OUCH !

BLOSSOM TIME

 

The pale green points grow ever so slowly, spread themselves around yellow, golden petals. One bud after the other curls back, its face smiles at the warmth of the sun. Salt-free dew drops sparkle like glowing diamonds. Our days together begin.

 

My hand spade, rake are by my side as I kneel into the black, healthy soil. Its nutrients give off a slight medicinal odor which I appreciate but would like to do without. From my apron pocket, I pull out my newest, cutest gardener glove. It is bright red, each finger tip is another color. The thumb looks like a purple plum, ready to be eaten.
Oh, my, oh my, I  cannot restrain myself as a wee, wee yellow worm wiggles up the stem of my prize Melody rose. For a moment I want to gently put it in a safe place but where? If there is one, there has to be two. With the edge of my hand spade, I knock the worm onto the concrete, close my eyes and squash it.

 

All of winter's wonders will wait far in the back of my mind. Right now the bed of jonquils just bursting thru the earth gives me little chills, thrills as I see them leave their burial homes and rise to live for a while with true beauty. Along the entire side of my home a wild thing has nested. Small blue flowers bunch together, send me a gift of  a new, sweet smell that I can just about taste. Its vanilla odor hints I should be inside baking a birthday cake for my grand-niece, Carey.

 

Heck, no, I tell myself. I'll buy her one at Dobreinners. They'll put her name on real fancy-like and not charge extra.  Something squishy finds its way under my shoe. I sit down on the porch steps, take my shoe off and look to see what is still there. Oh, no, a slug. I hate slugs, can barely look at them much less touch them and to step on one–oh lord. My little garden shovel is sticking out of the jonquil square but I don't hop to it. Carefully I get my shoe on again, walk on only the heel of the shoe, my toes pointing to the sky, my nose breathing in the wondrous odors all around me. And that is when I hear a buzz, a buzz that comes closer to me, closer and closer until the buzzing bumble bee lands on my pointing up nose. I freeze into a statue, wait for that drone to go home. He decides he wants to see more of me and flies right down my blouse. Its small but strong wings move between my breasts, move under my right armpit and let go a sting that makes me shout, 'Shit', loud and clear enough for the world to hear me. My mother right told me years a go that when a bee stings the bee dies. I hope so. 

 

My arm begins to burn, to swell like a balloon. I am so shocked I can barely think what to do. There is little choice. The slug squashed under my shoe is forgotten. My garden tools can stay where they are. I hurry into the house, to my bathroom and get out the alcohol bottle, form a pad of toilet tissue, drench it with the alcohol and leave it folded under my arm. It is cool but does not ease my pain. An aspirin, no two aspirins, calm me. Without stopping to take down my bed spread, I fall flat on it and lay there as if a cannon had ripped thru my body.

 

The digital clock on my bureau let's me know, it is already 7 o'clock and I have to bring my garden tools in. A funny thought makes me smile. Stay out there and rust, I decide. My toilet paper bandage is dried out but useful. I take it in the bathroom and over the sink pour more alcohol on it, sterilize the bottom of my shoe so I can forget the slug and go down stairs to call my grand niece Carey, ask her if she is interested in doing some garden work for me this week-end. 'Sorry, Aunt Miriam. It's my birthday Saturday. Aren't you coming to my party?' My senses return. 'Of course, Carey. I'll bring lovely spring flowers from my garden.'

 

Instead I buy her the birthday cake and beautiful pink roses.

Oh Poo !

BILLY'S GOAT

 

I don't know why but it is just the way it is. I'm the first one in our family to wake up, even on week ends. While it bothers me, everyone else is glad I'm 'IT' and they can grab a few more minutes, even hours, of sleep. I keep an emergency flashlight on the small square wobbly table between my bed and my brother's. With a twist, a turn, I might as well get up, use my flashlight to get to the toilet without peeing in my p.j.s. Billy is dead to the world. The light, the noise of the toilet flush might as well be in somebody else's house. Once in a while I get silly, mean, and kick his bed or drop a shoe. He has never complained or called me a clumsy fool.

 

Here lately I've been testing, trying to get him to stir. I turn the black and white t.v. on, volume as high as it goes. My father yells from his room, 'Turn that damn thing off. Don't you know it's only six o'clock?'
Just yesterday I leaned hard against the wobbly table, aiming it at Billy's bed. It hit his mattress but not him. My father yells, 'Damn fool, watch where you're going.' Sounds of him getting out of bed, grunting, turning on the hall light bother me, not Billy.

 

My brother is a friendly guy, called in for neighborhood softball games. He's pretty good at tennis too, and can get a match almost whenever he is in the mood. Jealousy is raising its ugly fangs and I am the one who is jealous. Sara Mae Kolinskey is Billy's new girlfriend. She says she is eighteen, looks 20 to me. I happen to like womanly girls with a bit of schmaltz on them and make a hit on her. I am neither accepted or turned away. Sara Mae ignores me. At least I think she does.

 

5 a.m. before I even reach for my flashlight, Billy jumps out of bed on to my back, says nothing, just punches me where I think my kidneys are. I squeal like a pig going to slaughter. My father yells his usual yell, 'Shut up boys. It's too early to fight. Damn you both.'

 

I've never seen Billy go berserk before and don't like seeing him flip out now. 'You want to come to my wedding, Brother?' he asks me.
'Not particularly. When is it going to be?' 'As he punches me in my gut and I gag, he tells me, 'Sara Mae and me, we're getting married when we feel like it, before she gets preg, we hope. You stay away from her or you'll be my dead brother. Got it?' I got it but don't like it. I have to get back at Billy's nasty tone, his using me for a punching bag.'Yeah, Brother, you're not the only one fooling with Sara Mae. She's come on to me when you're not around.' Foolish remark. I see stars. His fist gets me in my Adam's apple and I start to vomit.

 

I can see thru small slits in my eyes that Billy regrets what he did to me. He's scared, puts his arm around my shoulders and helps me sit down on the grass.  Our father appears from nowhere and yells, 'Damn you boys. Stop the arguing, the fighting. Billy's fuse is short. You got his goat once too often and deserve a lickin.'

 

When my knees stop shaking, I stand and look right in Billy's face and and make goat noises, lower my head and butt him hard in his belly.

 

The bed next to mine is now empty. Dad put a new color t.v. in my room  and I still  get up earlier than my father,  brother, Sara Mae or my new niece, Betty Poop Too Much.

 

My father yells, Damn it, Billy why does the hall always smell like shit?' Billy points to Betty and we all smile.

Ah, people

ON THE BOARDWALK

 

The strong wind throws its hot breath on the boardwalk. Sweaters, shirts end up in back packs or tied around spreading fat hips. I amble aimlessly into shop after shop, looking for nothing except relief from the sun. Not a salesperson pays attention to me. I semi-fondle a small plastic kewpie doll and wonder if my niece, Jessie, would like it. I think not and return it to its bin bed.

 

What's with these shops? I've been in every one between the Belmont and Hibiscus hotels and not one has it's AC on. This former NJ highlight has seen its day. From my many pacings up and down, the planks need total replacement. The rented rolling chairs that carried those who could afford the dollar fee disappeared ten years ago when even then the rides were getting bumpy. Walking is now healthy. Bike riding is healthy. Eating gobs of frozen custard is not. Children still love it and their parents don't give a darn about the fat content. Licking keeps noisy mouth shut, so they get their custard.

 

The Nestle peanut man, swirling, twirling toffee are all memories. I hate this place. So what am I doing here? I'm bitching, trying to go back to my childhood but it is elusive. My eyes are wider, my disappointments too much to stand for long. It is almost evening. The neon sign on the roof of my hotel reads Hihiscus. The 'b' is dull and becomes an 'h.' This is night two of my short trip and I have had it up to my vazooms. My small suitcase holds just the scanty clothes I brought along. There is no need for me to call for service, can get on the slow moving elevator without crutches and make it to the check out counter alone. Jee OW! The taxes added, the t.v. that I never turned on, ran my two night stay to $200 !' Don't fret about it,' I tell myself. 'Give the man your charge card and get it over with.'

 

My wallet is where I put it, in the middle section of my purse but my Visa card is not in its pocket. The desk clerk gives me a sour look and taps the desk with his fingers while I empty everything on a side desk. The card is missing. In some ways, I am clever and have emergency phone numbers with me. In my list I include charge card and phone numbers. The clerk allows me to use the desk phone for an 800 call. I stop the use of the card and will have to wait at least a week at home before a new one arrives. I'm zonked, really upset, move my things over to a round table in the lounge to figure out what to do. My check book is okay but a $200 withdrawal will leave me little for gas, meals, a nite in Bethesda. The clerk is antsy, comes looking for me in the lounge. 'And what are we going to do about your bill, Miss Careless?' He gets a full look at my anger, his talking to me in such a tone. I tell him to go back where he belongs, behind a cruddy woebegone counter, and I'll bring him a check. As he turns, he snaps at me, 'I'm waiting.'

 

A young, rather pleasant voice reaches me. I recognize the 'maid' who came into my room to make my bed this morning. She comes directly to me. 'Miss Langley, look what I found under your bed.' My eyes well with tears as I see my name on my Visa card. It is useless now but I feel better. Before I can get a ten dollar bill from my wallet, the maid takes from behind her back  a wrapped box of English toffee for me to take home. She wishes me well, a safe journey home and fond memories of Atlantic City.

 

She tops my list of what will be remembered –the other things I'll bury.

A WALK

RED PEBBLE CREEK

 

The cool babbling brook running into and thru the tall saw grass sings to me. Little orphaned ducks paddle from side to side, ducking their shiny green and blue feathers into the water. They glide and dip, glide and dip. I stand on my slightly chilled toes as the clear, clean water ignores me and flows forward. The ducks don't seem to shiver as they disappear into the thick saw grass where there must be plenty of insects to keep them happy. A vision of the little insects crying for their mothers, the mothers laying more eggs to replace their lost families, makes me choke up.

