and can hear the two men talking, laughing, but can make out no words. My mother is probably sitting in the kitchen, having a cup of tea with a crispy brioche, feeling sorry for me, hoping Johnny will give up and leave. She has been on my back for months telling me she sees no future for me with that loafer. 'He's a taker, Rosalind,' she repeats and repeats. 'Get rid of him before he gets rid of you.' She asks what he does for a living and I don't know for sure. She asks me where he is all the nights he apologizes for when he stands me up. I tell her he explains, always sounds plausible and I believe him, trust him. Inside I know I am lying to her and to myself. The situation has become so bad, Mom won't answer the door when she knows who is on the stoop. Dad likes Johnny's style, his bravado, bragging, dirty jokes. I don't but do love being with him, being complimented, held so closely, touched, kissed that makes a warm a glow spread over me and I forgive his trespasses.

 

He is thoughtful enough to call me when he has to break our date, but he calls so late that I am dressed, ready to go to a movie or for dinner.
Mom has complained when he comes over and asks, 'If you don't mind, would you fix me a sandwich, Mrs. Gorfein? I've been so busy today I didn't have time for lunch.' Mom does mind and asks me to take care of him. She's right and I do it.

 

Wednesday Johnny leaves me a voice message, apologizes  that he has to work late. He'll call me Thursday. My patience, disappointment and anger join forces. I promise myself not to see him again. I call Maggie, my only confidant, to have supper with me Thursday and go to see the new Steve Marlow flick at the Cinema Max.

 

It is comfortable, we have Maryland steamed crabs, corn on the cob, each only one Miller's Light. The movie is okay but if I missed it, it would not be a big deal. Maggie and I work our way thru the crowded lobby. As we near the exit I see Johnny with a looker, maybe a hooker. He is holding her arm, guiding her, oblivious of Maggie and me. My heart strings break. In fact they shatter into tiny, specks because right behind him is my Dad, holding the arm of another woman, much younger than he is.

 

I say nothing to Maggie. I have lost two men in my life at the same time, will never forgive either. I go home and cry alone.

Ah So

CHINESE DUMPLING

 

Cuter than cute, her lightly yellow wrinkled skin emerges from her Mamasan's womb. Her eyes are black, black as the darkest night sky with tiny, tiny moonbeams making them sparkle, glitter. Her first cry is shrill as if she is in great pain, 'Wah, Wah' and with that, instantly and forever, she  becomes Wah Wah Son Tan. She is small, not much bigger than the sunflowers that grow in Ling Chu's Garden.

 

The villagers wonder, ask, 'who is 'Wah Wah's father?' There is much talk amongst them. Ho Khai, the elder, believes the dragons of the moon have blessed the family, sent Cheng to be the father as he is forever 'the accomplished one' strong and brave. That story reaches the ears of the curious and soon it is believed. Yet there are doubters who think they know the truth and the little girl's father is Bi Hai because of his green eyes that shine in the sun.

 

Ho Kai wears his silk kimono, soils the hem, as he walks past the rice fields to visit the new mother, Dishie. She bows to him when he steps into her garden. She is nursing Wah Wah Son Tan. He smiles, asks softly, 'Who is the father of beautiful Wah Wah Son Tan? Is he Cheng Bo?' Dishie gives no answer. With her head low, arms gently around her child, she leaves him standing there. Ho Kai grows angry, rushes towards her and stops, calms himself, looks to the sky and asks the Red Dragon whose tail has already darkened the sky, to name the father of Wah Wah Son Tan. Clouds roll, the wind rises. Dishie is not afraid.

 

Big rain drops fall into the lily pond as Ho Kai reaches his gardens. He is upset, angry at Dishie and the Red Dragon for not giving him the answer and for the wet earth that has now ruined his kimona and his shoes. His mind still swirls from the Red Dragon's anger. Soon the sun shines again. Dry and most curious he goes to see Cheng Bo. Cheng Bo is most surprised to see Ho Kai, bids him enter and offers him tea. Ho Kai is not in the mood for tea and asks, perhaps too loudly, 'Are you the father of Wah Wah Son Tan?' Cheng Bo stands erect, as tall as his short stature allows. He does not think he is Wah Wah Son Tan's father.  'You do not think so, Cheng Bo? You are not sure?' It is clear he speaks the truth.

 

The door slides open and like looking into a mirror, Ho Kai sees another
Cheng Bo, but it is only Dawai Bo, Cheng Bo's twin.' Dawai Bo speaks to the elder. 'We do not know which of us is the father. It has been decided with Dishie that we shall each care for our babe and be one family. Would you honor us and be WahWah's Son Tan's godfather?'

 

Fireworks light the evening sky as the babe, the twin brothers, Mamasan, and Ho Kai enter the courtyard and become a new family.

The Assent

ROBIN BLUE EGGS

 

I love to watch the robins nest in the old, almost forlorn maple tree in my back yard. Their red breasts delight me. Their 6 a.m. chirping doesn't bother me at all. My battered slippers lie beside my bed, waiting for at least two to say 'Good Morning, Old Hag.' The sun rises early in April and the mama robin flutters to the ground, claws at it just enough to pull up a wiggly earth worm for herself and her mate. They each get a good hold on it until the papa gulps down more than his fair share. He hops away while the worm still moving. He chirps proudly as if he beat Joe Louis into submission.

 

I stand stoically, ready to watch the beautiful blue eggs start to crack. The wonderfully strong field glasses my husband left for me when he went to heaven are on a leather belt around my neck. I raise them carefully, keep my hands as steady as possible so I can focus well and spot at once a tiny, tiny crack coming thru the shell. Perhaps I imagine it, perhaps not, but I do believe a baby chirp reaches my ears.

 

Yes, I am sure, one baby robin is about to wiggle out, see the light of morn. Where was the mama then? Was she flying to her mate to tell him the news or to get part of the  worm she had dug up for     
the chick? Ah, there she is. Her feathered grayish/ brown wings move so quickly towards her nest I do believe she heard the little peep while she sat on the very top small branch of my budding tree. I hum to her, 'Oh, little red robin, come to your babe, sing to her this morn. 'Listen, oh listen, another babe will be born.'

 

By the time I am ready for lunch, all four chicks are sticking their skinny heads above the nest. They open their bills and make whining sounds. Pop in bits of worms. Tiny bugs disappear and the babies twitter, tweet, paging their daddy, There, there in the oak tree he sits, thin yellowish legs hold tight to a twig that is about to fall. As it does, the robin spreads its wings and flies directly over to my maple tree. This is the first time the family meets. The little heads, starry eyes seem to be looking me over. I let them. Why shouldn't I? Am I not part of their family. They are all I have left since my little boy, Robbie, grew up, went to war and never came back. A sadness crawls  over my pleasure that surely is because a big, black crow has come from nowhere and is circling the babe filled nest. I clap my hands, call out to shoo it away but it doesn't go. My back is breaking, my arms feel heavy. The damn crow swoops low, aiming at me. Its wings move more slowly as the bird circles, lands a few feet away from me. 

 

My eyes stare as the black bird's  feathers change to an amazing shade of blue. The pain in my chest gets worse until I feel the bird lifting me onto its back. Soft winds touch my face. I look down and see the robins blue eggs have all cracked open. Their mom  and daddy hold on to the edge of the nest and watch me soar to meet my husband and son in heaven.

 

They are waiting at the gate for me, each holding a nest of blue robin eggs.

Get it in writing

THE GUARANTEE

 

'Dad, I'm home. Look at this beauty Riley's Office Depot had on sale.  Can you help me install it? My new Gatsby computer is already making my fingers itch. The salesman gave me a quick run-down but it went right through this mushy head of mine. You know more than his brain and mine share as one mind.

 

I know my Dad loves compliments, honest ones, and I have already set the ball in motion. 'Paul, something or other, pushed me to buy a year's insurance policy for one hundred bucks. He told me it won't happen but just in case something rare hits, I'll be able to talk directly to a guru. I turned it down, Dad. I already have a wonderful private one, don't I?'

