In Recognition of International Woman’s Day

Mrs. Beam picked me up on Sunday morning to take me to Cedar Grove Lutheran Church. I was a little on the uppity side when it came to choosing church going.  My grandparents and my father attended Bess Chapel Methodist.  That was too redneck for me, too “Rock of Ages” for my taste.  I had a vision that I need to be among the better heeled Lutherans and that if I attended Cedar Grove, with the judgmental and harsh minister who at the time stood in the pulpit and reined with a steel fist over his flock, I would somehow be closer to where my family had once been.  I could pretend for those mornings while standing, sitting, standing, and sitting that my life was truly no different that it had been.  Before the divorce.  Before the gradual disintegration of my family.  Before I came to live at Flay.

So my precious and loving 4^th grade teacher picked me up as she passed by Flay on Sunday mornings.  In my memory, I was always waiting on her, ready and willing to enter an environment that did not want me at all.  On time for this appointment, this may explain why I have rarely been on time since.

This was a church filled with intact nuclear families and perfect mother-daughter relationships.  Fathers appeared to be part of the plan, and I could gaze upon a world that had been stolen out from under me.  A place that loudly proclaimed that I was the ugly duckling, but which I chose to attend repeatedly, to endure what I felt as personal abuse, until I received my confirmation.    I recall being admonished by a holier-than-thou teacher because I uttered the word, “dang”.  I was strongly reprimanded that this was no different from saying the other word – I suppose she meant damn – and that I should watch my language, young lady.  I don’t think I was trying to be a lady.  And I do not carry fond memories of her.  I can see the agitation and disgust in her face even now.

I still have the 8×10 glossy in which my best friend at the time, along with three other “young ladies” are being photographed in the moment of their confirmations.  Or the moment after.  The dogmatic and unkind minister stands there as well with his expression of boredom and dislike.  Still, there is a pride on that 15-year-old face that I had accomplished this goal, that I had attained this special recognition that I mistakenly thought would make both of my parents proud.  My dad was with my grandparents (or so I remember) attending the small Methodist church.  Perhaps there were family members in attendance.  I don’t recall.  But the importance of the event was that I had done it with no encouragement and little fanfare.  I had reached this goal, which was shortly to bear little importance to me.

I left the Lutheran church after that.  Mrs. Beam was no longer there to take me on Sunday mornings.  Or else I had my driving license by that point, and was in the throes of teenage rebellion.  Who needed church?  I still needed Mrs. Beam, but my vision was blurred by the upheavals in my life, and I lost touch with her.  It was time to be the rebellious, battle your way out of life and cut your nose off to spite your face teenager.  I did a rather good job at that.

My sister reminded me of Mrs. Beam this week.  The warm memories, feelings, and fondness I still feel for her is deeply embedded.  She was a beacon in a time of deep darkness for me.  She loved me for who I was and I felt no recriminations or judgment because I did not come from the perfect family unit.  I came with the baggage of a mentally ill father, divorced parents, and abandonment issues with my mother, and the somewhat jaded goodwill of grandparents who took me into their home to raise.

A veritable redheaded force who was unable to feel appreciation for much in her life at that point.  That has changed deeply.  I do appreciate now.  I am humbled with gratitude for what so many did for me.  That is the lesson of life – if you can appreciate late, do so.  If you can do it early, please do so.  Thank you, Mrs. Beam.  For giving unsparingly and without any reservations to me with a heart that was so full of compassion, so ready to offer love to a lost little girl, so able to allow me to see myself through your eyes.  Thank you for simply being you.  Thank you from the very essence of me.

Rook Players

Saturday nights in Cherry Gate, North Carolina.  Edna and Clovis sat in their living room, waiting on Jack and Cathern.  The night for a game of Rook.  Every Saturday night at 7:00 PM, Jack and Cathern came to the Barns home to play Rook.  On rare occasions, the Barns went to the Gantt’s for the game.  The game was played most often at the Barns household.  Edna and Clovis sat in chairs opposite each other, Edna folding a piece of paper over and over.  Clovis just sat and stared at nothing in particular.  Occasionally, his hand wandered to his mouth, the back right molar still sore and needing attention.  But he mostly just sat.  Clock said 6:47.  The Gantt’s were notoriously prompt.

At 7:00, they heard a light knock on the door.  Edna looked up, but Clovis was the one to go to the door.  He opened it, and welcomed friends who they had known since childhood, the way it is in the countryside of Lincoln County.  Anybody who stayed there had always been there.  The secrets of their lives were never open stories.  Stories that could be discussed for years.  At the same time, children may never know the reality of their parent’s marriages.

“Come in, Jack.  Hey, Cathern.  How are ya’ll tonight?”

“Fine, fine.  Come to beat you this time.”  Jack stood a head taller than Clovis, and one-half as wide.  Although they were only two years apart in age, Jack had aged much harder.  Cathern’s missing breast taken the year before had taken more of a physical toll on Jack.  His wife had fifty pounds on him, and when one breast disappeared, the other tended to fill in the same spot.  The chemotherapy haunted his cheeks.  But it was his wife who had undergone chemo.

“Yeah, that’s what you’re hopin’.  I’m feeling mighty good tonight.  Think I’ve got my lucky Rook shirt on.”  Clovis patted him on the back, smiled at Cathern, and ushered them in the four feet it took to get to the card table.

“Hey, Edna.  How are ya?”  Cathern smiled, although no teeth appeared to indicate it.  The corners of her mouth turned upward, and her eyes smiled.  But the bottom lip was fat rounded out.  Stick your tongue in your lip and push. That was how she looked.

Cathern leaned, and took a long spit into an old coffee can.  Breast cancer had not deterred her snuff habit.  In fact, she wouldn’t accept that one had anything to do with the other.  In the country, whatever happened to you was fate or God’s will, and what you ate, smoked, or drank had little effect on the outcome of your life.  So spoke Preacher Will on Sunday morning.  It was all part of life, and if you believed it, part of God’s will, that you live and die they way you did.  Pass the fried chicken please.

“Good, good, Cathern.  I’m good.  How’s your mama and daddy this week?”  The information about which she inquired was already news.  In the country, if someone got sick, the news seeped from house to house almost by osmosis.  Although a party line on the phone likely had a good deal to do with it.  Pick up the phone quietly, or better yet, remove the mouthpiece, and you could spend your day listening to your neighbor’s news.  Some people did exactly that.  Having a life in the country was often challenging.  Good news or bad, it was a good possibility that Bill Baker next door knew as soon as you did that your granddaughter was married.  And pregnant.

“They doin’ okay, Edna.  They doin’ okay.  Mama had a flare-up with her stomach this week.  That ol’ ulcer came back to smack her.  Course, she was eatin’ some of them bad peanuts outta her yard,” Cathern chuckled.  “Cain’t be good for her.  But she won’t listen to nobody when she wants them peanuts.”  Edna laughed, too, with a forced kind of mirth that didn’t meet the look in her eyes.  There was a curtain there, not revealing any real feelings she had about Cathern’s mother.  She looked down and then up toward Jack.  He was preparing to sit opposite her.  The two couples played as partners against their spouses.  They had never tried it another way.

“How are ya, Jack?  You get that field plowed today?” Edna looked toward her card partner as he lowered himself into his seat.  The curtain in her eyes was still closed.

“Yeah, Edna.  I did get it done.  There’s some mighty big rocks in that field.  I thought it was gonna tear my damned tractor right up.  But ol’ Bessie made it through.  That field might be dead for this year.  I cain’t tell yet.  But ‘hits done.”  Jack smiled and nodded in Edna’s direction.

“Whose turn is it to deal?”  Clovis was shuffling the cards.  He leaned in the direction of the can and spit a long stream of tobacco juice.  Adjusting it in his cheek, he began shuffling again.

“Think it’s my turn.  Sure of it.  I think it’s my turn,” Cathern repeated herself as she adjusted her weight in the card table chair.  “Ain’t we got any other chairs?  This here one’s not comfortable for me.”

“Let me get you a pillow, Cathern,” Edna stood up.

“I’ll get it,” Jack stood up at the same time.

“No, I’ll get it.  Hits my house,” Edna moved to leave the room, and Jack sat again.  Clovis shuffled, and began dealing the cards.  Nobody said anything while they waited on Edna to return with a pillow.

They played for thirty minutes, with Clovis and Cathern taking most of the hands. Soft insults flew back and forth, mostly between Clovis and Cathern.  Jack and Edna were quiet.  After a series of hands, Jack slapped his hand on the table.

“I think it’s time for a break.  Clovis, you gotta take off that lucky shirt.  Time for us to have some cards come our way.  You marked these things?” The jokes were old and repeated, but there was a careful comfort in the ability to use them.  No thinking required.  Unless it was thinking about which cards to play, what trumps would work, what your partner held in their hands.  Even that required little creative thought.

“Yeah, okay.  Edna, you gonna get the milk and cake?”  Clovis took the deck back and began shuffling again.

“I’ll help you, Edna, “Jack stood up again and moved around the table.  “I need to stretch my legs.”  Edna nodded, and disappeared through the living room door, headed toward the kitchen with Jack following.

Once through the door, he moved rapidly behind her to surround her with his arms.

“Jack!”  She jumped at his touch.

“I gotta touch ya, Edna.  I just gotta.  Sometimes it is so hard to sit there with you, playin’ cards like we don’t do nothing else.  Talkin’ about plowing fields and the cost of cotton.  God, it’s so hard sometimes.”

“Jack!  Jack!”  Edna fought his hug for a moment, and then surrendered to it for just a moment.  “We cain’t do this.  Our spouses are in the room yonder.  We just cain’t. ”

“I gotta, Edna.  I miss you so bad.  I gotta touch you when I can.  Do you know how tired I get of that fat lip of snuff?  I just gotta touch when I can cause I think I’m losin’ my mind.”

“You ain’t, Jack.  You ain’t losing your mind,” Edna held his arms with her own and leaned her head on his shoulder behind her.  “This cain’t happen, Jack.  We chose forty or more years ago. You chose when you were in elementary.  We gotta stick with our choices.”

“Edna.  Just answer me this one question.  I ain’t ever asked it of you before, and I won’t ask it again.  Do you love Clovis?”  Jack got very still and held hard onto Edna.  She shivered, and began pulling his arms off of her.

“What’s love got to do with it?  We have a store, a farm, grown children.  We are country people.  We get married and we stick with it.  There ain’t no room here for love.  I ain’t tellin’ you nothin’ you don’t know.”  She pushed away from him, and he let her go.  She quickly opened the door of the refrigerator, and grabbed a gallon of milk.   Nervous now, she slammed the door.  As the door snapped close, she saw Clovis standing behind it.  Right at the edge of the kitchen door.  He stood very still.  Watching.  Only his eyes moved from Edna to Jack.  His best friend of over fifty years.  Suddenly, he shook hard, a tremor passing through his body.  Edna stepped toward him.

“Rae! Rae! Are you okay?  What is it?”  Clovis had closed his eyes, but as the tremor passed, he slowly opened them.

“Nothin’.  Just came to help.  Let me get the cake, and Jack, you take the dishes.”

 

 

Baseball Hats and Liquor Bottles

“Here comes old John,” Bobby was watching out of the front window.  Old John headed in their direction, head down, dirty black hat pulled low on his brow.  Shuffling more than walking.  He glanced up, saw Bobby watching him.  Bobby turned away from the door, and headed behind the register.

“Old drunk,” he muttered.  Ace continued emptying the Kentucky Bourbon boxes and stocking the shelves.  The Christmas specials were gone, and a bright yellow flower stared out from the stickers advertising spring drinking.  Old John would be reaching for the Wild Turkey and asking about this week’s specials.  The cheapest and longest drunk was his only goal.  He was a regular every three days, not counting Sundays.

“Lo, Bobby.”

“Yeah, John.”

“How’s the world treatin’ ya?”  Bobby grimaced.  Same fucking conversation every three days with this fucker.  Why didn’t he just come in, buy his liquor, and get out?

“Same ole, same old, John.  You?”  The question was completely rote, monotone.  Bobby didn’t care if Old John fell over in a drunken stupor and died in his store.  As long as he didn’t try to engage him in conversation.

“Well, now, my rheumatism has been acting up.  This cold weather always does it.  Need my medicine to make me feel better.”  He laughed loudly at the bad joke as if he was Robin Williams on stage.

“We got your meds, John.  You come to the right place.”  Again, Bobby didn’t give a rat’s ass if the “medicine” helped Old John or not.  Just buy and get out.

“How you doin’, Ace?”

“Fine, John, fine.  It surely has been a cold week.  You want one of these?” Ace handed a bottle of Wild Turkey to John.

“Why, that’s right kind of you, Ace.  Yeah, I think that’s one of my meds.  What you got on special?”  Ace looked toward Bobby, and he rolled his eyes.

“Ain’t figured out specials yet this week, John.  Hell, it’s Monday morning at 10 AM.  We just opened the store.  Even seems a little early for you, if you ask me.” Old John didn’t look up, just shuffled over to the counter.  Taking out his old brown wallet, he pulled some bills out.  “I’m a little short this week, Bobby.  Ya think you could run me a little line of credit?”

“Now, John, you know I don’t do that.  Giving credit to a drunk is throwing your money in the gutter.  I can’t start doing that.  As I’ve told you before.  There just ain’t no credit available.  Hell, I’m not a fuckin’ bank.”  Bobby could feel his blood pressure rising.  This was a hell of a way to start a Monday morning.

“Okay, Bobby.  I just thought it worth asking.  I think I’ll be just getting a smaller bottle, Ace.  My rheumatism will be alright.”

“Sure, John, sure.” Ace moved toward him, taking the larger bottle from his grasp, reshelving it, and choosing a smaller cheaper bottle.  Bobby grunted loudly, indicating his aggravation with Ace helping the old man.  Bobby wasn’t big on customer service.  Ignoring that, Ace retrieved the bottle and gave it to Old John.

“Thank you, Ace.  You are a kind man.”  Paying for the bourbon, Old John took his purchase and shuffled toward the door.  Turning slightly, he glanced at Bobby.  “I don’t mean no harm in askin’, Bobby.”  Bobby grunted again as the old man pulled on the front door, and shuffled out.

“Fucking drunk,” Bobby muttered.

“I don’t get you, Boss.  He’s a customer .”   Ace said this low and soft.  He knew better than to criticize Bobby.

“He don’t keep me in business.  He shows up and buys the cheapest stuff we have.  He just embarrasses himself.  Drunk idiot.  He’s killing himself and he don’t even care.  Rheumatism, my ass.  He’s just a drunk like the rest of ’em.”  Ace shook his head imperceptibly, and kept his head down.  It wasn’t any of his business.

An hour later, Mrs. Green came in.  Wrinkles covered her face and her wiry grey hair jutted out from under her old lady’s bucket hat.  She had smeared on some red lipstick that drifted into the corners of her mouth like soft clouds, and her fingernails were chipped with a deep burgundy, making them appeared bruised.  She wore peach colored bib overalls, with a blouse covered with tiny red flowers underneath.

“Moanin,” she warbled out as if she were a deep southern belle with a drawl that said she was born somewhere close to Charleston.

“How you boys doin’ on this fine Monday moanin’?”

“Morning, Mrs. Green.  Looks like a nice day, even if it is a bit chilly,” Ace thought she was a kind-hearted woman and he enjoyed talking with her.  She always showed up on the first day of the week with her list of “cordials and liqueours” that she would need for her week’s entertaining.  Ace suspected the only company she entertained were her two old beagles and her spinster sisters, Ruth and Annette.  He could set the clock by her visit on Mondays.

“And you, Bobby?”  Mrs. Green turned her lively sparkling blue eyes toward the owner of Pendleton Liquors.

“Good.”

“My goodness, Bobby is always so short on words.  Had I been your English teacher, I would have taught you to share some of those words you keep locked up.  Ace, you on the other hand are a gracious conversationalist.  I do enjoy your greetings when I visit on Mondays.  But Bobby.  My, my, my.  Your mama coulda taught you a lot more about the art of conversation.  And to me!  Why, I’m one of your regulars.  You need to talk to me!”  Mrs. Green delivered her lecture in a sparkling chirpy voice.  Bobby pasted a smile on his mouth, and nodded.  Old biddy didn’t need to be telling him how to treat his customers.  This was his store, and he was doing quite well, thank you.  Just shut the fuck up, make your purchases, and get out.  Who the hell did she think she was anyway?

“Guess I’m just not the talky type.”  Bobby reached for her choices, and began ringing them up.  She kept smiling broadly as if she could win him over.  He refused to look at her, keeping his eyes on the bottles and the register.

“Seventy-two dollars, twelve cents.  Want a receipt?”   Mrs. Green cackled.

“My, my, I must be havin’ lots of company this week.  That’s a lot of money, but I think the parties I’m havin’ will justify it.  Here you go,” Mrs. Green pulled out a stack of hundreds, and handed him one.

“You know, Bobby, you need to give this fine young man a raise,” she nodded toward Ace.  “He’s a good employee for you.  You don’t want to lose him.  Else, you wouldn’t have any personality in this building attall!”  She laughed nervously.  Throwing a smile over her shoulder to Ace, she sashayed out the door as if she was still the lovely sober twenty five year old of a half of a century earlier.

“Give you a raise.  Humph.  I’m the one needs the raise here.  I have to put up with these people.  You like ’em.  You really do, don’t ya?  How can you possibly.  Shit.  I wake up dreading to come here because of the crap I have to take from these people.  Got a good mind to sell this place and move to Florida.  Shit.”  Bobby stomped off to the back door to take a smoke.  Florida was always the threat on Monday mornings.

Ace finished restocking the bourbon, and moved the boxes to the outside.  It never failed that someone would pick these up and use them for moving or storage.  Whatever the reason, the boxes would be gone by afternoon.

Sitting down behind the register, he reached for the remote.  TV was his escape during the day, until customers with interesting stories came in.  Ace liked to talk to the customers.  Bobby always had something bad to say about the lives shared in the liquor store.  But this was Ace’s work world.  It didn’t have the same meaning as the meetings, though.  A longtime member of AA, he found it puzzling that he worked in a liquor store.  He never mentioned this when he went to his Sunday morning and Tuesday evening meetings.  That was the only time he wasn’t working.  No deliveries on Tuesday, and the law didn’t allow liquor sales in the county on Sunday.  He remembered the day he showed up at the store to ask for a job.  Sober for a month, he thought somehow that if he was around liquor all the time it would keep him from opening a bottle for himself.  His sponsor hadn’t agreed, the only one in AA who did know where he worked, but so far, now 3 ½ years later, it had worked.  When he saw the messes his customers got into, how quickly their bodies aged, how bad their relationships were, he wasn’t inclined to pick up a bottle.  No matter how lonely or scared he got.  He could deal with the night sweats and fear.  But the loneliness.  That was something else.

Flipping on the TV, he began looking for a good movie channel.