 

I start to cough, then wheeze deep in my chest. My heart races, worries me that I am alone. A long, dark gray cloud, looking somewhat like an anaconda waiting to swallow a fluff of white meat, sneaks in and
out the white ones. The sun has not a second to waste. She rises higher in the sky, hits noon. There is total silence around me. A mumbling starts. The low groaning of thunder worries me. Rain drops start falling but don't touch me. My hand reaches to feel them but there is a shield I cannot penetrate. The raindrops sink into the earth.

 

Red Pebble Creek no longer flows. It races, chases away the ducks.  Oh god, the wet soil is creeping quickly up thru the shield that has kept me dry. My shoes are so heavy I can't move at all. What is happening to me? Am I going to die? Will my mother ever find me? With my shoulders I try to sway my cage. It moves. It moves a fraction of an inch and I stop myself. What am I doing? If I fall over, I will surely be done for.

 

Something hard and loud strikes the doom that is around me. The slits of my eyes let me see a pebble, a red pebble, in the mud. One after another they hit, they crack open my prison. It falls away and I am free. The creek babbles again. .

 

My mother is outside our house, waiting for me to come home from school. She begins to scold me for being so late, but I stop her, hand her the story I had to write for class and tell her I got the only A plus in writing. Miss Baker thinks I should take a course in writing because I have, really do have, talent.  Mother smiles, takes my story and me into the living room. She smiles even wider and tells me she will save it for after dinner so I can read it aloud for her and my daddy.

 

I'll wait.

Different Folks-Same Strokes

NATASHA  O'LEARY

 

Natasha Slavana O'Leary loves Smirnoff vodka. It can have almond flavoring, peach, orange. It matters not, she loves whatever the salesman in O'Rourke's Public Pub suggests she taste. She also loves her husband, Breandan O'Leary. Many days, many nights she fights her conscience. When she has had enough Smirnoff she knows she will end up in a big, black, bottomless hole and makes a good decision. She bends, gets down on her knees and prays to St. Olav to save her, destroy the Smirnoff factory.

 

Breandan fixes cool compresses for her brow, tries to get her to eat a few slices of roast lamb. She does try but soon vomits on his checked wool pants. He has washed those pants so many times they have faded to nothingness.

 

'Breandan, I can't find my Munchkin friends. Gladys and Freda must be hiding. If you find them, I won't drink any more Smirnoff Vodka. I promise.' Breandon knows too well her promises are snowflakes, melt before they touch the trees. Still he goes in search of her imagined friends. 'Natasha, Gladys is sleeping near the bridge and Freda is sitting there near the water's edge taking care of Gladys so she doesn't fall in the river. Now come, Darling. I will fix you a lamb burger and you will feel better.' Natasha kisses her husband passionately and they go up to bed. She forgets about the Munchkins, the lamb burger and just practices being the good wife.

 

Breandon is getting close to the end of his patience and decides to look around at what else is on the market. He lies to himself, saying it would only be a whim, and looks over the young ladies when he goes looking in O'Rourke's Public Pub. A raven haired knock-out waggles past him, gives him a friendly wink. His face turns red. His excitement rises to a high pitch. She takes a seat at the bar where there happen to be two stools empty next to each other. He looks at her dark Irish eyes and then down her blouse.  She orders a really special drink, Bushman's light whiskey. The bartender asks Breandon if he wants the same. 'Sure,' he says even though he has no idea what it is like. It turns out to be very light, has no smokey taste at all. Down the hatch go both drinks. It is so smooth he orders another shot and his companion says, 'double it.'

 

An out-dated juke box  accepts the new Irish Euro coins, the ones with the harps on them. Breandon happens to have a few in his pocket, starts the music flowing. 'Damn' he cusses. The noise is an old Irish jig.'
He's angry, complains to the manager, wants his Euro back. He doesn't get it but has the bartender puts another bowl of pretzels in front of his  bar stool and waits for another shot.

 

Incorrectly, Breandon thinks this is an omen. He was about ready to break his wedding vows with Natasha. There are just a few drops of Bushman's light in his glass. They slide down his throat like a toboggan headed for the finish line. As he stands, leaves a tip for the bartender, he also tips his hat to the lovely lady with the lovely boobs still sitting on the bar stool. She barely turns her head as she says to him, 'Thanks for almost nothin.'

 

He hadn't noticed when he came in to the bar that up front is a large case of dozens of Irish Brand whiskeys.  No desire for another drink, — yet Natasha might be in need. He doesn't have to look too hard in the wall case because while he blinked a salesman appeared and took care of him. Breandon bought a quart that went in a large, sturdy paper bag, just about emptied his pockets to cover the cost.

 

As he walks toward his house where Natasha is probably soused, lying in bed waiting for him, he whistles 'Ireland, My Ireland'. He finds her where he expected her to be, on the bed, her hands still holding her empty bottle of Smirnoff. Gently he removes it, drops it in the trash can and slides the new bottle of Bushman's Irish blend into her semi-closed fist.

 

They will be lovers forever, partners all the way. He smiles, unties his shoes and kicks them under the bed. Erin go Brae!

Goodbye

THE ROAD TRAVELED

 

Don't ask. I'll tell you. I have my own reasons why I am not buying a new dress for an up-coming special occasion. First of all, I have a closet full of dresses, coats that I've had few chances to wear. Second, if I go shopping, I'll have to ask a favor so somebody will drive me to the mall and wait for me, bring me home or I could try to hail a cab. Ha, I do not look like a good tipper and am passed over time and again.  My driver's license was revoked some time ago. Ergo, I'll shop in my closet.

 

A 'surprise' is surely awaiting me two nites before my 100th birthday. My great-great granddaughter has invited me to a quiet dinner with the immediate family–that gives me a count of at least forty. I am dressed nicely, simply, as I've always done. Gloria's house is lit in what seems a normal manner. She leaves the car in the driveway and walks inside the house in front of me. No sooner do I get into the foyer than out comes a procession that snakes thru the entire ground floor. Sparklers twinkle, an accordionist plays songs I remember from way back when. Gloria leads as the off key group sings 'Happy Birthday, Celia' I believe my feigning surprise works. I pretend I am about to faint and accept help to the club room. The master dining room chair has been turned into a Queen's throne and I am the queen. I am fawned over, hugged until my body aches in places it never ached before. Presents pile around my feet. Envelopes with donations to my favorite charities stack up so I can thank my family and friends later in the evening. Waitresses dressed in old time clothes, bonnets on their long blond hair, are kept busy. Looking around at family I have never gotten to know I see empty spaces where others have already gone, widows, widowers, we are all here for a given length of time and are glad we don't know the cut off date.

 

I am really tired but can't leave, yet am able to find my way to Gloria's bedroom without being noticed. Her bedroom door is partially open, or partially closed. I go in and lie down on her bed. The gaiety downstairs dims in my ears. My eyes close slowly. My breath gets more shallow. I see no one but know that the door is closing. Darkness covers me. A soft voice from perhaps an angel tells me to stay calm. Sweat covers my face as I lie there and wait, just wait. I cannot open my eyes  at all but I can still think, think about the good life I have had, the time I was given to be here.  My lips are dry.

 

 Whispering 'Thank you, Lord,' I go to sleep and hear no more from the family downstairs.

Mary, Mary-not contrary

BLESSED

 

My husband, Carl Twitt and I live on Circle Royale in a lovely up-scale development of single homes starting at $250 K to 2 Mil. We have two daughters and a married son who has a son of his own, conceived out of wedlock. Our third daughter, Mary, is pathetically mentally slow. She has a  moon face and is too often ridiculed by other children. I boil, become furious when Mary is taunted, chased by unfeeling kids.  From my purse I usually can find a red licorice stick or a small plastic bag of miniature Hershey bars as a treat for my 'baby'. It's like magic as Mary forgets all about the nasty children and starts licking the red candy. She goes to the foyer mirror, sticks out her tongue, sees how red it is and laughs and laughs at herself until tears run down her cheeks.

 

Last Halloween four of the children who live in our development snuck into our lovely garden near the lake, stood under Mary's window and called her ugly names.  Carl heard the raucous, nasty words and went after those kids, grabbed them by anything he could and took them to their parents, spoke with great anger in voice. Apologies came along with promises that such a thing would not happen again. Meaningful but empty words changed nothing.

 

Our household  recovers from Halloween and are hit immediately by Thanksgiving. It's haste gives us little breathing space. Catered dinners are de rigeur for those who do not go away. The weeks ahead are known only as 'The Holidays.' They either come too close together, or are too much trouble or are fantastically wonderful, soooo friendly. With the caterers gone, the trash and garbage taken away, Christmas season starts. The Donaldsons, in the next section of our development, set up the first colored lights on their very young shrubbery and so  begins the parade. Wreaths of all sizes, red ribbons dangling, come from nowhere to the front doors. A six foot high iridescent glass  candle stands like a soldier on the lawn next to the ours. It is simple, not offensive and we are pleased. An army must come in the middle of the night to sprinkle star dust on the sidewalks. No one claims the responsibility nor asks for funds to cover the cost. There are silent objections to a huge old sleigh with a stuffed Santa holding the reins. It must be an antique and surely valuable, but over done. This year the Maxes who own a chain of radio, music shops, donate piped in carols from noon November 30 until 10 p.m. Christmas eve. It drives most of us bananas. Our windows stay closed.

 

Mary loves the big displays of moving toys, the Santas ringing their bells outside and drops dollar bills in each kettle she and I pass.
I keeps careful tabs on Mary because she has wandered off before and may just do it again. Bribing her I lewt her know that her father and I want her to have a new outfit for church Christmas eve. 'My heavens, you have grown so tall I can barely recognize you.' Let's go to Nordstrom's. Their salespeople will be so nice to us and will find something pretty for you, something Dad and I will like. Mary claps her hands and goes around the revolving door three times before being forced out into the store.

