Dancing Is Life

I want to be there, in that sweaty, noisy room with him. I want to hear the music makers playing their instruments with abandon, hear the joyous singing, feel the rhythm pounding from the wooden floor beneath my feet. I want to drink the wine. I want to feel it pulse in my veins as I move in his arms, the dance carrying us far beyond the physical to a connection beyond the horizon, as we learn a dance we’ve never done before.

I want to throw off my shoes.

I want to throw up my arms.

I want to whirl around and around with him, until I float above the floor and my senses are filled with his music, his arms, and his scent.

I never want to forget learning this dance with him.

Lessons Learned

**Language and violence warning**

————————————–

Dave Parker had been bugging me for weeks to go out with him. He was relentless. He came up behind me at the roller rink whispering in my ear, “Come on. You know you want to.” He waited for me after school, suggesting that he drive me home. He called me every day. Sometimes twice.

“Who is this guy?” my mother wanted to know. “How old is he? Where does he live?”

Dave Parker was 19. I was 17, still a senior in high school. Dave Parker was determined to get me to go out with him because, apparently, no girl ever turned down Dave Parker. If he couldn’t get my “no” to change to a “yes,” it would mean a blot on his perfect record. Dave was a little too vain to allow that to happen.

I don’t know why I let him wear me down. His repeated leering offers left me feeling vaguely unclean. Still, I finally caved. Maybe, I thought, if I actually go out with him and prove I’m just another boring date, he’ll leave me alone. It seemed to be the only way to get him off my back. One afternoon, on our second phone conversation of the day, I said yes. It seemed to surprise him almost as much as it did me to hear that word come out of my mouth. He arranged to pick me up that Friday, promising a “nice dinner” and “anything” I wanted to do afterward. I suggested a movie, hoping that would be two hours of conversation I wouldn’t have to make.

I told my mother about the date.

“Amy,” she said, “why did you agree to go out with this kid if he bothers you so much?”

“I don’t know, Mom. It just seemed like the only way to get rid of him. Maybe he’ll stop bothering me after this.”

“And maybe he’ll never leave you alone. Don’t give boys like that an opportunity in the door, Amy.” She turned back to cooking dinner, shaking her head.

When Dave rang the bell on Friday evening, my mother answered the door. I stood at the top of the stairway looking down as he came in. He was tall and powerfully built; he filled the foyer with his overwhelming presence. I could tell right away that my mother didn’t like him. She wrinkled her nose, a sure sign of her distaste. It may also have indicative of her displeasure at his odor. He smelled as if he had bathed in Jovan Musk for Men, the scent thoroughly permeating the air, almost thick enough to be seen. His hair was full and thick, brushed into a Barry Gibb style. He wore a tan leather jacket and tan gabardine slacks. He was good-looking and slick, but he couldn’t fool my mother.

“Amy, you are looking good,” he said, spreading his arms expansively and nearly shoving Mom into the wall in the process. She looked at me darkly behind his back.

“Eleven o’clock curfew, Amy,” she said, her tone sharp. “Don’t be late.”

I started to protest, because my curfew had been 1:00am ever since the beginning of senior year. Before I could utter a word, she shot me another look and I understood. She was aware that I wasn’t exactly comfortable with Dave and wanted to spare me a little time with him.

“Sure, Mom. I’ll be home. Eleven o’clock.”

Dave and I left. The night was as clear and cold as one might expect in early December. The moon was nearly full, and it cast a bright glow on the crust of snow covering the ground.

Dave drove a small car, a hatchback. I was amazed that his six-foot-four-inch frame fit inside, even with the driver seat pushed all the way back against the backseat. I climbed in next to him, wishing I had never agreed to this date. I felt uneasy, almost afraid. I didn’t even want to be polite to him. It was best, I thought, to just get it over with. I’d be so boring that he’d have no interest in seeing me again. I’d be free of his pestering.

He took me to Denny’s. This was the “nice dinner” he’d promised me? I ate eggs and pancakes, thinking that it wasn’t exactly what I’d had in mind. Throughout the meal, Dave talked about himself. He talked with his hands frequently, and I couldn’t help noticing his penchant for gold. He wore two thick, chunky gold rings on each hand, one ring set with a large diamond. He also wore a heavy gold chain around his neck and a small gold hoop in one ear. I didn’t care for any of it, but I particularly disliked those rings. They seemed to fit his personality and made me dislike him all the more.

I’d actually held out a tiny hope that I would find something – anything – to like about Dave. Something that would elevate him even a small amount. But there was nothing. He seemed to be getting along in life on good looks and ego alone. It couldn’t possibly be his personality.

“I don’t know, Amy. How do you think I look in my baseball uniform?” Dave finished whatever story he’d been blathering about. I looked up to see his ice blue eyes probing my face.

“Listen, Dave, I don’t think – ” I began, but Dave cut me off.

“Amy, Amy, Amy. We haven’t even begun to have a good time yet.” He leaned back in the booth, stretching his arms out on either side of him, resting one on the seat behind me. “No girl goes home from a date with me without having a very good time.” His words and tone were off-putting. Another twinge of fear pricked my spine.

“This whole thing was a bad idea, Dave. I shouldn’t have come out with you. We have nothing in common.”

“You’re cute, Amy. Very cute. A lot of girls would kill to be in your position right now.” His conceit was staggering.

“Well, let them, then. Why go out with me when you can have any girl you want?”

Dave laughed. “Because you said no.”

I grabbed my coat off the vinyl seat next to me and jammed my arms into it. “Take me home. I’ve had enough.”

Dave shook his head, apparently baffled by the lack of gratitude I was showing him for asking me out to begin with. He snatched the check from the table and brushed past me rudely on his way to the cashier. I followed him grimly, wondering how long it might take me to walk the six miles back to my house in subfreezing temperatures.

Silently, Dave grabbed me by the arm and hustled me from the restaurant. He opened the car door for me, nearly pushing me into the passenger seat. He slung himself into the car and started the engine with a jerk. The tires screeched as he peeled out of the parking lot.

“Dave, I — “

“Shut up. I’ll take you home.”

I quieted. I longed to be home, safely in my own bed. This, I thought, would surely be going into my diary as the worst date of my life. I only hoped that Dave’s driving would get us home in one piece.

He turned down the wrong road.

“Dave, where are you going? My street is back that way.”

“I know where you live.”

“Then where — “

“Shut up. There’s something I need to show you before you go home.”

His tone turned my blood to ice.

“I want to go home now.“

“And I told you to shut up.”

I shrank back into the seat, the fear enveloping all of me now.

Dave continued down a dark street until a came to a park at the far end of the neighborhood. He pulled into the little parking lot and shut off the car. The bright moon illuminated the surroundings: a snowed-over tennis court, a playground, an ice skating rink, a warming house. At this time of night in the winter, the park was deserted.

“What are we doing here?” I asked, my voice small.

Dave turned to me in the darkness of the car, his eyes glittering dangerously.

“I told you, Amy. No girl goes home without a very good time from Dave Parker.” He leaned in next to me, his big and powerful presence frightening and intimidating. I could feel his breath on my face, could feel his hair brush against my skin as he put his hand to the back of my head and pulled me into a kiss.

This was no romantic kiss of seduction. It was savage and violent. I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. The air in the car closed around me, and I tried ineffectively to push him away. The fear rose in my throat. I tried to scream. Dave pulled his face away from mine and swung his hand into my cheek. The sting of his slap shocked me, and before I could recover, he grabbed my left arm and twisted it behind my back.

“You want me to break your arm? I could. I could break your arm in two.” His face was heavy and dark with rage, and I believed him. I believed he would break my arm. In that horrifying moment, I believed he would kill me.

“No,” I whispered. “Please don’t hurt me.”

He lessened his grip on me, but he did not let go. With his free arm he reached across me and pushed open the car door. He shoved me out into the snow, then climbed out on top of me.