 

As my Dad takes the heavy carton out of my hands, he starts walking to our den. His eyes smile at me. My mom calls from the kitchen, 'Evelyn, if you want dinner on time, come here and peel the potatoes.' The usual trap waits for me. The Cat and Mouse game begins, 'Flora,' Dad yells to her, 'I'm helping Evelyn. Peel the potatoes yourself.' Irritated,  Mom yells back, 'Then don't yell at me that dinner is late. Fool with the monster, make Evelyn happy while I knick my fresh nail polish.'

 

Dad has me watch what he does, explains it all, with me learning next to diddly squat. The silent hum of my new computer that I name Gerty lights up. There is Yahoo with my address book in tact, old mail waiting for me to peruse. The settings I set myself, font- Comic Sans, size 14, color-dark green, the shade of a whippoorwill as the sun goes down.
Dad pats me on my head as if I were a brilliant idiot.

 

I assign myself a small job to start out type in Google,  Riley's Office Depot and search lap top computers. There must be fifty sites on its megabytes, its attributes and faults. I scroll down, open too many bad sites and picture Paul, the salesman who talked me into it, hiding every time I come into Riley's Office Depot for more printer ink. My behemoth printer drinks it like a bone dry elephant.

 

Mom is sitting in the dining room by herself, mashing her boiled potato. 'Evelyn, you finally came in for dinner? Go heat it, eat it alone, like I did.  I'm done. She stands up, walks to the stairs, looks back at me and asks if her husband, my dad, has set up my computer already.' 'Yep, Mom, I'm going to send some emails to my friends, see if I get thru to them.' 'You're not hungry?' she asks. If I say 'yes' in maybe three shakes of a lamb's tail, Mom will put a tantalizing platter of baked salmon, her special sweetened asparagus and a still hot baked potato in front of me. If I say 'no' she'll do it anyway so I get a glass of buttermilk and sit down to enjoy Mom's cooking.

 

After I enjoy myself, I wash the plate, flatware, glass and leave the table spotless, just the way Mom likes it. An odd humming sound is coming from the den but I don't feel like investigating it, head toward Gerty. The sound gets louder, stops humming and clunk, clunks. My god, I run towards it. The screen of my new Gatsby puter is blinking on and off in rainbow colors. 'Dad! Dad! Help. My computer is on fire!' He runs into the den wearing only his p.j. bottoms, quickly slams the computer closed, pulls the plug out of the socket, and breathes more easily.

 

'Take care of this yourself in the morning Evelyn. Take this burned up computer back to Riley's. 'Insist on seeing the manager, not a salesman. Do not accept a replacement. Be firm, have my Visa Charge card ready and get a full credit. Do not come home for dinner or to sleep if you don't do this right.'

 

The Lord has spoken and I had better follow his orders. Paul, the imbecile young sales clerk who sold me the computer on sale, happens to be next 'up' and approaches me. 'Paul,' I say, 'ask me no questions just get the manager out here now.' He looks bewildered but calls him on the intercom. I stiffen my back ready for an argument. Sean O'Riley makes none, apologizes, hands me a credit for Gerty and adds,

 

'Gatsby is now aware of what is happening with our last sale shipment. To tell you the honest truth, someone might have been injured. So far there are no claims. A new shipment of Gatsbys is due next Mon. They will give you the new model free. It is really an excellent computer at a super price.'

 

I hesitate for a moment, thank him with a 'No, thank you,' take the credit slip home. Dad will go with me to Computer's Inc. on Monday, help me make a good choice and set it up for me after dinner.

 

First I have to help Mom peel potatoes.

 

 

 

 

I'm back from LA

I hardly wrote while there but here is the longest one I ever managed to do. Hope you read it thru.  Val

-----------------------------------

STELLA  BY STARLIGHT

 

I'll be busy as a bee today searching for honeysuckle, I have a lot to do. Where do I start? 'OK,' I tell myself, 'rise and shine.' Of course, I don't and lie in my comfy bed for a few extra minutes. It's only 7 a.m. and my belly has yet to make itself heard. I catch a fast glimpse of the sun starting to peek thru my window and that stirs me to action. Up I get. 'Make the bed.' Uh uh. Instead I smooth it over, just fluff up my pillows and get my ablutions done in the bathroom.

 

I'm set, don't have to ponder what to wear to work today. My outfit is organized in the closet. This will be a big day for me. I have to introduce Mr. J. Clarence Powell, new V.P. of the Board of Rockville Labs. Everybody already knows him, but protocol is protocol and I have ordered in breakfast for twenty from Shulman's. All set. I'm wearing my new rust colored suit, light weight green  cashmere turtle neck sweater, gold drop earrings with small, but clearly visible, emeralds. My comfy alligator pumps will attract some male eyes to my shapely legs. They'll wink and I'll blush.

 

The room is ready. I am ready. Everybody is here except our youngest Board member, Mr. Powell's twenty-eight year old son, Harmon. I give him fifteen minutes. He appears in fourteen, carrying a hot cup of coffee. Although I greet him with a smile, I am steaming, am hotter than his coffee. The man is a nincompoop, has little interest in the family business, is at this meeting for his own reasons. One of them happens to be me. Harman has made a few suggestions to me that I don't bother to answer and avoid him whenever possible. Because of my name, he struts and tries to be another Marlon Brando.

 

Mr. Powell, Sr.  asks me to come to his office after the meeting.
I make a lame excuse that he sternly does not accept. A light tap on his highness's door and his sing-song, 'Come in, Stella,' opens it automaticly. He's waiting for me. His desk is cleared. He's smoking a big Cuban cigar, smelling up the entire office. The sun is glaring on the tinted windows and it makes odd shapes on the carpet. I can't help but note the extra long desk lamp that hangs on a brass chain from the ceiling. It looks like a  hangman's noose.

 

 'Stella,' he says, 'Harmon has asked very few favors of me over the
 years. He lives a life that he doesn't share with me. Now he is asking me to speak well of him to you and I really can't. He has money and will have a lot more when I pass, but that is not what you necessarily want, is it?' Sure, that's what I want but have no intention of telling him my personal business. A slight nod of my head 'no' invites him to continue. 'Harmon is almost childlike at times. He has a teen-like crush on you and would like to take you to dinner soon. May he call you?' I am no teenager, am smart enough to realize that my saying yeah or nay may mean my job, one where I have already made my mark. My choice is difficult but I make it, take it, self-preservation, feel sour guile in my gut as I tell my boss his son may call me.

 

I can hear my phone ringing before I unlock my apartment door. By the time I reach the phone it has stopped. Before I can get out of my work clothes it rings again. It might be anybody, any friend or neighbor, but the phone cord tells me Harmon is at the other end of the line. His 'Hello, Stella. This is Harmon,' confirms my nervous feelings, my inability to be warm, welcoming, pleasant. I pull a miracle from nowhere and am able to at least tell him I was expecting his call. He sounds assured of himself and jumps right in, 'How about dinner with me Friday, at let's say, the Algonquin, 8:00. I'll pick you up at 7:30. We can have cocktails and get to know each other. See you then.' He has given me no time at all to say o.k. or not, to ask a single question.

 

For my date with Harmon, I dress neatly, attractively, but simply, nothing sexy, provocative. I wear no perfume. He's wearing a black knit turtleneck sweater, black slacks and jacket. In a dark room, I would need a flashlight to see him. Saying very little, he offers me his arm, opens and closes the car door for me. The drive to the Algonquin takes about fifteen minutes, almost silent minutes, minutes where I feel, see him glancing at me. This young man gives me the creeps.