 

'Music, Momma,' she says and pulls her mother towards the escalator where the white  grand piano sits. A wonderful pianist plays Christmas songs, ballads, semi-classical pieces. Mary stands in one place, tapping her foot, swaying to all of the lovely sounds. The happiness on her face brings wide smiles to all those relaxing, listening. Only when the pianist takes a break will Mary go to the children's department. Not truly seeing how the dresses look on her, she loves them all. I think they are all too childish and lead her the junior department. We are both getting tired. Mary begins to cry. From the top of the escalator, her mood changes. She is full of spunk because the pianist is back! 'Momma stay. Momma stay,' she whines. I don't want to but do it for my 'baby'. We stay thru several Vienna waltzes and then, with no dress purchased, I give the valet my stub and drive home. Weary, disappointed, I send Mary to wash up, use the toilet and put on her pajamas. ' Get in bed, darling. Sleep tight.' A night light is left on in the hall.

 

Carl stops snoring, rubs my back gently. In just a moment I am wide awake. 'Lois, did you leave the t.v. on?' A mumble of 'no' and I sit up, alert to music down in the den. The music gets louder as Carl and I go slipperless down the winding stairs. Someone is playing the Moonlight Sonata and playing it perfectly. That someone turns out to be Mary.

 

We are dumbfounded, speechless. Mary has never been interested in our Steinway or even discs of music. I am frozen to the floor, don't want to stop her total concentration and bide my time. When the last notes sound, she starts a Vienesse waltz. Carl and I can't resist and twirl and turn until Mary stops, says nothing and goes to bed.

 

First thing in the morning I call her internist. My words flow faster than a flooding river. I explain as best I can. Dr. Schwartz puts me on hold while he sets up an appointment for me with a specialist who handles mentally retarded children. At 4 p.m. Dr. Johanson calls to explain what has happened, assure me that Mary is not that unique. 'Don't give her piano lessons. She has more in that slow mind of hers than you and I have together.

 

Mary is what is called an Idiot Savant. Enjoy her. Let her play and play. She will never tire of it. Your only duty is to show your love for her. It is her medicine.' Carl, I  and our other children, neighbors, strangers, come in to listen to Mary. She has been on the Today Show, Dr. Oz.

 

Her story is in next month's Parenthood, centerfold. $2.25 a copy. I tell my friends not to buy it as Carl and I have ordered a hundred
copies and will distribute them as soon as they hit the  news stands.

Close and Closer

NEVER TOO EARLY

 

It's 7 a.m. The sun is already up and so am I. Across the areaway my friend is busy making crepes. Our apartments are laid out exactly the same. I can see thru her sheer ninon curtains almost everything she does, except in the bathroom where we somehow manage to have a little privacy .

 

Sometimes when I want a breath of air or just want to connect with my friend, I raise my window that I keep greased with Vaseline and call to her, 'You hoo, Mrs. Kleinfeldt, what are you putting in your crepes?' That window is a pain in my yarse because I am a little person, 4'10" tall, a bit roly-poly for my height, but as my friend knows, I am far from helpless. Her window creaks but she gets it open and lets me know she will be using shrimp this time. I play it cool, tell her she makes great shrimp and/or cottage cheese crepes. My semi-ruse works. 'Which do you prefer, Mrs. Goodman? I'll bring you a few when they're done.'  I give her our 'OK' sign and close my window.

 

In less than ten minutes I am aware that Mrs. Kleinfeldt has her window open wide and is fanning her crepe frying pan over the sidewalk. She sees me and calls, 'I burned my crepes and the pan while we were talking. Don't you smell the smoke?' With little effort I let her know she has stunk up the neighborhood. Her resentment at my words brings out my better side.' Mrs. Kleinhardt, you know my twin granddaughters and dear daughter, Roxanne, don't you? Well, even as we speak, I am preparing meat blintzes for my three girls about 6 tonight. Blintzes are Jewish crepes, you know. I'll fill them with ground meat. Please join us.' Her unhurried, 'Yes' sends me into a frenzy of getting busy.

 

I crack six more eggs into the large bowl I planned on anyhow. From the freezer I take out two extra packages of frozen ground sirloin and set them on the sink counter to thaw. While they do, I set  my filled extra large aluminum soup pot on high to come to a slow boil for my best-in-the-world hearty chicken soup. I struggle to get the pot on the electric range as it weighs almost as much as I do. The butcher skinned the two heavy chickens I bought yesterday, severed the breasts, saved the wings for me and threw the feet and neck into his over-flowing garbage can. I peel the thin brown skin from an extra large onion, scrape an entire bunch of carrots, cut them into long strips, scrub several stalks of celery, go somewhat easy on the salt and pepper- and for the thrill of it, put in a few black all spices. It's been a lot of unexpected work for me but has buoyed my ennui for my girls and Mrs. Kleinfeldt's arrival.

 

A little early, she knocks on my door. I look up to her and shrink some more. She is six feet tall and skinny. Usually I see her at her window and fool myself that she is standing on a chair. There is no deception here as she looks down to me and hands me a still warm apple pie. On the kitchen counter she puts a plastic bag and from it takes two quarts of ice cream. I try to get them in my freezer but can't. By moving things around, getting rid of almost empty plastic bags, she makes room for the ice cream, keeps right on going like an electric train and wipes off the counter and then, with almost a roll of Bounty, dries up the floor.

 

My girls give a triple knock at the door, don't wait for me to answer and walk right in. My arms spread wide for them. Theirs spread for Mrs. Kleinfeldt first. A little pang plucks into my heart. Roxanne realizes I am jealous, hurt and makes a beeline for me. Her warmth and understanding envelop me. 'Dinner is ready,' but let's sit in the living room and chat a little while. Mr. Kleinhardt has brought us dessert and I don't want to rush away the time we all share.' The girls pout, want to know what dessert is, but will have to wait for the answer.

 

I take over, look at my friend and ask, 'Would you mind, Mrs. Kleinfeldt if I call you whatever your first name is?' She looks at me, nods and says, 'Jenny.' 'What's your first name, Mrs. Goodman.' I choke a little on it but say, 'Blossom.' She laughs and makes me laugh. Even the girls giggle .

 

I put a big pillow on my dining room chair so I can see everybody and we all laugh together.

The Visitor

OH, MY PA PA

 

The thumping on the wooden steps warned me I was in for it. My Aunt Millie most have told my father what I said. Aside from his clumpy feet making such a racket , I could hear his breathing. As once before, I pictured a dragon breathing fire coming to get me. No sense trying to hide from him. I did something bad. The only place is the closet and he knows I'm not dumb enough to try that again.

 

This time I will take him by surprise  and stand perfectly still on the landing at the top of the stairs with my mouth wide open. He won't know what the heck I am doing. His right hand is on the railing. His left has a wrung out wash cloth with Ivory flakes all over it. I am as ready for him as he is for me. I am going to bite a couple of his fat fingers and if he hits me, I'll run away from home. Six more steps and I will be eating soap.

 

Papa seems surprised to see me, actually gives me a wide smile. His trimmed red moustache twitches, makes me laugh but his change does not mean I am safe yet. Softly I ask him, 'What did I do wrong now? Why are you holding that soapy wash cloth? It's dripping on the waxed steps and Momma is going to be mad.' He makes a move towards me and I back away. 'Rosalie,' he never calls me by my full name, Rosalie, except when I am in trouble. I exhale, pull in a deep breath and wait. 'Rosalie, darling. Mother said I left a ring around the bathtub this morning and I have to clean it. So here I am. Want to help me?' I feel better, strong enough to say, 'No, thank you. I am going out to play hopscotch with my friends.' He bows like a servant and lets me pass.

 

The morning is already sweltering. Our hopscotch tournament is moved to around the block where the tall houses leave their shadows on the pavement all day. Even with the shade, the air is hot, muggy. Fuzzy
caterpillars crawl up the gray brick wall. The smell of garbage comes from the back lot. I am the first one to hold my nose and say, 'Phew!'  It's the trigger we need. We pick up our rubber heels, our chalk and walk over to the school yard, where there is a water fountain and swings.  Regular morning disagreements, selecting teams, telling all kinds of fibs about our playmates, and even their parents start our day. Nobody gets angry. No dresses get torn. My mother brings me a large glass container of ice cold orange juice with vanilla ice cream.'She believes it is healthy. Her reason doesn't matter to me. It is cold, delicious and I thank her with a hug. Before she leaves me, I find out why she is here this time. 'Rosalie, come home. Pa Pa wants to see you.' The air around me gets heavy. I start to sweat but take my Mama's hand and walk with her.

 

Pa Pa is in the living room. Aunt Millie is sitting in Pa Pa's favorite chair, a chair I must never sit in. There is a meanness I see ready to come from my Aunt's mouth. Pa Pa stares at me and asks, ' Rosalie. What did you say to your Aunt Millie that got her so angry she had to tell me about it?' 'I don't know, Pa Pa. Ask her.' Pa Pa roars, 'Damn it, I did ask her. She told me she could not say it and I should wash your mouth out with soap.' A bright light goes on in my brain. 'Pa Pa. I remember what I said. I said what YOU just said, 'Damn it.'

 

Pa Pa turns red, almost as red as the sun pouring into the living room, fading the carpet. He laughs so hard his belly shakes and he tells Aunt Millie to keep her damn mouth shut next time she visits.

 

 

Caring

PARADISE

 

The smell is so sweet I can taste it. My hand reaches into the clear crystal bowl. My fingers are uncontrollable and dip into the batter that keeps spinning slowly around and around. Bits of chocolate cling to my clean white fingernails. Like the child that I am, my resistance is weak. I lick each nail until it is slippery and shiny again. A warm feeling envelopes me, soft arms wrap around my shoulders. My mother has released her long silver hair from her tortoise combs that I remember so well. The fineness of her hair blows a little, touches my check. Although the sun is shining, warm, a little love chill goes through me.

 

Music plays. It surrounds me with its peace and beauty. I search for my mother, hear her but do not see her. Mother's voice never sounded so lovely before. It makes me think of violins, of Beethoven working on a sonata, of robins laying blue eggs. She trills and thrills me. 'Mother, where are you?' I cry. A soft voice, somewhat shaky answers but it isn't my mother's. The voice is deeper. It calls to me, 'Mammeleh.' I cock my head from side to side and know, know my grandfather is nearby.