“You know I don’t like ‘no’ Amy,” he said quietly, dangerously. His hand closed over my wrist and he dragged me away from the car and pushed me into the snow. He sat on my legs and held my arms down with his knees, his breath coming in ragged bursts. He reached a hand inside of my coat and ripped at the buttons of my blouse. His cold fingers found my breast, then the other reached down to yank at the snap on my jeans.

“No!” I screamed. “Please! No!” I shut my eyes to the horrible satisfaction I saw on his face. That bastard was enjoying this! He was reveling in my fear, taking pleasure in hurting me. He was savoring my terror. How could this be my first time? I had always envisioned my first time as a gentle, consensual meeting of heart and body and mind. Not this. Not like this. This vicious animal was going to rape me.

When the full horror of what was happening to me flooded my consciousness, I reacted. I rolled with a jerk, startling Dave and knocking him off his knees. I stood and ran, clutching my torn blouse around me, looking for something or someone to help me.

“Help!” I shouted. “Somebody, please, oh god, somebody! Please! Help me!” I ran blindly, feeling and hearing Dave in pursuit, fearing the depth of his anger and violence if he caught me.

“You bitch!” he yelled. “You psychotic little bitch! Get the fuck back here!”

He caught up to me as I slammed into the side of the warming house. He raised his hand to deliver another blow. I felt one of those chunky gold rings tear the flesh of my face, felt the warmth of the blood that rushed from the wound.

“You need a lesson, Amy,” he hissed, grabbing my head and banging it against the wood. “And I’m going to be the one to teach it.” He yanked me by the hair, seeming intent on hurling me to the ground again. My arms flailed, reaching out in confusion for something; I didn’t know what. As Dave heaved my body, my hand closed over a long icicle hanging low from the roof of the warming house. The icicle snapped in my hand as I fell, its edge jagged and sharp.

I didn’t stop to think.

Dave threw himself on top of me, and I felt the adrenaline surge as my survival instinct kicked in. With the sharp end of the icicle pointed like a dagger, I squeezed my eyes shut tight and plunged.

“You…fucking…bitch…” Dave’s words were labored as he slumped on top of me. I couldn’t breathe. With more strength than I ever knew I possessed, I gave a mighty shove and freed myself.

I stood by him sprawled there, the moonlight shining eerily over us, the snow stained scarlet beneath him, the dark river of color seeping into the white drifts and coloring its morbid mosaic.

I backed away slowly, the tableau swimming before my eyes, seeming surreal and other-worldly. None of this could have happened, I thought. How could it have happened?

I turned to walk away, pulling the ragged shreds of my blouse together and closing my coat around me as I went. Dave had wanted to teach me a lesson, but in the end it was I who taught him. No girl need fear a “good time” from Dave Parker ever again.

At the entrance to the park, I looked at my watch and sped my steps. If I hurried, I could still make it home by eleven.

Fiona’s Mirror

Fiona sat on the cushioned vanity stool and stared into the mirror. Looking back at her was a curiously old woman, her long gray hair falling to her shoulders. A few dark streaks hinted at the richness her hair had once known and lost. Her eyes were dark; dark and tired, the lines around them deeply etched. Fiona gazed in wonderment at this old woman living in her mirror, amazed that the dark-haired young beauty who used to live there was gone. The old woman looked sad, as if her life fuel was running low and her heart was afraid.

Fiona absently picked up the silver-plated brush on the vanity and lifted it to her heavy hair. As she did so, the old woman in the mirror also brushed the gray strands of her hair. Fiona’s heart felt as heavy as her hair. Trevor had left and gone on before her. Was he suspended somewhere now, wavering in some unknown limbo between mortal and angelic, waiting for her?

As Fiona continued to brush her hair, the image of the old woman in the mirror began to change, becoming fuzzy and washing away before Fiona’s eyes. When the image cleared, a beautiful young woman sat there, a vivid red lipstick in her hand. Fiona watched with fascination.

The lipstick was a little too bright, Fiona decided, reaching to her mouth with a tissue to wipe it away. Her hand stopped just short of her lips, and she smiled at her own face with impish delight. What would her mother think of this lipstick? She would think it in flagrant contrast with her own outdated ideals. Suddenly, the lipstick seemed perfect to Fiona. As she swept her thick dark hair into a ponytail, her roommate Darla entered the room.

“What do you think of this dress?” she asked breathlessly, holding the pale aqua chiffon up to her body and swirling around. The fabric rustled lightly as it brushed against her legs.

“Beautiful,” Fiona answered. “Trevor will be overcome with raging passion and sweep you off your feet, begging you to run off and elope after the dance, the moment the last note of the last song fades away.”

“You’re very theatrical, Fiona,” Darla said, smiling. She hugged the dress to her chest, adding, “But I hope you’re right. I wonder what such great passion would feel like?”

The girls giggled, but inside Fiona felt a tug, an aching to know the power of passion and longing. Darla was right about Fiona’s penchant for theatrics – she had declared drama her major and was immersed in classes on method and scenes and characters. She was thrilled to be out from under the thumb of her reserved and controlling parents and wanted to experience all of the wonders life could offer. She was going to be a great actress one day.

As Fiona watched, the images changed. She saw two young girls in chiffon dresses, one blonde in a pale aqua gown, the other a brunette in pale pink.

“You look so beautiful, Fiona,” Darla gushed. “You’re going to knock Henry right over.”

“Maybe,” Fiona said, fastening a rhinestone barrette in her hair. “But I’m not going to be saddled with Henry Forrester forever. He has no fire.”

“Why are you going out with him then?” Darla asked, full of innocence.

“Because,” Fiona said simply, “I want to go to the dance. If I have to endure Henry’s sweaty palms to do it, so be it.”She stood, her airy skirt swirling around her legs. “These shoes have heels four inches high,” she said proudly, showing off the silvery sandals with whisper-thin straps.

Darla admired the shoes. “You’re going to be the belle of the ball, Fiona,” she said. “Every girl in school will be envious.”

Fiona did look beautiful. She lit up the gymnasium when she floated in on her silvery four-inch heels. Under the balloons and crepe-paper decorations, she cast a spell over the room, enchanting everyone, starting with Trevor Laidlaw. After two dances, he pulled Henry Forrester aside.

“Trade dances with us,” he hissed in Henry’s ear. “Darla is dying for a dance with you.”

“You’re full of it, Laidlaw. Why don’t you just admit you want to get your hands on Fiona? Every other guy here does.” Henry wasn’t bitter. He knew he would never own Fiona’s heart, and he was happy enough to dance with Darla.

As Trevor swung her around the room, Fiona felt a warmth tingle her body. His arms were strong and firm, and he was tall enough to look down at her even with her high heels on. His dark hair and pale blue eyes, a combination that threatened to weaken her knees, fascinated her.

“Come out for a walk with me, Fiona,” Trevor whispered into her hair. The air is fresh and sweet out there, and I want to smell the lilacs with you.”

Trevor’s melodramatic pleading appealed to Fiona’s theatrical senses. “You’re nothing but a lowdown weasel, Trevor Laidlaw,” she teased, tossing the barb and managing to sound affectionate at the same time. “Darla is my friend.”

Trevor held her tighter, leaving her breathless. “But I’m not falling for Darla,” he answered. “I’m falling for you.”

Trevor was right. The air outside was sweet and fragrant with lilacs. Behind the gymnasium building, he put his arms around her and whispered into her ears.

“You’re so beautiful, Fiona. I’ve never known a girl as beautiful as you.” He bent his head to kiss her, sending a jolt of electricity through her body. She pushed him away, a sweetly sly smile crossing her lips.

” ‘Mind you don’t be alone with a boy now, Fiona,’” she said, perfectly mimicking her mother’s tone as she’d lectured her many times. “‘Some boys are apt to try getting the milk for free, and then who wants to buy the cow?’”

Fiona smirked as she recited her mother’s speech, and Trevor laughed.

