Not Enough Rocks

Autumn on the mountain was a sweet season. Cool, crisp nights with the smell of woodsmoke in the air, leaves turning almost overnight, darkness that came early and completely. The promise of snow was everywhere and the moon silhouetted the clouds making the night sky look like a watercolor painting.

The dogs, each wearing a bright red vest, took off down the dirt road. The little ones looked back often, making sure they kept me in sight but the retriever headed toward the pine trees like a pistol shot and disappeared into the woods. The woods had a rich, pine scent and there was much to be explored. Wildlife scampered for shelter and the leaves scattered beneath his feet - he was a big dog, colored like pale gold and wildly enthusiastic about his freedom. By the time we reached the rock quarry, he was waiting, standing on the rim, proudly barking into the wind, his fur ruffled and his head held high. As I watched, he backed up a few steps then raced for the edge and launched himself over with fierce energy. A minor avalanche of small rocks and loose gravel followed him down and without even a tumble he ended up on the bottom of the quarry. The small dogs stood at the edge and barked frantically, desperately wanting to join him but not brave enough to risk it, and finally contented themselves with chasing after sticks. For the retriever, the journey up the side of the quarry was slightly more difficult but he was surefooted and strong and made it on his second try.

The sky had turned to several different shades of pink and the sun was nearly gone as we headed back to the cabin. The retriever led the way with the little ones at his heels. They pranced and strutted along the path, tired but not worn out, happy but a little subdued. When a foolhardy squirrel darted in front of them, all three gave ferocious but futile chase and from his perch high in a pine tree, the squirrel scolded them loudly and at length.

They paid no mind, pleased that he had briefly joined their game.

The first symptoms of rage syndrome in my beautiful, golden dog appeared less than a year later. Unprovoked, he would suddenly turn on one of the other animals in a violent and deadly rage. When it passed, he was his old self again and while I knew he couldn't control it, I suspected that he couldn't remember it either. There was no treatment and we had him put down one September afternoon. I knew it was the right thing to do, the only thing to do, and as he was given the lethal injection and his eyes closed and his breathing stopped, I felt my own rage at the injustice of it. That night, I walked to the quarry alone and threw rocks as hard as I could and as long as I
could, hoping to exhaust myself past the pain. But as Tom Hanks was to say in Forrest Gump, Sometimes there just aren't enough rocks.

The Peaceable Kingdom

By the time she was 43, Rowena Jeanne Johnson had left one husband and outlived three others. She buried them on a small patch of ground on her farm overlooking St. Mary's Bay, marking all three graves with a simple hand carved cross and erecting a small wooden fence around the graveyard to keep marauding animals and curiosity seekers out.
She kept a second cemetery for her children, four out of five who had died not long after birth and Davey, who had been stillborn and yet a third, much more extensive for the animals. Perhaps because she was alone, perhaps because she had never gotten to raise a child, perhaps because it was just her nature, Miss Rowena's world was so crowded with kindness that there was barely room for anything else.

She kept chickens and once or twice a week would harness up her old plough horse and drive down from the woods to sell eggs and sometimes tomatoes or sweet corn. She kept a vegetable garden, a small herd of goats, one milk cow,a flock of ducks and a pig named Doc. Every stray dog or cat or child gravitated to her and she took them all in without hesitation. One hunting season, an orphaned fawn appeared at the edge of the woods and though it took weeks of coaxing and feeding patience, Miss Rowena eventually worn her over, named her Flower after the story of Bambi and added her to the menagerie. There was a rabbit with three legs, a trio of homeless raccoons,
several small foxes she had taken in when the breeding farm went out of business, and an entire family of comorans that settled on the coastline one fall and never left. After some years it was said that not only could Miss Rowena heal broken wings but that she could mend homelessness and broken spirits as well. The miracle of her farm was that there was harmony and acceptance among all the animals - there were no predators, no quarrels between species, no territorial disputes - cats, dogs, foxes and rabbits all lived together quietly and in peace. Nana said that it flowed from Miss Rowena herself, that she had never known a kinder or more compassionate woman. Islanders began bringing her sick and maimed animals and Miss Rowena would nurse them back to health in exchange for labor or chores, bread, flour, a length of fencing, a repaired wagon wheel or whatever they could offer. Money never changed hands. Miss Rowena would appear on her porch in her sunbonnet and long skirts that were always dragging in the dust and her black work boots. She and her guest would settle into straightbacked wicker porch chairs and negotiate - a mucked out stall for a broken hind leg, a garden weeding for a stomach virus, a new coat of paint on the barn in exchange for a week's worth of boarding for a new foal. She turned no one away, believing that agreement could always be found through patience and mutual need. Island children gladly walked the the three miles uphill to her farm almost every day to help her feed and tend her diverse flock. We leaned about responsibility and hard work and every time we had to add a new grave, we learned about life and death. Every animal was given a service with a prayer, a Bible reading, and a proper burial because Miss Rowena believed that each and every life had mattered.