 

A babbling brook adds to the symphony that is beginning to fill my thoughts. There is something stuck on a golden rock that makes the water go another way. It looks like–. It looks like–it is, my grand- father's straw boater, the same one he let me wear in the hot New Jersey sun. The water looks so cool but is warm and soothing. The bowler hat just drops, kerplops in and floats to me. I pick it up and find it dry, totally dry, put it on my head and sing, 'If You knew Suzy, like I know Suzy.' How did Maurice Chevalier get inside of me? A soft murmuring wind twirls around me, carries away my grandfather's hat. The Frenchman flies into the wind and is gone.

 

'Mother, Mother, where are you?' I weep. What is this new place that we are in? Why is my Zade here?' 'Darling, don't be frightened. I am here with you, will always be here with you. Can you hear the music? Can you see right thru me?' 'Yes, mother, all of those things. Can you see thru me too?' Mother nods a yes and her beautiful hair floats behind her. Two tiny babes hold on to it but loose their grip. They tumble, one after the other, and land in a huge piece of cotton, white cotton that really looks like a cloud.

 

'Mother, this is a lovely place, but I want to go home, want to see daddy, my teachers, my new school friends.' She holds me close and explains I will see them, all of them, but not for a while. 'Come, come with me now. 'Look at me, I have a special present for you.'

 

Your wings are ready.

 

 

Home is where the heart is

MUMBO JUMBO

 

Tall palm trees swayed in the soft Haitian breeze. The dance floor under the stars was filled with natives who barely danced. Partners were held close as they swayed like the trees. Their hips ground.  Shoeless feet hardly moved. Donny and I sat on our very uncomfortable woven chairs that filled a small corner with mostly American tourists. Bongo drums beat out the rhythm for the dancers. It was exciting, daring, so natural for these people. Stage spotlights came on. Eyes sparkled, looked somewhat ghostly. Young girls, skinny, fat, tall, short appeared in colorful, full skirts, down to their ankles.No two were alike. They all wore large bandanas on theirs head, no two tied exactly the same. Donny bet me each tie signified a group, a tribe, from some place in Haiti. I turned down his bet as I felt sure he would win.

 

I was enjoying myself, drinking a pina collada, when one of the girls screamed and fell on the dance floor. Her writhing, contortions called for a doctor. None came. Was this part of the show aimed at the Americans? One tall man, definitely American or English, started to rise, put one foot on the dance floor and was escorted out by two dark skinned natives carrying machetes.

 

The stage floods dimmed. Those dancers still on the floor trickled out. It was time for Donny and me to put our plan into action. On the blue cobblestone street a long line of falling apart black cars waited for fares. We knew where we wanted to go and approached the first car. Our French was pathetic. I pointed to myself, moved my arms as if I were driving, pretended to be chopping off my own head. 'Mon mari et moi, Voo Doo, real Voo Doo.' As bad as my presentation was, the driver knew what I meant, shook his head 'no' so hard, I thought he'd lose it. Donny tried the next car. 'Mais non, madam,' Believe me, we tried ten cars, offered American money which amounted to $25, more than these wretches earned in a month. There were no takers. Every tourist was gone. The dancing area, stage were empty and dark. A lonely car, its wheels wobbling, appeared. We were glad someone would at least get us back to the Hilton. 'Je suis, Francois,' he said. His English no better than our French. We made out from his motions that he would take us into the hills to see real voodoo. He was a smart ass, charged us $75, from where we were to the voodoo place and back to our hotel. No argument. Francois shifted gears and we headed off onto a dirt road with no street lights, candles burning in hut windows.

 

We stopped. Francois told me, pointing at my white blouse, 'votre chemise blanc, OFF, Off.' He must be insane. I refused to take off my blouse . Showing me a large knife, he came close to me, feigned slitting my throat if I disobey. I moved close to Donny, unbuttoned my blouse and handed it to him. 'Merci,' the driver said and motioned for us stay low, very low, and follow him. Whispering as softly as I could with fear running from my tongue, I let Donny and the driver know I was  ready to go back to the hotel.

 

I didn't go anywhere. A shriek, loud, piercing , scared the devil out of me. Chickens cackled. Through thorny bushes we could see women all wearing white dresses, turning, singing, making large crosses in the air. In the middle a large circle, one fat lady stomped the dirt. Dust flew. She took a live chicken, spun it around until she could no longer stand straight and bit off the head of the chicken. The other participants went wild, sang, drank the chicken's blood. I vomited as quietly as I could.

 

Francois pulled me by the hand, made Donny and me almost crawl back to the car. He pushed me into the back, made me lie on the floor. He didn't start the motor. 'Monsieur, you steer car, 'Non?'  Donny guided the silent car down the dirt road as Francois sweated and pushed from the rear. The sounds from the voo doo area died away.  Francois started the motor and delivered us to the concierge at the Hilton. Donnie gave him $100, thanked him for the interesting, exciting show.

 

Francois laughed, really roared, handed me my chemise blanc and in perfect English, said, 'Good night, Monsieur. Tell your friends to find me. I will be happy to take them to see our natives perform.'

Not too backward

SHADY SADYE

 

Now and then I am lucky enough to see Miss Sadye as she walks towards Lincoln Park. I am entranced by her erect posture, the way her ass shifts gracefully with every step she takes. Although I would surely enjoy following her, see where she goes, what she does, who, if anyone, she meets, I continue doing the things I have to do on any given day. The park entrance is two blocks before my bus stop. My job depends on my being on time, checking to be sure no employees are missing, that time clocks are punched and the cards are in order, that the cooks are in place preparing simple to exotic lunches for the usual crowd of about sixty. It's not Einstein work but is usually pleasant, and the freezer at home is always filled.

 

My sex life isn't fantastic but I don't quake and shiver when I get in my single bed. A science fiction book, something fairly good on t.v. and I close my eyes before I can dwell on superficial, fixable answers to my long- gone- mother, who really isn't gone. She was a doer, a goer, old fashioned in many ways, but more hep than I have been during my slow time. The evening she brought me a small gift wrapped box that turned out to be Sure Shot condoms, I nearly passed out. Oh, how she laughed, told me she knew where I could get them cheaper by the dozen, and added- 'I'll give you an early Christmas present if you use these soon.' Well, I was in no hurry and took longer than most men would, but I used them well before they dried out. If I didn't, my mother would be at me, laugh as she lectured that time was not going to stand still for me. 'Get with it, Son. Just don't fool with shady ladies and you'll be okay. Don't get the clap!'

 

Sadness enveloped me. My dear, close, loving Mom was taken from me by a sudden stroke six months ago. I miss her jokes, her caring, her butterscotch pies. Our house feels as empty as my heart. She has to be somewhere, laughing at me, for me. I hear her when I am trying to fall asleep, when I am at work, supervising others. I do my best to be the man she pushed me to be, except with women. My small appetite for them has shrunk further than it should.

 

Mom's bedroom still holds the smell of her Diamonds perfume. Although I have tried, I still I have not done a thorough cleaning of her personal items. Monday coming will be Labor Day and I will labor, do what Mom would want me to do. Her boxed felt hats, not worn for years, took up an entire closet shelf. I piled them on top of each other, to the basement for the  Good Will. The shelf was empty–almost. In the corner, near the door, I found a small round, metal, red box. It was tough to get open but I had to be sure what was in there–as if I didn't guess. I laughed. There were two more condoms, still in their packages. A simple note read, 'Use these soon but beware of shady ladies.'

 

Work called. The bright sunny morning told it to shut up. A desire to be on the the Champs Elysees in Paris came from nowhere. I grabbed onto a newly planted cherry tree near the curb and did an imitation of Gene Kelley dancin' in the rain. Without the rain, my foot caught on a pebble and I fell a few feet behind Miss Sadye. I felt her hands reach under my arm pits to help me up. Instead I grunted and pulled her down.  Her concern for my bones was minimal, her smile magnificent. If butterflies could sing, their sound would be like her voice.

 

Uncontrollably I began to laugh. Here I was, more or less, in Miss Sadye's arms and I didn't give a damn if Sadye was Shady. We walked into the park, sat on a bench now and then, talked away hours. My boss blew his top when I celled him that I was home sick. I didn't give a damn about that either.

 

Sadye and I went to a cozy little French restaurant for lunch. I saw the drug store across the street before she did and made a dash for it.

ON MY BRUISED KNEES

LOCKED IN

 

The sun beats relentlessly, fearsomely, constantly on Little Red Hole Canyon. Unless you have had the mis-fortune of stumbling on this tiny, tiny speck of the Grand Canyon, you cannot fathom this hell hole. As soon as the sun rises, what seems to be an inch, I imagine I see snakes waiting, just waiting to spit poison in my face, rattle music I don't want to hear.

 

You can be sure I am not here by choice. Somehow I seem to be God's captive. My thoughts question the lord constantly. What did I do? Why am I in this hole that has locked me away from my family, the life I still believe I had? 'Tell me, Lord. I bow to you, pray for forgiveness for anything you have seen that I don't know about. I've prayed day and night for too long. I am aging quickly. The sun has turned my skin to brown course leather. My eyes are no longer clear blue. In fact, I'm not too sure they exist at all. When night falls and the hole is pitch black, I feel slippery things sliding across my body. Afraid to frighten them, I barely breathe, wait for them to find the sleep I cannot.

 

I have scraped and scraped a piece of the red rock, made it long and sharp. Although I want to vomit at the thought, I will kill a snake, split it down it's slimy body and let it bake in the broiling sun. The sharp cactus must cry at night because water runs down spikes when I open my eyes before the blinding sun closes them.

 

'Lord, surely it is you, only you, who has given me my one hope of salvation, a salvation that I only recognized when the sun actually hit it with such force that Robby appeared. Too many days, nights have passed and my son stayed hidden from me. Suddenly, now I can clearly see him sitting high on the rough, hard surface of a boulder. Look, Lord, see him up there on a red chair, something like the one he had in his college business class. The shape similarity eludes me but I sense his presence there on that red rock. Did you know his name is Roddy and the chair is really a throne? Of course, you know that. You know everything. But I do not. Is anyone still looking for me? Has my wife found another lover as good as I had been?'