“Forget about that, Fiona,” he said urgently. “It’s 1956! It’s the second half of the twentieth century! Don’t be old-fashioned.”

He kissed her again, his fingers playing lightly with the strap of her pink chiffon gown. Fiona wanted to be passionate. She needed to be passionate, and she needed to rebel against her mother’s outdated notions. She needed to light the fire inside her if she was ever going to be a great actress. She closed her eyes and allowed Trevor’s passion to consume them both.

Fiona rubbed her eyes. She was tired. She wanted to sleep, but the images swam before her again, compelling her to watch.

“My God,” Trevor breathed. “I’ve never seen you look more beautiful.” She stood before him in her ivory wedding gown, her hair lifted from her shoulders, her veil cascading beyond her shoulder blades.

“It feels tight,” Fiona complained, pulling the fabric at her waist. “Everyone will be able to tell.”

“To hell with them if they do,” Trevor scoffed. “Why do you care what a bunch of repressed gossips think anyway? You’re going to make the most beautiful mother in the world.” He kissed the top of her nose and disappeared out the door, leaving Fiona to finish getting ready for the ceremony.

She thought about the night of the spring dance and the consequences of their shared passion. She sat in the bride’s room of the church, four months pregnant and about to marry Trevor. She wished Darla were here with her, but their having parted ways was inevitable given the circumstances. Darla had forgiven Fiona her betrayal, but had tearfully told her they could no longer be friends. Fiona had later heard that Darla was engaged to Henry Forrester, and irony that would have pleased her if her split from Darla had been less painful.

A baby. How could she be having a baby? She did love Trevor, with his rebellious and ambitious nature, his passion, and his overwhelming adoration of her. She loved being loved as deeply as Trevor felt for her. She was marrying Trevor willingly and happily, but she knew she must put aside her own dreams to do it. With a baby to raise and a husband to put through his last year of college, how could she ever hope to become an actress?

Her mother had been appalled when Fiona and Trevor had told her of the pregnancy.

“Didn’t I tell you, Fiona? Didn’t I tell you not to be alone with a boy?”

“Relax, Mother,” Fiona had said. “Trevor is going to buy the cow.”

Though that remark had been met with thin-lipped disapproval and a lecture on impertinence, Fiona’s mother had been only too relieved to begin preparations for the wedding.

Fiona grew more tired as the images changed and flowed in her mirror. She continued unconsciously to brush her hair with the silver-plated hairbrush. She was feeling bone weary but sat, transfixed, as a cherubic-faced little girl appeared in the mirror.

Sara shoved a scrap of paper with a scribble on it toward her mother. “Look, Mommy!” she said excitedly. “I can write my own name!”

“That’s perfect,” Fiona answered indulgently, ruffling her daughter’s dark curls. It was a late afternoon in early 1961, and Sara had just turned four. She had her mother’s dark and deep eyes, pudgy rosy cheeks, and a crown of curly dark hair. Fiona and Trevor adored her. Fiona wished she could give the child a brother or sister, but in consideration of the severe hemorrhaging she’d experienced after Sara’s birth, the doctor had recommended there be no more babies.

Trevor had finished his last year of school while Fiona worked part time, and Sara had been born in February after their wedding in September of 1956. Fiona and Sara had proudly attended Trevor’s graduation, and the little family had settled into the nondescript life Fiona was never sure she really wanted.

She loved making a home for her husband and daughter, but she occasionally thought of her lost dreams of becoming an actress. Her drama major had been traded for a two-bedroom house and diapers, and the dream slowly faded, becoming only a shadow of what might have been.

Fiona’s passion lived on, channeled into her family. Her love for Trevor and Sara was strong and vivid, beating at the remnants of regret she still harbored.

The images in Fiona’s mirror were coming faster now, gliding in and out of place like a slide show. Fiona put down the brush and watched as one turned into another, fast enough to blur.

Trevor’s promotion in 1969. They bought a new three-bedroom bungalow with a basement. Trevor surprised Fiona that spring with a new TV set on which she could watch the evening news with Walter Cronkite.

Sara’s first day of school, a name tag pinned to her new yellow dress and her chubby hand clinging to Fiona’s as she stepped into her first classroom.

Sara in her Girl Scout uniform. In her holly-berry apron by Fiona’s side, cutting gingerbread cookies for Christmas. Her face, reddened and vibrant, as she clattered into the house after ice-skating. Her dates, her driving permit, and Fiona standing at the window watching for late-night weekend returns.

Sara’s high school graduation in the spring of 1975, her long black curls tumbling down her back as she held her diploma high in the air for her proud parents to see. Trevor standing and cheering, pride glowing from his pale blue eyes.

Fiona’s volunteer work with the community theater, coaching the young actors and vicariously grasping a thread of her own once fiery ambitions.

Sara’s graduation from Vassar in 1979. Her wedding in the summer of of 1981, and her subsequent divorce five years later, when she had cried on Fiona’s shoulder, lamenting her husband’s inability to accept that she didn’t want children. Fiona’s fervent comforting of her only child while inside her own heart ached for the grandchildren Sara would never give her.

Trevor’s retirement, when they’d promised they would do all the things they’d never been able to as a young couple. Plans for travel, a coffee table littered with shiny color brochures of exotic destinations they would never see.

Trevor’s illness and weakening. His headaches. Trevor’s diagnosis in the fall of 2007, the black word “cancer” scrawled across his medical chart, as black as the feat etched into their hearts when the doctor had given them the horrifying news. Trevor in a bed with white sheets and tubes and an IV taped to his elbow. His labored breathing while Fiona sat next to him holding her own breath, his last gasp as he finally slipped away from Fiona. Her tears. Sara’s arm around her, guiding her out of the room when her own feet refused to carry her.

For a moment, the mirror went dark. When it lightened again, the old woman had returned, sitting quietly in a white nightgown, her fingers caressing the back of the siler hairbrush. Beside her appeared a gray-haired man with warm blue eyes. He put a wrinkled hand to the old woman’s shoulder and smiled at her. Trevor. Fiona blinked, tears stinging her eyes. How could she say goodbye after 52 years with him at her side? How would she find the strength to stay here without him?

As she watched, the old woman in the mirror faded away, and the years melted from Trevor image beside her. Suddenly, he was there, as young and handsome as in the spring of 1956, his hair thick and full and dark, his blue eyes sparkling with pleasure.

“I love you, Fiona,” Trevor said, reaching out his hand for her. “I always have.” Fiona had grown very tired, and she gratefully reached out to accept the hand Trevor offered. She felt him pull her to him and then was standing next to him, his powerful arm around her slender waist and her hand enclosed in his. She realized she didn’t feel quite as tired anymore.

“Is it really you, Trevor?” she asked in bewildered amazement, reaching out to stroke his cheek.

“Yes, it’s really me,” he answered quietly. “We have a dance to go to.” Fiona put a hand to her hair and felt the rhinestone barrette there, looking down past folds of pink chiffon to the silvery high-heeled sandals on her feet.

—-

Sara Laidlaw entered the house.

“Mom!” she called, pulling her gloves off and dropping them onto the foyer table with her key. “Mom!” There was no answer.

Sara walked to the kitchen, then through to the living room and the staircase. She went up, calling again. “Mom! It’s me! Where are you?”

Growing worried, she rushed up the last few steps and ran to her mother’s bedroom. She pushed open the door and stopped, gasping. She saw the figure slumped over the vanity table and ran to her.

“Mom! Mom!” she cried, frantically lifting the frail wrist to feel for a pulse. She choked back a sob and sank to her knees, stroking the gray hair.

“Mom, no, not you too,” she whispered, her tears beginning to flow.

From the other side of the mirror, Fiona turned and saw Sara sobbing over the lifeless form of the old woman. Sara must have loved the old woman very dearly, and Fiona felt sorry for her. She longed to reach out in comfort to Sara, to hug her as she always had, but she felt the gentle tug of Trevor’s hand on hers.