 

I know the route route well to the restaurant from my home and realize we are not going the right way. 'Harmon, you missed your right turn a few blocks back. Make a 'U' at the next light.' He says nothing, does nothing, just keeps going straight. 'Harmon, please turn back. I'd like to go home.' With that, he jams on the brakes, gets out and tells me to go. I am frightened. The moon is bright and I realize we are passing farmland. 'You want out? You got it.' His uncontrolled anger over nothing makes me walk fast, hoping to see someone, hear a dog bark. I don't but scream as loud as I can. Harmon screams loud too, 'Stella, Stella, you look so beautiful in the starlight. Let me hold you.  I love you, Stella, Stella, I love you!' 'Cut it out, Harmon. Don't rush me.' I play a childish fool. 'I'm not that kind of woman, Harmon, to kiss on a first date. Let's go back, have a pleasant dinner and maybe, just maybe, see each other again.' He starts to stutter, 'Stella, Stella, Stella.' Our table has been given away and we must stand in line for 20 agonizing minutes.

 

Once seated, make our menu selections, have wine, hors deuvres, I try, really try, to have a conversation while being silently stared at. Harmon's words are like an old record, 'I love you Stella. There will never be anyone else in my life but you.' My silence is getting to him. His eyes begin to glare. His face is getting stern. I am being eaten up by a giant crocodile. I nibble at what would have been a delicious meal but is picked at and left for the waiter to clear the table. Harmon barely eats either. I see our waiter talking to the manager who comes over to ask if something was not done to our satisfaction and I make up a goofy story about having just come from a big wedding where we over-ate. He seems satisfied and leaves us alone in a crowded room.

 

Valet brings Harmon's car. He drives with one arm on the wheel and the other groping for my hand. I stick my purse in his searching hand and push myself up tight against the door, ready to open it as soon as he pulls to the curb. While the air has gotten chilly, I am sweating, afraid of this one track mind. 'Will you kiss me good night, see me next week?' he asks. My refusal to do either rouses his anger. My foot is ready to kick him where my pointed shoes will do a lot of damage but I don't have to do it. He leaves me at the door, turns towards his car, humming 'She loves me, she loves me not, she loves me.'

 

I am a nervous wreck, double check the front and back doors. They are securely locked. I punch in the alarm system code and go upstairs to my room, wait to hear his car drive away. My night is fretful, full of snakes, and earthquakes, banners floating on falling buildings, 'Stella, Stella, let me be your Fella!'

 

My position at Rockville Labs is in Jeopardy. I must speak to Mr. Powell about Harmon before I go to my office. His light, warm sing-song 'Come in, Stella,' gives me a little courage. Sitting across from his father, is Harmon. He stands, walks over to me, puts his arm around my back and tells his dad I have agreed to marry him within six months.

 

My denial is loud, can surely be heard half way down the long hall. My shock must have drained my face, turned it to ashes. As I aim for the door, I ruin my future, 'Mr. Powell, keep your f 'n son away from me. If he tries to contact me in any way, I will report him to the police as a stalker.'Before the door is totally closed, I hear Harmon's feet running towards me.

 

 His voice is loud, mean, nasty with a hint of sugar.   'Stella, Stella, I love you.' Mr. Powell, arms folded, is at the door watching.

 

 

 

                             

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I'D BE

OCTOPUSI

 

Buzz and Jake are busy. They look over the naive, the hot tootsies standing around the Palace dance floor. It's Saturday night and the pickin' is sure to be easy. Jake stares at a newcomer who is with two of his early conquests. Her stylish tan pant suit isn't tight but it isn't loose either. Her jacket isn't buttoned so he can scrutinize her head to the soles of her shoes. The body looks ripe, inviting. He nudges his pal, Buzz. Without words his eyes say 'look what I just found.' Buzz sees, winks to Jake and turns his attention to Babs, a smooth dancer. The music is a bit tinny but that doesn't hold him back.

 

Asking her to dance with him isn't even necessary. As soon as Babs sees him walking towards her, her arms go out, invite him to enter. With ease one hand slips into the small of her back, draws her tight against him. The two clasp hands and spin onto the crowded dance floor. There's  no John Travalto around, no greasy hair do's, no tables, no chairs, except a few folding ones along the wall. The sitters don't move. They have taken possession and just watch.

 

Jake sees the girl in the tan pant suit, decides on his own to call her Pantsy, and aims at her. Buzz is somewhat content with Babs and hangs around her like a little puppy dog waiting for a bone. I can't help but laugh because his chin is wet from drooling. 

 

It is easy to see something happening at the entrance. Dancers are leaving the floor to look at the two very handsome young men who have just walked in. They aren't teens like the regulars, are in their mid-twenties. Jake makes funny motions, purses his lips, puts his hands on his hips and wiggles them around. The crowd moves back and lets the men enter. Dancing begins again and that is when trouble starts. The two men glance at each other, nod,  and walk onto the floor, then dance together. Whispers are loud, Buzz and Jake's the loudest. 'Sweetum's, you too look divine dancing. Do you trade leading places?' After two dances the men have been razzed enough and leave.

 

Jake has cornered Pantsy and is holding her too tight. His hands move up and down her back and she pulls away. Thinking he's god's gift to women, he dips her, lets her hair touch the floor, and lifts her even tighter to his body. Buzz sees his friend sweating, going too far with a girl he barely knows. It excites him, he wants in. He taps Jake on the shoulder to switch partners and is pushed away.

 

Babs is standing with girlfriends, their mouths chatter endlessly as their eyes scan the unattached guys. Needing a chance to score, Jake goes for it 'What the hell,' he thinks and heads her way. No question she is not overly thrilled but accepts his silly deep bow to her. Taking her hand, holding it warmly to his waist, he swings her out and the charade goes on.

 

He whispers something in her ear, spots Jake dancing very close to Pantsy. Buzz is on fire, let's go of her hand and cops a feel. The next thing he feels is a hard smack on his face. His arms are empty. Eyes are on him as Pantsy yells, 'Get those octopus arms off of me, you twit!'

 

Babs dances on, is twirled and felt and isn't one bit afraid of Octopusi.

Down but not out

ZEKE'S PLACE

 

The Appalachian Hills are not all the verdant green that one sees on tourists maps in fancy brochures. There are tough places, lots of waist high dry underbrush, trees stripped naked by strong winds. All kinds of wildlife, much edible, are available if you are armed and your hand is steady. Lots of rattlers call the hills home so you have to watch your step. The most fearsome people who live under these conditions are mocked as 'hillbillies.' Just don't address any that way or you won't have a chance to use that name again.

 

Zeke is a long time resident. He and his wife, Abigail and their ten children call it 'home sweet home.' She is fruitful and has a child a year for eight years and twins once. It is said that Abigail has no schooling. Her children learn from seeing, listening, following orders. Devious trickery and Zeke's rifle keeps away truant officers. The children have a lyrical twang to their speech and their love of singing drivel.

 

There are a few standard requirements for the family. They must each wash their hands and faces every day in the galvanized tubs that Zeke empties and refills from the cold nearby stream. Zeke gets first dibs each day to wash his scraggly graying beard. He also keeps the fires burning for his mash.

 

Tires crunch, give warning. Abigail gathers up her youngest. The twins each pull, push the siblings into the wooden shack. Zeke struts out into the road, a big smile on his face and his rifle ready in his hand. Three cars swing around the road loop and stop right in front of Zeke. He knows these guys, these revenuers who have to bring some of his juice back to the station house for appearances sake. Always ready for such emergencies, he hands over eight gallons of gin. Captain Larkin has his men put them in their open cars, still holds his hand out to Zeke for a couple of bottles for himself and his boys. 'See you next week, Zeke,'  he says and off they go. Everybody is safe. The children come out of hiding. Abigail is angry again, storms right into Zeke's face. 'Why didn't you shoot 'em? That's our stuff.' Her husband tries to calm her down, 'Shut up. You don't do the work. The boys and me, we do. Put some wood on the fire, woman. We have to make another batch. Tomorrow's Tuesday, ain't it? The Wilson's, the ones who have the drug store in Langston, are due Thursday and they don't mess around. We better have their order ready. Those big city dwellers love our stuff. Damn, while you were shivering in the house the captain  told me old Doc Wilson charges his customers twice what he pays us. What do you say, Abigail, should I raise our price again?' 'Try it, Zeke. Anybody who won't give us what we want, gets nothin'. Show 'em the lead in your rifle. They'll pay.'