“What the fuck you watchin’?  Bobby was back in the store, and reaching for a broom.  Ace only grunted in response, and flipped the channels looking for sports or maybe a cooking channel.  Over half of their customers were women.  Perhaps more.

At noon, three Mexicans came in the store.  Moving quickly through, they spoke quietly to each other.  In Spanish. Bobby watched them with squinted angry eyes.  He didn’t trust the black customers at all, but the Mexicans were an all time low for him.

“Whatcha lookin’ for?” he yelled out.  They were only a few feet from where he stood.  One of the three shook his head, and pointed to the tequila section.  “Damn immigrants,” he muttered under his breath low enough to be unintelligible but loud enough for them to know he was talking about them.  They made their choices, and came to the counter.  The one in front pointed to the shot size bottles.

“How much,” he offered in a strong accent.  Ace held up two fingers.  The man chose six bottles, and put them beside three bottles of Jose Quervo.  Ace rang them up, and pulled out two bags.  The customer shook his  head, and each man took a bottle.  Ace put the shot bottles in one of the bags, and handed it to the man, giving him a brief smile.  The customer nodded, glanced uncomfortably toward Bobby, and the three men hurried out.

“Fuckin’ wetbacks.”  Bobby spit on the floor.  Ace looked down.  Nothing to add to that, except the customers had just spent over $60 bucks in Bobby’s store, but then he knew that.  Ace pulled down on his Tennessee hat, and sat back down.  “Hey, you gonna get to the toilet soon?”

“Sure, Boss.  I’ll go do that right now.”  Cleaning the bathroom twice a week was one of Ace’s jobs.  Not a pleasant one, but it got him out of the store and out of fire of Bobby’s comments.  Bobby never asked him how his Sunday had gone, if he had done anything fun, or if he had a family.  Just as well.  Ace didn’t want to share anything with his employer.  Bobby didn’t know Ace was a member of AA.  He had made it clear early on that he thought any man who couldn’t control his drinking ought to be put in the slammer or the mental hospital or worse.  No need to make his workday worse by getting personal with Bobby.  He grabbed the cleaning supplies from under the counter, and headed out back to the bathroom.  He stayed a little longer, paying special attention to the sink and the surrounding area.  At least this way, he didn’t have to listen to Bobby.

Around 2:00, three college kids came in.  Sniggering through the flavored vodka section, they eventually picked out the cheapest stuff in the store.  Bobby grunted as he checked their ID’s, looking fiercely at one who didn’t appear to be much over 12.  Finally he rang up the purchases, and handed them their bags, not sharing words with any of them.  No thank you’s.  Nothing.  They hurried out  like the Mexicans had done earlier.

Customers came and went during the rest of the afternoon.  At 6:30, a sophisticated attractive woman came in.  Ace watched her as she tried to hide her nervousness.  This was not a woman who was comfortable in a liquor store.  He recognized her from a couple of past visits.  She glanced in Bobby’s direction.  He smiled broadly, and said hello.  Ace was gratified to see her just nod, and move toward the back of the store where the gin and tonic was stocked.  Also choosing a bottle of kahlua, she brought her items to the register.

Ace smiled at her, and began to ring them up.

“Like your hat.”  She smiled toward him.  Her teeth were dazzling white and her smile sincere.  He smiled in return.  “Thanks.”

“You a Tennessee fan?”

“Nope.  Just like to wear hats.  People bring all kinds to me because I like them.”  She laughed.  He laughed in return, and he heard Bobby grunt.

“You like Tennessee?”  Bobby was determined to get in on the conversation.  She glanced in his direction.  No smile this time.

“My husband graduated from Tennessee.”  That was it.  She smiled back at Ace.

“I pull for Clemson myself.  Unless someone comes in with a damned red Gamecock shirt,” Bobby laughed like he was now Robin Williams.  She didn’t glance in his direction.  Ace grinned to himself.

“That credit or debit?”

“Either one.  Whichever works best for you.”
“Debit then.  You need a receipt?”

“No. Don’t think I’ll be bringing anything back.”  Ace smiled, and began bagging her purchases.

“Thanks for the business.”

“Is this your store?”  Ace shook his head.

“There’s your owner.”  Again, she didn’t look in the other direction.  Ace grinned more inside than out.

At 7:00 PM, his sponsor walked in.  He was wearing a black suit with a light blue shirt.  Light blue tie.  Ace was in the back, moving things around and dusting the shelves.  He glanced up, and saw the man walking toward him.  Ace blanched.  Charles had never been to the store before.   Ace glanced nervously toward Bobby, who was reading a magazine at the counter.  His sponsor reached into his pocket, and brought out a business card.  He held it out for Ace to take.

“What’s this?” Ace glanced down at the card.

“A job.”

“I have a job.”

“Okay, Ace.  A better job.”

“I don’t know, Charles,” he looked again toward where Bobby was sitting, fearful that if Bobby overheard, he would get fired on the spot.

“Ace.  You can do better than this.  Trust me.  Let’s take this step together.”  Charles watched his eyes closely.  “Everything you said yesterday is screaming for this.  You took this job initially because you needed one.  Now, seeing the ongoing behavior of this man is not helping you.  Seeing the tragedy in the lives of these people is not helping you.  You’re ready, Ace.  Really.”

Ace looked down at the card.  On the back was the name of a business.  A man who was in AA.  Who was part of his group on Sunday.  He needed a warehouse manager.  When Ace was drinking, he had lost more jobs than most people had in a lifetime.  Hell, he had lost more jobs than two people had.

“He depends on me.”  Ace nodded towards Bobby, who was now looking curiously toward the two men in the back.

“Any problems back there?” he called out.

“No problems, boss,” Ace replied.

“Richard.  Its time.” His sponsor used his first name.  Not Ace.  Richard.  Richard had been gone a long time.   Richard, junior, actually.  He stood still a moment longer, wondering if he was ready for a job that would require that he show up every day.  He and Charles had this conversation.  Yes, he had been doing that for 3 ½ years.  Showing up.  But was he ready for people.  That was the real test.  Could he go from working for a man who was more animal than human to working for a man who cared about him?  Because that would be the situation.  That would be the job, and the opportunity he faced.  It would become a commitment.  Could he make that commitment?

“Charles, this is job is so easy for me.”

“Yeah.  That’s why you have to leave it.  It’s time, Richard.”  Ace stared at his sponsor, wanting to trust him.  Wanting to believe that he could do this, and that the responsibility of a job, of working for a man who would have expectations for him would not drive him back to the bottle.  He was surprised to feel the wanting inside.  He wanted this.  For the first time in years, possibly decades, he wanted something that wasn’t just easy.   Wasn’t just escaping the past.  He heard a tiny voice that wanted to look toward the future.

“Okay.  Okay.” He looked at his hands.  The tremble was only slight now.  Only visible to him.  “Okay.”  He straightened his hat.  Then, without thinking, he removed it.  Walking to the front, he set it on the counter.  Charles was right behind him.  It felt good to have a friend there.  A man in a suit.  Richard knew what Bobby thought about men in suits.

“Wassup, Ace?”  Bobby looked first at him then at the suit behind him.

“Not much, Bobby.  I quit.”  He dropped his hat on the counter.

“You what?  What did you say?”  Bobby looked from the hat to Richard and back.

“I quit.  Thank you for hiring me and keeping me on for 3 ½ years.  Time to go.”  Bobby blinked once, and stared hard at Charles.

“You son-of-a-bitch.  Did you come in here to steal my employee?  Did you?” His voice squeaked out “you” like he was still in puberty.  Charles just shook his head.

“Let’s go, Richard.”

“Huh?  What did he call you?  Ace?  You gonna leave this job I trusted you with?  Huh?”

Richard shook his head, and walked out the door, Charles on his heels.  Although darkness had set in, there was still a winter orange glow on the edge of the horizon.

Nobody’s Business

Mercy and I snuck into the back of the auditorium.  She giggled, and sat quickly on the last aisle.  I breathed into my hand, and took a whiff.  Tequila had a distinct odor, and I was worried those around me would pick up on it.  Mercy stuck me with her elbow, and giggled again.  Mrs. Howell turned from three aisles up and frowned.  We were in our 30’s, and still being shushed by our former 4^th grade teacher.  Mercy stuck her tongue out at Howell, giggled more while hiccupping in the process.

“Mercy, stop it!” I whispered loudly.  “You’re gonna get us kicked out.”

“So what if I do,” she shrugged.  “I don’t care that your sister is graduatin’ high school.”

“Hey.  This is important.  To me.  Stop it.”

“Yeah, so,” was her response.  Mercy wasn’t big on education.  Not her particular mode of life.  Make some money today, and pay for tonight’s party.  She believed that tomorrow would take care of itself.  So far, she had gotten away with it.

“You can’t be a waitress all of your life, Mercy.”   We argued about this regularly.  I was trying to move up, and I wanted her to go with me. 

“Can too.  I make more money than you do.  As you know,” Mercy took her purse up from her lap and began scrounging through for lipstick.  I just shook my head and nodded fiercely toward the front.  We had made it in time to hear the Valedictorian.  My sister.  The value of graduating and the honor of the senior class was once again a leading reason as subject matter for the speakers, and this included Margareet. I had heard her practicing the speech, and knew she was trying to make it different.  Not just another smart kid telling the audience how they were going to change the world.  But how many things can be said about another senior class embarking on the next leg of their life, and having no understanding of what that can possibly mean. Change the world.  Discover the cure to the common cold.  Hell, just try to pay your own bills.  That was hard enough.   How difficult it had to be to make the speech sound original yet play to the audience.   Always remember your audience.  I looked around.  Maybe she ought to talk about the virtues of fast food instead.

“Hey!” Mercy poked me again with her elbow.  “Look over yonder.”  She nodded her head in the direction to her left.  I frowned at her, and looked in the direction. 

“What?” I knew better than to ask her to come to a high school event.  She always turned into the head cheerleader she had been in our junior and senior years.  My god, if I had to hear one more time about what a great accomplishment it had been for her to be head of the squad in her junior year.  Some people never get past high school.  Mercy loved to talk about how much she had hated it, but she loved to talk about it.

“There.  Look.  God, you’re blind,” she pointed in a vague left direction.  At that point, I saw who she was looking at.  David Stevens turned as I leaned into look.  I sat up straight, almost bringing a hitch to my side. 

“Shit, Mercy.”  I shook my head and frowned deeper.  She giggled again.

“You’re still horny for him.”  I glared at her.

“I never was.  Do you know why we are here?”  I trained my eyes toward the stage, attempting to force her into looking in the direction which I was, although all I could truly see was one half of the grey teased bob in front of me.  I didn’t let that deter my attempt to control Mercy’s buzzed behavior.  Whose idea was it to stop for a few drinks and why had I agreed to it?  There was no figuring out human behavior when I couldn’t even figure out my own.

“Yes, ma’am.  I do.  Your precious Margareet is getting herself out of high school so she can go to college at Clemson, graduate as a complete prick, and take over the South Carolina governing system.  Am I close?”  I chose not to respond, continuing my determined gaze at the stage.  She shook her head, smiling sadly.  “She’s such a geek.  And she could be so hot.”

“No one says geek anymore, Merc.  People are proud to be geeks now. Hell, you married one.”  She hated to be reminded that she had married the high school nerd, even if he had provided her a good living while he endured her insults.  Mercy would never get beyond a pretty face, which meant she was likely destined to be a waitress for the rest of her life.  Eugene had not been a pretty face.  He had been a great brain, and my understanding was that he was burning it up in the new Google facility close to Myrtle Beach.  But that hadn’t been Mercy’s scene.  She wanted partying, hot muscles, and a man who had to stray.  At least that was what she had ended up with.  Many times over.

Finally, she pulled out a nail file, and sat there filing while shaping her already perfectly shaped fingernails.  Mrs. Howell glared backwards in her direction once more, and we were finally still, listening for the same words delivered at high school graduations all over the country.  Onward and upward.  Sometimes just onward was hard enough. 

We had walked this stage eleven years earlier.  Mercy and I had been best friends since we were in the 4^th grade, and our choices afterwards had been similar.  We each married high school boyfriends one year after graduation.  Her marriage had lasted about 18 months, mine three and a half years.  Although we had lost contact during these brief commitments, we had found each other again shortly after mine had ended.  Johnnie, my ex, had never been a fan of Mercy’s, believing her to be a bad influence on me.  Go figure.

We now shared a house together, which meant that I was doing a lot of paying and cleaning.  I reminded her monthly that I was not Eugene, and not impressed with the firmness of her tits.  One half of everything was her responsibility.  It was her grandfather’s house, which he normally rented to young vigorous couples, but Mercy was the apple of his eye, and we had gotten it for a steal.  $300.00 a month. I think he usually got double that, but maybe it was worth it to him.  I felt guilty about using him in this manner, but Mercy said it just prevented him from handing over money that he normally gave her.  I doubted if that was true.

Mercy added the spice and excitement to my life that helped me to feel alive, but she drove me nuts at the same time.  Once again, I knew better than to ask her to come to something like this.  She was jealous of my relationship with Margareet, my younger sister who had come along as a great surprise to my mama.  Considering Mama wasn’t married nor in a relationship.  Growing up in a small southern town provided us with eccentric people who other people loved to talk about, my mother being one of them.  In fact, some southerners only live to talk about people.  All you have to do is go to a local beauty salon to find that out.  One like my Aunt Sue’s.  Really quite interesting.  Mam claimed that Margareet was a virgin birth.  Yeah, we knew better.  But no one had ever seen her with a man.  Not since my daddy had hit the road and that was when I was ten years old.  She didn’t date.  No dinners with men, not to the movies, not in our house where I lived.  I would have seen or heard something.  I didn’t think she had the ability to hypnotize me.  I could be wrong.

Her pregnancy was a complete mystery, and mama’s First Baptist Church had eventually accepted it.  Of course, that was after she was called before the deacons and put on the hot coals of sexual accusation.  You need to know my mama.  I don’t think those deacons ever wanted to talk to her again about her life, nor theirs. If there was anything my mama knew well, it was just exactly what was happening in everyone else’s life in Pickland, South Carolina. Whatever she said happened must have happened.  She was visited by a spirit, Margareet looked just like she did so it must be virgin, or God had simply meant for her to have this brilliant daughter who would bring our family great glory.  Or else one of those deacons was a proud papa to our Margareet, which was always my suspicion.  She’s a trip, my mama.  There’s nothing like seeing a group of Baptist women come together over the supposed sins of one of them, and circle the wagons like nobody’s business.  And that’s what they said it was – nobody’s business.  My mama wasn’t asking for a handout, she wasn’t drinking or smoking, and she was in the church door the minute it was unlocked.  In fact, she was in charge of the extra set of keys in case of fire or other bad things.  We lived one block from the volunteer fire department, and they knew that anytime they suspected there might be shenanigans going on at the First Baptist Church, they could come right to her and get in.  Maybe my mama had shenanigan’s right there in The First Baptist Church.  My mama’s a trip.  We don’t get along most of the time, but I know she’s my mama.

Mercy leaned her head on my shoulder, and pretended to sleep.  I pushed her away in time to see the 126 graduates stand up, and throw their caps in the air.  Rising slightly, I could see mama and her sister two rows behind the graduates, and I knew she was beaming from one ear to the other.  Margareet was our hope for the future. 

“Can we go now?” she moaned in my direction.

“We can go in a minute.  We gotta go to Denny’s for the celebration.”

“What?  Denny’s?  Really?” She drug “really” out a long time.  When Mercy wanted to emphasize an idea, she simply dragged the word out for a long time.  It beat having to improve her vocabulary.

“I told you this, Mercy.  Just come on.” We stood, and at the same time I saw David looking in my direction.  He smiled, and I grimaced back in return.  The older women in our congregation would be whispering tomorrow that David and I were finally getting together.  Not me.  Not no way, no how.  My life had been dictated throughout elementary school as to who could be my friends and who could not, and, through high school, it had been no different.  Once I was divorced, I was finally accepted as tainted goods, which satisfied me to no end.  No more pushing to marry the quarterback, or the lead trumpeter, although the band was definitely not in the same league as the football team.  I was free to be the sinner I had become, and I intended to enjoy it.   I was supposed to marry David.  Destined in fact.  All I could see was that was a dead end to staying right here in Pickland, South Carolina, and that wasn’t happening to me.  Even though I was at the spinster old age of thirty-one without a prospect in sight for a husband, I was just fine with that.  I didn’t want kids to pull me backwards.  God knew I had done my share of dirty diaper changing and potty training when my aunt moved in with her four kids.  Being a mother wasn’t anywhere in my near future, and I was gonna make sure of that.  No dating allowed.  No David for me. 

I was attending the local community college, and had five semesters under my belt.  I wasn’t quite sure what I was going to do with my education, but I knew it didn’t include selling t-shirts for the local screen printer for the rest of my life.  And even though I was between husbands and David was between wives, I didn’t have any intention of becoming step-monster to his two young children.  Even if they did still mostly reside with the homecoming queen he had divorced.  Nope, not me.

I made a quick move to head out.  Pulling Mercy by her arm, I headed to the right, which meant getting past the thirty or so sitting in the aisle.  She hissed at me, which meant she wanted to go the other way – just step out on the aisle, but that way spelled disaster for me.  The David way.  I didn’t look in her direction, and kept pulling.  Those still sitting grumbled at our leaning on their fat knees and pushing our over their laps on our way quickly out.

“Where you going in such a hurry, sister?”  I kept my eyes down, kept smiling, and apologizing. I glimpsed more than one obese man ogling Mercy’s tight jeans.  God, would this world ever change?  I kept pulling.  I felt like all I did in my life was push and pull.  Push myself to work, go to school, do homework, keep our house up, and try to live my life without stepping on other people’s toes.  Damn, I just stepped on somebody’s toes.  Push and pull.  Pull those around me to keep them going and keep them working.  I believed that the lazy folks around me didn’t deal with life like I did. Surely there was an easier way to being successful, but I didn’t know what that path might be.  When we finally got to the side aisle, I saw Margareet waving from the end of it, motioning me towards her, where she stood next to the stage.  I waved back, and plastered a smile on my face.  Right at that moment, I could see into the edge of her life.  I could see the endless options that lay ahead for her, the nights of studying with friends in college, the feeling of leaves falling on Clemson during her first semester, the opportunities of discussion about great and wonderful things.  Tears sprang quickly to my eyes, and I blinked hard.  I had made my choices.  This was Margareet’s night.  I would wake up tomorrow and go to work, and then to the library in the evening to do homework for my Monday night class.  Tonight I would not feel sorry for myself, and I wouldn’t allow my own fears to interrupt Margareet’s joy.  I waved, and this time my smile was real. 

“Mercy, let’s go celebrate with Margareet.”

Day 2 writing, November 3, 2010

“I’m gonna write a book.”  I sat there after offering this explosive statement.  Sounds simple enough, but I knew what I was unleashing.  The tiger would wake up and begin pawing the cage.  And I was the one with the trumpet.