 

Roddy's throne casts a shadow on the edge of the stone wall around me. The shadow moves until it is swallowed, becomes part of the  darkness. 'Where are you keeping the moon, god? There used to be a moon every night. Sometimes it was behind clouds but it played peek a boo with us. Roddy and I had such fun watching, waiting, counting the minutes before the moon peeped at us. If you show me the moon, I will not ask for much else.'

 

The snake tasted ok, a bit tough, but I won't let it dry out so long the next time one gets anywhere near me. I am no longer afraid of the poisons and may bake scorpions tomorrow. 

 

The sun has only touched the east corner of my prison. Something is happening. Something is strange. I feel a new wind, my torn shirt blows open. The wind stops. All is still. The wind comes again. It feels stronger, closer. It makes a strange sound. As the noise becomes almost unbearable, I am forced to cover both ears. There is a squealing, metallic roar that reminds me of a siren. It is piercing sound from which I cannot hide.

 

The noisemaker comes between the sun, my Robby's throne and me. 'Oh, my god, God, it is a plane! A ladder is coming down for me. I see a man, a boy, standing in a doorway, waving to me, screaming words I cannot hear. The ladder won't reach me. I cry. I yell and it flies away.

 

The plane is gone. The sun is gone and I am still here, waiting, waiting for the pilot, my son, my god, somebody, anybody save me, save me!

The Lord is My Shepherd

HOLY COW

 

Hopefully we had waited and watched as the icicles dropped their last drip. The eaves  bent from the overweight, the rushing water. We have been marooned in our snowbound home for two days. Ozark's  bigggest blizzard on record just about did us in but is abating a bit now. We had been warned by Boney Tony, our only t.v. weatherman whose been here in Ozark going back to Howdie Doody Days. 'Stock up, pile dry firewood in your hallways, fill your refrigerators until they're ready to burst. Fill any empty spaces with ice cubes in pliable plastic bags.' Mama listened to his advice and followed it to a t.

 

She baked, roasted, fried, sent me to Walgreen's, the super market, for more flashlight batteries, candles, canned soups, cans of tuna. She baked little cookies so we shouldn't starve. Dad got in line at the Subaru garage, had our tires rotated, new battery put in, oil changed.
Mama found more things for us to do. Clothes that were still clean, got washed, towels, cleaning rags, too. She went overboard and kept the washer dryer working all day–just in case. The snow melted over-night, everything was going to be great, we thought.

 

Evening came fast. Night fell with a loud bang. The wind blew again,  whistled down our chimney. Fright let its head out of the bag. Mama was sure, absolutely sure, The Rapture was going to get us. The earth, all of us, sinners and god fearing folk, are going to die. With determ- ination we made it thru the night. First thing in the morning we pushed, rushed, to church to pray for our salvation. The heavy wooden door was locked. No one was in sight. Together we walked around to the back of the church where there is still a small cemetery. We knelt and prayed for the deceased who died sixty years ago. I got the feeling that this was just too ridiculous, pathetic and  asked Mom to let us go home.

 

I looked at my mother with clearer eyes. She surely seemed to be flippin' out. 'Ma, so we've been thru a big, unusual snow storm, a two parter, why do you think the earth is coming to its end? It's over, done.'

 

Sirens and the county alarm go off. Window shades go down. We were the only idiots outside waiting to be destroyed. 'Get up, Ma!' I insisted and pulled her by both her hands. 'Come on, Scardey Cat,' I begged. 'Let's all go back to the house, turn on the t.v. and find out what Boney Tony has to tell us.' Walking in a fog, she seemed to be hypnotized, moved slowly, her lips mumbled prayers I never heard her chant.

 

The chill began to get to me too. A gust of wind tossed  a ball of snow flakes smack into our faces. They were so light they kept on going. My face turned cherry red but stayed dry. I had to make her move.  'Come on, Mama, let's try to out run the snow.' Our effort was useless. By the time we reached our front steps, they were covered with glistening white crystals. Dad's car was in the garage. If we needed it, we'd have to shovel it out. All the way to the curb the snow was deeper than before.

 

Dad insisted Mama take a Valium, calm down. He fixed us a good dinner of hot chicken soup, sandwiches on Mrs. Blue House's pumpernickel bread, hot tea with Mama's chocolate covered cookies. Mama couldn't eat. Her head just slipped down into her elbows at the table and I heard her snore one or two nasal sounds. Dad must have helped her up to bed because she wasn't in the kitchen when I came down in the morning.

 

No Rapture happened. The sun was shining. Out the back window I saw something odd moving around in the our corn field that still showed no sign of corn growth. It appeared to be a big black and white dog. 'Dad, I called, 'I'm going out to see what's in our field.' The earth was sopping wet, mushy. My feet sunk into it up to my ankles. The big dog was not a dog at all. I screamed and started to run but the thing, caked in mud,  followed me, right up to our back door. It was just a calf, a little lonesome, motherless calf. I put my arms around its neck and felt something metal. The sun glistened on it and I made out the words, 'In God We Trust.' I took it into my Mama.

 

 

RIPLEY? ?

WEEPING WILLOW

 

It is a glorious evening even though the sky is thick with scudding black clouds. T.V. meteorologists are sure, promise us, the clouds are rainless. They may possibly interfere with the fireworks program but we can all leave our umbrellas at home. I need none of their graphs, coordinates, reports from Africa. My bunions ache like hell. The bigger one on my left toe throbs, hurts more than the right one. Together I may have to silently limp a little. Their action, my reaction, will certainly make mince-meat out of Joe Hector, channel 5's weather man.

 

Jess and I love the fourth, the smell of the rockets' red glare and don't mind too much the teens pushing us, using words that still shock me. The show will go on. Jess and I will stay, may even join the Sousa parade, shout and salute every red, white and blue flag we pass, no matter its size.

 

My special flag colored tote bag, the one I made ten years ago, is over my shoulder. It's getting shoddy but is helpful. In it I have two pop-open cans of chilled iced tea and two collapsible umbrellas that have every rib available to do its job if necessary. I'm counting on it lasting as long as I do.

 

The amphitheater is almost full. Large t.v. screens let us see everything that is going on everywhere. They make me a little dizzy so I just watch the one in the middle of the stage. It is the moment Johnny Cash walks out, reaches center stage and starts his croaking that the crowd goes wild and I turn him mentally off. Maybe he is my nemesis, makes my bunions pulsate, throb. As I glance away, a bit of rain runs down my nose. Jess is watching Johnny, doesn't notice my unrest. I reach into my tote bag for just one of our brellas, slip it between my crossed ankles. Another drop touches my forehead. No one around us seems to feel what I feel. No one is leaving. No performer is shrinking into the stage curtains. I tug on Jess's arm, raise my voice over the cacophony of country music that grates on my mind. 'Jess, we should go,' I insist. 'Those clouds are getting ready to burst, erupt into another Vesuvius.' He knows how many times over our years together I have been right, puts our umbrella in the tote, raises our collapsible metal chairs and we squeeze past all the non-believers in our row.

 

The air flow away from the staring crowd changes rapidly. There is a freshness, a greenish odor. Looking back, we can still see the sky light up, watch the rockets glare fall harmlessly to earth. I give Jess no room to argue, walk fast and find parking lot Q. Like a lost puppy, he tags behind me, follows me straight to where we parked. My extra- ordinary sense of direction first lets me see the arborarium's magnificent gardens, the wooden fence around the playground.
The trees from almost every country on earth have names I can't spell or pronounce except the strong maples, banyans, oaks and my favorite tree of all, the Weeping Willow. A semi-circle of them waves in the the rising wind. I feel like I am in China waiting for the moaning, the groaning as the trees sway and cry aloud. Involuntarily, my head cocks to the side, enjoys the silver lights that seek comfort between the boughs.

 

The oldest tree's 100 year old marker is missing. She seems to be bowing, bending too far. Branches are restless. Bright yellow things are showing their faces. 'My, god,' I scream to Jess. 'What is happening? The old lady tree moans louder and louder. She seems so sad, ready to die. 'Jess, she is turning into a lemon tree. Look!'  He ridicules me, tells me I have gone out of my mind but I have not. I gather a few of the lrge lemons and add them to my tote bag, carry it back to our car and leave the celebration crowd only moments before the celebration crowd is smacked hard when the 'empty' clouds tear wide open.

 

The morning paper reports the rare electric storm, has a photo on the front page of the famous old weeping willow tree lying on the ground. Her roots are exposed. It looks more like a lemon tree than the prize willow. All around it are singed lemons. A new story is born. 'The lemon tree loved the weeping willow and finally impregnated it.'

 

So silly, but what else could have happened? I'm going on Google later today to try to find an answer. There has to be one.

I y'am what I y'am

ELBOW ROOM

 

No longer do I criticize myself as I am, have always been, an early bird. Today is no exception. Six weeks ago I made my blood test appointment for my regular three month cholesterol check up.
As I drive the long distance thru  heavy traffic to my internist's office, my heart thumps at every red light I catch. Half of my internist's waiting area is for his patients and the three other doctor's in his group. I sit in the half held sacred for blood work patients. My 8:30 appointment should make me the first pin-cushion. I am there before the door to the building is unlocked and wait under the already too hot sun. 

 

My being first is meaningless. The orders left for what Lou, the head of the blood lab, is to do with my arm, are not found. I am told to sit down and wait. Can I argue? No, but I can seethe. Four ladies are called in, leave with a little cotton swab in the crook of their elbows  until they reach their car.

 

An elderly man, quite bald headed, walks in the central door. He dangles a set of several car keys, jiggles them around the room, asking if the keys belong to anyone. No one in the waiting area even bothers to look up. Perhaps the owner is in for a physical or having blood work done. The finder leaves, returns 3 times, gets no taker. There are no other buildings near the complex one I sit in so the good Samaritan drops them thru the window where the greeter sits who has still not found the orders Dr. Hurtz should have had at the front desk for me.