 

Before Zeke gets a chance to try what Abigail says, the loud sound of tires crunching up the dirt road sounds again. The revenuers stop. Machine guns come out of their windows. Zeke hollers to the family to run, to hide. The men get out of their cars and zap, zap, rat a tat tat the entire still. Mash flows everywhere. The whole place smells of it. Zeke's rifle is useless. He stands and watches his hard work flow into the ground.

 

When the machine guns cease, the captain apologizes. 'Zeke, we had to do that. The Mayor ordered us to stamp you guys out of the area or lose our jobs. Prohibition is over. You can come into town and get a license to make your gin. Do it, Zeke. I'll stop by in a month or so and see how you're doing. Have a bottle or two for me.'

 

All is still. Abigail and the children come outside to try to clean up the broken glass, take away the tin vats that are full of bullet holes. Zeke goes to his stash of new, shiny three gallon  cans, gets the fire going. Customers are waiting.

 

 

#1165

Hi, Everybody!

 

I have calculated that my 1165th  story, one a day, means for over three years I have been loving what I do, hoping my fan club has been reading my works.

 

Friday April 15 I will be going to LA for ten days which means Friday, Saturday, possibly even Thursday, I may not be writing.

 

I expect to be back but may not start writing again before April 26. 

 

Stay with me. If you want a break yourselves  at any time, email me.

 

Val

 

 

 

 

Breaking point

NO STRINGS

 

'Get away, old lady,' I screech as she touches me with her yellow wrinkled hands. Does she hear me, no. Definitely Madam Q isn't wearing her hearing aids today. My ears are great but my reflexes, instincts smell to high heaven. 'Edmond, bring me the switch .This child just won't listen to me.' Edmond likes me, likes to look under my flowered skirt so he ignores Madam. That infuriates her, makes her pat me down for matches, for lollipops, while she goes looking for him. High and low, behind, under everything but finds only dust, no Edmond.

 

I don't move, barely breathe because I know where he is. The big travel trunk near the back door isn't locked in the afternoon so he must be in there. This is not the first time she doesn't consider the trunk important enough to search. A little cough that sounds like someone is trying to stifle it comes from the trunk. On my rough knees I crawl to it, tap on the side. A tap tap comes back. I give one more extra light tap and crawl to where Madam had left me.

 

It has to be dark, hot in there and I worry about my friend. He has to come out soon. Our audience is coming. There is a squeak. The top of the trunk opens very slowly. Edmond steps out. His shirt is drenched with sweat. I try to tell him where she is but my mouth is sewed up. No words come out. Maybe I will be saved when my only pal, who fights with me,  arrives. You see, he is my pal but he is mean, ornery and likes to hit me.

 

Madam comes from nowhere it seems. She has a frying pan that still has grease dripping out and aims to hit Edmond with it. However, she is fooling with the wrong man, over-heated, angry. He grabs the pan and wallops her rear end. Screams could be heard in Texas. He doesn't hurt her. She has too much fat on her rear. Who does she take her anger out on? Me, of course.  My right arm healed only last week and darn if  she doesn't twist it again. Edmond hits her one more time,  kicks her ankle to make her shut up and go away. Instead she yells her head off.

 

'Punch, Punch, come here, now!' Punch is lying still, unable to rise. His eyes are glazed. His master has surely had all he can take of the daily shows, his wife's uncaring for his friends and has not attached any strings to their arms, bodies. He picks up Judy and Punch and the paddle, puts them in the trunk.

 

The show does not open that day or ever again.

On Watch

A  LEARNING LESSON

 

My tush has just touched the wooden chair in my favorite lunch place. No matter how busy the place is, nobody rushes me. They know I am a writer. Clara knows I'll tip her well while I wait for just the right group to be worthy of my time. Today I hit the jackpot. Mannie's lunch crowd isn't here yet. I have my choice of any table I want. Clara knows me and already has a cup of hot tea waiting on a paper doily. I'm funny that way, don't like to eat on a bare table and, if necessary,  get extra paper napkins to make my own doily.

 

Two Bik pens ready, my sloppy but important thoughts starred in my writing book, I look hastily towards the front door. One gargantuan man walks in alone. His bald head is too big for his body, actually it's freakish. I have to take a deep breath, turn my head so as not to embarrass the poor soul. Without waiting, he seats himself at the end of an empty family table, big enough for 10. His glazed eyes wander around, notice me, and he looks the other way.

 

Clara stops by my table to ask if I want the usual tuna melt. I tell her 'Not yet. Just bring me a steaming cup of English tea.' I am so full of what I am seeing, I know I must get started, get my lead character down on paper. The tea doesn't work. I do not relax and have to scratch out the first paragraph that already has spots of tea on it. Those light glassy eyes surely see me writing. Perhaps he looks my way because he is just curious. He does not accept the menu from his waiter nor does he wear dark glasses. His strong entrance,  stretched powerful long legs extend into the aisle. He moves them as someone approaches. If his eyes are bad, his hearing, feeling floor vibrations work for him. I write. I order just a scoop of tuna salad, tomato slices and slaw.

 

Customers, mostly seniors, come in slowly. I follow each. A white haired man, glasses on the end of his reddish nose, a determined look on his face, walks in and stops at the ogre's side, pats him on his back. They shake hands  and the newcomer takes the chair across from him. He is wearing white cotton slightly soiled pants. Straining my ears doesn't help. Not a word can I hear but their mouths move constantly.
Steaming coffee is brought to each. My tea is cold so I signal Clara and am quickly given a fresh cup. Other customers have crutches, walkers, a few are youngish, cab drivers, salesmen. Two more men stop at the table that is the object of my attention. They too shake hands with the big man, nod to the other one. A light begins to waken my brain. They all are wearing white tennis clothes. Before long all the chairs are filled. Tennis sweaters are tied around shoulders. Laughter rings out.
The big man's feet reach into the aisle and I can't help but see his tennis shoes and white socks.

 

These men are pals, buddies, for years. They are definitely seniors, every one at least eighty five. They have not curled up waiting to die but hold on to their joie de vivre. How lucky, how wise they are. Together they leave, all but the one big man who, unbeknownst to him, is now in my story book.

 

I try to keep busy, fake my writing, wait for him to leave. He needs no help, is not in a hurry. When he finally decides to rise, he straightens his chair, smooths his shirt and walks over to my table, extends his hand and introduces himself as Dr. Walter Jessup. 'My dear young lady,' he says. ' I have had my eye on you watching me. You are very attractive and I would like to take you to dinner perhaps this week-end.' Words lock in my throat. The fiction writer that I am elicits a reply, a stupid one. 'Dr. Jessup, thank you, but I am a married woman and my going out with you for any reason at all would not be approp- riate.'
A simple 'Good day,' from him and he leaves me wishing I have his spunk and similar friends when I reach his age

Old-New-Old

RESPECTABLE  LANE

 

Our Basin St. isn't like the famous one. There are no jazz joints, no sex shows, no particularly good eateries, no big musical funerals parading through town. We've had a few haute courtiers shops that didn't stay in business very long. Our pride is our well filled library that caters to teens who supposedly are doing homework, making reports but are really checking each other out to get the word who is 'into it.' A pretty good family restaurant offers great specials on Wednesday evenings but unless you have a reservation for the last two weeks, have your wife fix supper.