“Shee-it.”  Mercy kept peering at her teeth, admiring the perfect whiteness that almost blinded her in the mirror.  Occasionally she would look closely at her pore-less skin, and dab at it with some homemade solution she was currently using.  Probably peroxide based.

“You gonna do what?” My aunt Lily looked up from her Glamour magazine and stared at me.  Lily had been a beauty once as well, but she now embraced her age with tent like dresses to hide her ever-growing girth.  She kept her beauty queen pictures close by so that she could delude herself into believing she was that same gorgeous twenty year old.

“What did you say, girl?”  My mama’s eyes were boring into me like nobody’s business.  I didn’t even have to look up to know that her eyes had that deadly glare which, in my childhood, had immediately preceded the whack on the head I would shortly receive.  She didn’t hit me anymore, but her glares were almost as bad, penetrating and burning as she stared towards my head.

“I’m gonna write a book.”  Mercy made her same “shee-at” comment, and Lily looked back down at her magazine.

“I could write a book.  Now that would be innerestin’,” Lily wasn’t one to spend too much time talking to anyone else about their dreams and desires.  The world revolved around her, as she would quickly tell you.

“You can’t write a book.”  This was one of mama’s comments that closed the door on subjects.  Except now I was thirty-one and she couldn’t control my actions quite like she had done when I was eight.

“I am.  I’m going to write a book,” this time, I actually emphasized the ending of my words.  The hard “g” sound was a new one for me, and I knew that eventually someone in my family would say something rude about it.  This was a result of my recent English 101 class at Tri-County Tech, and I had found that making that “guh” sound at the end of the words felt real good.  Felt like I was finally loosening myself from the chains of my upbringing.  There was nothing like talking correctly and with emphasis on sounds that irritated southerners around me.  Nothing like it.

“Really.”  Mama grunted.  “Hmph.  What you gonna write about.  Your poor upbringin?  Your mama’s lack of education?  Your daddy who run off early and didn’t help me?  Gonna be one of those “confess my sins to the world” Dr. Phil kinda thing?”  She wasn’t looking at me now, which could mean she was either too mad or too scared to let me see her eyes. 

“I don’t know exactly,” I now dodged, wondering why the hell I had brought this anyway. Sometimes my plans backfired and burned me the most.  “I just know I can write.”  Lily and mama looked at each other and grinned.  “Okay, forget I said anything.  I will do it on my own.  And if I make a bunch of money, don’t come to me asking for your share.  This is like the Little Red Hen, and you won’t be getting anything that you don’t deserve.”  Lily’s smile changed suddenly.  She wasn’t one to turn down a handout, even if it hadn’t even been made yet.

“Oh, come on, Janie.  You don’t have to be like that.  You know that you wanna share with your poor family members.  Surely you do.  Why, I can help you.  Instead of writing my own book, I’ll help you.  I can cook while you write.”  It was my turn to laugh.  The idea of Lily sitting and writing her own book was too strange to contemplate.  She had never kept a job for more than a few months at a time, claiming no one ever used her intellect and talent well enough to keep her there.  Her intellect and talent combined were frightening to consider, except for the fact that she was a great cook.  Give Lily four ingredients, and she could whip up a gourmet meal like nobody’s business.  Might be a good deal for me.

“What you gonna write about, girl?” Now mama wasn’t telling me my life, she was dangerously curious, but I knew mostly because she wanted to know if the book would reflect badly on her.  Of course it would, but I wasn’t going to tell her that yet.

“I’ve started it.  My English professor said the beginning was good. And he’s published three books.  So.”  I ended the sentence with a weak word.  I knew the English professor would not be impressed with that part.  Now I had to sit out the words that my mama would throw in my direction, and wonder for the 87^th billionth killionth time if I really was a masochist.

Mama dodged a direct lob by directing her attention to Lily.  Her defense was going to be an aggressive offense.  I didn’t date the quarterback for nothing.

“What you got on your agenda for this afternoon, Lily?”  Sugar wouldn’t have melt in her mouth right now. 

“Well, let me see.  I was thinking I would put up some good grape jelly.  Billy brought home a bunch of grapes last night, and I know we ain’t gonna eat twenty pounds of grapes.  So that’s what I was thinking about doin.”  Lily kept her eyes fixed on her magazine and didn’t look up at either one of us.  She was familiar with this game, as she played it a lot with her own kids.  Don’t acknowledge dreams of changing, or growing, and they’ll stay right there under your thumb.  Your kids will then recreate the life that you have led, with the same money woes, the same slightly-above-minimum-wage jobs, the same griping and complaining about every political office holder, and then you will feel completely justified in how you lived cause your kids picked the same road.  No reason to have big dreams or big ideas.  In fact if you do, we will either make fun of you or completely ignore you.  Either could be equally effective and devastating.  I had seen enough fat kids hanging around with their fatter parents to understand this dilemma.

“Okay, you don’t want to know anything about my book,” I directed the statement to the air right in front of my face seeing as no one was willing to ask or show interest.  “You never want to know anything about my education, or why I am trying to improve myself by going to school and juggling a fifty-hour-a week- job, for which I get paid for forty, and practically paying for this household myself because Mercy never has any money.  Don’t ask anything, don’t expect anything,” I felt my blood pressure rise.  This was likely not the way to get them to be on my side.  It was equally likely not to work to get them to show interest.  It in fact would most probably piss them off more than the fact that I was trying to grow.  Don’t talk about it and it will surely go away.  I stood up, preparing to leave.  And this was my damn house.

“Yeah, I knew I was gonna get dragged into this.  I’ve got money for you, Janie.  My god, why don’t you embarrass me in front of the whole town and not just the two most important women in your family?”  Mercy glared at me above her makeup mirror.  Typical.  Mercy could brown nose with the best of them.

“Yeah, right, Mercy.  Nobody ever expects you to be late with your part of the rent.  These two have never heard that.”  She rolled her eyes at my sarcasm, and reached for her pocketbook.  Taking out a wad of money, she tossed it in my direction. 

“There’s 300 bucks.  I was planning on surprising you with new towels and shit.  But you just take it.”

“Do me a favor, Mercy.  Don’t surprise me with anything. Just take care of your part of the bills.”  She stuck her tongue out at me, and I stuck mine back.  Mama laughed.

“You girls sound so grownup.  Maybe you ought to just go back to your mamas’ houses.”  She grinned at me.  Like that was gonna happen.  Mama just wanted my money.

“You know, Janie, I want to talk to you about your schooling.  But sometimes you get so damn eager about it.  Makes it hard for the rest of us to want to bring it up.  Once that door is open…ya just cain’t shut it.  Besides, this is your education.  For you to do the learnin’ and the work, and the readin’.  Cain’t you just keep it there and be happy?”  Mama got out of her chair, and stretched her back.  Like an old feline, she pretended that she was getting on in years, but underneath that head of grey hair lay a spry brain that was itching to prove itself smarter and quicker than the others around her.  Nobody was gonna get mama’s goat.  I knew that my attending school was some kind of threat to her, but I couldn’t get it in my head that her fear meant I couldn’t’ talk about what had become the most important thing in my life.  I couldn’t tell her, nor Aunt Lily, nor even Mercy.  They thought this was just something I needed to get out of my system.  For god’s sake, mama couldn’t understand why I hadn’t stuck with hair-styling school that I had begun in my marriage.  That was surely the most advanced I could hope to be.  And they made good money.  Good money.  I had never known exactly what good money was. Enough to pay your bills?  To get your husband out of jail once or twice a year?  To pay for your kid’s rehab? Why was she so scared? Why couldn’t she be a fan instead of a drag on my enthusiasm?

All I knew was that as I tackled different subjects, I felt like windows of knowledge and awareness were being opened in my brain.  And flowers were sprouting.  Every time I learned a new skill, or read about something I had known absolutely nothing about, I could feel that seed of wonder being planted.  There was so much to know, so much to study, so many books to read.  I knew I would not live long enough to enjoy everything that I wanted to know, and it drove me nuts that the people closest to me would not share this with me.  It never occurred to me that for them to enjoy may have taken some of the joy out of it for me.  Having insight into yourself can be quite revealing.

I didn’t know it then, but the changes that were taking place inside of me would eventually create the need for me to reach out to others, and neglect or even give up the relationships on which I had depended for my first thirty years.  What happens to a person when she realizes she has outgrown most of the people in her circle?  For one thing, she can choose to go backwards.  She can choose, like the little fat kid, to embrace her parents’ unhealthy choices just so they will continue to love her.  She can choose to go back to the bars and high school football games that peppered her youth and absorbed the people with whom she grew up.  Or she can continue the path of growth.  The path to self-realization.  The path to self-discovery.  The path to loneliness.  What do I most want in the world?  Growth or people?  Education or connection?  Do I really have to choose between the two?

What lousy choices.

Day 3 – November 4, 2010

Class had been scary at first.  I was old.  I knew I was old, but when I walked into the first math class I took at Tri County Tech, I found that I was among the youngest in the crowd.  The recession had knocked many people out of jobs, and the need to improve skills was ageless.  There was a 73-year-old man there learning algebra.  I should not use the word “learning”. He did his best. I was stunned at the people who were trying to improve themselves.  Not like my Grandpa Sorrels.  He wasn’t about to start getting educated after he had built his pride on working in the mills all his life.  By god, the government owed him that social security check, and there warn’t nobody gonna tell him different.  He had learnt everything he ever needed right there at the First Baptist Church of Liberty, and that was that.  I shook my head to get my grandpa out of it.  It always amazed me how quickly my family could climb into my thoughts and just take over from there. 

Chapter two

I was in the beginning of my 6^th semester.  I suppose if I had been able to do it the way Margareet was doing it that would be the beginning of my junior year.  Provided two semesters is one year.  I worked hard not to think of that too much. That didn’t make it so, though.  Margareet was going to Clemson with her way paid.  She had academic scholarships and grants, and money from The First Baptist Church. She was doing it the right way, and I was doing it my way.  Don’t look backwards, Janie.  The only way you are headed is straight in front of you.  I could hear my Grandma Beam saying that to me.  My daddy’s parents had always been a part of my life, even if he had taken the low road out of our lives.  She was a feisty eighty-something grandma with a survivor’s spirit that didn’t exist in my mama’s family.  The worst words I would get from my mama was saying I was just like Granny Beam.  I didn’t even call her that.  Just my mama’s words. Somehow, she felt that Granny Beam had been responsible for her lousy husband’s disappearance.  Perhaps she was right.  My mama is not easy to live with.

For me, the sixth semester meant that I was only on my sophomore year.  Maybe.  I was sometimes afraid to count the credits, because for my first four, I didn’t take it seriously, and I tried to take classes I might like just so I would stay in school.  When I first started, I didn’t tell anybody.  That would have been too much of a commitment.  I took Art Appreciation in the first semester, World Religion in the second.  I then thought that I would probably head in the accounting direction, because being in the business world made sense to me.  That was where I could make the big bucks, but I forgot that I hate and refuse to balance my own checkbook. Credits and debits were the most damned confusing ideas I had ever heard, and after struggling through the next four classes of that crap, I decided it wasn’t for me. 

Of course when that happened, that meant I had lost two years.  My advisor didn’t tell me that, but I could see it in her face.  Then again, her face rarely changed, and perhaps what I was reading was her disappointment in her own life.  Mrs. Childress had been an English teacher for sixteen years, had two children in college themselves, and her passion, if she ever had any, was long gone.  For her life, her children, and her husband.  Her office was a fake cheery bright blue, a color that could seep into your bones and your mind while you waited for her to finish emails and get off the phone.  It was almost blinding.  I was tempted to wear sunglasses, but figured she would think I was some kind of showoff if I did.  Her clothes said she was a fan of the ninety’s and her hairdo seconded it.  When I had appointments with her, she would look up at me with a kind of surprise and despair as I knocked on her doorframe.  She would then push aside the papers she was painting in red ink, and ask me to sit down.  Each semester, and sometimes twice, she would ask me my name.  The fact that she couldn’t remember one student’s name was not an ego trip for me.  I didn’t believe I was anything special to her.  It was just that her first name was also Janie, and so was her big-haired daughter who stared out from her junior class picture in an orange frame.  Looks to me like that might stick, but I guess it was too much to expect.

After those two years of part-time classes, I realized that what I really wanted was to go to Clemson.  I wanted a BA in arts, and I had no idea what I would do with it.  Couldn’t make much money, and since I never intended on marrying again, I did have to keep that in front of me.  But I made the decision one night while slurping and boo-hooing over the Clemson catalog.  I would do this.  I had no idea how, or why, or when, but I decided that shit simply didn’t matter.  I would do what I had to if it meant prostituting my body.  That’s what my mama said when she was determined that I would go to dance classes or learn to play the piano.  I want this for my girl if’n I have to prostitute my body.  I can’t dern near give it away, but by god, I’ll get the money.  There it was.  I opened a crack in my brain, and now my mama climbed in.  Time to go to class.

I pulled into the campus parking lot, and cruised for several minutes, looking for the best parking spot.  Hell, looking for any parking spot.  I finally spotted smoke from an old pickup truck, and slowed to see if he was pulling out.  He was, and as he backed, I watched him staring at his phone and heard the crunch when he touched the fender of the car across from his rear end.  He jerked to a stop, threw it in first, and lurched in my direction.  As he passed me, he grinned, and put his finger to his lips.  Who was I gonna tell? 

I pulled in the spot, grabbed my books, turned off the engine, and stepped out.  This was a world that I had come to wallow in with great gusto.  I loved it here. The comforting feeling of school as it surrounded me continued to surprise me, but now it was finally a familiar home for me, and I headed toward the side door of Building 1.

As I entered the classroom, I saw that Dr. Standridge was already there.  He was my idol.  A professor in his early 60’s, he had a head full of silver hair, and a sparkle for the English language that made me want to giggle.  Me.  I had taken his comments and corrections as meaning I was meant to be a writer in the biggest way, and I did everything I could in his class to win his approval.  He smiled without looking up, an expression which I knew he gave to every student.  Still, I threw me slightly off-center to feel the warmth of his look, and I smiled widely back. 

The room was filled with mostly non-traditionals – meaning old – and they each had their books piled on their tables.  We had only two traditional students and they were absent as often as they were there.  I particularly enjoyed reading each other’s writing, and learning about the lives, which these people had lived, while now trying to improve their lot and get ahead in their world. I wasn’t quite sure how struggling through an algebra class would move them forward, but I felt great respect for their desire to find a path that would work.  I was doing exactly the same thing.

The person closest to my age was Wanda, a flamboyant black woman who was trying to escape the waitressing route.  So far she had made it from Waffle House to Applebee’s, but that was a huge step up for her.  She had to learn to write before she could do that.  In the stories that Wanda wrote for this class, she talked about being at the Waffle house at the age of 16, and not being able to write the orders.  Didn’t hurt her real badly because she got to yell out the orders to the cook, and she had to go home every night and copy exactly what the menu said – over and over and over.  When the customers told her what they wanted, she would have them point to the picture, and then copy exactly what she remembered.  She didn’t know what it meant at first.  The letters were just pictures to her.  But gradually, “smothered, covered, chunked, diced, peppered, capped, topped, and country” became her formative writing words.  Hell, any word’s a good word to learn to write with.  She won an award once for her perfect penmanship in writing those orders.  If they had compared her writings then to her orders three years earlier, they might not have been so impressed.  The human spirit continues to amaze me.  Her ability to get that Waffle House job is something which I cannot get my mind around.  She went in there, with a hungry houseful of brothers and sisters waiting to hear about her interview, and convinced the manager that she was the perfect Waffle House waitress.  She wasn’t old enough, she couldn’t write, had to find a way to work every single day of the four and one half years she worked there, and nobody ever knew any of this.  She kept her own secrets, did the job, didn’t hassle the other women who were white and highly jealous of her ebony beauty, made enough tips to pay for food for her two sisters and three younger brothers, and kept her nose to the grindstone until she could move up in the world.  To Applebees. 

I don’t know about this American Dream thing.  In our classes, we talk a lot about our lives too.  That’s because we are in class for three hours and just doing class room stuff can’t get frightfully boring, but mostly for the teacher.  This is my third class with Wanda.  I am astonished at her willingness to work.  She might leave Applebee’s and get here within 20 minutes, uniform and all, smelling of the kitchen, sometimes spilled booze, and looking like a queen.  How can you always look like a queen in the midst of her life?  I have never heard her complain about her life, but I’ve heard her complain plenty about men and politics.

“That damn low-life August.  I swear. My mama lets him back in our house, and he eats everything that I have bought.” August was her stepfather, father of at least three of Wanda’s siblings.  He had come and gone in the past dozen or so years, and Wanda’s crack addicted mama just let him in.  “When I’m done with this degree, I’m moving far far away.  If I have to take Waterloo with me, then I’ll just do it.”  Waterloo was Wanda’s youngest sister, a frail thin girl of 12.  She was the only child in the family who wasn’t healthy.  Most of the rest of them could stand to lose a few stones, but Waterloo was Wanda’s special project.  She was convinced that with her influence, she could help your youngest sister to a life of success in whatever Waterloo wanted to do.  I was afraid that she was really trying to recreate her own life, and handing Waterloo the kind of loving attention she wished she had got.  That’s not a bad thing, don’t get me wrong.  But Waterloo ain’t Wanda.

Wanda was a different sort, not one given to taking a handout of any kind.  Better than any that I had seen come outta West Greenville, whites, blacks, or latinos.  I admired her intensely, and she scared me to death.  White women in the south are taught to fear strong black women, even if most of our ancestors were raised by strong black women.  I was attempting to challenge that fear by getting to know Wanda, but I surely wasn’t there yet.  Still, having her in class was a trip and she always offered a viewpoint that no one else could see.  Her vision took her above, and sometimes below, the Blue Ridge Mountains that sat languidly outside our windows.  She was an eagle, who had transformed herself from the world of groundhogs, and it was something to see her learn to use her wings. 

“Who wants to read first?”  Dr. Standridge rarely took roll.  You wanna education, you show up.  He’ll help you once you get in the door.  But he suffers no fools, as he likes to say.  He also doesn’t suffer bad grammar, too many commas, incomplete sentences, and missed deadlines.  I found that out during my first class of the semester.  He looked around at the classroom.  “This wasn’t a difficult assignment.  Pick someone in your life, turn them into fiction, and write about them.  How many of you think this can be done?” A wry look passed over his face, and I thought he was making fun of us.  I glanced at my paper, and thought about the people there.  Perhaps I wasn’t the writer I thought I was.  Self-doubt is like helium.  Once it finds its way into your brain, it begins to fill every opening.  Make you light-headed with second thoughts.  Seep into your neck, and force the veins there to expand to the point that your face gets red, and you know if you open your mouth, something horrible like “fuck this class” might escape.  Even worse.  You might say something about the chili stain on the front of your instructor’s shirt.  Did he think we couldn’t see him?  Then you feel yourself wondering what the hell is going on, why are you doing this to yourself, and can’t you see that this is impossible?  I know war is hell.  Self-doubt must be in the downline somewhere.  I had such envy for people who knew themselves, knew what they were capable of, took the bull by the horns and created based on those beliefs.  Damn, this was worse than my family creeping into my head.