“She’ll be all right, Fiona,” Trevor whispered into her ear, pulling her toward a garden fragrant with lilacs. “It’s time for us to go now.”

Marvin’s Mother

Marvin’s Mother

The silver coffee service had belonged to his mother. He watched Gloria polish it with an old t-shirt of his, years of tarnish removed under her vigorous hand. He was touched that Gloria was giving such care to the coffee service; maybe she wanted to display it with her other treasures as an honored heirloom.

“What’s it worth, do you think?” she said suddenly, holding her arm out to admire her work. “A few hundred? I think eBay would bring in more money than a pawn shop, don’t you?”

Marvin was startled. She wanted to sell the coffee service? He thought of his mother, lying quietly, cold and alone, waiting for day they would commit her spirit. And what Gloria was thinking of was not her dearly departed mother-in-law but the money she could get from selling her heirlooms? It was unthinkable. Marvin reached over and snatched the sugar bowl from his wife’s plump fingers.

“We will NOT sell this coffee set!” His voice was harsh. “It was Mother’s. She wanted us to have it. She wanted us to have all of this.” His hand swept around the small kitchen, including the table at which Gloria sat, the Formica-topped dinette with the chrome frame.

“Wanted you to have it,” Gloria snorted. “When did she say that? She was hording everything in this house, never threw out or gave away a thing. What makes you think she cared about that coffee service? Why should I care about it?”

“Because it was hers,” Marvin retorted stubbornly. “She got it for her wedding in 1954.”

“And probably kept it in that damn box the last fifty years,” Gloria snapped. “I knew her for twenty-five years, Marvin. If she wanted me to have that coffee service, she’d have given it to me instead of letting it tarnish in a box.”

“Why are you bothering to polish it now?” Marvin asked sullenly, idly playing with the tissue in the box at Gloria’s elbow.

“I wanted to see if it was worth anything before we took it with us. I’m telling you, Marvin, ninety percent of this junk will be hauled to the Goodwill before we go home!”

Marvin sat down and eyed Gloria with resentment.

“These are Mother’s things,” he said evenly. “We will go through them with the care they deserve, even if it takes all weekend. This is all I have left of her.”

“Stop being sentimental, Marvin. Most of it is junk.” Gloria’s eyes surveyed the countertops, loaded down with boxes and stacks of old dishes and piles of ragged towels and washcloths.

“Anything of collectible value, I’m putting on eBay,” she continued. “The rest can get dumped.”

Marvin was silent. He didn’t like this, not one bit. The dollar signs in Gloria’s eyes were distinctly unattractive. Collectibles? Sell Mother’s things on eBay? How could Gloria be so heartless? It was true that his wife had never really gotten along with his mother. They had each grudgingly accepted the other’s presence as a part of Marvin’s life, but he had no idea that Gloria would be so ready to erase his mother’s very existence.

“This probably will take all weekend,” Gloria grumbled as she rummaged in a boxful of 1960s Melmac dishes.

“We’ll stay over,” Marvin said firmly.

“Here?” Gloria asked. “You want me to sleep in your mother’s room? The sheets are probably still warm.” She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“You can use the guest room if it’s that distasteful to you, Gloria,” Marvin responded primly.

“And what about that bathroom? The plumbing is out again! I’m supposed to stay in a house where the toilet doesn’t flush?”

“I’ll take care of it, Gloria. Don’t worry.”

Gloria continued to putter in the kitchen, occasionally muttering under her breath unflattering comments about her mother-in-law’s housekeeping and her taste. She tossed piece after piece into a large box she had marked “junk.” A few things were set on the table next to the silver coffee service, Gloria evidently intent on selling them. Marvin wondered what she would do with the money she made off of the trappings of his mother’s life.

“No taste at all,” Gloria grumbled. “Junk, most of it. Not even worth an estate sale. Gas station premiums. Did she get all of her ‘good china’ as gas station premiums? Not even a single piece of Mikasa. No Fiestaware. What a waste of time.”

Marvin got up and wandered through the house, leaving Gloria to her sorting and her grumbling. The house still held the sense of his mother’s presence. Her scent was in every room. He fingered the pictures on the wall, pictures of him as a child and a young man. One large frame held a tiny picture from each of his years in school in a circle, and in the middle was his high school graduation photo from 1974. He noticed there was no copy of his wedding photo in evidence anywhere; no pictures of Gloria. He and Gloria had had no children, and so his mother had no pictures of grandchildren displayed. For as long as he could remember, there had been no pictures of his father either. He had never understood what had happened to his father when he left, but his mother had raised him alone from the time he was five years old. Maybe that’s why the coffee service was in a box. Maybe it reminded Mother too much of Father and the memory was painful.

He went into the bedroom and closed the door, sitting on the rose chenille spread that adorned her bed. The room smelled of perfume and sickness, and it held the air of her death in it. He was sorry he hadn’t been able to care for her better. He was sorry she had wasted away and he had been unable to stop it. He was sorry now that Gloria didn’t have a greater respect for the dead and the pieces of property that kept him connected to his mother.

Gloria would want to sell the house too, he expected. He had grown up in this tiny house, and before too long all the remnants of his childhood would be gone, auctioned to the highest bidder and Gloria counting the cash his mother’s death had given her. He shuddered, his thin shoulders shaking as he tried to fight back the tears.

“Mother, what will I do without you?” he cried, receiving only the steady ticking of her alarm clock in response. He stood, walking over to the dresser and running his hand along the doily that lined the top. She had made that doily herself, like the others in the house. Hand stitched it. Made the lace. Women didn’t do that anymore, he thought with a frown. Women weren’t the homemakers they used to be. Gloria could use a few lessons in the fine art of homemaking herself.

He opened the jewelry box, nearly empty except for the pearl necklace and the pearl earrings in the heavy gold setting. Mother hadn’t worn them often. She complained that they pinched her ears.

He picked up the necklace and earrings, slipping them into the pocket of his jeans.

“Gloria won’t sell these, Mother,” he whispered. “I’ll keep them as a memento of you. Gloria is so wrong, Mother. She wants to erase you from our memories. I think she’s glad you died. I think she’s glad to be rid of you.” He laughed bitterly. “I had no idea my wife was so cold, Mother. I’m sorry about that. Maybe you were right all those years ago. Maybe I shouldn’t have married her.”

Marvin sighed heavily, his despair pressing in on his chest. He didn’t want to divide his loyalties between his mother and his wife. Gloria had been a good wife, if somewhat distant, and he needed her to understand how important his mother’s things were to him. He needed her to understand he couldn’t just get rid of them. He couldn’t get rid of his memories.

With the pearl necklace and earrings safe in his pocket, he made his way back to the kitchen, where Gloria’s “junk” box was overflowing. Gloria was nowhere to be seen.

“Gloria?” Marvin called. “Where are you?”

Her response was muffled, coming from the basement below.

“I’m down here!” she answered, sounding cross. “So many boxes down here…Marvin, didn’t that woman ever throw anything away? Come down here and help me!”

Marvin was reluctant. He didn’t like the basement. It was poorly lit and dank, and it smelled of mildew. The stairs creaked under his feet as he descended. The mildew odor assaulted his nostrils. The basement had never been finished, and the hard concrete floor felt cold even through his shoes. The washer and dryer were down there, next to the furnace and the water heater. There were boxes piled everywhere. Old clothes, mostly ruined from age and damp, hung from the pipes across the ceiling.

“I need some trash bags,” Gloria said as she looked up and saw Marvin standing next to her. “Almost everything down here is ruined. We’ll have to pay someone to haul out all of this mess. Didn’t your mother know the basement had water damage?”

“I don’t think so,” Marvin answered. “She rarely came down here. She did her washing in the bathtub.”

“Damn shame,” Gloria muttered. “Some of these things might have been valuable or collectible. She must have saved every piece of clothing she’d ever owned since the 1940s. All ruined now. Ruined.”