 

The old beautifully elaborate Stanley Movie Theater remains in good condition as a monument to the '30's and '40's. Wide white marble stairs lead to the balcony. Tinkling, glittering crystals dangle from the  lobby chandelier. The old red velvet curtain with gold braided tassels pulling it back as soon as the lights go out and the movie begins gets applause every show. Many of us oldsters can spit out stories of the famous stars who performed here.

 

A large fading sign in the window of the corner store reads, 'FOR RENT- Call Darby Associates-1-800-326-7810.' ) Our  business area used to have an active pool parlor, with lots of gambling, until it was raided by our then famous mayor, a true blue real republican in our democratic town. I never saw him, but the story goes, Clark Gable played pool there once after his show at the theater where he did a great buck and wing tap dance.

 

We residents like what we have and are one big happy family until, until the sign disappears and a new one is bigger, brighter. Letters come to every house that Charles Lakemont Associates, Chicago, Ill, has  purchased the quarry with 22 acres of surrounding land. Construction of a new development of homes, stores, etc. will begin April 3, 2010. Flyers of plans, prices, advantages of buying at Quarry Lakeside fill our mail boxes.

 

There is no way to stop it. We are going to lose our quarry! The young kids are angry. They always loved the quarry and its lake  until little Bobby Jackson drowned in it. Stories circulate about his crying every night. Fools take baskets and have picnics there just to try to hear Bobby. Some imagine they do.

 

A town meeting to stop the new development accomplishes nothing. The deal is legal., a fait accompli. Our future becomes our most talked about subject. Wherever one goes the subject comes up. At our monthly meeting the vote is not to invest in the new development. April 3 arrives as do trucks, heavy equipment, noise and dust. Talk is cheap, action non-existent. House for sale ads appear in our newspaper. Quickly two houses are sold. The more noise and dust we get, the more houses are listed.

 

By the time winter is over we can see roads have been laid out, sewer lines  buried. What seems to be an office building is right beyond the guard house. It looks more like a cozy private home than an office. The guard directs visitors to its surrounding parking area. Millie and I, and all of Summerville,  are invited in to look over the model of what will be here. It is really going to be a lovely place to live, but we don't dare admit to each other what we really think. Brochures in hand, we leave, take a chance getting into the Family restaurant without a reservation and are blown away. We are seated at once. I mentally take a customer count of thirty instead of a normal hundred. Basin Street is going down hill.

 

'Millie,'I  say, 'Want to go back to the Quarry and look around more carefully?' She agrees but would rather talk at home. It takes several more trips to be satisfied before we put down a deposit on lot #212 Respectable Lane has a nice lilt to it. However, Millie and I don't take kindly to the rule: 'Adults living  only-Children Welcome as visitors.' That sort of rubs us the wrong way but it does have advantages for seniors like no baseballs thru our windows, no school buses waking us 7 a.m. seeing trousers pulled up neatly without exposing butts..

 

There is much to do. Well before we advertise our house for sale, we tell a few of our longtime good friends that our house is up for sale. What a surprise we get when four other couples tell us they already did that. The Bachman's sold their place as is, with furniture, everything and feel they made a good deal.

 

Twice a week Millie and I drive over to our lot. The foundation is in, brick walls, window frames are set in a month. The slate roof will go on the end of July.  We have no inquiries to buy our place until Millie gets a brilliant idea. 'Let's put it up for auction.' And so we do. It hurt like hell to see it snapped up so cheap but the buyers, newlyweds who like the idea of maybe ghosts, of doing a lot of work themselves , works out for us.

 

The kitchen fixtures, lighting, bathroom tile, bidet, ready for settlement. December 11 we settle our house with the newlyweds, who give us a free week to clear our things out. There are so many memories that Millie and I cry each time we box them for charities.

 

Within a month of moving in to 212 Respectable St. our new kitchen set, bedroom, Venetian shades on all the windows, we still have a bit of trouble putting Basin St., our long time neighbors out of our mind. Walking down Comfort Lane I bump into two old friends of ours who now live at Quarry Lakeside. Big smiles, handshakes brighten our souls.
Millie and I talk it over, agree we made a good decision. It's almost like we are young again, starting a new adventure.

 

Quarry Lake puts on a spectacular fire works show. The flares light up the quarry edge and head to the moon. A barbecue follows. Happiness surrounds us until a siren comes screeching in. Lights flashing, medics running to the quarry's edge, spotlights on the water. One of our former neighbors had  reported he heard someone screaming for help from the quarry. The search went on until midnite when the ambulance gave up.

 

Those of us who moved from our now dying town knew who was screaming in the dark, cold water, Bobby for sure.

The Forest

THE GINGER BOY 

 

It's madness in the Umber Woods. A noise, a terribly loud noise, scares a young fawn. It's mother lays on the earth, blood running from its mouth, a smokey hole in its head. The fawn jumps around and around its mama trying to make her get up, but she doesn't move. There is a rustle in the leaves. Animals the fawn has never seen walk toward her. She runs on her thin wobbly legs as fast as she can, turns to see if her mama is coming. No, she is being tied to two poles and is being taken away. The poor orphan fawn lies down where his mama was and cries.

 

The earth begins to shake. A ferocious mean sound comes from a huge black bear. It looks at the frightened fawn and moves closer and closer to him. Its jaws open showing huge pointed teeth. They snap at the fawn who runs like the wind and disappears into the trees. The disappointed bear stops suddenly as a giant elk walks slowly towards the bear's bulk, antlers down ready for battle. The bear is ready too, stands on its hind legs and looks as tall as the sky to the elk. Each one runs, runs with all the speed they can muster.  They go in different directions.

 

The Lord of the Forest sees what is happening and wants the anger to stop. He sends down a few snowflakes, increases them until the forest is white. The black bear has found his cave and begins to fall asleep. Before his long winter nap begins he sees the elk that almost got him and promises himself that the elk will be his in the spring. For now the elks brother rests in his belly and its fat will keep him dead to the world until spring comes.

 

A cow bell rings. A white and brown cow, surely having strayed from its heard, is emaciated. Someone adept could play Yankee doodle on its rib  cage. On its back, holding tight to jagged reins, is a little something not see in these parts before. Its mouths sounds barely heard , twitter They are almost like birds' voices, high, repeated again and again. The small brown thing seems to be wearing ginger skin that matches the swirls and blots on the cow's back. She must be the mother. The Ginger Boy sits tight, lets the cow go where it desires. It walks in a circle, then a bigger one, lies down on its side for the Ginger Boy to suckle on its overflowing teats. Little black curls pop out on the Ginger Boy's head. His belly is full and he is happy. His broad cherry smile lights up its face. As he and the cow start to walk towards a white fence deeper in Umber Woods, the lonely fawn finds them.

 

They become a family, are given a warm home in the big red barn where they will be warm and safe until spring.

 

 

Run Rabbit, Run

PINKEY

 

He's here. Easter Sunday. Perfect! Will and I are happy to miss church services, not have to put on smiling faces, shake hands with our minister whose hands must be contaminated with skillions of germs. The more often I see him, the less I like him so today is an extra special good one. It has been a difficult nine months for both Will and me. If I never see another Uneeda Biscuit in my life, I won't miss the dryness of them, the mess they make and to my recollection, never took away one bit of my morning sickness.

 

The sun is shining brightly and instead of sitting on a wooden bench with carvings of 'JK L VB, ' 'F.U.', I'm lying in a clean  white bed holding our Easter present in my arms. He's an eight oz. bundle of joy even though he hasn't said a single word yet. Will looks puzzled one moment, happy,  frightened, worried the next.  He's one big mess of bewilderment. 

 

Expecting a son, we have pre-named him, Milton Q. Folsom. Will and I believe the 'Q' will make an interesting, impressive point, make Milton stand out on every list.

 

I don't know the name of the nurse who handed Milton to me. There was no electricity, no warmth. Her attitude was blah, he's just another wailing baby. She won't remember me and I will soon forget her as she hasn't been back. No big deal. William wants me to rest and I want him to hold Milton, touch his tiny fingers, start being his daddy. He just isn't ready and I am content feeling my baby out of my belly, next to my heart.