Rowena Jeane Johnson's peaceable kingdom was open to all.

Next Window, Please

The riot at the post office was small and contained. It changed nothing and of the 23 postal customers who had been standing in line for over a quarter of an hour, no one was hurt, but perhaps a message had been sent even to those deaf and sullen ears of the post office employees.

There were a variety of people in line when I opened the double glass doors and took my place - a young mother with a child in her arms, a very old woman leaning heavily on a cane, a couple of young men in casino uniforms, and an assortment of others, 23 in all. The line stretched well into the entrance and almost out the door and as usual, there was but one clerk at the counter - a heavyset black woman moving at the speed of molasses running uphill, refusing to make eye contact with anyone or even acknowledge their presence. When she spoke it was in a flat, indifferent, monotone, a tone I recognized as her normal speaking voice. A telephone was ringing at steady intervals but it went unanswered by the three or four other employees who wandered randomly around the dark recesses in the back. None paid the slightest attention to the line of restless customers in front and although none seemed to be actually doing anything, none made a move to open a second window. Secure in their monopoly and protected by civil service, they were free to ignore the public without fear of consequence. Could someone in the back come and help you? the young mother finally asked in a tired tone. The lone clerk ignored her, preferring to continue her sullen argument with the customer who had come to the window without the proper postal form. Her boredom and resentment was obvious and she would not give an inch. It's always this way, an old man remarked to no one in particular, Always, and it's shameful. A heavyset man in bluejeans and a work shirt left his place in line and pounded his fist on the counter, Hey! he yelled, A little service out here! The employees in the back looked up in surprise then drifted away from each other but none drifted toward the front counter. Hey! the man in bluejeans yelled again, What's wrong with you people?

The line continued to grow and with each passing minute became more restless. Customers trying to manage bulky packages began shifting from one foot to the other, strangers began sharing post office horror stories, the man in the bluejeans began cursing, louder and more clearly as others in line encouraged him. The woman with the infant finally reached the window in weary tears and the lady behind her offered to hold her child. Thank you, the young mother said gratefully, shoulders sagging with exhaustion and relief. The old lady with the cane asked for a chair and was ignored. We had been in line for nearly a half hour when a second postal employee came to the counter and opened her window. The first immediately slammed her Next Window, Please sign into place and walked away.

As I left, I noticed the sign on the outside doors. It read ARMED ROBBERY OF A POSTAL EMPLOYEEE IS A FEDERAL OFFENSE AND PUNISHABLE BY 25 YEARS IMPRISONMENT. Taped underneath was a hand lettered sign which read EXCEPT AT THIS BRANCH WHERE IT WOULD BE A COMMUNITY SERVICE.

Spy Pond

The railroad tracks that cut across the street where I lived went toward Cambridge's industrial section in one direction and toward Spy Pond in the other. There weren't many trains that I remember and we used to walk the tracks on the weekend, then cut through to the four lane divided highway and walk back - going nowhere and in no particular hurry.

Sometimes we would catch high school kids necking along the edge of the pond but more often they were smoking stolen cigarettes and reading movie magazines. It wasn't a pretty pond - the banks were muddy and torn up with uprooted trees, littered with trash and debris and the water was cloudy. It smelled of moss and ferns, a damp underground kind of smell that made you think of frogs and snakes and gnarly, mishapen little creatures dwelling in the tangled roots of the trees - evil creatures who preyed on unsuspecting children. I had recently read about trolls who lived under bridges and it wasn't much of a leap to imagine such nasty little things living near the shoreline, hiding just under the water and waiting to pounce on a passing child and drag them off. We walked carefully, brave enough to chance it but mindful and scared enough not to get too close to the murky waters edge.