 

The magazines are out-dated, the two t.v.s have pictures but no sound. The large offering of coffee, cookies is against my no-eating rule until I get the ok to leave. There is nothing to do except one thing, the thing I enjoy. I study faces, people. A perfect example walks in, sits across the aisle from me, and I temporarily forget about not being called in to Lou. A tall, straight- backed senior has a rolled magazine under his arm. He takes a fast glance around the rest of us waiting, and relaxes in the non-relaxable chair. His clean, crisp white dress shirt is casually opened at the neck. He gives his slax a tiny pull, crosses his legs and opens the mag. I see the cover 'Golf for Experts'. His attention is absorbed and I can clearly see a large hole in the bottom of his shoe. It is totally out of place, so unlike what I would think this man would wear. Is it possible he doesn't know about it, knows but doesn't care, has plenty of other shoes or at worst has no other shoes?

 

I check the admission window and am told to sit down. I'll be called when my papers are ready. That is when the man who found the keys returns and asks again if any one came for them. He seems disappointed that his efforts did no good, mumbles as he leaves, 'Who the devil lost those keys?'

 

A loud, very loud, clicking sound approaches the rear section of the waiting area, where I am still waiting. My eyes and ears move quickly to the sound while the man with the hole in his shoe keeps his eyes on his reading material. The noise I am hearing is from the extremely high heels of an over-weight woman, who is wobbly on her new shoes. They are fashionable for young women but this woman is surely sixty, two heavy for stilt heels. As soon as she adjusts her skirt which is above her knees, her cell phone appears in her hand. She dials with one hand and looks in her purse for a mirror to add more red to her thick, pouty lips. She turns my stomach. I turn my head.

 

'Mrs. Cole,' my musical name is called. My papers are ready. Knowing the routine, I take them, put them behind all those still waiting, and wait.
Thirty more minutes pass. My empty stomach growls. I silently swear I am going to change doctors.

 

Lou's voice rings out like a golden bell. He, his empty vials, instructions, await me and my blood. But he has paper work to do, things for me to sign. My arm is already straight out on the one armed chair, waiting for Lou's rubber tube to be tied above my elbow. He gives it a quick tap, tap, tap on the inside bend of my elbow and a fast, totally painless needle enters my vein. The three empty vials are blood red in seconds, my ID carefully written on each.

 

My long wait is over. With a forced nice smile I hold the dab of cotton tight to my arm, raise it, walk to the door, drop the cotton that doesn't even have the tiniest bit of blood on it into my purse.

 

As I am about to pass the admission desk, I stop, make my appointment for three months from today, and go to my car.

 

 

I HAVE TO--WON'T

NITE & DAY DAY & NITE

 

'I will. I won't. I can. I can't.' My head rocks from side to side as I lie on the edge of my new Serta mattress. My Great-aunt Sylvia, my only aunt who has always been great to me,  twisted my arm to get rid of my 20 year old coil spring mattress. From the spare room where she was welcome to stay whenever she missed me enough, she swore to me she could hear kerplunks when a coil hit me in the back. Neither my spine nor mind felt anything unusual.

 

Dreams, frightening dreams, grab me, enfold me, hold me night after night. The t.v. hums even though I keep the clicker on mute. Just enough light holds some of my fears in check. Willing to accept the darkness, I uselessly feel around my bed for the remote that isn't under my pillow, my blanket. It must have fallen on the floor. Foolish mumbling escapes from my dry mouth. 'Let it lay there, Jerk. Go back to sleep, I 'll try. No sense trying.' Glancing up, I am sure the ceiling is about to fall on me and I move closer to the night table, lose my balance and slide to the floor.

 

'Stand up, Irvin,' I tell myself...and answer, 'I am trying. 'I can't.' It is easier for me to lie on the carpet. Within reach is my blanket. I pull it off the bed and let it fall around me, on me. Wherever it falls will be just fine until Aunt Sylvia comes in, places my crutches where I can reach them, sets up the folding table and uncovers my breakfast. The pungent smell of strong, hot coffee finds its way from under the paper napkin. With a hearty 'Voila' she removes the napkin. A small white vase holding bright, sunny, daisies smiles at me. I do not smile back. I say a simple 'thank you' to my Great Aunt. It suffices. She takes the Golden Syrup from my hand and pours it on the blueberry pancakes she has made just for me. Two pats of butter melt, make a half circle around the berries and are sopped up into the batter. I love these. I hate them. They stain my teeth.

 

Aunt Sylvia looks a little down-hearted this morning. I feel like her soul mate but cannot bring myself to console her. Before I finish my second cup of coffee, she tells me what I already know. No I don't. Yes, I do. My Aunt has to go home. She has responsibilities but I shouldn't worry, she'll come back as soon as some legal work is in order. Damn it! She won't be back. She's tired of being my nursemaid. I know     she loves me. She'll come back. 

 

This time something feels different. 'Irvin,' she says, ' Dr. Morgan  called me in New Jersey yesterday to tell me your last x-rays don't  show what we had hoped for. 'Your patella, your knee-cap, hasn't healed well. You knee-cap has to be replaced. It's major surgery and will take weeks for you to walk comfortably again.' Aunt Sylvia hesitates, offers me another cup of coffee. I don't want it. Yes, I do. I lean my crutches against the breakfast table and tell her to just get on with it. 'He wants you to call for an appointment to go over what will have to be done, your recovery time, all kinds of stuff.' She puts her arms around me, holds me close and tells me she will stay with me until I can dance again.

 

I free myself and think out loud.....No she won't. Yes, she will

Fools' Gold

ALEXANDER-THE- NOT- SO

 

The salty taste of the greenish/blue ocean fills my nose, my thoughts. Alexander and I sit on the edge of the Key West pier, excited, anxious, watching, waiting, for the magical green streak to finally show itself. As far as we can see to our left and right, almost naked legs dangle over the pier. Busy vendors offer the anxious thirsty crowd cold  Heinekens, popsicles, hoagies. While I hold Alexander's place for him, he goes to get us lemonades, I have to argue with a lady who insists places can't be saved. She sees my anger, knows she may end up in the ocean, and leaves me alone.

 

Alexander returns with one cold drink for us to share. He stands behind me while my anger seethes and I complain. 'Hush,' he says as he puts a 'gold' chain around my throat. Unashamed he loudly declares his love for me. As I blink my mascara-less eye-lashes at him, can feel my sun- burned face getting redder than red, he takes a long swallow of lemonade and leaves me the pulp..

 

Thousands of eyes focus on the red-orange ball of fire in the sky, watch it softly, almost tenderly, move slowly towards the water. Whistles waft in the soft wind and head out to sea. Cameras aim and suddenly the sun drops like a billion tons of lead behind the horizon. There are 'Aws, F's, damns, when no green streak happens. The crowd seems to disbelieve it didn't happen again and waits, thinking it still might appear. Alexander and I wait fifteen minutes, watch the crowd fade away and give up too.

 

Holding hands we walk the pier, are stopped by a long line of hungry pizza lovers. It takes twenty minutes before we can place our order, one large, thin, crispy pizza with everything on it. Fifteen more minutes and Alexander's name is called. The pizza is thick, oily, barely warm. The check is fifteen dollars! Alexander opens his wallet and finds he is short, has only two fives. He explains he bought me my 'gold' necklace unexpectedly and asks to borrow five from me. I have one ten and two ones, lend him the ten. No thanks do I hear. No five do I get back. It goes directly into Alexander's wallet.

 

Alexander seems to be a bit discombobulated, isn't sure where our motel is. Darkness comes quickly, colored lights swing from lamp posts. Faces look green and a few steps later turn yellow, blue. I imagine the ocean's smell has changed, that there is a huge hump backed whale spouting a fountain of icy ocean.

 

I am of no help, am only sure that the Atlantic is East. We wander around looking for something familiar, see the sign 'Welcome to Key West', but there are dozens of those. My lips are dry, caked from the salt in the air and I must stop to put on lipstick. 'Eureka!' I laugh, 'Alexander, we are saved. Look, I have our hotel card.' Under an almost clear white lamp we see the hotel's location, which, of course, is where we just were. It is a long walk back.  He and I have to stop twice to rest. At last, we see the neon sign 'Green Streak Hotel.'

 

The lobby is busy .The dining room is still open but we have had a full, long day. The thought of a clean white, sand free bed, beckons us to the elevator. Alexander fumbles uselessly in both of his pants' pockets, can't find our room keys. He is turning gray. I open my purse and hand them to him,' Don't you remember you said they would be safer with me? You know, you were right.'

 

We shower together. He dries me, I dry him. We can't wait to get to bed. Alexander searches his carrying case, can't find what we need, what he forgot to bring along. His carelessness is unacceptable to me.

 

I climb into bed, drop my 'gold watch' onto the nite table, turn my back on Alexander and fall asleep.

 

 

 

 

Mind tricks

GOING, GOING

 

The trolley is silent. Its metal wheels cease turning at 10 p.m. As usual most of Eastern Ave. has gone  beddy bye. I love this time of night. Knowing I am wide awake, I welcome fantasy dreams to float thru my mind. Sunbeams calm my turquoise sea. From the deck of the Santa Nuevo I see two large turtles paddling with determination to race the ship. They barely move and disappear in the bubbles.

 

My eyes pop, open so wide I fear they may fall out of my head and drop in the ocean. I quiver, consider blindness when I see a huge, smooth-skinned monster fish jump up high and fall with a tremendous splash back into the water. It rolls over, submerges and comes back followed by another monster that may be his friend. Together they swim close, very close to the ship. I call to them to move away but they stay their course. My eyes remain riveted on them. A third one rises, trails the two by merely inches. It is a parade without banners, whistles. I am entranced. A roar of the wind is loud, strong. It chases the dragon away and my ship leaves too.