 

There is a light rap on my private room door. It opens slowly. Dr. Solomon enters. His face beams. He addresses William and me as one.
'Your son is well, strong but seems to have a slight infection in both ears. Dr. Earl Craig, is a pediatrician of renown and specialist in eye, nose and throat problems. He has already seen your son and has taken care of the drops that will be administered for a day or two. Don't worry. It is a minor problem. We expect Mama and baby will go home about noon Tuesday.' Wishing Will and me good luck, Dr. Solomon leaves the new threesome on our own for a short while.

 

Tales my mother has told me many times revolve in my mind. She had to stay in the hospital when I was born, a normal two weeks. My father had to put her on a kitchen chair, get help, just to carry her up the few front steps. A cot and bassinet were waiting for me and mom. My grandmother came and took care of me for a week. After that Mom was captain of making formula, sterilizing bottles, nipples and best of all she could use the stairs, sleep in her own bed, go outside for a walk, if she promised not to over-do it. Baby foods  cost a lot so my Mom bought fresh pears, bananas, mashed them, strained them and I sometimes spit them in her face.

 

The hospital rule is the bill must be paid before I am released. Once done, William will take me downstairs in a wheelchair. I wait outside for him to  pull up. And then I will be free, free at last.  Dr. Solomon's instructions are I can do anything I want at home, within reason. No aerobics, no running, no sex until after my first check up in May. I make him laugh when I tell him I can give up aerobics, never was an Olympic runner, but sex?'

 

Once settled in at home, Milton changed, I notice a phone message waiting, actually five. The first three are congrats and best wishes, welcome home from my friends. The fourth one stopped me in my tracks. Dr. Earl Craig's message is to call him. Before I dial, I see Milton learning sign language, wearing hearing aids. What a miserably sick mind I have.

 

'Mrs. Folsom? The first report is back and your son does have an ear infection called 'otitis.' I jump at him. 'You mean he is going to be deaf?' I'm quite sure he hears the fear in my voice. 'Calm down. You may see him pull on his ear, maybe a little redness now and then, but he isn't going to be deaf or even hard of hearing. In your boy's case, he has already accumulated ear wax. It is not at all unusual. We can wait a week or two for you to bring him in. It can be difficult keeping him still while I probe gently in his ear canal. But I will remove the wax. You are not to use Q tips. That can do more harm than good. Also this will happen again, maybe always but there is no danger. His ears may get a slight pinkish look but it will be barely noticeable, lighten as he grows up.' Dr. Craig surely hears my sigh of relief and asks if I want to make an appointment for my son. 'Yes, of course, Dr.' 

 

I call Will and tell him the report, not to worry. Ha ha! I stand for a long time over Milton's crib and just stare at him, until his barely pink ears look like red bullets. Coming out of my motherly fit, I realize that his pink ears can't be 'otitis'. They are pink because he was our Easter bunny.

 

That makes them loveable and I get on with my daily holding, hugging Milton Q. Folsom.

The long route

THREE FORKS

 

I'm nineteen and as ready as I'm going to be. My parents argue too damn much, forcing me to take sides and I've had enough. I'm getting away from this madhouse. Mom always babies me when I lean her way. She gives me the choice part of her delicious prime rib the next time she serves it. Never have I had to remind her, or Dad, that I took her side. He glowers at me. Mom pats my head. I want to puke.

 

It's 7 a.m. April 5 when I take Dad's 1944 musty duffle bag, now packed with my necessary travel items, from behind a long ago sealed carton in the basement. It's ironic that what might have saved Dad in WWII, may now be saving my sanity. After high school I did odd jobs in the neighborhood, stashed away over a hundred and fifty dollars and became a thief, pilfering a few bucks from Dad's  wallet for a month. If he tells  Mom money is missing, she'll say he's off his rocker or is plain careless, maybe losing his marbles. They'll squabble. He'll fly off the handle and accuse her of taking it to buy yet another pair of shoes. I know the routine too well.

 

I leave thru the cellar door, the only one that doesn't squeak. By 7:20 I reach the Greyhound  bus depot, buy a ticket for the bus's  second stop, Branchville  and am lucky the bus is almost empty. The few aboard seem to be loners like I am, keeping our heads in the paper for our privacy. What a little dinky town it is. No sense staying there.  I hitch a ride in a rusty old car that is better than walking, carrying my duffle bag just a few miles to the B & O train station. It isn't easy laying out $9 but it's that or curl up and die in Branchville.

 

Scranton will be my next stop. This should be good. Before anything else I make a pit stop at Denny's and treat myself to a stack of thin hot pancakes floating in molasses.

 

I talk to strangers  and realize I didn't do enough homework. One guy almost split a gasket when he started telling me about the bad condition of roads. Another harped on the influx of illegal Hispanics, with Scranton folk paying their way. The Mayor, I am told, is the worst in 45 years and yet manages to find jobs for friends. One good word is for their new Medical Center, that I hope to never need. My mind is made up to take another path but where should I go?

 

As I walk the streets, I come across a seedy public library and go in to rest awhile. The inside is much better than the outside. There is a section of 20 working computers that can be used at no charge. Several are open and I stuff my bag under two seats and knuckle down to Google.

 

I search Harrisburg, Greensville. They don't excite nor interest me. Those pancakes I had at Denny's sure were good but my Mom does them just as good and puts raspberry or strawberry jam on top. Christ, I'm tired. My head is swirling. The computer spaces are all filled now and some guy I don't know is standing over my shoulder wondering why I'm taking up space. Cede the Del to the bearded man and leave, heading back the way I came.

 

From my 11th grade book, comes a blurry message, 'All roads lead to Rome.' A little chill goes down my back and I realize that is not true at all. If I got this far, I can reverse my actions, stop griping about the gripers, find myself a super, beautiful, smart, rich girlfriend and when I do, (and I will for sure) I'll wear ear plugs and visit my folks on week-ends.

 

 

Strike ??

ONE MORE TIME

 

Sweet 16 is oh, so sweet. As Howard and I walk around the block just before sunset takes hold, his arm is around my waist. We smell the lilacs blooming, hear the bees buzzing around honeysuckle vines. Howard watches the bees carefully and takes a chance, picks some honeysuckle from the upper branches. We suck the sweet nectar and kiss for the first time. I hear no bells, no angels singing but am aware his hand is inching up my back. It feels nice and dangerous at the same time. He breaks the spell that is already enveloping me when he sees his watch and has to hurry home for supper. We hasten our steps and Howard leaves blows me a kiss as he leaves me standing at my doorstep.

 

My parents are at the kitchen table waiting for me. They scold me for not being there by 5:45. 'You have homework, don't you, Babs?' Dad asks. Mom scowls and warns me not to get too close to Howard. 'He's barely 17 and feeling his oats. Did he kiss you already?' I am very embarrassed and lie. 'Not yet, Mom.' When we finish supper and the dishes are washed, Mom beckons me to follow her. In the dining room corner she warns me again not to let Howard get fresh with me. Inside, I am dying to tell her that I love Howard but don't. Her last words are given as she shakes her warning finger at me. 'I'm warning you, Kiddo, he's no good.'

 

Howard and I enjoy our spring evening walks, coming inside just a little later each time. My parents, most reluctantly, give us privacy by going upstairs at 8:30. By November one, I am worried, don't know how to tell Mom I think I am pregnant. I can't, just can't do it. November 5 I don't have to tell her. She hears me gagging in the bathroom sink every morning, skipping breakfasts, sees my skirts getting tighter. Mom and Dad ask no questions. Mom cries a lot. Dad's face is stern, often red. Howard tells me that my parents called his and they want a powwow.
They have it with Howard and me waiting in the den. The four parents are finished for the time being and I am told I will be getting married before Christmas. My imagined beautiful wedding gown disappears. I won't walk down the aisle and will have a minister I have never met before and will never see again turn me into Mrs. Howard Smulyan.