Wanda’s hand shot up.  Standridge looked at her a moment.  “Okay, Wanda, this oughta be good.  Give it to us.  She sat up higher in her seat.  “Why don’t you come on up to the front, Wanda.  That way everyone can see and hear equally.”  All fifteen of us who could hear Wanda’s every move in her seat.  He wanted to not only teach us better writing skills, he was after improving our speaking abilities.  I sunk lower in my seat.  I hated being in front where people would analyze my every word and movement.  But this didn’t slow Wanda down.  She stood up, straightened her spine and stomped up to the front.  Smiling at him, she took a breath.

“Wait.”  Standridge held his hand up.  I heard her deep breathe escape her mouth, as she visibly deflated slightly.  “I would like to remind you that this essay – this very short one and a half page essay is not to be about a real event in your life.  You were supposed to take a “real person” and put them in a situation that you would not expect.  Not for them.  Real person, imagined scene.”  He stopped and gazed at Wanda.  I could see  that there was something lying beneath his meaning, but I couldn’t quite grasp what it was.  I felt my respect for Dr. Standridge slip a notch.  This appeared to be some kinda game playing with all of us but then maybe I should give him the benefit of the doubt.  Maybe it wasn’t quite the trap that it appeared he was creating.

“Ok.  Got it, sir.  Can I read now?”  Wanda was getting tickly in her shoes and wanted this over with.

“Go ahead.”

Wanda began.   “August was a fine man.  The kind of man any woman would want to call her own.  He stood tall with ingelligence and self confidence.  He exuded an aura of love and acceptance.”  Wanda had created exactly the man she would want her mama to be with.  In the story, he bought Christmas gifts, came home with flowers and candy, and made her mama feel like a queen.  Feeling like a queen was what we had all been taught that every woman wants when she grows up.  She finished her reading, and nodded to Standridge.  Striding to her seat, she turned and eased herself down, the look on her face clearly saying she thought she had done a great job.

Standridge looked around the class.  He held his hands out as if inviting comments.  No one said a word.  We were beginning to learn how this worked, and opening ourselves criticism by our peers felt strange. “Okay, this is how this works.  You listen, and critique.  That means you offer positive criticism.  You tell Wanda what you liked about her story, and how you thought it could improve. That’s what we will do with each story – peer critique.” He, of course, looked in my direction.  “Ms. Bulick, are you willing to go first?”  I saw him reach for his grading book, and I gulped.  I wasn’t supposed to feel this way at thirty-one.  I felt my adam’s apple jump. 

“I admire Wanda’s writing.”  I stopped there.

“More,” was all he said.

“Ummm,” I glanced at her.  She sat there with her head down, scribbling on her paper.

“Ummm, I know the character in her story, so that makes it a little harder for me to criticize it.”

“Not criticize, critique.  And you don’t know the character, Ms. Bulick, because this is a fictional character.  Is that right, Ms. Lords?” Wanda nodded.

“Okay.  I don’t know how this really works.  Ya know, here in the south we have a hard time criticizing people right to their face,” I paused.  “Critiquing people, I mean.  So I’ll give it a shot.  I didn’t take notes, I was just listening to the reading.”  I looked down and around as I frantically searched for something I could say that wouldn’t piss Wanda off royally.  “Stories is what life is made of.  I think you said that, Dr. Standridge.”  He nodded.  “And there are only so many kinds of stories.  Although everyone’s story is different.  I think that Wanda created a man that she would like to know.  I don’t think there was any particular ‘event’ in her story.  Just a man who reminds me a little of Santa Claus, he is so good.  And I guess that says a lot more about Wanda than it really does the story.”  I stopped, and stared at the whiteboard in the front of the room.  “That’s all.”

“Well, Ms. Bulick, you have certainly hit on a central tenet of writing fiction. In general, it says much more about the writer than it does the story.  But we don’t usually get into that kind of ‘writer analysis’.  In this class it will be tough enough to learn to improve our writing.  So, we’ll go with that, and see how we can make each of you write just a touch better than you could when you walked in this door.”  I was off the hook.  He was moving forward with his teaching and when I looked at Wanda, she was smiling at me.  I surely wasn’t quite sure what had just happened but I managed to pull it off without offending anyone else.  Maybe I wasn’t destined to be just like my mama after all.

Chapter Three

I woke up to the alarm ringing irritatingly in my head.  Glancing at the clock, I could see that I was already late.  Damn alarm.  I didn’t hear it anymore, like the noise was just part of the background of my life.  I resolved once again to buy a new clock, rose wearily from the bed, and looked around.  I wasn’t a grumpy morning person, just an incoherent one.  Even my eyesight was foggy in the morning.  I was too young so I thought to be experiencing myopia (a word my mama threw around regularly – she had been told that at an eye checkup five years ago, and we were still forced to hear regularly about her dreaded disease, myopia). 

I headed toward our only bathroom, to hear Mercy humming while she soaked.  She was never up this early in the morning.  Waitressing required late nights, and this was too out of character for me to even speak at first.  I stood there contemplating what this would mean for my day if she was already in the bathroom.

“Merc,” I knocked loudly.  No response.  I leaned in to the door to listen directly with my ear.  I realized that the humming was not feminine, and indeed was not Mercy.

“Hey,” I knocked a little more loudly.  The water stopped running, and I heard a cough.

“Yeah,” the response from behind the door was distinctly male.

“Who the hell is in there?” I got a little louder and stepped back from the door.  For some reason, I felt naked, even though I was in boxer shorts and a tshirt.  I took another step back and glanced to my left toward Mercy’s room.  I could see a leg thrown over the bedspread, which meant that someone – probably her – was still in the room.   I walked rapidly inside it, and saw her blonde hair sprawled all over her face and hanging off of the bed.  One boob peered out over the top of the bedspread.  I stepped to the side, jerked the spread up to cover her more appropriately, and yelled in her face.

“Mercy!”  Her eyes popped open and she responded with a small yell.

“What the hell…Janie, what are you doing?” She demanded, and sat up, revealing even more than I had been protecting.

“Yeah, Merc, what the hell?  Who is in the bathroom?”  I was getting later and madder, and some strange man was in our bathroom.

“This is not what we agreed on,” I pointed my finger at her and shook it.  She began to giggle a little, and pulled the covers up.  Not like we hadn’t seen each other naked our whole lives, but I was totally confused as to who was in the bathroom.  We weren’t supposed to bring home strange males without the approval of each other.  That had been the rule from the beginning.  Mercy had a hell of a reputation, and I didn’t want to get stabbed in the middle of the night by some strange drunken customer who she had taken a fancy to.

“I met someone, Janie,” she smiled at me with her best  forgive-me-and-let-me-get-away-with-anything look.  I had seen it too many times. 

“No, no, no.  This is not what we agreed on.  Fuck.  Look at the time!  I’ve got thirty-two minutes to get to work, and some asshole is in our bathroom.  I could kick you out for this.”  I was turning red I was so angry.

“You aren’t listening to me, Janie.  I met someone.  Really special.  Really.  I think this is the one.”  Mercy could not conceive of anything else in the world not being about her.  She was the single most selfish person I had ever known.  Yet, I loved her and wanted her as my housemate.  At least, I used to.

“Mercy, I don’t care right now.  You don’t have to go to work at 8:00 AM or be fired.  Get whoever that special man is the fuck out of the bathroom so I can get dressed!”  I was screaming at this point, and happened to glance over to the door. 

Americo stood there in all his latin glory.  Literally.  I gaped, and he looked down, realizing that his interest in the scene before him meant that he had forgotten his towel.

“Jesus!” I whipped around before I could allow myself to stare.  “Mercy!”

“Americo!” Mercy was as shocked as I was basically because she never trusted any of her men around me, especially naked ones.  I waited a moment before I turned back to Mercy.

“Now I have 24 minutes.  Shit.  Get him outta here!”  I turned and stomped to my room cursing loudly the whole way.  In about 30 seconds, I heard Mercy’s bedroom door slam, and I sprinted into the bathroom, to jump in the shower, wash my hair, shave my legs, and jump out.

Twenty-eight minutes later, I arrived at Burns Sportswear.  I saw my fearless boss, Brent, standing in the doorway with his wrist held up.

“Late, Bulick.  Late again.”  I pushed past him, mumbling.

“Gonna fire me?  Send me home?”  I kept going without looking up, heading to my desk and the day’s production schedule.

“I got a business to maintain here, Bulick.  Get your shit together.”  He turned and walked out the front door, running down other proletariats who were in his kingdom.  I had worked for the man two years, and I learned at the end of the first that the best way to handle his contrariness and abuse was to give it back to him.  Part of the reason I returned to school was because of the depressing way he treated his employees, me being the one with seniority.  Only two years.  Shit.  I  was convinced that whatever I did in life, it had to beat working for the biggest asshole in town.  Yet, I was glad to have a job.  I knew that if I looked hard enough, I could find another.  But employers of good employees understand that looking for a job isn’t a great deal of fun.  And changing jobs generally isn’t either, unless you are at a higher level of employment.  I supposed that going from one law firm to another wasn’t such a big deal, but when you were made less than 50 grand, in this case thirty-three, there wasn’t much difference from one lousy job to another.  I was intent on changing that.

Mindy, our newest receptionist approached my desk, smacking her gum. 

“Janie, can I take fifteen extra minutes for lunch today?  I have a nail appointment but my nail tech couldn’t get me in until 12:15.  Sometimes she takes longer,” she stopped and glanced at her two inch nails.  Mindy was apparently still under the illusion that I really was the office manager and could grant her reprieve for extra minutes off.  She had no idea who the boss really was.  He had met her at the local Irish Pub, and of course, was now trying to get into her pants.  This was a standard with Brent.  He loved to hire his newest girlfriend, until he tired of her or she didn’t grant him the boss status he believed he deserved.  Or until he had his way with her, which confused me, because it seemed he only hired young women with whom he had already slept.  His wife, who worked as our accountant, didn’t seem to mind or to notice.  As long as they worked hard, told her she was exceptionally beautiful, and didn’t file their nails at work, she was happy with the situation.  It was a very strange situation, and the marital fights, which didn’t seem to revolve around any newest girlfriend, could be horrendous. I tried to do my job, and stay out of the drama. 

“Mindy, I don’t have the authority to give you extra time.  You have to ask Brent or Sharon,” I peered back down at my work schedule.  She didn’t move.  I sighed.  Not a good way to start the day.

“Ummm, I thought you were the Office Manager.”  She stood there staring at me.

“Ask Brent.”  I wasn’t willing to get into this battle this early, but she wasn’t budging.  “Mindy, how long have you worked here now?”  I couldn’t keep up with the swinging door of employees who came and went.  I was good at what I did, and didn’t want the bother of the newest lay.

“Six weeks.  I think.”

“you haven’t been here long enough to ask for extra time off for lunch.  Besides, who will answer the phone?”  I still refused to look up. 

“You could do it for me.”  She was whining now.  Her finger nails must be in terrible condition.

“No.”  I took my schedule and walked out into production.  What a fucking morning.

—

“Janie.” The loudspeaker here at Burns left a lot to be desired.  Talk about Charlie Brown’s teacher voice.  Sounded more like “meanie”.  In fact, it might have been.

“Janie, you have a call on line 1.”  Cute.  We only had one line.  That was a tired old joke, but tired old jokes don’t go away.  They are the number one recycled item in the world.

I walked to the wall, punched “line 1”, and answered.

“This is Janie.  How can I help you.”  More a statement than a question.  How indeed.  Leave me the fuck alone so I can get my work done.

“This is your ma.  I need you to come here right now.”  The usual drama that tried to invade my life on a daily basis.  With ma, it could be a moment-by-moment basis.  Except I had declared a “drama-free” zone with her.  No rescuing, not offering advice.  Too bad she hadn’t quite gotten the hang of it yet. 

“Ma, I’m working.  You know that.  Some of us have to keep a job,” I glanced in the direction of the front office, knowing that Brent the Bad would show up and scream at me if he heard I was taking a personal call.  Sheesh. 

“Your aunt’s suffering a stroke.”

“Ma, this isn’t funny.  I gotta go,” I turned to hang up.

“Janie, she’s blue.  Been blue for 30 minutes.”  Mama’s voice was shaking with fear, which wasn’t anything I ever heard regularly.  I understood instantly that she was serious.

“I’ll be there in five.”  I hung up, ran to the front, and grabbed my coat.  I yelled at Mindy that I was outta there, and almost ran headlong into Brent.

“What are you doing?” he asked as I sidestepped him.

“My aunt Lily is having a stroke.  Call an ambulance, Mindy!  112 Mt Forest Circle.  Do it NOW!” I ran toward my beat up green Honda with only 178,000 miles on it. 

“Janie, we have a lot to do today!” Brent was running behind me.  “What the hell?”  I flung the door of my car open, and looked up at Brent on the other side.

“Brent, this is my aunt. My family.  I know that doesn’t mean anything to you.  But I’m going to take care of her.  There isn’t anybody else to do it.  Fire me if you have to, but I’m going to the hospital.”  I angrily slammed into the car, missed the ignition three times, and finally got the engine blaring.  He stepped away from the car, and I could see his mouth was still angrily moving, the words lost in the noise of the engine.  I shook my head, shot him the bird, and careened out of the parking lot.  When I glanced in the mirror, I could see that he was gesturing wildly.  I shook my head, and kept going, wondering for a split second what I would do about paying my bills.  Fuck him and the horse he rode in on.  I was tired of my life revolving around how many ink colors could go on a tshirt, but I knew that even having a job right now was a big issue.  How could I possibly dump this one when so few in my family had a paycheck of any kind?  I shook my head again, and pressed a little more firmly on the gas pedal.

When I got to the hospital, small by most standards, I could hear mama wailing in the distance.  The ER, so I sprinted there.  She was standing in the lobby with her arms around a handsome nurse, crying like all get out.  I patted her, and tried to pull her off of the poor guy.  Trust mama to use any situation to touch a man.

“Mama, what the hell is going on?”  I pulled her hard.  She was hanging on like she was drowning in Lake Hartwell.  “Mama, let this young man go, and talk to me.”  I spoke more firmly this time, and pulled her arms off of the hard-bodied nurse.  At least she could pick ’em.

Mama was snuffling and rubbing her eyes, and I found myself surprised that she seemed genuinely upset.  “She turned blue, Janie.  Right before my eyes.  Just as blue as your shirt.  And keeled over.  Just keeled over.  I smacked her hard, but that didn’t seem to do nothin’, and she lay on the floor.  I thought she was playin’ with me but…lawd, lawd, lawd,” she wailed again. 

“Mama!  What is it?  Did the doctor tell you what is wrong?” I knew that the wailing drama would have to run its course before I could get anything out of her.  I turned to the well muscled young man in the scrubs.

“Do you know?” 

“I just walked in the door to come to work.”  He shrugged like the idiot he obviously was.  The muscled stopped at his neckline.

“Do you think you could find out?” The tension in my voice was rising, and I knew I would shortly be cussing this idiot out, which I also knew was not the best way to get people on your side in a hospital situation.

“Sure, sure.” He rushed off in the direction of the ER rooms, disappearing behind a curtain.

“What was she doing, Mama?”  I pulled her in the direction of the chairs alongside the window, and managed to get her to sit.

“I think she was eating peanuts.  Just sitting there, shelling them, and popping them in her mouth.  We was talking about our plans for the day, and I asked her somethin’.  She didn’t answer, and when I finally turned around, I saw that she was blue.  She was blue, Janie!  She was blue.”

“I get that part, mama.”  This was the point at which I knew that I wouldn’t get any further with her, so I sat back with my arm around her, waiting for someone to come talk to us.  We waited two hours.

Finally, a nurse came out looking for us.  By that time, there was the usual assortment of kids with runny noses, old people with patches on various parts of their bodies, and someone trying to hack up a lung.    Even though our hospital was small, the general customer base was similar to what I had seen at larger ER’s.  At least in the morning, you didn’t have to run into too many gunshot victims.  Or suicides.  People didn’t tend to want to kill others or themselves early in the day. 

The nurse walked over towards us.  “You the Bulicks?”  I nodded.  “come this way, please.”  We looked at each other, and stood to follow the nurse.  Mama began to snuffle again, and I squeezed her.  Somehow I didn’t mind being the caretaker in this situation. I knew I had only so many  hours before Mama would be her irritable conniving self.

Trailing behind miss pink outfit nurse, we traipsed through the waiting sick people.  No one looked in our direction, everyone had their own misery to contend with.  That seems to be the way of life mostly.  Just focus on your own ills, and don’t take any notice of what others are feeling. 

I had a moment of clarity in which I could see what was going to happen next.  This had happened to me before, actually since I was about six, if someone I knew was about to die, I could see a foggy cloud around my vision.  I shook my head, this being a “gift” I had never wanted, but that didn’t seem to be the way of gifts.  They didn’t do what you “wanted”.  They just stuck around and forced your attention on them, whether or not you desired to have them.  This time, the vision sent chills up and down my spine, and I stopped right where I was.  Mama bumped into me, and then bumped into me again. 

“Janie?”  At least she knew who I was.  I stood stock still, cause I knew where this was going and I didn’t want to say.  Perhaps it was because I was in a hospital and there were deaths all around me.  I knew that wasn’t it, but I kept hoping.

Miss Pink Scrubs turned to look at me, and then a helpless feeling flew across her face.  Instnatly, I could tell this was not part of the job for which she had signed up, and telling people bad news was not among the daily chores she wanted.  I looked at her and shook my head slightly.  She motioned for us to come, but I couldn’t manage to do it. I began to back up.  The last time I had seen a dead body was when a  young black boy had been hit by a car in front of our house while riding his bike at dusk.  It had taken years for that body to leave my dreams, and I wasn’t about to let Aunt Lily replace his ghost. 

Miss Pink Scrubs called out to Dr. Hope to come out of the room.  I thought how odd it was that his name was hope, and here I stood with none.  I began to laugh uncontrollably, until Mama actually slapped my face.   Normally, I simply would allow that kind of behavior from her, but I felt the hysteria beginning to calm down.  I blinked and looked at her, wondering just where I had gone, and then remembering the vision, and I reached to hold her.  Tears sprouted from my eyes, and she looked at me wonderingly.  My thoughts finally dawned on her, and she began to shake her head no vehemently. 