Marvin felt his mother’s presence swirling in this room. She was here. It was palpable. Some of the dresses he saw hanging up were unrecognizable, but some of them held the image of their original condition. He remembered the house dresses she wore when he was a little boy. He could see her in them now, forty years melting away inside his brain, the ghosts of his memories ringing in his ears: Marvin! Put that frog outside! Don’t bring that filthy thing in here! Marvin! Stand up straight. Comb your hair! Do you want folks thinking I don’t know how to bring you up? Marvin! Don’t get trapped by a girl. You stay away from those town girls! Nothing but trouble! Marvin! Don’t you marry that Gloria Lowry! She’s trouble. I can tell! You leave her be and stay here to take care of your poor old mother. Marvin! Marvin! Marvin!

Marvin put his hands to his ears.

“What in heaven’s name is wrong with you?” Gloria looked at him curiously. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

Marvin shuddered again. He felt strange. His voice sounded hollow inside his head. “I’ll get those trash bags for you, dear.”

He turned and walked back up the stairway into the sunlight streaming through the kitchen window. He found the trash bags on the counter next to the sink and picked up the box. With his other hand, he reached into his pocket and rolled the pearl necklace between his fingers.

“I’ve tried to do right by you, Mother,” he said sorrowfully. “I’m sorry your things were ruined. I’m sorry Gloria is so angry.

He closed his eyes and leaned against the counter, his grief coming to him in a torrent. Dimly, he heard Gloria’s footsteps on the staircase.

“What’s keeping you?” she snapped, crossing the top step and entering the kitchen. “I have to bag up most of that garbage in plastic so they’ll haul it away.” She snatched the box from Marvin.

“You’re no help,” she complained when Marvin didn’t move or open his eyes. “Useless. I’m left to do all this by myself. That woman was a pack rat. A filthy pack rat. Did her washing in the bathtub? No wonder nothing seems really clean. Damn shame she let all those old clothes go to ruin…that fool of a woman…” Gloria continued her tirade as she headed back to the basement to stuff the contents of rotting cardboard cartons into the trash bags.

“Just like his mother, not a lick of sense, and nobody thought to check the basement? She must have been senile for years, don’t know what….” Gloria’s voice was broken by a scream piercing the heavy air.

Marvin’s eyes flew open. Gloria was screaming. Why was Gloria screaming? He pulled himself from the spot near the counter and went around to the staircase. His eyes widened as he saw Gloria at the bottom of the stairs, her body contorted in a grotesque tableau. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, and her glassy eyes stared upward, seeing nothing.

Marvin’s heart pounded and he felt his mother with him again. He fingered the necklace in his pocket.

“It’s a shame, Gloria,” he said, shaking his head sadly at the figure below. “It’s a shame you had to push Mother so hard. You had to know she’d push back.”

Flowers For Violet

It was deceptively sunny. Louis peeked out the window in the foyer and saw the big spring sun brightening everything it touched. There were a few shadows cast by the pear tree in the front yard, but for Louis there were always shadows anyway.

Louis knew that despite the warm appearance of the sun, it was still early in the spring, and that meant it might still be cold. He went to the closet, pulling out a worn wool sweater and poking his thin arms into the sleeves. He buttoned it carefully and slowly, thankful that the buttons were big enough to manipulate without causing too much pain in his fingers. Over the sweater, he pulled on a windbreaker jacket, zipping it up to his neck.

From his jacket pocket, he withdrew the leash. He jangled it a bit until Tommy came bounding around the corner, eager for his walk this morning.

“Hey there, feller,” Louis said gently, bending down to fasten the leash to Tommy’s collar and give him a scratch behind the ears. Tommy leaned into Louis’ touch, eagerly lapping at his free hand.

“Let’s go get some flowers for Miss Violet, should we boy?” Louis smiled, scratching Tommy’s head once more. Louis couldn’t have asked for a better friend than old Tommy.

When they emerged from the house, Louis felt the breeze on his face and knew he had been right. The sun was deceptive. The warm, inviting appearance from inside the house belied the chilly air outside. He gripped Tommy’s leash firmly and thrust both hands into the pockets of his windbreaker.

Tommy walked slowly, seeming to enjoy the scenery. Tommy was old too, like Louis, and he never tugged on the leash or tried to make Louis walk too fast. Tommy had been with Louis and Violet since he was a pup, and that was seventeen years ago. Sometimes Louis wished there had been grandchildren to play with Tommy when he was a pup, but wishing for a thing doesn’t make it so. Louis knew that as well as anybody. Still, it was just too bad that Tommy hadn’t had any boisterous children around him to toss a ball or run in the fields with him. He’d grown old beside Louis and Violet, content enough in his life with them. He didn’t seem to miss what he’d never had.

Louis and Tommy strolled to the corner, where they stopped at Mr. Harlan’s stand. Mr. Harlan sold newspapers and magazines. He also sold a tiny selection of fruits laid out in wooden baskets, candy and gum, and every day, he had a few bouquets of fresh flowers to sell, bouquets hand picked from his own garden and arranged by his wife. Louis was pleased to see that today Mr. Harlan had some violets.

“They’re beautiful today, Louis,” Mr. Harlan smiled as Louis passed him a few crinkled bills to pay for a bouquet. “Anna was very happy to see the daffodils and the violets this year.”

“I imagine she was, Sam,” Louis answered pleasantly. “My Violet loves the spring flowers. She’ll be happy with these.”

Mr. Harlan bent down to scruff the back of Tommy’s neck while Tommy waited patiently for Louis. In a moment they were on their way again, Mr. Harlan waving genially and calling after them to have a nice day.

Louis and Tommy walked on through the neighborhood and past the park, where several young boys had gotten together a game of baseball. Louis heard their shouts echoing in his ears long after he had passed the park. It made him happy to think of children playing baseball in the early spring, eager to be outside after a long and snowy winter. Sixty-five years ago, Louis had been just like those young boys, tearing outside at the first sign of baseball weather, cracking the bat and sliding in the mud. He remembered long afternoons spent poring over baseball cards up in the tree house they had built in the woods behind his house. He sighed. Louis’ carefree childhood days were just shadows now, like so many other shadows, pictures of a past that had ceased to exist.

When they finally reached their destination, Louis lifted the latch on the heavy iron gate and pushed it open. He dropped Tommy’s leash and let him in first, leaving the gate open and following Tommy. Tommy knew where to go. He reached her first, promptly lying down and resting his head on his front paws. When Louis caught up to him, he lightly patted the warm golden fur. Tommy’s brown eyes seemed to hold sympathy for Louis as he silently watched Louis’ movements.

Steadying himself on the stone, Louis carefully knelt. He placed the violets tenderly on the earth, smelling the freshness of the awakening grass and the damp soil. His gnarled fingers ran along the front of the stone, feeling the words etched there. He swallowed hard over the lump forming in his throat.

“I brought you some violets, my girl,” he said, his voice growing raspy. “Violets for my Violet. I thought you’d like them today. It’s just right for spring. It’s too cold today. I thought the violets would make it seem warm.”

Louis leaned over, resting his cheek on the stone. It was as cold as it ever was. Tommy stood up and walked over slowly, his leash jingling as it dragged behind him. He put his paws on Louis’ knees, and Louis sat, heedless of the mud. Tommy snuggled into Louis’ lap as far as he could go, seeming to want Louis to take warmth from him.

“Gone too soon, wasn’t she, boy?” Louis spoke wearily. “It’s been a long winter, Tommy. Violet would have liked to be tending her flowerbeds now. That old garden will be full of shadows when the brush gets overgrown.” He scrubbed the top of Tommy’s head with fingers becoming knotted in pain from his arthritis. “I don’t know if I can take care of her things, boy. Won’t be much of a garden this year.” Tears stung the old man’s eyes. He pressed his cheek to Tommy’s head and let them fall.

………………..