 

Our baby is born prematurely, weighs a little less than two pounds. In spite of the excellent care at the hospital, she does not survive. I cry for days yet know in my heart this is the way god meant it to be. Howard and I file for a divorce. It goes thru quickly and is final in June. My X and I go our separate ways.

 

My folks worry about me, pity me and offer me a chance to go to Junior college, make something of my life. We look for a good school that won't be too costly, that is close enough for me to use public transportation, and find we hit upon Ventura. Jr. College. My high school credits are sufficient, my grades not great but acceptable. Dad writes the check for the first year, $3000. There are books on nursing, medical journals I must buy. Dad lays out another $200. I hug him, kiss him, promise to do well and I knuckle down. Everything goes smoothly for a while. It takes at least 3/4 of an hour each way  on two buses for me to attend. I never gripe to my dad.

 

This is no Ivy League school but will give me a career and a chance to re-pay my dad. The bus offers me a chance to meet other students taking a variety of courses. Usually I can get a window seat, study.  Sometimes I have an empty place beside me where I can stash my books. On a very windy, rainy afternoon in October, every seat is taken except the one that has my study stuff. A young man asks me if he can sit with me. Can I tell him 'no?' I can't, close my work and stack all of it on my lap. He introduces himself as Bat Masterson, smiles and changes it to Barry. 'You can call me 'Bat, everyone does.' Bat is enrolled in Nursing Psychology. Coincidental, I feel. He will be a male nurse and I hope to be a PA. As he explains, I learn his course takes five years and he is in his third already. I have two ½ more years to be accredited to work with a doctor. Our bus travel time flies. We try to meet daily and then add a few light suppers in a delly or cafeteria. By then we add cuddling in his room, kisses getting hotter for an entire week. It leads to, oh, well, must I spell it out?  'S E X.' It is nothing like I remember with Howard. This is exciting, warm, wonderful. We both agree to be careful. No babies, no diseases. I meet the Mastersons. The Master- sons meet my family. My mom invites them over for a social evening.
They beg off. Mom gives them two more date choices and finally gets it. They want Bat to do better. They don't know him too well, don't know me at all. We know we are in love and elope to Elkton, MD where marriages are performed legally and quickly. It takes a lot of guts for me to tell Dad about the new marriage. Again my mother cries. My father's face becomes crimson. Bat moves into my small college room. Neither of us understand why we are arguing so much about nothings. The arguments get longer and stronger until Bat hauls off and clips me on the chin. My front middle bottom tooth cracks. 'Bat, you have to pay my dental bill,' I tell him but he says he won't. 'Take your things, Bat, and get out of here now or I'm calling the campus patrol.' He hits me again, packs his clothes, slams the door and is gone. It's tough but I notify my parents that I am going to divorce Bat but will finish my studies. There is a long three way silence. It takes a full year before I am free again and a practicing P.A.

 

Dr. Martin Kern interviews me and a dozen other P.A. hopefuls. He selects three. I am one of them. We each get a week of training as to what he expects, what our duties are to him and his patients. Dora, one of the three is let go and the race is now between Cybil and me. She gets the job. My disappointment doesn't deter me. I apply to Dr. Williams who is in the same building as Kern. What with my previous dry run, I know how to sound more experienced. And Wow! I am hired.

Dr. Williams tells me his patients like me a lot and adds more to my schedule. He, they and I all profit from the additional work. Evidently, my assistance has freed the doctor enough to keep his office open on Thursday evenings from six to eight thirty. I get a decent raise and an offer to dinner when he closes the office.

 

I like him, like him a lot but he's a speck old for me. I tell him I'm busy this Thursday. If he is disappointed, it doesn't show. The next week he invites me to dinner again. The difficult choice is mine, go out with him or lose my job. I love my work . What the hell, this time has to be right.

 

It isn't.

Chancing it

THE AMATEUR CONTEST

 

The small café on the corner of Pinckney and Traymoor Blvd. is busy as can be. It's Monday and Karioke night! Hands holding tight to unfinished wine and beer glasses wave frantically at Bo, the ever present master of ceremonies, chief bouncer, part owner of Breaker's Bar. With the hour and a half allowed for the show, there is no way all of the would-be sensations will perform. In most cases, the singers should really be comedians. They are boastful, hot-headed and believe they are god's gift to the entertainment world. If that makes them happy, it's no skin off my butt.

 

It is well known that tall, voluptuous Carol's voice is mediocre, often misses the beat. We also know she is a personal friend of Bo. I only come here about once every other week with three or four of my close friends. We applaud, at least politely, for everyone except Carol for whom I clap with one hand. In spite of that, what I know is, if heaven forbid, I had the guts to get up and sing, I would be a disgrace. Just the same, I must always shake my head violently, 'No,' when someone tries to push another fool on stage.

 

My singing voice even bothers me when I am in the shower or luxuriating in a warm, sudsy tub. Still I sing as my childhood whistling ability disappeared without my permission. One day I could whistle loud enough to be heard across the street and then poof when my lips puckered, only drivel came out. Anyhow, I'm twenty two now and have nobody to whistle to.

 

When I sometime get a chance to dance with Ralph, one of my 'buddies', he hums in my ear. I don't think he means to be romantic but I would accept it as such and maybe dance closer. The one time I tried that he pulled back. So, if it relaxes him, I let him hum. It's been at least a month since The Breakers sprang for a combo of 5 musicians.
Several tables had to be removed for the dance floor, which made the bar stools fill up quickly. The group is made up of 'used-to-be's', the youngest maybe thirty five. They play sweet oldies, songs my mom and dad used to love. It was a time when couples held each other and felt the rhythm, pitched woo after a party. No bop, no rock, no hard ear-splitting drums to rattle our ears. The evening is easy, different. I sit at a table with my group, tap my foot to the music, sway and am engulfed in contentment. Two of my male friends ask me to dance and so does Jennie. My mood is so silky, I dance with all of them.

 

Bo takes the spotlight to announce next week's Karioke performers has an opening for a few more talented folk. The way I feel at the moment, I'd like to be a star, no matter how temporary, but keep that thought hidden deep in my brain. Anyhow next week is my week away from the Breakers.

 

My regular week only Jake and Essie join me because the rain storm is too big for umbrellas. It hasn't let up for hours. Gutters are overflowing, flooding the corner sewers, but Jake is picking me and Essie up and we go. We each have a beer, just chit chat, watch the door hoping a few more folks will brighten the evening. Two young couples swim in, shake their umbrellas like a drowning dog might do, and sprinkle me.

 

It's nine o'clock and Bo's is ½ filled, that is ½ empty to him. Nevertheless he calls for Karioke singers to come select what they want to do. Three pretty youngish gals, their hair a bit damp, sign in. Two already slightly sloshed sign in too. Essie kicks me under the table, looks at me and motions we should go sing a duet. 'No way, Kid,' I tell her but she nags and nags. Bo is aware of what is going on at our table. He comes over to push me harder. He actually offers me a freebee of beers the next time I come in. I can't let the deal pass and accept his offer if it includes  Essie.

 

Essie and I select a real oldie because it is such a simple tune, any idiot could get by doing it. 'Kiss me once, then kiss me twice, then kiss me once again. It's been a long, long time.' We sing in unison, do the second verse and sit down. The applause is so little that we aren't sure it happened. The three gals whose hair was drying out from the spot light sing individually. They aren't too bad, certainly not good. I applaud for a second. Essie doesn't clap at all.

 

Bo introduces  a handsome guy who just came in to dry off for a while who he convinces to perform for a free beer. His name is Burt and he sings 'Maria' from West Side Story. My god, he is wonderful, strong, so convincing  Essie and I applaud until our hands ache and we feel like fools. The three girls and my friend Essie know he wins the fifteen buck prize.