“No, Janie, no…” she pushed away from me to keep my truth from becoming hers.  “No, you’re wrong.  Ain’t she wrong, doc?  Ain’t she wrong? This is just Janie’s drama, just her over-reaction.  She cain’t see nothin’.  Right, Doc?”  The doctor looked down at the floor, and then back at me.  He was not the one to tell my mama that her only sister was dead, died choking on peanuts.  He had not ability to understand the careful balance that existed between my mama and her sister, and that life had always meant that they stood on the opposite side of that see-saw, keeping each other in sight and protecting one another from the realities of a world that did not care of they stayed balanced.  My mama was falling off of that see-saw right now, and there was no one but me to step on the other side.  I just couldn’t do it.  To maintain that balance with her was to buy into her ideology of the world, to decide that I couldn’t do better, be more, grow further than her.  Lily and Mama had a careful agreement that neither would be more successful than the other.  Even Lily’s sheer size had been a testament to Mama’s thinness – her one rebellion against her older sister’s choices.  I knew in that instant that mama was on her own.  And I knew what that meant.  Life had been difficult enough with Lily for her to lean on.  Now what was she gonna do?

Janie and Blanche

Janie rolled over in her bed.  Squeezing her eyes open, she focused on the clock.  6:30 AM.  Even on Saturdays, her work brain woke up.  She sighed, and rolled over, squeezing her eyes closed again.  A moment later, Bob Dylan jumped on her bed, and began stretching and licking her paws.  She clasped her back paws into the bed, and caught Janie’s behind in her curling.  Janie yelled out, and smacked the cat off the bed.  Screeching and dropping to all fours, Bob ran out of the room.  Janie shook her head, and reluctantly climbed out of bed, headed toward the kitchen.

Standing there was mama.  Janie blinked, and looked again.

“Mama?”  Her mother turned and looked blankly at her.  Janie felt a little fear creep into her heart.  “Mama?”  She moved toward her mother, and reached out for her arm.  Blanche jumped, and smacked her hand.

“Who are you?” she whispered lowly.

“Mama.  Mama!  Its me, mama.  I’m your daughter.  What are you doing here?  How did you get here?”  She squeezed her arm harder than she meant, and Blanche cried out.

“What are you doing to me, Janie?”  The pain seemed to bring her back to herself.

“Mama, why are you at my house at 6:30?” Blanche looked around curiously, then a bit of alarm flared in her eyes.

“Did you bring me here, Janie?  Why am I in your kitchen? Oh, god, have I been sleep walking again?”

“Again?”  Janie stood still watching her.  “Again?”

“Yes, damnit, again.  Don’t make such a big deal of it, girl.  I sometimes do this.  But I never came to your house before.  What the hell,” she looked around, and began walking toward the back door.  “What ain’t your door locked?” She opened the door and stomped out.  Janie stood there shaking her head.  Mercy stuck her head out of her bedroom.

“What the fuck,” she started, but Janie just held her hand up, and retraced her path to her own bedroom.  It was too early to think about these problems, and she only wanted to spend her day on homework.  Climbing back under her quilt she saw that Bob Dylan had returned to her bed and was curled on her pillow.  This time, she stroked him warmly, and closed her eyes.  Life was a conundrum.

Rising for the second time that day, Janie again entered her kitchen.  Mercy sat by the table, holding a steaming mug of coffee.

“You made coffee?”  Janie scratched her nose, and glanced around.

“Yeah.  I can make coffee,” Mercy took a sip and glared a sleepy glare at her.

“I just didn’t know.  I’ll keep your secret.”

“Thanks.  Don’t want all the men in Pickville racing over her to have a cup.”  Mercy shook her head.

“I’m sure that would happen.” Janie poured a cup for herself, and moved to the table.  “What are you doing today?”

“Gotta work tonight.  My nails look lousy.  Need to wash some clothes.  Unless you want to do it?” she looked hopefully toward Janie.  Janie answered with a curled lip.

“I didn’t think so.  What was your mama doing here so early this morning?”  Mercy took a sip and stared at Janie.

“I don’t know.  She said she was sleep walking.”

“Do you think that’s really it?”

“Why you asking me that? Do you think she’s loosing her marbles?”

“you’re being ugly, Janie.”

“What?  I’m being ugly?  Get out.  You think I’m being ugly about Blanche, the bane of my existence?  I’m the one being accused of rudeness when it comes to my mama?  Get out.  Really, just get out.”  She stood up to walk around the kitchen.

“Would you look at that,” Mercy whistled.  It was a talent that made Janie nuts.  Mostly because she couldn’t do it herself.  “You are really worried about your ma.”

“God damnit, Mercy, why do you have to start the weekend like this?  I don’t know what is wrong with her.  Aunt Ruby died, and she’s losing it.  You might lose it if I died.  Don’t you think it may be difficult for you if someone real close to you left you for the other side?”

“Yeah, probably.  I don’t think about that kind of thing too much.”

“Maybe you oughtta.  Maybe you oughtta just think about others on occasion.  Maybe you need to wonder just how the rest of us are coping with pain and loss and all that shit that comes along with life.  You ever think about that?  Huh?  Do you ever?”

“Man, you got pissed off quick like.  Want to tell me what’s going on in your head?”  Through it all, Mercy remained calm, watching this early morning drama like she was some kind of psychologist.  Janie stood gazing out the window, letting her anger deflate like an old balloon.  She was surprised at the aggression that had blown up In her own head, not aware of the feelings which she must have been harboring about her aunt.

In truth, Aunt Ruby had been much more of a mother to her than her own mother.  She had even been more of a mother to Blanche than she had ever had.  In their family, grief didn’t get much play.  Mostly, they were supposed to bury their cousins, and keep on keeping on.  Life was about living, and when someone passed, you just let them go.  That didn’t appear to be happening for Blanche, and not even for Janie.

“I just changed my mind.  About what I was doing today.  I had planned to get my paper written for my English class.  I think instead I will spend the day with mama.  I think she might need it.”

“Your fucking kidding me.  You.  Spend the day with your mama.  By choice.  Okay, I’ll see you at the loony bin tomorrow.”

“Shut up, Mercy.”  Mercy just grinned at her cup, and shook her head.  Janie headed toward her bedroom, straightening as she went.  Time to grow up a little.  Maybe she had learned something from Aunt Ruby after all.

At 9:30, Janie knocked on Blanche’s door.  Not hearing any movment, she walked around the back, and found her mama hanging out clothes.

“Hey, mama,” she called out.  Blanche turned to see her daughter striding toward her.

“Hey, Janie,” she called back.  “Whatcha doin’ here?”

“Came to help you clean up,” Janie said, reaching the basket of wet bedding and pulling out a pillow case.

“Huh? Ain’t you got our own chores to do?” Blanche was big on getting chores done, and mornings were for chores.  You weren’t supposed to leave anything undone for the afternoon.  That was for naps and soaps.

“I don’t have that much.  Besides, I thought I would spend some time with you.”  Both Blanche and Mercy looked at each other with surprise.  Neither mother or daughter had ever intentionally thought to plan time together.  Family didn’t do that.  You just showed up and did, and then left.  Suppers meant you dropped in and there was always plenty.  Because if there was an extra mouth, someone might have to eat less.  Usually there was plenty.  Someone needed help, you just showed up.  Painted, raked leaves, did whatever it took.  Then left.   Plans were for work or when you just had to be social.  In the south, at least in Janie’s south, that was something for the high minded folks.

Both women got busy quickly, hanging out the clothes.

“Ma, do you miss Aunt Ruby?” Janie was looking into the clothes pin bag as she posed this question.  It was a chance that might backfire on her, but she wanted to know what was going on in her mama’s mind.  Something that might make her sleepwalk to her daughter’s house.  Or perhaps it was really something else going on in her mama’s mind.

“Ain’t that a silly question,” Blanche kept on working.

“You didn’t answer me, mama.”  Blanche stopped long enough to give Janie a hard look, but Janie kept working, not giving her the satisfaction of looking at her.

“Well, shit, Janie.  Of course I miss her.  She was my sister.  We lived together off and on our whole lives.  What do you think,” she almost hissed the last sentence.

“I think, mama, that I want to know how you feel.  I think I want to know if you are hurting more than you let on.  I think I want to know if your sleep walking has to do with your being sad or if you’re losing your mind.” Again, the women looked at each other in surprise.  There was a moment of unrecognizable faces, and each looked quickly away.

“Janie, ain’t you being a little brave?  You thinkin’ cause you’re in school now, you can sass your mama?  Ain’t you thinking a little outside of your rights here?”  Janie felt cold chills creep up her spine, and she knew that in some ways, her mama was right.  But something told her she had to keep this kind of questions going, and she had to know because in the very pea center of her brain, she was terribly worried.  Worried that her mother wasn’t safe, or that she was going to do a bad thing.  Worried that her mind was going, and with all the eccentric behavior of her past, she may finally leap past the worst and commit a terrible crime.  Janie didn’t understand where this fear was coming from or even why she had the worry, but there it was and she wasn’t going to back off just because her mother had gotten that strange piercing look she got when conversations were stepping over the line too far.

“What are my rights when it comes to you, mama?  Don’t I have the right to know if you are doing okay?”  Janie turned her back on her mother, aware that when she had done that as a child, a close by weapon could be unleashed on her head, or shoulders.  When she sassed as a teenager, the physical beating afterwards accomplished her mother’s goal of pushing her far away emotionally so that she would not try the sassing route anytime again soon.  Spare the rod and spoil the child.  Her family bought into it entirely.  Part of the reason that Janie didn’t want children.  Not unless someone somewhere could help her avoid beating her own children.  That didn’t seem like the natural way to raise a child, even if it was the only way she had ever seen it.

“Doing okay?  Whatchou mean by doing okay?  You think I’m going off the deep end just because I came to your house this morning?  That don’t mean nothing.  I been walking in my sleep for years.”  Janie turned toward her mother and saw that she was bent over the clothes basket.  Next to the basked was a huge stick.  She wondered if her mother had put it there, or if it had already lain there without her noticing.  Blanche glanced up at her, but her eyes were veiled now and the piercing look she had seen earlier was gone.

“Mama, is there a possibility that you and I could ever really be close?  I know you shared something with Aunt Ruby that was important to you?  I don’t know anything about your feelings about yourself, or the men in your life, or even me.  I don’t know nothing.  I’d like to know more.  I’d like to spend time with you that wasn’t painful and filled with hard words.  Do you think that is possible?”  Janie noticed that her cheeks were damp.  She brought her hands to her face, and fiercely wiped.

Slowly, Blanche stood up, and faced her daughter.  For a single moment, her eyes softened slightly, and then she sucked her lips into a straight line.

“I don’t need this from you right now, girlie.  You ain’t my sister.  My sister’s dead.  The one person who shared my life from the beginning.  Not no man was ever truer to me than she was.  Life is lonely, Janie.  That’s it.  Just lonely.  There ain’t never gonna be enough people in your life to fill all your holes.  You just gonna have to find a way to accept that.  Go to college.  Learn all you can.  But it ain’t gonna work.  You just got this big hole that I wasn’t ever able to fill, and your husband didn’t do it neither.  I can’t do it for you now.  Yeah, Ruby’s gone, but at least I had her.  So don’t worry none about me.  I will be okay, til I ain’t.  And then I’ll join Ruby.  But there ain’t no feelings I can share with you that will help you know me, or become my friend.  We ain’t gonna be friends because I’m the mama, and you’re the daughter, and that’s just how life is.  You keep trying to change it by changin’ you, and maybe it’ll work and maybe it won’t.  Now go take care of your own chores.”  Blanche reached to pick up the basket and turned toward her kitchen steps.

“Mama, just cause you say its that way, doesn’t mean it is.  I’m real sorry for you, mama.  I don’t know, and now I don’t guess I ever will, what turned you so hard and mean.  Ruby told me a few things, but mostly she did as you wanted and kept everything to herself.” Janie could feel herself shaking, wondering just why she would put herself in the position to get hurt like this.  Why stick her hand out on this damn hot stove when she had gotten burned by it every other time she had made this attempt.  Still, she fought on.

“I love you, mama.” The screen door slammed, and the back door closed.  Janie stood there a moment, wondering if anyone had heard what had just happened.  She spun around looking to see if there was anyone watching her, and yelled loudly, “I love you, mama! I love you, mama! I love you, mama!”

The back door opened a crack, and her mother hissed, “Either come in her or go home.  You’re embarrasin’ me!”  Janie laughed, and headed toward the kitchen door.  She would help her mother clean her kitchen, and then get the hell out of there.  Something had been accomplished, but she wasn’t sure exactly what yet.

Janie got paid every other Friday.  When she first went to work at Bruns, she thought that was a good thing.  She could focus on paying her bills only twice a month, but she soon discovered that was quite a challenge for her fiscally ignorant self.  When the check was first deposited, she felt on top of the world.  By the end of the first week, finances were dragging, and damn pitiful at the end of the second.  It didn’t help her that Mercy usually didn’t have the right amount of rent or electric bill at any time of the month.  Her checks were absurdly small, with most of her income being tips.  Those, unfortunately, were cash in her pocket, which didn’t translate to income for Mercy.  That was money to blow.  On beer, nails, a new hair color, tops at Kohls which often disintegrated in her wash.  Woe be to the man who would someday be responsible for her credit cards.  She also tended to eat most of her meals at Applebee’s, where she would steal from the plates.  That didn’t help the grocery bill seeing as she would drink a half a gallon of milk in one setting without ever thinking about who bought the bill.

“For God’s sake, Mercy.  Don’t drink the whole fucking gallon.”  I just shook my head at her insensitivity.

“What’s it in here for then, Janie? Huh?  You saving it for someone?”  I just shook my head more.

“Mercy, you don’t buy a damn bit of groceries in this house. “

“I don’t eat here much either.”

“Damnit, Mercy, you’re eatin’ here right now.”  I flung the dish towel I was squeezing down on the floor for effectiveness.  Surely that would let her know how frustrated I was.  She jumped up, pulling a wad of money from her back pocket.

“Here’s five fucking dollars!  Take it!  God, you are so unreasonable!  Why do you live here with me if I’m so terrible?”  Mercy’s breathing was coming out in spits.

Suddenly, Janie burst into tears, and plopped into a kitchen chair.  “Shit.”  She began sobbing into her hands, rubbing furiously at her eyes.  Mercy stood stunned.  She had only seen Janie cry a few times, and this took a moment for her to absorb.

“What’s wrong?” her question was hard.  The battle over milk had unsettled her.  Mercy wasn’t used to anyone asking anything from her.  She took what she needed from others, and gave little in return.

“What’s wrong?  What’s WRONG?  I’m broke.  I have some tuition to pay.  My mother hates me.  You are difficult to live with and don’t have any idea how much I support you.  I have no boyfriend, no time to find one or spend with one if I did find him.  My aunt died, and she was one of the only people who ever said kind things to me.  I hate my job and my boss is an asshole.  I should be making twice as much as I do for what I do, but without a degree, I get the crumbs from a shithead who knows I will take it because I need the job.  I’m miserable.”  Janie finished with a huge sniff, wiping her nose on the sleeve of her sweatshirt.  She glanced at it, and realized it was the same one she had worn yesterday.  Possibly the day before.  She just didn’t care what she looked like anymore.

“You want a boyfriend?”  Mercy sat down next to her, finally showing attention to the one thing she knew about.  Men.

“I don’t know.  I don’t know.  I just feel like there is something big missing from my life.  I want this education.  I want to be a writer, a teacher.  I want to inspire others.  But who inspires me?  Who keeps me moving toward my own goals?  Hell, half the time, I forget what those goals are.  Is there a man in this town who I could relate to?  Talk to about this shit?  When did I ever want a man to talk to, anyway?  I’m just in a funk.  And the financial burdens don’t help.”

“Let’s go shopping.”  Mercy hopped up with the eternal western answer.  “Let’s do it.  Go get you some new clothes so that you feel special, and get your mind off all this crap.  I know just the place, and they’re having a big sale today.”  Mercy grinned like a 2-year-old who had just be given the biggest present under the tree.

“Mercy, are you listening to me?  I am broke.  Flat broke.  I have another week to get through before a paycheck, I have to pay tuition, I haven’t even bought all my books, and you want to go shopping?”  Mercy grinned again, as she pulled another wad out of her left back pocket.  Unrolling it, she pulled several one hundred dollar bills out.  She jerked them toward Janie, who sat there with her mouth open.

“Where did you get this much money, Mercy?”  Janie didn’t move with her hands to take the money.  Instead, she stood and took a step backwards.  Mercy looked confused and pushed the money further toward Janie.

“Take it.  Let’s go shopping.  What’s wrong with you?”

“Mercy, you never have that much cash on you.  You work at Applebee’s for God’s sake.  Where did you get it.”  Janie stared hard at her friend.  She knew that Mercy was weak, too dependent on material things, and that her outside mattered a whole lot more to her than her inside did.  That was just something Janie accepted about her.  She didn’t like being judgmental toward her family or friends, but the rippling feeling in her stomach was warning her that this could get ugly quick like.

“Damnit, Janie.  You are so higher-than-mighty.  You always try to make me feel like I’m the bad one.  I don’t know what I’m doing.  I get in trouble, when I don’t.  Not really.  You are just a goody two shoes who doesn’t enjoy the finer things in life.  I ain’t going to college like you to try to get no big degree to make a lot of money with.  I’m not just not able.  I don’t want to spend time with those nerds, and not especially with old nerds.  Maybe I would’a liked it had I gone when we were supposed to go.  But that time is over.  You’re just making a plain ole fool of yourself, and you know it.  Nobody thinks you will get much further than you have with a college degree.  I’m trying to better myself in the way I know how.  So just shut up trying to make me feel bad about it.  Here I was trying to help you.  Shyat.”  She finished and crumbled the money back in her hand.

“Mercy, this is scaring me some. You live here with me, which would make me an accomplice if I know you are doing something illegal.  Tell me where you got that money.”  Janie looked fiercely at Mercy, glancing down at the floor where several one hundreds had dropped.  Mercy looked down, and quickly dropped to pick them up.

“It ain’t none of your business.  It ain’t nobody’s business how I make money.  You just shut up and forget I told you any of this.  Just shut up.”  Suddenly, Mercy was the one crying.  “I ain’t ashamed or sad about this.  God, what you do to me.  Maybe we can’t live together no more.  Maybe your college degree has set us too far apart, and you can’t see the rest of us.  We are all stuck, Janie.  All of us.  We were born stuck.  Can’t you see that?  Nothing that you do can really change that.  You are stuck just like I am, and you are who you are.  Your birth determined that.  Don’t think you are that much better than me.  You ain’t.”  Mercy stomped toward the back door with Janie quickly grabbing her arm.