 

The noise is not the wind. It is the slamming of our front door when my father comes home from his weekly poker game. He babbles at the top of his lungs words I don't know, don't want to know. Before he gets to the top of the stairs my mother is already cussing my dad. 'Shut up! Shut up! I think you and your nasty mouth already woke Donald.' She can't see me hiding under my blanket like I always do when he goes on a toot. Muffled sounds come from their bedroom once they calm down.

 

My mood is lousy. Fantasies, hopes, die as the silence tries to work its magic again. An odor, not a very nice one, crawls across my floor, reaches the legs of my bed and makes its home next to me. I sniff this way and that way trying to recognize it and wham, I do! It is a horse, a beautiful roan. Its long golden mane blows over its deep brown eyes. They are like saucers of molasses. This horse is going to win the Kentucky Derby for sure. The crowd roars as the horses break from their stalls. Dust flies, hides who is in front. My bet is on Jackie Boy to be the big winner. Loud noises break up the race. My parents are arguing again. I yell to Jackie Boy. 'Move, move!'  The same words become reality. My father is telling my mother to move, move her ass, to stop being a piece of wood.

 

It is time to let my eyes close, my mind rest. The metallic  sound of the trolley's wheels wake me at 6 a.m. All of my dreams have gone. My father and mother are arguing at the kitchen table and I pull my blanket all the way over my head and plan to ride home from school on the clickety, clackety trolley.

The Boogie Man Cometh

AWARE

 

I'm lying here in a hard, miserable single bed. Its crank can help me sit up or raise my swollen legs if a nurse happens to notice the blinking red light I control and finds time to help me. This room has been mine for twelve long days. T.V. is my only entertainment and source of knowing what day it is. They are all drags. The black and white set has only four channels, Dr. Oz, the weather, a football or basketball game or an antiquated movie with stars such as Marie Dressler and Wallace Berry. This miserable offering costs me three dollars a day. Thank heaven my I-pod still has some juice in it. It doesn't matter that my singing voice is worse than dying toads, I hum, I sing with Barbra. 'Somebody Loves Me' and really do wonder who. I switch to Frankie. He smooths my aching back and fills my heart with music.

 

Sooner or later, although neither makes me smile, I can hear the meal cart being rolled down the corridor. Each time it enters my room I snarl with distaste. Tonight I visualize a small dish of canned peas that may have been warm when it left the kitchen but just glares at me with wrinkled eyes. Special of the week is a tuna salad sandwich on white packaged bread. I have to take off the top slice to be sure it is tuna not ground canned sardines. Accompanying it is a shelled hard boiled egg, apple sauce and a slice of harlequin ice cream. The tuna needed mayo but I ate it as it was. It slid down my throat helped by the apple sauce. I would have enjoyed the hard boiled egg but am on a salt free diet which made me eat it slowly with sips of water after each nibble.

 

Sleep alludes me. Hours drag heavy chains. Voices come into my room through the door I insist be left open a few inches. I cannot make out the words but feel sure attendants are wheeling another poor soul down to the mortuary. This past week I have heard the same mournful sound  five times, which is four times more than the first week I was admitted to the Jackson Philmoor Hospital. My daughter and my internist, Dr. Daniel Bernstein, do not believe my problems are serious but need to be resolved and force me to this just about godless hospital for a full going over. Daily reports find nothing wrong in my blood, my heart, my brain. I am forced to take all kinds of tests until I believe the loss of blood is making me lose another pound.

 

My eyes get heavy but will not stay closed. I reach for the buzzer to get attention, a sleeping pill. I wait. I wait, nod off for what may be an hour. Thru the transom I can still see my red light blinking for a nurse.
The hall lights are very dim. A muffled sound nears my door. Slowly, so slowly, I realize someone is coming towards my bed. If it is a nurse, she would be in white. This person is not a nurse. I turn my body towards the figure, draw up my legs to make a smaller target for the intruder. A gray shadow of an arm rises so that I get a quick look at something silvery, about as long as my hand. It moves towards me and I kick, kick hard, toward the silvery thing. The sound of it hitting the tile floor and the feet running from my room makes me scream like a banshee.

 

My yell brings the night nurse running, coming into my wide open door. Immediately she turns on the ceiling light and hurries to my bedside.
She kicks something, stops, picks it up and stares at a hyperdermic needle. A fire alarm sounds. There is chaos on my floor and surely all others. Police, firemen, come out of the woodwork. They know who they are looking for, find him cowering in the doctors' lounge.

 

I become a heroine, am moved to a new large, sunny room, have an inter-com with the floor nurse, a new t.v., plenty mayo for my lunch tuna sandwich. The male nurse who was getting rid of long term patients made a big mistake coming for me. I was nowhere near my deathbed. Dr. Bernstein believes my swollen legs are due to wearing tight shoes, a now and then girdle, that have blocked my veins. He hands me the newspaper,  my story on the front page and signs me out.

Wah happened?

WEALLY ?

 

Joseph and I try hard to keep a straight face, not let a smile crack it,
when our darling tootsie pie 3 ½ year old daughter says, 'Mommy, you make me feel bad when I say, that's white' or turn awound, Mommy.' We apologize  every time we comment when she mispronounces her 'Rs'. Her pediatrician, Dr. Woland is a thorn in my side as he winces and corrects Charlotte. 'My name is Row-land, not Wo land.' He insists strongly she will get over the trouble herself but we are considering changing doctors. Easy for him to say, his children are in college. The younger son was valedictorian at his high school graduation.

 

We hang on for Charlotte's fourth birthday when we locate a supposedly fine speech therapist. He gives her exercises to try. 'Watch me. See, I am keeping my tongue in the bottom of my mouth. It touches the back of my bottom teeth. Look at me. When you open your mouth, keep your tongue where I showed you and growl like a baby lion. Do it, Charlotte. That is an 'R'. You just did it. Try it again!' She tries and then cries, I can't do it. Weally, I can't.' Finally she throws a fit, stamps her feet and spits at me. With no hesitation I give her a good hard smack on her tush and deny her dessert at dinner. Joseph doesn't like the way I handle her one bit. Who is he to correct me when he doesn't practice with her? It's not a game. It's no fun. When I put her to bed, she hugs me tight. I hug her back.  Her little tear drops cure my anger. Sobbing words of regret pour out.

 

Weekly visits to the speech therapist, Dr. Kadish, cost a lot but sacrificing is what loving parents do. Charlotte complains. Charlotte wants to play with her dolls, her girlfriends. I give her Saturdays and Sundays free of her exercises and I get a breather as a bonus. Thanksgiving comes so fast, I almost miss it. Dr. Kadish will have no office hours until the following week. Joseph, I and Charlotte are invited for the turkey feast at our best friend's home. I hesitate accepting. Ralph and Rhoda  will be our host and hostess. They know all about our Charlotte's speech trouble and ignore it. That is acceptable to me but I know it won't be to Charlotte. She surprises me by telling me she loves turkey and wants to go to her boy friend's house for Thanksgiving.

 

She looks so cute when she stares at me and I almost faint. 'Mommy, Ralph and Rhoda are your best friends and I really wike them a wot. Wet's go.'

Ups and Downs

ROLLER COASTER

 

Through watery eyes, his slippery tongue, Casey mumbles, 'Whatcha ask me, Shorty? Didn't hear ya good.' I repeat myself, 'Where'd ya get that rat gut so early in the morning?' I am so close to him I can feel his smelly breath on my shoulder.  He still can't hear me. His answer is a blink and a 'Huh? Huh?'

 

The gray-haired lady sitting in front of us on the Buckline bus turns around and in a soft, sugary voice tells Casey to tell Mr. Shorty where he got the cheap whiskey so she can read in peace. 'Sure, Lady. The guy who lives in the tent behind my cardboard box won't need it any more. I went to give him a cup of black Joe as soon as the sun came up and found him staring at nothing, blood all over his body. The bottle was still on the table so I took it.' 'Did you call the police?' Shorty asks. 'No way. I got out of there fast. Want a swig before it's all gone?'

 

Sirens tighten the tension. They come from every direction, head towards ' Vagrants' Haven'. Mostly others call it, 'Hellsville' and try to  get it cleaned out. Posters are on fences, lamp posts, 'Vote for Kendall,' 'Vote for Johnson.' It isn't going to matter who wins. Nothing is going to change. 'Casey, you can be in big trouble. Break the bottle you're holding. Do it now!' If the police find it on you, they might think you killed your neighbor for that bottle.' They are going to have to find a killer and may decide to make you 'it.' Short does not convince his sort- of- pal- to do it and just leaves him standing there, watching for the M. E.  wagon to take away the bloody body.

 

T.V. camera cars follow the M.E. Only one daily newspaper sends a token reporter. She happens to be beautiful. She also happens to be the M.E.'s daughter. While he's used to it, he still holds his breath when he exams a stiff. This one is not quite cold yet. He writes the time of death on his chart to be about 4 a.m. There is no immediate cause of death. His daughter waits outside until her dad signals for the team to remove the body. Discussions, possibilities are tossed around like beans in a child's play bag. 'Maybe he hemorrhaged ?' she suggests and steps lightly as she leaves the tent and its horrid possibilities.

 

Shorty approaches her, looks her over carefully and makes a few suggestions. 'Do you think the dead man was robbed? Could he have choked on something? Maybe he had high blood pressure and his heart burst open.' What a dirty look he gets from her. 'What are you a doctor, a psycho, an idiot?' The man barely has a place to take a piss, doesn't even have a bed to sleep on and you think he might have been robbed?' Her notebook falls from her hands, which allows Shorty a second to retrieve it for her along with his apology.

 

'Miss M.E.'s daughter. I may know this man more than you and believed him when he told me a long time ago that he has a very wealthy family in Pittsburghh who would gladly give him a stash to get out of the place he occupies. Michael, his name was Michael, didn't tell me why but did say he hated his parents. They offered him a large sum of money to return to the living. Maybe he finally accepted and was robbed.'

 

That did it for her. Almost blindly she walked away ! Such nonsense. Still ?????? Still??????