 

Burt joins us. What a great rainy night I have. Not only did I hear Burt's melodious voice, he is sitting next to me. Besides that I actually sang in front of someone beside my mirror and didn't die.

 

If anything else comes from this too short an evening, I will be the big winner.

Ay! Carumba!

SHOOK UP

 

The sun is orange red, broiling hot. The road is dusty as this full  beat- up graffiti covered bus with ½ it's windows broken or non-existent heads to Caracas.  Babies are suckling in plain view of anyone who cares to look. My one glance is enough for the entire trip. If there hadn't been rough play aboard at some time, this bus could have been a hearse. The heat, sour smells cause me to hold a kerchief over my mouth and nose, move it often enough, not to be taken for dead and tossed off the bus. The natives stare at me. I look back at them in disbelief and sorrow as just getting on this bus meant they didn't have to walk 25 miles to the margarita ranch. Dust blows in every open crevice. Feet dangle down from the roof. I count my few blessings and forget the roofers.

 

Someone near me coughs into a bandana. I turn my head and notice a young man, not much out of his teens, standing in the back of the bus who now has a guitar around his neck. He taps his foot, claps his hands and starts to sing. Passengers perk up, sing along. They miraculously seem to forget the smells, the heat. I try but can't do it. I guess they are so used to their body odors that they call it Body Chanelle #1.Their national anthem isn't, but should be, 'La Cucaracha'. Those skitters  were all over the wall when I woke in my motel last night, even in the two drawers that held my meager belongings. I emptied the drawers, made sure my toiletries were still usable, put the few clothes I brought in the suitcase, carried it down the one flight of stairs and checked out–with no refund offered.

 

Not one bus, not one car have we passed. There is a gasoline station about ½ mile away and we are slowing down. When the bus empties I am able to see how bare its tires are. I also know that my bladder will explode if I don't go in the loo. The ladies take longer coming out than the men and look better too. I'm 22nd  in line and it is my turn. The exiting woman holds the door open for me and the sweet odor of Blue Dahlia escapes, curls into my nostril, clears my nasal passages. There is a white sink inside with a filled paper rack above it. The small mirror has been wiped fairly clean and most important, the toilet works and the floor is dry. What is going on in the other loo has nothing to do with me. I climb back on the bus and see the boy who was playing the guitar charging the gas and tipping the overseer. The men walk out single file. Most of them have combed their hair and mustaches and they walk quickly to their seats. I am quite sure I smell maryjane.
The roof of the bus is empty. There is little to see down the road but cactus and agave and a small stand on the side with handmade souvenirs. I am taken aback. The colors, the clay bowls, brighten my attitude and I must buy something.

 

The driver pulls over. I get off first. Three senoras are close behind me. Even if the prices are high, I must bring a few of these treasures home. This is why I am on this trip, to see Mexico like Mexicans. I want to delve, hear a Mariachi band in town, go to their magnificent art gallery. Whatever price is asked for the footed bowl that has won my heart is so cheap, but Senora # 1 speaks to the artist sitting cross- legged on the edge of the road. Very simply my price is dropped from $5 American to $4. Probably the big mustachioed man who appears from no-where is the artists husband. He wraps it in two layers of NY Times newspapers and puts a heavy cord around it. I pay, he leaves.

 

Night is nearing and we reach La Pinta. Everyone is tired. I carefully take my only purchase to the small but highly recommended hotel.
As I take hold of the shiny brass bar of the revolving front door, a child in a wet diaper squeezes in beside me. I turn my head and push faster to get rid of that kid. The bowl crackles, breaks into shards!

 

Unfortunately I am also rid of the bowl that would never have fit under my plane seat anyhow.

No frog available

THE PRINCESS AND THE DOG 

 

Her silver slippers rustle through the fallen leaves of the sassafras trees as Princess Morgana takes her usual morning walk around the castle grounds. At the closed moat, its defenders come to attention as she nears. They stand erect, frozen like the icicles that will soon fall from the trees she adores.  She ambles, walks slowly, watches their eyes follow every step she takes. The princess, as much as she would like to, is not allowed to speak to them.

 

That doesn't keep her from setting her own eyes on the tallest of the guards with the darkest skin of all. He must be of some noble blood as his tights are made of woven wool and he has been allowed to have a small beard. There are times she actually considers the wiseness of asking Cornelia, her lady in waiting, to arrange a rendevous for him to come to her chamber after the king has gone to bed. This dream grows more and more clear as do her fears of betraying her father.

 

Cornelia has told her the Royal Head of Balfour has been sending messages to kings, princes, telling of Morgana's beauty, her wisdom, her wish to marry. He asks for jewels, for gold, just to gaze upon her beauty. There is nothing she can do to stop him and has gone so far as to wear ill-fitting garments, leave off her wig, over-powder her face rather than be joined to someone she does not love.

 

The last sassafras leaves have gone. The moat water is brown, bits of ice collect and melt by noon. Morgana's walks are less and less as the earth's frost goes thru her slippers, turns her toes blue. The moat guards remain stiffly alert until at last the king has issued coats of fox fur that they cannot wear until night begins. During the days, he parades them back and forth, orders the moat gate be opened several times a day, just to keep them from dying of the cold.

 

It is a blustery day. Only the large fireplaces give some warmth in the castle. Morgana is tired of knitting. Her eyes tear from the smoke. Her clothes reek of it. She orders Cornelia to bring her a wrap of bearskin so she can walk outside in the fresh air. Cornelia brings her the skin of a small bear as the adult ones are too heavy for Morgana's tender shoulders.  She also brings her a fur for her head and gives her a piece of braided rope to hold it in place.

 

The moat gate is open. The guards have been outside the castle long enough. They begin to hoist the heavy wooden planks into place. Before it is too high, a little dark brown dog jumps on and is lifted onto the castle grounds. It runs wildly, not knowing which way to go. It is at that moment Morgana passes the gate. The dog and she see each other. The little thing is skinny, shivering. She raises her skirt and lets him crawl under it until they reach the fortress. Inside he sniffs the smokey air, yelps and runs towards the roaring fireplace flames. The princess  watches him. Once he is curled into a tiny ball, she sits on the stone floor beside him and smooths its paws. He purrs much like a kitten. Cornelia brings her a small bowl to give the animal food, soup full of rabbit bones. The dog knows the soup is too hot and waits.

 

Candles are lit in the Great Room, in the long and twisted hallways. They burn thru the night. The little dog has found a home, a warm and delicious place to stay warm. He sleeps under Morgana's satin skirt. In the morning the dog is gone. The kitchen is the best place to stay. It is warm. The deer roasting for dinner taunts the noses of the servants. Cornelia approaches the princess, bids her to follow her to the High Chancellor's quarters. 'Come, come.' 'No, I cannot go with you until I find the small, sweet brown dog, that slept with me all night.' 'Come, come. You will find him shortly.' Together they walk the long hall. There is a squealing noise coming from the room where the moat guards take their rests. Cornelia knocks and the tallest, blackest guard  she has ever seen, greets the princess.

 

He bows to her, thanks her for taking him inside, for sheltering him under her skirt and tells her a tale that cannot be true. ' Lovely Princess, I have been bewitched by my fathers' third wife. She wanted me to bed her and I would not. She intoned mystic words and turned me into a dog, a dog who would always be a dog until someone loved me. When you kissed my cold nose, I felt a rumbling, a stirring in my body and I am here to beg your hand in marriage. My wicked stepmother has been killed and my father is glad to be rid of her. He has her jewels, her gowns, her woven murals and will offer them to the Royal Head of Balfour in the morrow. I ask you now, will you marry me?

 

Princess Morgana is so very happy, tells him 'Yes,  without seeing her father. Her handsome husband-to-be turns to exit her chamber. As he opens the heavy door she looks at his broad shoulders, sees the curve of his back and a little brown tail wagging from his buttocks.