“Mercy, you can’t do this to me.  I refuse to be stuck.  I won’t be stuck, especially not in jail because I have an idiot friend who has either decided to sell drugs, or worse, to get all that crap that you consider so important to being you.  I’m not going down with you, Merc.  Trust me on this one.”  Mercy jerked her arm away from Janie’s hold, and rushed toward the door.  Running down the stairs, she yelled over her shoulder, “You are an uppity bitch, Janie.  I never would have let you move into my grandfather’s house if I had known how you was gonna be.  You used to be fun.  Now you’re just borin.”  Janie stood at the screen door and watched her grab open the door of her Mustang.  A relic from high school, but a classic.  “You get outta this house before I come back.  I ain’t living with you no more.”  She revved the engine, and spun tires backing out of the gravel drive.

Janie stood there awhile.  Looking out the back door, at the yard that she had learned to love in the past couple of years.  What had just happened?  They fought over milk, and now she had no immediate place to live.  She just stood there wondering what the hell she had done.  There was the chance that Mercy would calm down, and forget what she said.  At least, she would ignore it.  But there was also the chance that she was now involved with  drugs.  Or prostitution.  That would come as no huge surprise to Janie.  She watched several cars drive by, and suddenly realized she was cold.  Her phone beeped with a text message.  When she glanced at it, she saw it was from Mercy.  “I mean it.  Done called grandpa.  He agrees.”  The problems she had this morning were now much deeper and more serious.

She walked out into the yard, grabbing her coat first, and headed toward her mother’s house.  No need to drive. She could use the outdoors to clear her head, and she could save a few dollars this way.  As she traipsed north on Pendleton, she kept her head down against the wind.  There were apartments in which she could move.  But they were too expensive.  She had only been paying $350 a month, which included water and trash pickup.  The cable bill had gone a long time ago.  Of course, Mercy was supposed to be paying the same, but she was aware that many months, she begged off to her grandfather, saying she had medical bills and the like.  Janie wondered if he ever checked into her lies, or if he was just another convert enabling her to be what she was.  There were also mobile homes for rent, but Janie had decided long ago that she would never live in one of those again.  Her Aunt Ruby had lived in one of those for years, and the nights she had to spend there depressed her greatly.  She knew that the newer versions were much nicer, but there was something about living in a uniquely southern type home that displeased her greatly.  She could remember the cold winters and the leaks around the doors.  Ruby would scream and curse the Duke Power for the huge winter electric bills, but she never seemed to realize that she was heating her outdoors almost as much as she was her home.  The tiny hallway meant that two people could not pass each other, and Janie had received more than one pinch from her aunt’s dates.  No mobile home for her.

Pulling her collar up to block the wind on her neck, she turned left, and almost bumped into a woman walking a dog.

“Oops, I’m sorry.”  Janie stepped aside as the feathered woman pulled on the leash of the strangest dog Janie had ever seen.  He was a series of greys, with hair that looked human, groomed carefully, and skimming the sidewalk with a 60’s style flip.  His head came to Janie’s hip, and he turned his nose toward her.  She assumed he was looking in her direction, but as she could see no eyes, she wasn’t completely sure.

“It’s quite alright.  Winston and I are just taking a little walk.  Trying to get some of this beautiful sunlight in our system.  Please do excuse us.”  The woman’s voice was a lilting curious British accent.  Had Janie been familiar with British accents, she may have thought the woman’s voice somewhat affected, but she wasn’t so the voice captivated her.

“No, excuse me.  Really.”  Janie stepped aside for the large cousin-it dog to make his way past her.  The sidewalks in Pickville had long been neglected, with huge cracks and various roots often tripping up walkers.  Ivy was also another source of difficulty when it came to attempting to maneauver the old concrete.  Janie stood a moment, and she noticed that the woman was gazing at her face.  She reached up to wipe under her eyes, and discovered lots of black mascara there.  She apparently had been crying again, without realizing it.

“May I ask?”  The woman stood very still, looking at Janie.

“It’s…I…life stuff,” Janie stumbled hearing her own uncultured voice.  She sounded so damn southern next to this lilting melodic voice.

“Life stuff.  Can be hard.  Would you like a cup of tea?”

And so began the most extraordinary relationship Janie would ever know.  She followed rather meekly, the huge dog and the tiny woman, as they walked single file to a large southern mansion, sitting next to the Pickville High School.  The mansion in which many said lived a crazy woman.  A woman with more money than brains.  More money than God.  More money than Janie, or Mercy with her wad stuffed in her jeans.  But it wasn’t going to be the money that made a difference in Janie’s life.  It was the encouragement, the daily education, the books.  Ahhh, the books.

The Womens’ House

I stood at the bottom of the steps, looking up at the weathered house.  Wondering if I had completely lost my mind.  Finally.  Still, I knew that this felt like home for some unconscious reason.  I looked around the small front yard.  It was covered in acorns, and there were empty patches of grass where leaves had probably laid for too long.  I glanced first up the sidewalk to my right then to my left.  The cracks from the roots of the trees were deep, but the huge oak in the front yard provided lovely shade and was probably well over a hundred years old.  At least a few things would be older than I was.  I stooped to pick up my suitcase, and glanced back at the car.  Nodding at no one, I tentatively stepped onto the first step, and slowly climbed the few steps that would lead me to my new home.  To my new life.  Hoping that anything new would be better than what I had already lived through.

“Here I go,” I thought.  Memories threatened to rush in, but I shook my head determinedly.  No memories for today.  Today was about the future.  I stepped onto the front porch and stopped to look around again.  This was mine.  My home.  Mine to do with what I wanted, and I knew exactly what I wanted.  The world had changed dramatically for me.  I was now sixty-two years old, and beginning a new life.  I understood that it would be difficult, a challenge, sometimes quite hard.  But what hadn’t been in my life?  This was my plan.  And if it didn’t work, then so be it.  But I believed sincerely it would work.  Time was necessary, but this was a plan that was long overdue.

I walked to the front door, dug into my pocketbook for the house key, felt it by its very size – I had chosen a particular key for my own reasons – and pulled it out.  I looked at it carefully.  I had resolved that every action I committed today, I would do with purpose.  I wanted to remember every moment, every movement, because this was the first thing I had done in my life with total purpose, complete forethought.  This had been in the works for months now, and I knew that it was to be – hopefully – my last move.  My final home.  The place I planned to be in for the rest of my life, however long that was.

I was a very social woman.  I had discovered that through two marriages, four children, and many moves.  My job as mother was not finished, but not something that continued to define me.  I had a good relationship with three out of four children, and I felt that was as much as I could hope for.  I had several good friends, and had managed to remain on friendly terms with one of my exes.  Again, as much as I could hope for.  Now it was really going to be my turn to develop the life that I wanted, to have the support I needed, and to do something good for other women in the process.  It was a calling of sorts, or so I thought, I was ready to make it happen.  But for to tell this story well, I must go back.  Go back to how I ended up at this point in my life.  I was interested in knowing myself, so I had resolved to write about it.  In length and with a willingness to face the pain of the past.  We all have it – that part that we either choose to ignore, forgive, or forget.  But do we really? Do we really do any of those things when it comes to our own lives?  I was determined to find out, and I would do it here while creating the world I wanted, or at least giving it my best shot.

I became a young southern bride at the age of 20.  Not terribly unusual for southern brides.  But I had left behind much potential.  A child of divorce, I had many emotional scars, battle wounds that I had attempted to stitch up with tar and feathers, but most of the time, the wounds had leaked.  So I settled for marrying my first husband’s family – hugging a mother and father who deeply cherished their brood, and rather unwillingly accepted me into the group.  My father in law was a jovial man, given to telling jokes – bad ones mostly – about women and blacks.  Of course that was not the word he used.  That part of my world was not too different than any other southerners’ in the early 50’s.  I was, of course, pregnant when Jack and I married.  I thought of this as a romantic way to start a marriage – puking my guts up at every stop sign and rushing from the room at the sight of a Campbell’s tomato soup commercial.  As I rode around the town of Lincolnton, NC, I can still point out the spots where I lost my lunch or my dinner or the inner lining of my stomach.  Nothing was digestible during those nine months, and I look back at pictures of a pale waiflike woman with a protruding stomach.  No makeup and stringy hair.  Who could guess how I would change.

My world had not prepared me for motherhood.  Our first son was a challenge from day one, and I had few friends in the freshly built neighborhood in which we lived.  Jack, Jr. cried constantly, had tons of ear aches, switched his days and nights for a very long time, and generally loved to pee on me when I was changing his diaper.  My young husband had no idea about how to be a husband, and he spent his days building houses for his father, and his nights playing poker with his buddies.  Weekends were for golf.  I was expected to be at home for his beck and call day and night, regardless of whether he was there with me or not.  It was hell for me.  I had grown up surrounded by my father’s extended family and customers from my grandfather’s store, and this was a lonely and static life with little conversation and less stimulation.  Soap operas became my best friends, and I slogged through many depressing afternoons gazing at perfectly cleaned houses and even more perfectly groomed women.  Mornings were spent feeding Jack, Jr., cleaning my house – daily – and dressing.  I could take a walk in the stroller, but few women were about to offer me comfort or conversation.

Finally, I made friends with Joan, a back door neighbor who continually looked at me with sad eyes.  I couldn’t understand why she felt so sorry for me, and it was years before I discovered her sadness was for her own dissatisfaction and her distant and unresponsive husband.  We finally were able to commiserate about our own unhappiness, but it took a long time to find that trust.  Once established as a close friend in those days, she became one of my closest allies, and in fact was my witness in court when it was time for me to dump Jack.  I’m not sure if she ever forgave me for that.

I lasted four years in this marriage.  I look back at the person who was in that life and I do not recognize her.  I don’t know where she came from, or where she went after it was over.  But she continues to be an enigma to me.  In many ways, I felt that she was one of the several personalities that reside inside of my brain.  The personality with the least amount of self-esteem, the neediest one who traded in everything she believed in for what appeared to be a support system.  Someone else’s support system.  I have never regretted her demise, although I have thought that there were parts of her that offered some kind of tenderness and vulnerability.  However, I believe that because she brought me through such a difficult time and was so wounded in the process that the important parts of her were lost for many years.  Lost to the more brittle and cynical sides of my personality.  I have endeavored to discover the better parts of her – of me – and bring them back to life in way that I can cherish.  I still struggle with that.

In the third year of this awful marriage, my second son was born.  He was the antithesis of his brother.  We had expected a girl.  I thought the reason was that my pregnancies were so different, but now I think it was simply because I so desperately wanted to have an collaborator.  I didn’t want more men to control me, and for me to feel responsible, and foolishly, I felt that a little girl would be on my side.  I don’t know what side that was now.  But it felt necessary, and the discovery at his birth that the new baby, Bobby, was male threw me into a deep depression that lasted for months.  I didn’t learn for many years that this was likely also post partum depression – the baby blues – and that I probably could have gotten some very needed help.  But I didn’t, I struggled along with little preparation for motherhood, less preparation for being a wife, and knowing that I was sinking ever so slowly into the abyss of a difficult and selfish marriage, and that the person I had strived to be was not in any way related to who I really was.  The effort to get up on some days took all my energy, and I wept through many afternoons.

The marriage itself had taken a deep dive during my second pregnancy, and by the time of Bobby’s birth, my husband was spending most of his evenings drinking and playing cards.  On one occasion, I showed up at the bar where he had gone – for his usual Saturday night binge – and he quickly and frantically escorted me out to the car, explaining angrily that I should be home with the children.  I meekly left, only to wonder years later who he was meeting there and where she had hidden while I was walking into the restaurant.  Even after the divorce, no one came forward to tell me that he had been involved with other women.  But a week after we separated, he moved in with a blonde-haired woman who owned a great sports car, and even I was smart enough to know that a relationship rarely develops enough in one week to be a living arrangement.

Because I was still frightened of what he could do to me, I remained quiet, but entered my first therapeutic relationship.  When he found out, he accused me of being crazy.  I think it was then that I finally found my voice, and I assured him that I was crazy.  Because I had lived with him for three years, I was indeed completely loopy.  After six weeks, I convinced my therapist that I was now cured, and I left the mental health department knowing that I had a long way to go to be mentally and emotionally healthy.  But it was my first effort at becoming healthy.  Little did I know how many years it would take.

(2)

I shook my head to loosen the old thoughts, and slipped the key into the keyhole.  Turning it, I paused a moment just to remember the feeling.  This was going to be my home, and the home of many others, if my plan worked.  I felt the cool brass knob with my fingers, and turned the key.  The door opened with a small sigh, and I pushed it fully open before I crossed the threshold.  I gazed in at the wooden staircase that rose from the foyer to the second floor.  Glancing to my right, I saw the large open dining room, empty except for the one wooden chair sitting against the wall.  At the far end was a rock fireplace, one that would soon be working, I hoped.  I turned my head to the left, and gazed at the large old windows that looked out to the yard on the left of the house and to the front porch.  The porch that wrapped around on that side, leading to a door to the kitchen and breakfast nook.  Shaking my head, I allowed myself a small smile.  I had done this.  I had managed to buy a large old 40’s era home, one that I planned to renovate and make hospitable with women my age – women who no longer had husbands or children to care for.  Or women who no longer wanted husbands.  Women who, like me, knew that their fulfilled life would be together.  I didn’t pretend that it would be easy, nor always fun, not even comfortable during some days.  But that was what life was – the bad and the good all together.  The important thing was the relationships, the ongoing liveliness, the ability to remain young in thought while dealing with the body’s inevitable decline.  I wanted this as much as I had ever wanted anything in my life.

Stepping in, I put down the large bag of cleaning supplies I was carrying, and decided to take a stroll through the house before I began my day.  I had only seen the house full of old furniture, and had actually visited it just twice before I knew it was the one.  I relied on my gut in this instance, and I knew that my gut had taken care of me many times in the past.  As long as the home inspector saw no termite damage, and little water damage, I was willing to go with my feelings.  And my feelings told me this was the right place for me.

First, I walked down the hall, passing the staircase to my left.  I stopped and peered closely at the old wallpaper clinging to the wall on the right.  Reaching out, I tugged it.  It fell free easily, revealing more paper behind it.  I stuck my key into it, and pulled it back.  A third paper was revealed, and I did the same.  This time, I saw wall behind.

“This will be the first project – get the paper down,” I thought to myself.  I would enjoy that project. Ripping wallpaper had brought me great satisfaction in my second marriage.  I shook my head.

“You will remain in today’s time today,” I said aloud to myself.  It would become too easy to fall into the pattern of musing about the past.  That was for my writing.  Today was about physical action.

“You hoo!” I heard a call from the front door.  I glanced behind me, where I had left the door open, and saw the graying head of my next-door neighbor peeking in.

“Are you here?” Mrs. Osgood, my septuagenarian black neighbor was calling to me.  I walked back in the direction of the door.

“Hello, Mrs. Osgood.  I’m getting ready to begin my cleaning.”

“Lordy me, Ms. Dellinger.  Don’t be callin’ me Mrs.  I’m just Sadie.  We’re neighbors now, and I’d be happy if you called me that.”

“Okay, Sadie,” I smiled. “How can I help you?”

“Well, I was a-comin to see how I can help you.  Are you fixin’ to move in?”  She glanced around the front rooms. “This here’s an awful big house for you by yourself.  You bringin a husband?”

“I have a lot of work to do before I move in.  And no, I’m not bringing a husband.”  It dawned on me that Mrs. Osgood might be the neighborhood newspaper, but in some ways, that might serve me well.  I decided however, I wasn’t quite ready to reveal my living arrangements, as Sadie could take exception to what I was planning.  I preferred to wait to let the cat out of the bag.

“Just going to be me, Sadie.  Me and this lovely old home that I hope to turn into a comfortable and welcoming place.  For my family and friends.”  I smiled and moved toward the door, hoping to push her out so that I could get started.  I  had lots I wanted to accomplish that day, and having Mrs. Osgood – umm, Sadie – standing there chatting would not get the work done.

“I got nothing to do today.  You want some help?”  She smiled eagerly at me.  I bit my lip and stepped back to think a minute.  It hadn’t occurred to me to want help.  I in fact had decided not to ask for help.  I wanted this first phase to be about what I wanted for the house because I knew eventually, there would be many other personalities that would begin to shape the look.  For now, I wanted to put my stamp on it.  But having another set of hands was greatly appealing, and some social connection was also tempting.  I couldn’t see Mrs. Osgood trying to force me into something I didn’t want, and besides, today was mostly about cleaning.

“Okay, Sadie, you’re on.  But promise me that you will stop when you get tired.”  I guessed Mrs. Osgood was around 70 years old.  I was in for a surprise.

“Old Sadie can work hard, you’ll see.  What you want done first.”  She pulled an apron from behind her back.  I laughed out loud when I saw that because I realized that she had no intention of me telling her no.  Having a strong woman next door could in fact come in quite handy.  As she slipped the apron over her neck, and reached to tie it, I gently turned her around and tied it for her.

“Sadie, you are going to be a great neighbor.  I can tell.  But what will Mr. Osgood do without you today?”  She humphed loudly .

“That old man will do what he always does.  He’ll sit and chew on the front porch and yell out to me to get him some food cooked.  I’m kinda envious of you, not havin’ an old man around to boss you and work you half ta death.  But Ms. Dellinger, this an awful big house just for you.  Why, this here’s got five bedrooms. Whatcha gonna do with all that space?”  I could see that the curiousity was killing her.  But I was resolved to stick with my plan.

“Sadie, if I’m to call you that, then you must stop calling me Ms.  I’m Sofie to you.  Okay?  We might make a good team – Sadie and Sofie.”  I smiled at her. “Let’s get to work.  And again, you must promise to tell me if you get tired.”  I picked up the bag of cleaning supplies, turned back toward the middle of the hallway, and headed in the direction of the kitchen.  Twenty minutes of this valuable day had slipped by, and I had a schedule to keep.  Even though I had no job, no family waiting on me, and no one waiting to move in, I had a time frame that had become increasingly important to me.  I knew there were women out there – women in their 60’s, 70’s, and 80’s who needed a home.  Who needed other women badly to finish the last part of their lives with, who would thrive and create and grow happy in the winters of their lives by being surrounded with like-minded women.  I wanted to start a new way of life, a following, a franchised plan to house women together, healthy older women who could relate and care for each other as they continued to live out the remainder of their lives, mostly healthy, mostly functioning, without the horror of a nursing or assisted living home.  We would be the ones to assist each other.  I wasn’t pretending that this could take the place of long term care for those who needed it.  Those worlds had their place for the people whose health had greatly declined.  But I had seen too many friends and associates go to live their lives in places that simply and quietly killed them.  Robbed them of all spirit to live.  Took away their creativity, regimented their world, and forced them into society’s drug culture of controlling older people so that they were docile and meek.

I was damn sick of it.  I wasn’t going to allow that to happen to me or to my girlfriends, and I had the money to do this.  My own writing career had begun late in life, and I was as healthy as I had ever been.  I had witnessed the mental demise of an old friend who had been alone.  Whose children had decided she was too much trouble.  Who had nowhere to turn for help when they sold her house and moved her “lovingly” into the assisted living home.  They should call them assisted dying homes.  I couldn’t tolerate it any longer.  So I did what I had always done – I came up with a plan to take care of us before it happened.  My girl friends who were out living, or divorcing, their husbands.  My sisters, whom I had longed to spend time with for many years.  Other friends of friends, who could adapt to this life.