The late afternoon shadows had grown very long by the time Mitch left the park and headed for home. He and the guys had spent the whole day playing baseball and warming up for the season to come. He was happily splattered with mud and his muscles were sore, but he was more concerned about his stomach rumbling. He didn’t want to be late to supper, so he picked up the pace to a jog as he approached the cemetery three blocks from his house. When he came upon it, he saw that the iron gate was open, waiting for someone to come along and close it. Mitch slowed his steps, peering curiously into the cemetery, wondering who would be there at this time of the day.

He stopped short when he saw an old man leaning against one of the stones, fast asleep with a dog in his lap.

“Mister!” he shouted. “Hey, mister! Are you okay?” Getting no answer, Mitch jogged across the lawn until he reached the man and his dog. Something didn’t seem right. Mitch gasped, his instinct urging him to run the rest of the way home and tell his father. He turned, his feet pounding into the softening earth as he ran.

Behind him, just as the last shadows fell before the dusk, violets bloomed.

Gifted

Piece of fiction for a Monday…

GIFTED

Kurt read back what he had written and frowned. He pounded the desk with his fist.

“It’s shit,” he said disgustedly, his own voice echoing in the emptiness of the house. He clicked and highlighted the text, stabbing the delete key with more force than was necessary. He rested his elbow on the desk, placing his forehead in his hand, utterly weary physically and mentally.

After a moment, he sat up with a jerk and shook his head.

“Coffee,” he said to no one in particular, standing up and heading for the kitchen to put on a pot. A look at the clock over the stove told him it was just past 2:30 in the morning. He had a deadline to meet. His editor was expecting these chapters tomorrow. Today. In truth, he had wanted the chapters days ago, but Kurt had been unable to oblige. He felt now as if he were in a vise, but he had no choice. He had to write until he had something that would work. Something. Anything.

He filled the coffeemaker with water, measured the coffee into the filter, and flicked the switch. He leaned back against the counter to watch the coffee brew, his mind trying to find the track that would take him back into his book. He felt helpless, as if he had no control over his ability – or lack thereof – to write.

The coffee dripped steadily into the carafe, the popping, dripping sound the only noise in the oppressively quiet house. Nothing had gone right since Olivia had died. She had been everything to Kurt: his life, his heart, his light, and his soul. When she had died, she had taken his Muse with her. His inspiration had been wrapped up in her, and all the music and beauty in his life had died when she did.

For six months, Kurt had been restlessly and aimlessly walking the floors in this empty house, searching in vain for respite from the searing ache in his heart, but there was never comfort. The emptiness weighed on him, threatening to crush him. The silence was a scream that echoed endlessly in his ears. Time had not eased his own screams.

His mother called daily, trying to pull him from the quicksand.

“Kurt,” she would say. “You have to go on living. Olivia wouldn’t have wanted your life to end with hers. She loved you. She wouldn’t want this for you.” Her pleading didn’t help him. Sometimes he’d listen quietly. Other times he’d rage at her.

“Leave me alone! What can I possibly have that’s worth having without Olivia! She was everything!” Eventually his mother would hang up, only to try again the next day. There were many days when Kurt refused to answer the phone at all.

The coffee was done. He pulled a mug from the cupboard, filled it, and took a hard swallow, heedless of the burning on his tongue. He wrapped his hands around the mug as if for his own life, hanging on to anything that might anchor him. In his mind he saw her, young and beautiful and healthy, standing in this kitchen the day after he had brought her home from their honeymoon.

She stood at the counter, slicing carrots and tomatoes into a big teakwood bowl of lettuce, her ash blonde hair shimmering in the late afternoon sun streaming through the kitchen window. Kurt sat opposite her, nursing a glass of white wine, watching the sunlight playing on her hair and skin. He marveled that this lovely, lively young woman was his bride. He thought he’d never known a happier moment.

“I love you,” he said, reaching out a hand to touch her. She smiled, her warmth radiating through the kitchen and penetrating the deepest parts of Kurt.

“I love you too.” She leaned over and kissed him with soft lips. He breathed her scent, filling his lungs with her.

“I can’t wait to have a dozen babies with you and fill this house with their laughter,” she said excitedly, a shine in her green eyes.

“And they’ll all be beautiful, just like their mother.”

Olivia blushed at that, finishing the vegetables and tossing the salad with her hands.

“No more beautiful than you,” she said.

Hot tears surprised Kurt. He wasn’t a crier.

She had been beautiful, his Olivia. Even at the end, when the cancer had ravaged her body and taken her strength, she had been beautiful. He’d have given own his life for her if only she hadn’t had to suffer.

They had been married only ten months when she’d developed the blinding headaches that sent them rushing to her doctor for answers. For help. Answers they had gotten; for help, there was none. The cancer had taken her quickly. Olivia had been just twenty-four years old when she died.

Kurt drained the mug of coffee, refilled it, and padded down the darkened, quiet hallway back to the den. He sat in the leather chair in front of his desk once more, watching the cursor blink its rhythm on the blank screen in front of him. His penciled notes were strewn about the desk, some of them crumpled in his frustration and spilling over onto the Oriental rug beneath his feet. The half-eaten remains of his supper lay at the back of the desk. Movement caught Kurt’s eye, and he turned to see a large spider crawl across the abandoned plate. His first thought was to smash it with his fist, but with a muttered remark about karma, he instead scooped it up with his napkin. He stood and strode into the foyer, opening the heavy door and unceremoniously dumping the spider into the darkness outside.

“Go home,” he said senselessly, wondering if he was slowly going insane.

He stood a moment, breathing the sharply chilled air. He wondered if the cold burst into his lungs would clear the dissonance in his head. The still, cloudless darkness renewed his sense of urgency to meet his deadline, but nothing eased the dull ache left hanging in his body. He slammed the door shut and threw the deadbolt.

Back in the den he sat in front of the uncompromising computer, the blank page looming there. He took a large swallow of coffee and began again, starting and stopping in dissatisfaction and deleting more than he saved.

“Damn it!” he shouted, hearing the reverb sting his ears. “Damn damn damn. I can’t write!”

He jumped up suddenly, knocking over the mug of coffee. It dripped off the edge of the desk onto the rug, soaking the crumpled papers that lay there.

Kurt knelt, violently throwing the coffee-stained paper into the wastebasket. As the wet seeped into the rug, his own tears shocked him once more.

“I’m sorry, Olivia,” he said ruefully. “I know you loved this rug. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” He fetched a thick towel from the closet in the hall and pressed it against the rug, hoping to pull the coffee out of its fibers. As he mopped at the mess, another spider crawled in front of him.

“Where did you come from?” he asked sharply. “Go outside with your buddy.” He scooped the spider up, this time with his bare hands, and tossed it into the cold as he had done before. “Find your friend! Leave me alone.”

“It’s no use!” he bellowed, leaning back against the front door as he closed it. “I give up! I’m not going to write again.”

“Yes, you are.”

Kurt started. He shook his head. What the hell…? Was he hearing things? Where had that voice come from? Had he finally snapped completely, going over the edge to insanity? He heard it again.

“You can write. You have to stop trying to control it.”

“Who are you!” Kurt yelled. “Am I crazy?”

“You’re not crazy. Go sit. Write.”

“I can’t.” Kurt’s voice was bitter. He stormed back into the den and flung his body into the leather chair. As he watched the cursor blink, an idea slowly formed in his head and began to consume his thoughts. A few moments later, he hunched over the keyboard and began to thump out the words, faster and faster until his furious fingers had trouble keeping pace with his brain. His breath was rapid, jagged, and his eyes glazed as the story came with ever increasing speed.

As the first dim gray light of dawn began to peer into the windows, Kurt’s fingers at last rested. He lay his head on the desk and allowed the weariness to take over. He slept. A single spider crawled across the back of his hand and stopped in front of the keyboard to watch him.

……………

“These are great, Kurt,” Barry enthused. “Best work I’ve seen from you in months.” He shuffled the papers, spot reading portions here and there.