 

Back to the office where she filed a 'what if' column that made it to page one. And Shorty, with a little urging, made it to her apartment the very next night.

 

 

Ode to the Odd One

TAINTED TASTE

 

I am forced to sit still, keep my mouth shut or leave the table. Obeying my mom is tough, but I do try, yet my eyes are constantly drawn to my father who sometimes makes me want to puke. Tonight I am on the verge of doing just that and did not ask permission to leave. I ran to the powder room.

 

Dinner had gone well until....the dessert, wide, ice cold slices of sweet, red watermelon were passed around. The overhead fan whirled enough for me to shiver a tiny bit. Dad, a perturbed look on his face, stood pushed his chair back until it almost fell over. He said nothing as he headed to the kitchen. Within a minute or two he was back, bitching, grumbling, why my mom had not brought the big box of coarse kosher salt in when she served the watermelon. She apologized and brought it to him from the counter near the gas range, where it was always handy to please my father. Dad used an extra sharp knife to cut his quarter of the melon into bite sized-pieces and dipped each deep into the bowl of salt. My imagination took over as I swallowed his god-awful melon while he sighed with pleasure.

 

Aunt Brunhilda, who I have called Aunt Betsy since I was about four, has been having dinner with us on a somewhat regular schedule of each Tuesday, 8 p.m. sharp. Her bringing dessert was not what made her special to me. I don't know what did but I have always thought of her as my 'favorite' aunt. My only other one, Aunt Cordelia, I called ' Connie,' but she was sick for a long time and went to heaven, Mama told me.

 

Last night was almost a disaster. Mama's noodle soup steamed hot. I love her soup and had a second bowl. High in the middle of the seldom used antique platter, Mama had made a mountain of pure white chunks of chicken salad surrounded by juicy slices of Maryland just ripe tomato slices, large green olives, and freshly shelled walnuts. Knowing I like mayo, Mama put a small bowl of it with a little silver ladle near me.
Dad had been scanning the table, surely aware something was missing. After leading us in saying Grace, he stood, looked at Mama and asked,' 'Where the devil is the Gulden Mustard, Woman?' She made no effort to answer but hurried to get the mustard from the kitchen. Did my father thank her? No siree! He only chastised her that the jar was not full. As he griped, he filled his plate with almost ½ of what Mama had prepared and dumped the entire contents of mustard over it, tossed it around until the color yellow was gone and what was left looked like a pile of doggie doo. Aunty Betsy asked Mama how she could continue to live with this oaf. Mama pretended she didn't hear the question.

 

Even I, the youngest at the table, felt the tension. With a poke in my ribs, Aunt Betsy let me know I should help clear the table for dessert.
Dad's chicken salad plate, with its mustard glow, barely needed washing. Small pieces of rye bread crust had swirled around the edges.

 

Dinner was not over. Mama had fresh pineapple slices on each plate, In the core she had added a scoop of blueberry yogurt. Two sugar cookies were just enough to make dinner perfect–except for my Dad. His ways are his ways and he will not accept criticism without getting back at the criticizer.

 

Daddy let us know as soon as his pineapple slice was in front of him that he needed more sugar. The pineapple's sour taste made his back teeth hurt. I brought him the sugar bowl that is kept ready on the kitchen counter–but it wasn't totally filled. 'Take it back and fill it to the top, Julie,' he ordered. I filled it, brought it to him and 'accidently'
got my shoe caught on a slight bump in the carpet.

 

As I began to fall, I twisted myself into an 'S' and headed my whole self right smack at my Daddy, let the bowl fly where ever it wanted to go.  It went where it was meant to go, clunked my dad on his head. I, Mama and Aunty Betsy laughed hysterically as the sugar ran inside Daddy's bi-focals. He could hear us but not see the great pleasure my mis-hap gave us.

 

And there was more. Goofus Daddy dipped his linen napkin into his still filled water glass and tried to wipe away the sugar. It made only a sticky paste and scratched his lenses.

 

Mama, Aunt Betsy and I had a ding dong happy ending to that dinner and I was not called down even once for my carelessness.

Wishing

USED UP

 

The whole sky seems to be twinkling. Thousands and thousands of stars are too far away for me to see them, but I know they are there. They can see me. The yellow cusp of the moon definitely has a lady sitting in its lap. Her hand points down, down, down right at me. I close my eyes and speak to her. 'Little Lady of the Night, please be careful or you will fall, maybe land in a big ocean and dissolve into nothingness.' I've wished on so many stars that sometimes my wishes come true. May I wish on you before you change your shape and disappear completely?'
A greenish cloud passes over the cusp and when it is gone, so is my lady.

 

Looking further, into the depth of blackness, the bright North Star appears, silvery white. 'Mr. Star, please let my mommy buy me a new dress for Delly's birthday party. She had a pretty one for my party, blue as the summer sky with tiny white buttons, a flared skirt that squished when she walked. A few times I thought she was singing but it was her dress talking to me. Mommy went without me and brought home a red and grey plaid dress that I hated the second I saw it. How I cried for her to take it back to Millard's but she was stubborn, put it on a wooden hanger and left it in my closet.

 

'Mr. North Star,' I sobbed. 'Please make my mommy take back that ugly.
 dress. Please, please. I'll be good all summer.' My eyes were tear heavy and I fell asleep. Right before the morning sun should shine on my bed, I heard a fire engine, clang clanging down the street. Mommy was screaming, running to get me. She pulled on my arm until I thought she broke it. The engine screeched to a stop in front of our house. Mommy pointed, screamed where the two firemen should go. 'Upstairs, upstairs! Smoke is in my daughter's closet.' One carried a big fire extinguisher. I heard the noise it made while I waited on the pavement. Mommy hugged me, kissed me. 'Thank god,' she kept saying. 'Thank god I woke up and smelled the smoke.' I didn't start the fire but maybe Mr. North Star granted my wish. The new ugly plaid dress that Mommy had bought for me was soaking wet. The closet rug was burned a little bit. I don't ever play with matches and I didn't start the fire. Daddy was away on business until the week-end. The more I thought about it, the more grateful I was to the North Star. I had to wait until night time to thank him for scorching the dress I hated.

 

He was gone for two nights in a row as heavy rain clouds dropped a river of water on Bethesda.

Finality

The 'Y' OF IT

 

Why do I do this to myself? My heart aches. It quivers. It thumps wildy in my chest. I drop my still closed umbrella on the hall floor and walk absent-mindedly outside into the teeming rain. Uncle Morris,  my mother's brother, became my custodian and has been that for the past nine years after my parents were killed in a hood to hood car crash on the Baltimore Beltway. I was only ten years old when he forced me to look at the photos in both daily newspapers. To this day nightmares find their way into my sleep.

 

Uncle Morris is a busy man, too busy for me, for friendship, closeness. His fruitful business is handled from his basement office, where three computers, two printers, stacks of un-or wrongly filed snail mail send  him into raging snits. Many Saturday mornings he knocks on my bed- room door, and with the sweetest voice he can manage, he lets me know  there's work for me to do.

 

I remember the first few years with him where he took me for an ice cream cone or even to a movie now and then. If I did a good job shredding his papers, dusting the tops of his printers, bringing him a cold glass of Pepsi, I was rewarded and could have my choice of orange pop or a cherry coke. Once, when I was twelve, I dropped his pop drink on the basement stairs. It broke to a zillion pieces making the step sticky. He brought me a bucket of water, told me to be careful not to cut myself, and left me to clean up the mess. Oh, lord, how I hated him then.

 

Love, or what he thought was love, was just barely a 'like'. It came to him unexpectedly when he met Melody at the UPS store. She was in a frazzle as to how to ship a package to her parents and how much insurance she should charge to cover a possible loss. Uncle Morris evidently could overhear the discussion, felt the young woman was being wangled into a higher cost than necessary, stepped in and helped the customer get a better deal.The young woman was grateful.. Because he was confident, she was grateful. That was secondary once he noticed her gorgeous azure blue eyes, long blonde lashes, he didn't hesitate asking her to lunch. With her dazzling pearly white smile lighting up the room, she replied, 'How nice of you, Sir. My name is Melody. What's yours?'
Love, or what he thought was love, was barely 'like'. It hit him. It came on  to him hard. He told me later that he had smelled fresh cut lilacs when her eyes lashes fluttered. He knew his life was about to change. And it did–as mine did.

 

The break  was hers, the disappointment was mine. Uncle Morris cut down his working hours, piled more crooked piles of papers for me to straighten, file. Fortunately, he took Melody to dinner twice a week for the first few weeks so I could fix things for myself that he didn't like. I broiled meat balls and cooked the spaghetti until it was just right, al dente. Heinz ketchup straight from the bottle was sheer silent joy. It was spicy and easy and I could stuff my mouth without being reprimanded. I made Aunt Jemima pancakes with fresh blueberries without having him watch me while he counted the number of berries I ate.

 

And then, then, I saw there was trouble. My happier uncle was melting away. His face returned to its normal grimace. He ordered me around as if I were an obedient imbecile. We just slipped back, almost gradually, to my early youth. I could feel his eyes burning through me, his wish to punish me for living with him so many years, being an albatross forever.

 

I hid. I cowered. I straightened my backbone at last. While he was deciding which chore to give me next, I went to my room, considered setting the house on fire, stabbing Uncle Morris until no more blood flowed. Rubbing my hands together, enjoying the moment, my mother, in a grey shroud, clearly spoke to me. 'Go, go now, while Morris cries in front of his computer. Go!' She let me see at last that it was I who cringed, let myself be a semi-slave. 'No more. No more, she whispered as she faded into the wall. Why Uncle Morris kept an empty suitcase in his closet, I never knew but realized it might have been there for him to escape from me. That seemed logical and proper. I jammed all sorts of clothes, personal items, my check book with $1000 in the battered case  and let it thump step by step to the front door.

 

There was a great stillness from the basement. It sounded like all of the computers, printers had died at once. From the silence I heard, for the last time, 'GOOD BYE, RHODA.'

 

I only whispered, 'Goodbye Uncle Morris' and with that, we both were free.