My plan was that we would be self sufficient.  There would be financial requirements for those moving in – a rental amount, contribution to the power and water bills, and assistance in the garden.  After that, we would be mentally and physically involved with life.  We would attend concerts together, sell produce if we had more than we needed, visit others who were in homes, have reading groups, for those who were spiritually inclined go to church together, etc.  This was going to be a true home for older women who had the health and small finances to share.  There would also be “scholarships” for anyone deemed a good fit (if we had the room) who could not afford to be part of this world.

I knew that it wouldn’t be as easy as I imagined.  One of the things that would be hardest would be illnesses, the likelihood that we would experience deaths, and the reality that on occasion, someone may have to move onto another kind of living space.  I also knew there would be personality conflicts, differing sleep habits, and eating styles that would not be conducive to all.  I was prepared for that. There would be a contractual agreement when moving in.  I would spell it out as well as I could – I had attorneys in my family for that – and I would modify as we went along.  I was determined that I would not allow any negativity of my own to get in my way before this was attempted.  And my hope was, that once I was gone, it would continue on.

“Whatcha want me to do first, Sofie?”

“Well, Sadie, I want this old wallpaper gone.  We’re gonna rip it all down, and expose the real walls.  I’m a paint lover, and I want to see the original walls of this old house completely revealed.”  Mrs. Osgood chuckled.

“Mrs. Howell, who lived in this old house for forty years, would have herself a heart attack if she knew you was doin’ that.  She loved to wallpaper over wallpaper.”  I shook my head.

“Let’s not tell her, okay?”

“Be hard to do that.  Mrs. Howell’s been dead close to ten years.”  With that, Sadie grabbed a loose piece of paper and gave it a big rip.  Two layers of paper ripped off the wall, and Sadie whooped.  “This might be a right amount of fun.”  She grinned as she reached for another strip.

“Good job, Sadie,” I smiled.  “You keep that up, and I’m going into the kitchen.”  The first cleaning day had officially started, and I was on my way.  Even with the doubts of my children and grandchildren, I was on my way once again of creating the kind of world I wanted to live in.  It felt very good.

(3^rd writing)

The relationship with Jack took a deep dive while I was expecting Bobby, not that it had been that great beforehand.  But Jack’s need to party and drink became even stronger, and my ability at that time to participate was of course dictated by my pregnancy.  Which meant none.   Our neighborhood was one of young couples and upwardly mobile professionals, and the summertime brought gatherings of people who were excited about the money they were making and pleased to be part of the success of life.  We began having get-togethers, with lots of dancing, eating, and eventually drinking.  The gatherings began to happen two, three, and on occasion, as many as four times a week.  Because I was unable to drink, I could only dance and observe.  On one particular evening, Jack didn’t drink.  I think he was getting a cold, and felt that it would make him feel worse.  He came to me after the evening and made a comment of how out of control it appeared that people were that night.  I looked at him in surprise, and commented that was the way the evenings always went.  I think that was the only time he had any kind of awareness of his behavior, and how it might have appeared to others.  Of course, he was referring to the behavior of others, and probably gave himself excuses.

After that, the marriage took an even deeper dive.  We spent the majority of that year discussing breaking up.  How we would go about it and who would be impacted.  I remember that often at the end of those discussions, he would either laugh or take a deep sigh, and say of course we weren’t really going to do that.  My heart sank each time that happened, and my depression grew daily.  I didn’t understand until much later just how badly I wanted out of that marriage, and what it was doing to me both psychologically and emotionally.  He had not begun to hit me at that point. That came later, after Bobby was  born.  He was at least decent enough not to hit me while I was pregnant.  I look back on the three beatings that I took with gratitude.  I know that sounds insane, or worse.  But without his slipping into the battering spouse behavior, I don’t know what it would have taken for me to leave.

“I think I’m done, Sofie,” Sadie called to me from the hallway.  She had been pulling wallpaper for several hours while I cleaned and scrubbed the kitchen cabinets.  There was a possibility I would replace the cabinets, but I wanted to see what they would look like cleaned first.  If I could save the money to use elsewhere, I certainly wanted to do that. I pulled my head out of a lower cabinet, and stood up slowly.  I felt the tightness in my lower back from leaning into the cabinet, and placed my hand there to push gently.  I had to remember to stretch often or I would be in a terrible kink tomorrow.

“Okay, Sadie. Be there in a moment,” I leaned against the counter and coughed out the dust in my nose.  The house had not been occupied for several months, the last owner deceased in the fall of the previous year.  It has been for sale since that time by the children of Mrs. Howell, and apparently cleaning had not been a priority.  The furniture that had been there was also offered with the house, very cheaply in fact, but I was determined that one important feature of the home would be the newness of the furniture.  In fact, my choice was contemporary in the living spaces, although the occupants of the bedrooms would likely be bringing their own furniture, and I had no intention of invading their privacy to force a certain type of furniture on them.  I had in mind the first four occupants, and as we had room for six, I did not yet know who that last woman would be.

I pushed away from the counter and walked toward the hallway.  The clear midday light demonstrated swirls of dust in the air, probably years of dust from the three layers of wallpaper.  I thought briefly of Pigpen, the Charlie Brown character who claimed to carry the dust of Babylon on his person.  Smiling, I moved toward the dust.

“My goodness, Sadie.  You have created a dustbin!”  I laughed as I looked at her, standing in the midst of a huge pile of old wallpaper.

“This is interestin’, Miss Sofie.  This here wallpaper changed from one side to the other – on the last level.  And there’s writin’ on the wall.”  I looked closer, and saw underneath the stairway a clear set of Marcings showing the heights of children at different ages.

“Look at that.  I wonder who they were,” I commented aloud, mostly to myself.

“Got no idea.  I’ve lived here since the 60’s and don’t think I recognize the names a’tall,” Sadie stood next to me staring at the Marcings.  One name was Richard – he apparently was the oldest, and the tallest, and there was Elizabeth, and Babe – either both younger or just shorter.

“I like this, Sadie.  This is the kind of thing I want to keep with the house.  I want its memories preserved.  When we start painting, let’s leave this wall out for the time being.  I’ll think about how I want to keep it.”  I stood longer and examined the wall.  A memory returned to me.  We had done this very thing with my third son – and my last.  Marc and I had measured both Isaac and Adam regularly on the wall outside of our laundry room.  The Marcings had been kept throughout the 28 year old marriage.  I wondered if the people who bought our house had kept those for the sake of the memory.

I had met Marc eight years after my divorce.  As a struggling single mother, he had been a light of hope for me, but the relationship grew slowly.  The anguish I had experienced during and after the divorce from Jack did not give me hope for success with another marriage, and I shied away from believing that I could make a marriage truly work.  He was persistent, though, and had the belief which eluded me.  After three years, he let me know that he was getting married again, and if I wasn’t then it was time for us to move on.  I was deeply involved emotionally by then, and did not see that I could let go.  So I agreed, and within a year, Isaac was born.  I had not planned on having other children – the struggle with the first two had been so difficult that I did not believe I could do it again.  But Marc was again quite persistent, and I allowed myself to be convinced.  In reality, I always felt like someone was missing, and when Isaac arrived, with his sunny disposition and easy personality, I knew I had been right.  His father had doted on him from birth, and Isaac could later literally watch himself grow up in pictures.  Adam arrived four years later, and like many 2^nd children, did not attain the photographic remembrances of his brother.  He was a studious child, not given to athletic achievements, and although Marc tried to understand and to embrace his world, he could never quite make the jump.  His main love was always sports, and he and Isaac shared that bond in a way that neither Adam nor I could.  So we developed our own interests in arts and culture and music.  Together, we attended plays and concerts that were given in our city, while Marc and Isaac pursued the games and tournaments that captured their attention.  Looking back, I know that I needed to involve the four of us more in each other’s world, but that just didn’t seem feasible at the time.  Both Jack, Jr. and Bobby were considerably older than their two brothers, participating in high school activities and dates.  On occasion, we functioned as an entire family unit, but mostly the differing interests drove us in the directions of those things.  I had often examined this relationship to attempt to grasp when the connection was lost, but somehow I had never quite understood it.  Even after the marriage counseling which we sought, we each seemed so comfortable in our individually developed lives, that there appeared no reason for us to try to change.  We remained friends, and often spoke on the phone daily.  Neither Marc nor I had indicated any desire to remarry, so we actually never officially divorced.  I knew that if that was important to either one of us, we would inform the other, but at this late stage of the game, me at 67 and him at 72, there seemed little reason.  Strangely, we even on occasion vacationed together, as two old friends will do, and returned to our own lives with fond memories of the trips which we took.  I thought that was likely what had really happened – we had become more just roommates and friends than husband and wife, and that had been the demise of the marriage.  For some people, that would bring great comfort.  I understood that.  But even at this age, I deeply needed the emotional connection of a soulmate.  I had found that with girlfriends.  My older sons had suggested at one point that perhaps I was gay.  I laughed at that thought.  I had always loved men.  But I understood women.  And that was the way I wanted to live the rest of my life.  At one point, I had entertained the belief in reincarnation.  I was no longer sure that I could wrap my mind around that thought, nor was I willing to let that persuade me about choosing how I would live the end of this life.  So I had moved forward with the desire to create this world.  And Marc had been supportive.  He now lived with his younger sister, and they seemed to get along very well.

“Okay, Sofie, if you want to keep this.  I don’t know how you  will do it when you paint, but if that is what you want…” Sadie trailed off like she thought my idea was a little nutty.  It probably was.  I didn’t know these children, but I knew lots of others, and it felt right to leave the markings.

“I think perhaps I will frame this in – make It look like a picture.  Then make the markings darker – a permanent marker or something.”  I nodded my head, while Sadie shook hers.

“Don’t make no sense.  But its your house, Sofie.”

“That it is.”  I smiled.  “Let’s haul all this paper out to the bin outside.  I’m gonna be throwing lots of this old stuff away.”  Together they scooped up armloads of the old paper, and headed toward the kitchen door.  I had rented a dumpster, and it sat outside of the kitchen next to the small concrete patio.  “Lots of work to do, my friend.  This is going to be a warm and loving home.”

(4^th writing)

Shortly before five, the lower level of the house was fairly clean.  We had not tackled the small den on this floor that was to become a bedroom, but I was purposely leaving the bedrooms until the end.  That had to do with personal preference of those who would be living in these rooms, as well as a sheer lack of energy.  Sadie and I slumped on the only two chairs in the kitchen – two old lawn chairs that had been left by the previous tenants.

“Lordy, I am beat.”  Sadie’s face was streaked with dust, and her apron was covered in filth.  “We done a good job here today, Miss Sofie.”

“You did a great job, Sadie.  Now I need to clean up and take you and your husband out to dinner to thank you for all the work here.”

“Why you plannin’ on takin’ him out? He ain’t done nothin’.”  I laughed at the disgusted look that she had.

“I took you away from him today.  No dinner on the table for Mr. Jones.”

“Alvin ain’t gonna miss any calories, I can assure you of that.  But I’m beat.  How about we do that when we ain’t worked so  hard?”  I nodded to Sadie.  She did look like she needed a bath and a bed more than she needed to go out for dinner.

“How old are you, Sadie?”  She grinned in my direction.

“Now that ain’t polite, Miss Sofie.  You ain’t supposed to ask a lady her age.”

“Sadie, I have so bad news to share with you.  I’m no lady.”  I looked serious.

“Don’t believe that, ma’am.  No, not atall.  You are a lady.  I can see it in the way you walk.  And the way you carry your head.  Only ladies look like that.  Now don’t get me wrong, I think you are a strong lady.  I’m way curious about this house and what your plans are.  But I’m not doubting for a minute that you are a lady.”

“That’s kind of you, Sadie.  But I don’t think I’ve been accused of that too often.  So, if it helps, I’m 67 years old.”

“Now, Miss Sofie, you sure don’t look it.  And based on the work we did here today, you don’t act it neither.”  She smile shyly.  “I’m 63.  Alvin is 66.  We’ve been together now for over twenty-eight years.”

“Thank you, Sadie.  I am very interested in getting to know more women in their sixties, as that kind of plays into the plan I have for this house.  How about I clean up a little, go get some food, and we can eat right here.  That way you don’t have to change, and I can pick up something for Alvin too.  It really is the very least I can do for what you have done for me today.  How about it?”

“Okay.  I will head home and clean up some too, and you can tell me about this here plan of yours.  Alvin probably won’t come back with me.  Can I bring a card table, or somethin’ to put the food on?”

“That would be great.”  We both sat there a moment longer as if it was going to take a lot of effort to get up, but gradually we moved, Sadie to head off home to wash up, and me to the bathroom downstairs to wash my hands and face, and to my suitcase to find some clean clothes.  I knew there was a cafeteria a short walk away, and that would possibly revive me.  Likely, both Alvin and Sadie would enjoy some good southern cooking that wasn’t their own, and we could all feast on southern fried chicken and beans.

As I walked down the sidewalk toward Jenkin’s Cafeteria, I looked at my neighbors houses.  Many were in disrepair, and others almost looked abandoned.  I hoped that what I was doing would help to change most of that.  We would see.  Saluda was a small town off the beaten path, but close enough to larger towns to make it extremely affordable as well as approachable.  I felt that it was a great in-between spot for proximity as well as quiet and somewhat laid back.  From here, we could go north to Hendersonville or Asheville, or south to Greenville and onto Atlanta.  It was also only a couple of hours from Charlotte.  A lovely place to spend ones’ winter years and make it creative and livable.  I had great hopes for the Howell House, as I found that today that had become the title of choice for me.  It wouldn’t apply to any particular person who would be living there, but it added a touch of historic importance that I thought would lend it a nice title and a homey feeling.  The Howell House. The last family to have lived there before us.  The ones I thought had added the growth chart of the children.   I would run it by the others, after they arrived, and we would see if it fit as well as I thought it did.

When I returned with the food, Sadie was waiting on me.  This was 2008, and I didn’t even think about locking the doors when I left.  I shook my head at my own forgetfulness, but wondered if it would matter.  I knew it wasn’t wise to tempt others with that kind of behavior, but this didn’t feel like a place that was going to need lots of security.

The card table was set with forks and knives, and I saw at once that none of them matched.  This was going to be an interesting conversation.

“You expressed an interest in what I’m doing here, and how this house is going to be used.  So I’m going to tell you.”  I dug into the mashed potatoes, and the corn.  Sadie watched me carefully as I ate slowly, and thought about my plan.

“I have long wanted to create a style of living – for older people – that encourages independence and connections.  Relationships.  Important ones for women who have outlived their spouses, or are divorced, or never married.  Women who need each other to live more fully.  I watched as my grandmother and my mother slowly wasted away – both mentally and physically – in assisted living and nursing homes.  I’m sure there are many good ones out there.  This is not about that.  This is about creating a home where my friends, sisters, other women can live safely, and with lively stimulation so that their minds and their lives are full and they live out the autumns and winters of their lives with grace, respectability, help – things that make our lives worthwhile.  I’m not going to be one of those who get consigned to a slow death in a nursing home.  I would prefer a quick one with  my own hand.  So that’s what I’m going to create here.  A home for older women who are alone – either by choice or by fate – and want to live in fuller way.  And don’t want to be burdens on their families.  I think that is the reason many make the choice to live in a home.  No one wants to burden their family.  So that’s it. That’s the plan.  I think this is an idea that can grow and spread throughout the country.  But if it only happens here, then so be it.”  I continued to eat while Sadie watched me.

“Hmm.  That’s it, huh?  Sounds pretty ambitious to me.  You gonna pay for this all yourself?”

“I’m paying for the house.  I’m doing the work to get it ready.  I’ve been fortunate.  I have the money to do this.  My children don’t need it, although I’m sure one or two would like to have it.  But that’s not going to happen.  I’m taking care of me, which really is the kindest thing I can do for them.  That won’t be responsible for me.  And those who move here will have a financial commitment.  To participate in the costs of things. Power, rent, water, groceries.  That kind of thing. Just like any housemate would do.” I didn’t mention any amounts.  I wasn’t actually yet sure, and I also intended to handpick the first group.  Or almost all of it.

“That’s mighty interestin’, Sofie.  Mighty interestin’ indeed.”  She stopped and laughed a moment.  “Alvin’s gonna be delighted to find out that his neighbors are gonna be women.”

After we finished eating, we cleaned up quickly, and Sadie headed home.  I pulled one of the chairs out to the front porch, and sat.  The sun was very low in the sky, and the early spring sunset peered over the house across the street.  It was an older street, one of the main ones in the small town.  I leaned back, and pondered what I was doing.  This had been a long time coming.  I had given great consideration to the desire to live with other women for the last decade of my life.  So many changes, and my own need to be close to my female friends had clearly been a big part of my reasoning for this.  Also the desire to be in a communal house with people coming and going.  I had grown up that way, and the years after the empty-nest had hit me harder than I had expected.  Loneliness was not the way I wanted to end my life, and this just felt right.  Felt like the answer to my needs.  I sat on the porch, my first official “sitting”, for over an hour.  Then I quietly closed the door, locked it this time, and headed to the small motel where I had a clean bed and a good book waiting for me.

(4^th)

By the end of that week, we had the house very livable, and I believed that with some plumbing, the kitchen was going to work fine without major overhauls.  I had, however, ordered new counter tops and appliances, and those were due to be installed in a week or so.  As it turned out, Alvin had become quite helpful around the house, doing things like adding hardware to the cabinets and grumbling about having a house full of women living next door to him.  I could see there was a small part of him that felt manly, however, to know (or think) he would be needed on occasion for his muscles.  I had never been beyond calling on feminine wiles when I just didn’t feel like swinging a hammer, but this time I found that his ability with an electric screwdriver far outdid my limited experience with construction tools.  I willingly let him have his ego boost by asking him for assistance with changing the knobs and hardware on the cabinets.

The upstairs bathroom had not proven to be as cooperative as the kitchen, and it appeared that a new floor and fixtures were going to be needed to get it up to guidelines.  I heard a knock on the front door, rose from my padded knees and laid the paint brush I was using down in the tray.  The dining room was almost done, in a lovely shade of sage green, a very livable color I had taken with me from home to home. When I got to the front door, I peered through the glass, and saw a handsome rugged middle aged man standing there.  Brushing my hair down, I ignored the paint speckles on my face, and opened the door.

“Can I help you?”  I smiled at the stranger, and he returned it.

“I’m Johnson Smythe.  The plumber.  You called about needing some work?”

“Oh, yes, yes.  Come in, Mr. Smythe.  My name is Sofie Baxter.  Thank you for coming so promptly.”