“You’re the editor, Barry. I’ll take your word for it.” Kurt gave him a weak smile. “My night took a lot out of me,” he explained at Barry’s look of concern. “I wound up sleeping at my desk.”

Barry laughed. “Worse writers than you have done the same,” he said. His face becoming serious, he placed a hand on Kurt’s shoulder. “Do you think you should talk to someone about it?”

“About what? Sleeping at my desk?”

“No. About Olivia’s death.”

Kurt pulled away from him. “No. I’m fine. I’ve – I’ve got to go now, Barry. Get back to me with your revision notes.” Kurt snatched his leather briefcase and left the editor’s office abruptly.

When he arrived home, he went immediately to the den. The chair in front of the desk still felt warm. The large coffee stain on the Oriental rug was gone. Kurt’s eyes were drawn to the computer screen in front of him, the cursor blinking rapidly next to the words typed there. He read, his mouth agape, his eyes widening as he stood up, gripping the edge of the desk and following the words again and again:

I love you, Kurt. Keep writing. O.

In a corner of the room, a spider began carefully spinning a web.

Inhumanity

For the second day in a row, I am watching live news coverage of a shooting, this one leaving at least one dead and several wounded in Orlando. Yesterday, it was a shooting at Fort Hood in Texas, leaving some 13 dead and dozens other wounded.

There was a time I could count on one hand the number of times I’d stood in front of a television, watching in horror as the savagery of humankind came across the screen in bits and pieces of breaking news. And then there were more and more, again and again. Oklahoma City. Jonesboro. Columbine.  Atlanta. Virginia Tech. Chicago. Offices, schools, malls. Bombs. Shootings. Something inside snaps, and more people are dead.

I can’t pretend to understand the struggle and pain and loathing inside that compels a person to such brutality.  It shocks me.

I hope these horrific occurrences never become so common that they cease to shock me.

 

Blog Fail, Afternoon Fail

If I’m supposed to write a blog post a day in the month of November, I’ve already failed. According to the calendar page I flipped only just this afternoon, it’s November third.  It’s a little late now to commit to what I already haven’t done.

I was bored and restless this afternoon. I knew what was causing my discontent, but lacking a way to fix it, I went to Starbucks instead. I put on cute shoes – my emotional panacaea of late – wrapped a scarf around my neck and threw on the sage green corduroy jacket I’ve worn every fall for five years. The mirror was satisfied with what I was wearing, but my eyes looked tired. And sad. I briefly thought of staying home to take a nap, and ultimately decided that would make it all worse.

I sat in a comfortable overstuffed orange chair at the front of Starbucks, looking out the windows at the people coming and going in the shopping center beyond. I had an egg nog latte, my first of the season. It tasted more like Thanksgiving than Christmas, and that was fine with me. November has given up too much to Christmas already, and December still seems a reasonably safe distance away.

Holding the coffee, my hands were warm for the first time all day. I thought about the conversation I’d abandoned when I left the house. I thought about why I’d driven to this Starbucks, miles from home, when I’d had to pass two others to get there. I watched the sun and the clouds fight each other for sky space, and I thought maybe the gray would win. I wondered if a message would be waiting for me when I got home.

I wished it would snow.

It took an hour to drink my egg nog latte, and then I reluctantly left the overstuffed orange chair to cross the parking lot to the grocery store, where I bought potatoes and eggs and cereal. I drove with my songs too loud, gave myself a headache, and refused to obey my own command to turn down the volume. When I arrived home, everything was as I’d left it, towels waiting to be folded, dishes to put away, the computer screen static and unblinking.  There was no message.

I unwound the scarf, hung the jacket, tossed the cute shoes in front of the closet and sat down to peel the potatoes.

Highway 10 To Anywhere

It’s Friday night, I’m feeling melancholy and a little less than happy.  Continuing the process of moving some of my fiction to this blog, here’s another from 2004

———-
HIGHWAY 10 TO ANYWHERE

“I’m hot-headed, check it and see, I got a reefer of a hundred and three!” Joey’s raspy voice filled the car, singing along very badly to the radio.

“You idiot,” I said sharply, glancing over at him as I drove. “It’s hot blooded. I got a fever of a hundred and three. Geez, sing it right, will you?”

Joey was unperturbed. “Ah, whatever,” he answered dismissively. “I errored. Big deal.”

I sighed. “Err, Joe. The word is err. You erred. You did not error.”

“What are you?” he asked. “Are you my sister or the damn English teacher?”

“Maybe with a little luck, some day I really will be a teacher. And watch your mouth.”

“Yeah, well. Where were you when I needed help with my oral report on the norwhale in Mrs. Schiffling’s class last year?”

“Narwhal, Joey.”

“Yeah. Whatever.”

Joey fell silent, and I drove along steadily at seventy miles per hour, not much more than instinct to guide me. I wasn’t sure where we were going, just that we were leaving Wisconsin. We were headed west on Highway 10 to anywhere.

I was twenty that summer. Joey was sixteen. He was my only brother, and I felt responsible for him. When Mama died, Joey was only nine. I was just thirteen, but I took over caring for the house and looking after Joey. Daddy wasn’t much help. He provided for us, but his work took him away often. When he was at home, he moped around, drinking, crying, and mostly ignoring Joey and me. I guess he never really got over Mama’s death. He used to tell me Joey and I were too much like Mama, that looking at us hurt. He hung on for a few years until I finished school, but eventually life proved to be too much for my Daddy. I came home one afternoon to find him on the floor, dead from a gunshot, the injury self-inflicted.

I don’t know how I got through those next few days. The police came, the ambulance, the paramedics – they all came. There was nothing they could do. The coroner came, and my Daddy was gone. The ladies from church came, all of them bringing food and tut-tutting about my brother Joey and what would happen to him. There was a funeral and there were lawyers. There were child welfare people.

Daddy had some insurance, but there wasn’t much payout for taking his own life, and so they put the house up for sale. After the debts were paid and the lawyers were paid, there was precious little left for Joey and me. The child welfare people didn’t seem to care much what happened to Joey, and so when they let me become his guardian, I decided it was time for us to leave. We had no home and no family. There was nothing to keep us in Wisconsin and every reason to start a new life somewhere else. We loaded what we had into Dad’s old Ford and took off with one thousand dollars and no real plan at all.

I looked over at Joey again. He had dozed off, his head leaned back against the seat. With his mouth open and his face softened, he looked like a little boy as he slept. I hoped I was doing right by him. I was all he had. Maybe we could go to Minneapolis. Maybe I could find a job there and Joey could finish high school. Maybe someday I could go to college. That would be something.

I heard the echo of my mother’s long ago words, words spoken softly to me as she lay dying in a darkened room, her anguish at leaving her children naked on her face.

“Take care of Joey, now, Sharon,” she had said. “He looks up to you. Be good to him. Take care of him. He’s my angel.”

“I will, Mama,” I had said then, and I said it again now. “I’ll take care of Joey, Mama.”

I pulled into a gas station in Marshfield. Joey stirred, sitting up and rubbing his sleepy eyes.

“Where are we?”

“Marshfield. You want something to drink?” It was July, hot and muggy, and the old Ford didn’t have air conditioning.

“Yeah. Get me a beer.” Joey’s eyes were mischievous.

“Yeah, I won’t. A root beer, maybe.” I had forty dollars in my wallet, the rest of our money carefully hidden in a sealed envelope in the bottom of my suitcase in the trunk. I counted out twenty dollars for the gas and another dollar for a drink. I handed the bills to Joey.

“You go on in and pay, will you? And bring me back a root beer too.”

I leaned against the door of the Ford, watching Joey run into the station. He was so eager and sweet, and I loved him. He didn’t talk much about Daddy dying. He never said the word suicide. He never ever mentioned Mama. I wondered what secrets my little brother held inside of him. I wondered if those secrets would ever come out.

My heart gave a little tug when Joey came out of the station, waving two bottles of root beer and a Clark bar at me.

“I gotcha a candy bar,” he said lazily. “But you have to share, ‘cause I didn’t have enough money for two.”

That was Joey’s way of saying he loved me too. If Mama’s death had been a solder for us, Daddy dying had strengthened it. I gave Joey a little punch on the arm as he handed me my root beer and half the Clark bar. He punched me back before getting into his side of the car.

“Put that seatbelt on,” I admonished him as he lounged in the seat, his gangly long legs looking folded up in a space too small.

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever,” Joey said, flashing me another grin.

“You’re a curse on me, Joey. Just fasten the seatbelt, will you?”

Back on the road, Joey sang again.

“Well, it’s eight o’clock in Boise, Idaho, I’ll find my lame-o driver, mister, take us to the show….”

“It’s limo driver, Joe. Limo driver.”

“I know it,” Joey said. “I just like to yank on your chain a little.” He sat up straight, taking a slug out of his root beer. “D’you think we could go to Boise, Idaho? How far is that anyway?”

“I don’t know. Couple thousand miles, I guess. I thought maybe we’d go to Minneapolis.”

“Okay,” Joey said, readily agreeing with me. “What’s in Minneapolis?”

“I don’t know. It’s a big city. Someplace I can find a job and we can get an apartment, and I can enroll you in school.”

“I don’t want to go to school. I’m sixteen. I don’t have to go to school anymore.”

“Joe, I know you don’t have to go to school, but how are you going to get a good job if you don’t finish school?”

“Why do I care?” Joey gulped down the last of his root beer. “Daddy finished school. He got a good job. Look where it got him. He’s dead. He didn’t care if it left us with nothing. He’s dead, and what good did school do him?”

I was quiet. It was the first time Joey talked about Daddy’s death. I was disheartened and didn’t know what to say.

We drove in silence for a few more miles. We came to Osseo, time to leave Highway 10 and turn onto Interstate 94. Joey suddenly spoke just as I entered the on ramp.

“Did Mama wear lavender?” he asked.

I was startled.

“Yeah, she did. Did you remember that?”

“Yeah,” Joey admitted. “I remember she smelled like lavender.” He turned to me, tears brimming over in his blue, blue eyes.

“Sharon, I don’t remember much of Mama,” he continued. “Does that mean I didn’t love her enough? All I remember is her pretty hair and the smell of lavender.”

“Oh, God, Joe! Don’t say that!” I gripped the steering wheel with my left hand, reaching for Joey with my right. I felt his hand slip into mine, and I gave it a squeeze.

“You loved her, Joey. Don’t think otherwise. You loved her, and she adored you. You were her angel.”

“I didn’t want her to die, Sharon.” Joey’s voice was broken now with sobs, big heaving cries I couldn’t stop even if I wanted to. All the pent up despair and anger was coming out of Joey, and he clung to my hand as if it were life support.

I drove on, listening to him cry, my heart breaking a little with every sob. I had to take care of him. He didn’t have anybody else. I stroked the palm of his hand with my thumb.

“It’s okay, Joey. I won’t leave you.”

I saw the big brown sign shaped like Minnesota up ahead. “Minnesota Welcomes You!” it said. I was glad to leave Wisconsin behind. For Joey and me, Wisconsin had been nothing but loss and heartache.

“Minnesota,” I said to him, lifting his hand with mine to gesture at the sign. He nodded, his tears dried but his eyes still red and swollen.

“Sharon?”

“Yeah, Joe?”

“I’ll go to school. And when I’m done, I’m gonna put you through college and you’re gonna be a teacher.”

I looked over at Joey and smiled, giving another squeeze to the fingers laced with mine.

I felt the burden on my heart lift just a little when he spoke those words, and the first tall buildings of Minneapolis came into view.

Witnesses & Shoes

She had lost her arm.

That was at the heart of this case now on trial. She had lost her arm, and our job was to decide if the doctor at the defendant’s table could have prevented it.

She sat at the table marked Plaintiff, to the left of her lawyer.  She sat and watched the parade of witnesses who testified for her case, some of them enthusiastic, others reluctant. Sometimes she cried.

Those of us at the jury table watched and listened to these witnesses, most of the them doctors. We got a crash course in medical specifics, terms and symptoms we’d never heard before and now would never forget. We saw the medical records, the notes, heard the explanations and the experts, saw the photos. The pictures were the hardest, of course, and as they flashed on the big screen behind the witness stand, simulataneously appearing on the small monitors in front of us, she cried. It was easy to see why.

I listened to the vascular surgeon, whose testimony came to us via DVD. I wished he were there in the courtroom; I found his face and mannerisms fascinating and his voice hypnotizing, but I could not read his expression. He was in shadow on that video, and I wondered if there were something we’d miss.

I listened to the hand surgeon who had ultimately performed the surgery that took her arm. He was angry. I waited for the lawyer to suggest to the judge this was a hostile witness, but this wasn’t a tv show. That wasn’t going to happen.  The doctor answered questions for more than an hour, his voice increasingly impatient. As I listened and took notes, I began to formulate an opinion on the source of his anger.

Sometimes the sounds of the other jurors’ pencils distracted me. Sometimes I’d look out the windows opposite the jury box and wonder what was happening outside. I wondered who was walking below, who was at the deli next door, who was waiting outside the courtroom to testify next. My memory would travel east and I’d wonder what he was doing.

And I’d take notes, realizing I’d heard every word from the witness stand after all.

During our breaks, I could feel the eyes on the jury as we exited the courtroom, single file line, our yellow badges clipped to our clothes and our faces all expressionless. They wondered what we were thinking. I wondered too, but discussion of the case amongst ourselves was verboten. In the jury room, someone would tell a joke and we’d all laugh, but the tension was obvious. We’d pour coffee or grab a snack and talk about the college football team.  My shoes became a joke too: how many days could the trial go without my having to repeat a pair of shoes?

The days and the witnesses began to run together. We were freed each day by 2:30, but we were only free to go home. We weren’t free to share our thoughts, and the trial itself became all-consuming to me. On the day we saw the pictures and she cried, I went home and cried too.

The day I wore the gray, red and black tweed shoes with the gray skirt and red sweater, it rained. It came down in soggy sheets, beating against the courtroom window, making it hard to hear the soft-spoken emergency room doctor timidly recounting his own role in the medical story that led to this suit against his colleague.

“Did you check for a pulse?” the attorney asked.

“The nurse did.”

“Was there a pulse present?”

“According to the medical record, yes there was.”

“In the left arm?”

“Yes.”

“Where in this record does it say the pulse was taken in the left arm?”

And so it went, the hammering questions, the timid answers, and the sheets of rain assaulting the windows until I wanted to tell all of them to shut up and be done with it.

The day I wore the brown suede pumps, it was cold. I wore jeans and a brown sweater and huddled into a sage green corduroy jacket, wishing I could tuck my feet underneath me.  I crossed and uncrossed my legs, unable to get comfortable. Another witness appeared via DVD that day, and it was clear she did not like the attorney who asked her the same question over and over, clearly trying to get her to say something she did not want to and could not say. I took careful notes on this testimony, silently thinking that this lawyer wasn’t giving the jury much credit. I could see what he was doing, and if I saw it, so did the others.

In all, we saw the records of four emergency room visits. We heard the testimony of sixteen witnesses, including doctors who had been there, doctors who hadn’t, economists, life planners, nurses, and finally, the principals themselves. Sometimes the testimony didn’t match what had been said in depositions taken months before, and sometimes the answers became, “I don’t remember,” “I don’t recall,” and “I couldn’t say specifically.”

In the end it was a Thursday, a sunny, beautiful day on which I wore purple and black plaid pumps, when the parade of witnesses ended and the lawyers took an hour each to give us their closing arguments, the parsing of the testimony into two clean, well-worded speeches that would leave us with our final impressions of the case and the evidence before being locked in our room to decide the Final Answer.