“You’re welcome, ma’am.  Quite frankly, everyone in town is curious to see whose moving in this old house, and what your plans are.  Thought I might as well be the news carrier.”  He smiled again, and I noticed he had unusually white teeth.  Everyone was using that whitening stuff these days.  Seemed like even plumbers were in on the program.

“Mr. Smythe, you don’t mind if I say you don’t look like the average plumber.”

“You can call me Johnny.  And, no ma’am, I don’t mind if that means I don’t have a huge belly with tobacco in my teeth, and my pants actually fit up around my waist, if you get my meaning.”  I had a brief visual of a picture I had once seen of a heavy man with pants that sagged in the back.  Not a pleasant memory.  I laughed.

“No, Johnny, you don’t fit my idea of the usual plumber.”

“Well, Mrs. Baxter, that’s because I’m also the mayor and an accountant.  Just got tired of sitting behind a desk crunching numbers, and this gets me out into the community to see what’s really going on in my town.”  He smiled again, and there were nice character crinkles that curled up around his eyes.  It was an infectious smile, and I again automatically smiled in return.

“Okay, Johnny, you are becoming a very interesting plumber.  And I am Sofie, if you are Johnny, so let’s get rid of the old lady labels.  I will assume you are a talented plumber, or else you wouldn’t keep getting elected.”

“I am a good plumber.  But that’s got nothing to do with my electability.  I get to see everyone’s shit, if you understand what I mean.  Nobody’s gonna vote against me.”  I laughed out loud, and he laughed too.  This was exactly what I had been hoping for.  A town with characters and real people.  A town where there could be connections and friendships made easily and with humor.  I felt like I had chosen well.

After I had shown him the different issues that I had both in the kitchen and in the bathroom, he took the information, and promised to call back within a day with pricing and suggestions.

At the end of the day, I returned to my home away from home – Kate’s Motel – and changed.  That evening,  I headed to visit my good friend, JoAnn Watson, In Greenville. This was my first candidate.  She had expressed interest, but hadn’t committed and it was time to put up or shut up.  Also, I needed furniture.  The Howell House was coming together.

I arrived in Greenville at 7:00, and headed for my favorite restaurant, Arizona’s.  I had come to eat here for many years, and found that on occasion I had a craving for their famous salad, the Sedona.  The seasoned chicken,, the dates, and the feta were just a part of the flavor that captivated me.  There were many memories tied up in this location, and I was convinced that the taste of the salad included the flavor of friendships for many years that had been conducted at the newly remodeled bar.  I had known  bartenders here to come and go – men, women, and one or two that I was never really sure about.  But they had a knack for hiring people that had amazing skills at opening up their customers, and remembering their wants and needs.  Maybe I was doing what I tended to do – which was give characteristics to people who didn’t surely have them, but it felt that they were amazingly adept at hiring amazingly adept bartenders.  I sat, and smiled at Chad, one of the newer ones.  He came over.

“Howdy, Sofie.  Chardonnay and a Sedona?”

“I’m going to surprise you tonight, Chad.  I’m go with cabernet.”  He whistled low.

“You throwing me a curve ball?”

“Still rather cool outside.  I just tend to like red when it’s cool.”  I shrugged.  I had never bought into the meat and fish reasoning for choosing wine.  For me it had always been about how I felt inside as to what was going to work.  Wine had been my best friend and my nemesis for many years.  It was not a small problem between me and Marc.  He fought me for many years to limit my drinking, and I fought back equally hard.  Sometimes he had a point.  On occasion I drank too much.  On occasion, while drinking, I made stupid choices.  I had come to terms with that many years ago.  Now I didn’t drink quite as much, and if it had damaged me, then so be it.  It had also saved me many evenings.  But I found that there were fewer nights each year in which I went to sleep with an empty bottle.  Might have as much to do with the fact that I was not as financially free as I had once been.  Whatever the reason, I enjoyed one or two glasses – but only two if I was home and not driving.  I at least tried to be that smart at my advanced age.

The salad arrived at about the same time as the wine, and I ate carefully, gazing around the restaurant.  I had to be ready when I got to JoAnn’s home.  She wanted to say yes, but something was holding her back.  I believed that once she saw the Howell House in readiness for her hand, there would be little to keep her from joining me.  That was my hope, and I was ready to do battle.

Sol and Esther

He stood at the back of the room, turned slightly toward his wife of forty nine years.  Once again, they were attending another of the many weddings his offspring, including both children and grandchildren.  First three children – two daughters and a son – were married and stayed that way.  But that was many years ago.  Now they were on the grandchildren track, which threatened to be a much greater number.   This was the third one in so many years.  He looked around for a chair.  His eighty-two year old legs had begun to ache, and soon they would go numb.  Dorothy glanced in his direction, smiling patiently but with that underlying look that told him he was fidgeting too much.  He offered a small smile back, and looked around some more.  There were over two hundred people in the room, drinking wine, singing songs, dancing.  The celebration would go on for hours.  He knew that shortly his legs would refuse to cooperate, and sitting as opposed to falling was going to become even more important.  Glancing out on the dance floor at his granddaughter, he watched as her eyes focused on her new husband’s face.  He turned his own gaze toward the young man.  There was something about him that felt familiar.  He had noticed that earlier, but thought it must have something to do with having met so many people during previous evening’s celebrations.  There again was something vaguely familiar – a certain way his smile angled downwards on the left side of his mouth, a look of either amusement or derision.  Sol rested his gaze longer on the young man.  What was there about that smile?  Perhaps he had met the young man and simply had forgotten but he didn’t think so.  This part of the family – his son’s – lived in New York, and he and Dorothy had been in Florida since this granddaughter had been a young teenager.  He didn’t recall meeting Marc, but then he didn’t recall much these days.  Sol shook his head, and forced his look away from Marc.

Sol felt Dorothy tug on his sleeve.  She pointed to a partially empty table to their right, and they edged slowly over to it.  Pulling out a chair for her, he then quickly grabbed one for himself as well, and sat.  Peering around some more, he saw that they were sharing a table with a middle aged couple, people he hadn’t met, or didn’t recall meeting.  The woman reached out to shake his hand, and he tried hard to hear what she said.  Shaking his head, he smiled at her, and she returned the smile.  The music and conversation drowned everything else out for him, and he reached up to his left ear to turn up the hearing aid.  Thinking twice, he let his hand drop without doing so.  Might be better to keep the volume low, and keep pretending.  There was a small ache building behind his eyes, and louder noise would just increase the pain.

Dorothy reached to pat his hand, leaned in and whispered something.  He smiled as if he had heard every word, and she smiled back.  Her fading blue eyes still held a sparkle when she was pleased and he was glad to see the glow.  When Dorothy was surrounded with the Goldsteins, and their familial extensions, he could see the maternal contentment that had made her life bearable.  There had been so many struggles for them over the years.  There were days and even months when he wondered if he should have married her.  The love and devotion she wanted in her life was not available from him.  That had died many years ago – gone up in flames.  He knew how unfairly he had treated her, and the guilt sometimes washed over him because he knew she had been a vital stabilizing influence on his own life.  Dorothy had held him and rocked him through nights of screaming terror.  When he had arrived in America, he came with the wounded dreams and determined ambitions of a young man who had died once, but had returned to life with no desire to live.  Work and accomplishment were the only things he trusted, and success was his way of revenging the horrors which he had lived through.  In which he had lost all.

They had done well.  That goal had been as important as survival, indeed had been the only way to survive.  He had to prove them wrong.  Not only did he have to live, he had to succeed.  Dorothy was an important part of his success.  While he built his business, she raised and cared for their children. She offered him a home, and the opportunity to have a family again.  Everyone else was gone, and he badly needed to leave a legacy of blood, this time throbbing in his children’s veins and not spread on the ground nor up in smoke. The family was established and the grandchildren were growing up in a world that barely remembered the devastation.  That was a reality he could not bear to think about but neither was he willing to speak of the annihilation he had experienced.  They would just have to read their history books.

Shaking his head, he forcedly cleared his mind.  He was determined not to allow his dark memories to intrude on this joyful family event.  He forced himself to look around and to examine those he could see in the near darkness of the evening.  He saw a few familiar faces – friends of his son, Jeff.  He was sure that there were also business associates of Jeff’s there as well.  This would be a smart time to make those connections.  In addition, Barb had her friends as well – the tennis and mahjong crowd of her synagogue.  From the back, they all looked as young as their daughters did.  From the front, the faces looked a little frozen.  He wouldn’t mention his thoughts to Dorothy.  He had learned to keep those comments to himself.  Yet, he had no patience with those his children’s age being so uncomfortable with aging.  They should be grateful they got the chance.  Wrinkles were nothing to be ashamed of.  He glanced at Dorothy, and thought about the character she wore on her brow.  Living caused changes in one’s appearance.  Dying young did not.  He shook his head again.

Sarah, the bride, beamed in her Gucci gown on the danced floor.  He didn’t remember how he knew that it was Gucci, and he wasn’t even sure what Gucci was, but he knew that had been important to her. He was also aware that it had cost a bundle. Barb again.  Just for one day.  Sol didn’t get it.  Marc beamed down at his bride.  Sol wondered if Marc had any idea just how much it would cost to keep his young bride happy.  He grimaced when he tried to remember what he was thinking about on his wedding day.  It certainly was not about the cost of taking care of the bride.  A shadow passed over his eyes as the memory of his first wedding day crept into his consciousness. Shaking his head, he again refused to let the celebration be disturbed by the darkness that lingered continually on the edge of his consciousness.  Those musings could come later.  This was not the place or time.  He would have to shake his head harder.

Forcing his thoughts back to the present, he let his eyes roam slowly around the room, taking in what he could see.  Other than family and Jeff’s friends, he recognized few.   The family of the groom was in great abundance – people he would not have yet met, and would soon forget once he did.  He knew those meetings would take place shortly, and reminded himself to smile and behave civilly.  After the first bride and groom dance, Sarah made her way to their table.

“I’ve been searching for you,” she breathed as she leaned toward both Sol and Dorothy.  “Time for pictures.”  Dorothy rose, and pulled at Sol’s sleeve.

“Come on, Sol.  We must be in the pictures. Sarah, honey, you look beautiful.” Dorothy beamed in the direction of her granddaughter, and smiled toward Sol.  Once again, she included Sol in every effort she made toward the family.  Dorothy was incapable of leaving anyone out.

“I hear you, Dot.  Sarah, you are beautiful.”

“Thanks, gramps,” she smiled a huge white grin, displaying several thousand dollars worth of dental work.  He smiled back.  Dot would tell him later that all he thought about was the cost of things.  This was a regular conversation between the two of them.  He was unable to forget that many years had passed before he was financially solvent. He would always fear hunger and poverty.  There was no way he could describe to his family what it had been like to watch his own grandparents die of starvation.  He could never heal that deep wound.  He took Dot’s elbow, following through the crowd with Sarah in the lead.  As she passed by, best wishes and compliments were tossed her way.  She beamed with the beauty of a new bride.

Sol looked toward the photo setting, and glimpsed an older couple standing with Marc.  Apparently his grandparents.  They were talking quietly, and Marc looked up and smiled.  Then oddly, something caused him to stumble slightly.  Dot looked back at him, her face immediately concerned.  He had been tripping some lately, and she was worried about brittle bones and broken hips.  When she saw the look on his face, she felt confusion.  There was something fearful about his eyes, and she felt a cold alarm creeping into her body. Sol’s health had not been great for over a decade, and she was constantly watching him for any problems. Turning to see what was upsetting him, she too saw Marc’s grandparents.

“What is it, Sol?” her voice was quiet.

“Something…” his voice wandered off as he stopped and stared at Marc’s grandmother.  Something … what was it.  His mind slowed down as he continued to stare at the woman next to Marc.  A tiny far away voice reminded him it was bad-mannered to stare, but he couldn’t tear himself away from her face.

“Sol, you are being rude,” Dorothy whispered gently in his direction.  But he didn’t hear her.  There was a roaring in his ears that he couldn’t understand.  Briefly, he wondered if he was having a heart attack, and thought how inconvenient that would be at his granddaughter’s wedding.

Feeling as if he was floating outside of his body, he moved in the direction of Marc’s grandmother.  Glancing up, she saw him coming toward her with a dazed look on his face and she watched him quizzically.  Marc had turned to look at him as well, as had his grandfather.  She offered a tentative smile and it was then he noticed that the side of her mouth angled slightly down.  He shook his head as if in a dream.  He felt that he had been dropped underwater and everything looked slightly wavy.  Stopping to gain his composure, Dot again tugged at his sleeve, and watched him with deepening concern.

“Sol, what are you doing? What’s wrong?”  He shook Dot’s hand off of his sleeve.  He forced himself to keep walking and it seemed as if hours had passed before he made it across the room to stand in front of the woman. Both Marc and his grandfather were watching him with a combination of concern and surprise, but Sol didn’t notice anyone or anything else.  He only saw her smile.  Arriving at her side, he roughly grabbed her left arm.  She let out a little yelp.

“What the hell?” the other older man was dumbfounded by the movement, and Marc then called out to Sol.

“Mr. Goldstein, what are you doing?”

Dorothy stood rooted, with her hands covering her mouth.  Sol ignored him, and jerked her left shirt sleeve up.

“Stop it!” she croaked out, coming to her senses and grabbing at her sleeve to pull it down.  Sol heard a ripping sound but refused to stop.  The tattoo that he was looking for stared defiantly up at him.  There on her arm were the hated numbers.  The tattoo of death.  The proof of a heinous experience, one in which living had often proved as ghastly as dying.  Sol looked up into her face.  It wasn’t possible.  This simply was not possible.  Tears were sliding down her face, and she was shaking her head from side to side.

“No, no, no, “ she sobbed.  “What are you doing?” He heard her again as if he was submerged and words were muffled.  Everyone in the room had grown quiet and those who could see were watching the drama taking place at the photo area.  Not dropping her arm, Sol pushed up his jacket sleeve on his own left arm and ripped open his shirt cuff.  The woman glanced down in shock, not believing what was happening.  There on his left arm were Sol’s numbers.  There was the proof of his past, the numbers that he dreamed about nightly, the horror of the losses he had never been able to discuss.  The thing he kept carefully covered through winter and summer.  Auschwitz.

His number was one number different from hers.  One number.  Same transport, same day, same town.  Same family.  His family.  This simply was not possible, not real, could not be true.  His first wife lived.  The woman he had loved with every inch of his being, every ounce of his soul.  She was here, alive.  No, his mind screamed – she had not lived.  They had told him, they had given him proof.  The rings, the actual finger, the golden tooth.  Here was proof.  He looked again at her left hand.  Her fourth finger was missing.  Here she stood, and here were the numbers he had looked for on every arm in Poland.  He had not found these numbers, so he had left for the United States.  Yet here she stood.  The proof was staring him in the face.  Sol looked up at her.  As tears coursed down his face, he whispered one word.

“Esther.”

Dumpster Treasures

I sat in my car behind the stores. Not sure how to handle this, I didn’t know what to do, where to park. What a strange feeling, clandestine and lonely.

To my right, I noticed a man in an old van. Faded maroon or possibly rust colored. The paint was chipped and discolored. An old 60’s van that probably once was filled with hippies and flower children. I casually watched as he parked, noticing the many bumper stickers. Easily over fifty on the right side from the rear wheel to the bumper. Los Angeles. Bush for President. On the road again.

The van had a boat behind it. An old faded black boat with a white stripe running down the side. I let my eyes wander over it, wondering if it still worked, or if the man in the van had picked it up somewhere, another treasure that someone did not want. On a side street somewhere with a sign that said, “Take it if you want it”.

The boat was filled with accumulated stuff. An old tarp covered the top. I could see the end of a ladder peeking out. Bumps in the tarp did not give away the items, yet suggested that it was overflowing with discovered items. Whatever he was collecting was well hidden under the canvas material. He was parked at a distance from me.

As he climbed from the driver’s seat, I felt my emotions stiffen. Not fear exactly, but a heightening of my senses. As if I was aware of potential danger. Like a cat that gets a whiff of a dog close by. I felt my eyes narrow and my back stiffen. Too much drama. He got out of the van and walked toward a dumpster. Pulling something from his right side, I saw he was carrying a stick of some sort. Perhaps a cane. He poked it into the dumpster, apparently moving the trash around. Junk thrown into the container. Things tossed by us of the consumer society who like to buy and discard, buy and discard. I guessed that he found things to sell. Or to keep. Nice things, things nobody wanted anymore. At least not the people who had purchased them.

Perhaps he was one of the hoarders. I felt the stirring of a recent memory. Sixty minutes or 48 hours. One of the news shows had done a feature on hoarders. What possessed them to keep so many things? If they could be cured. Or not. There was one story about two brothers who died in their home, filled to the ceilings with old newspapers. Tunnels in the papers. One tunnel fell on the mobile brother, crushing him and killing him. The other dying of died of hunger immobile in his bed. The first brother was supposed to feed the incapicitated one.

I shivered and watched him reach in and take something out. I sat forward, curious now. I wasn’t close enough to make out the item. It was black, which didn’t help. He glanced in my direction, and I looked quickly away. What is it about being caught looking at someone that makes us look away as if we have been caught doing something wrong? When I looked back, he had started walking away from me towards the van. Lifting the tarp on the boat, he tossed the item in, and looked around again. This time I didn’t change my line of vision. He didn’t seem to notice me, and climbed into the van. I heard it roar to life.

I noticed that the van too was filled with things, possessions he had found and stored. I could see the legs of folding chairs, and a clothes basket. I watched and wondered. Was this a man who had lost his world in the recession? Did he once have a job that paid the bills, but now found scavenging a way of life? Or was he always a person who lived on the edge and the discards of others, taking what others no longer wanted for his own? Would his relationships also be discards? People no longer wanted by others? The possibility that many of us could be living his life nudged my thoughts.

His van began moving away from me, here in the back of stores where the dumpsters could be so full of treasures. His kind of treasures. I watched as the back of the boat bumped behind the van and followed it out of sight. I sat there and thought about this man. Someone I would never meet nor know his true story. I allowed the moment to rest there with me. What would he think about me, had he glanced in my direction toward a middle aged woman who sat in a humming car, looking confused and wondering what her life really was? Would he think I was meeting a lover? Lost? Crying? Waiting to apply for a job? Or simply waiting a moment before entering her life again. I smiled slightly to myself. He wouldn’t wonder anything about me. His life was focused on today’s efforts, and the dumpsters he needed to inspect and not on the futile analysis of those around him.

I shook my head, glanced at my phone, and put my car into gear. I had to find a spot that was somewhat remote, yet easy to find. Safe yet apparent. Two wooden pallets leaning together. A shelf between the two, with a board guarding the shelf. That would work. I got out of my car, tied the bag on top, and deposited the treasure which I carried. I tucked in slightly in, got in my car and pulled away.

Another man I had not seen watched me leave, and headed to the pallets.

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