Now and then a body would be discovered in or near the water, the victim of some random violence by a streetgang or worse, or just someone who had drowned. Kids would flock to the scene, hoping for some opportunity to sneak under the yellow crime scene tape and catch a gruesome glimpse of death. Gangland shootings were not unknown so near to Boston and once a beat up old Lincoln was pulled from the water, containing the body of a well known gangland figure, shot - so the next day's newspapers said - squarely between the eyes and at very close range.

There was danger lurking around every corner, according to my mother. Men with guns, trolls, teenagers on drugs, serial rapists and child molesters, all prowling for children who refused to mind their parents. Stop trying to scare them with such nonsense! Nana told her impatiently, They're good children! But she kept on with tales of the Boston Strangler and the Mafia and the untold evil that was everywhere but only for the children who were disobedient. Think, Nana finally said to me, the impatience having turned to anger, How would this evil know the difference between good and bad children?

I came to believe that in every human dynamic, there must be an upper and lower hand and that my mother, like all good alcoholics, needed to have the upper hand in all things. It gave her some sense of control in a world where she otherwise was controlled by her addiction - it allowed her to victimize others and in doing so she maintained the illusion that she was not the victim of her drinking.

Perception often rules the world.

Confessions of a Rainbow Girl

Secret societies were a major part of my upbringing.

My grandparents and parents all were devoted members of the Masons, the Oddfellows, the Order of the Eastern Star, the Rebeckahs, The Court of Amaranth and one for which my daddy wore a fringed three cornered hat, a sash and a sword and scabbard. All four advanced through the ranks to become masters, past masters, grand masters, past grand masters and worthy matrons, grand matrons, past grand matrons, past grand worthy matrons - it was a dizzying and dazzling list of rankings and regalia. I had never thought much of all this membership one way or another until I turned twelve and was surprised with the news that I was to join the International Order of the Rainbow for Girls. No one even pretended that there was any element of choice in the situation - there was a tradition to be maintained and the responsibility of maintaining it was mine - and it was assumed that I would be cooperative.

I dutifully learned the Seven Stations of the Rainbow and the hierarchy, titles, and protocol of the meetings and was initiated in a deadly serious candlelight ceremony along with several of girls my age. We all wore white dresses with shoes dyed to match, we all learned our lines and were careful to keep our expressions solemn. Most of felt ridiculously foolish and were unimpressed with the rituals and secrecy but we hit our marks as trained, knelt and rose on cue, made the proper responses when called upon. The Singer twins performed a tremulous version of "The Lord's Prayer", a collection was taken, a blessing said, and we were pronounced Rainbow Girls.

The scandal was a year or so later when our Worthy Advisor who was also prom queen, editor of the school paper, head of the debating team, student of the year and voted most likely to succeed, mysteriously abdicated her position and left school without warning. She was sixteen and had been gotten "in trouble" by her football hero boyfriend so she was whisked away to visit a sick aunt - it was, after all, the 60's - and the boyfriend quietly changed schools and sports, becoming a hockey star for Cambridge High and Latin. The prom queen returned, a sadder and wiser girl, but she never tried to rekindle the romance and she was never invited back to the Rainbow Girls. She finished her interrupted senior year, graduated without fanfare, and was accepted at a small college in New York State where she eventually took a teaching job.

The colors of the rainbow are for love, religion, nature, immortality, fidelity, patriotism and service. There are no colors for tolerance or forgiveness.

Wash Day

Hard work, my grandmother remarked to me, is it's own reward.

She was feeding sheets through the old wringer washer machine at the kitchen sink. She considered the machine somewhat of an extravagance but had made her peace with it although she was still a bit suspicious as she was of all labor saving devices. She liked to remind me of the days when she and my great grandmother scrubbed clothes with rocks down at the creek. I had recently figured out that we didn't have a creek but all that earned me was a glare and a warning not to sass her. It's the principle of the thing, she told me briskly. We filled her wicker basket with the wet clothes, filled her apron pockets with clothespins, and headed outside.

She has overseen the construction of the clothesline herself several summers ago - six lines were strung from the woodshed to the house at the exact height of her upraised hands. She stuck several of the old fashioned wooded clothespins in her mouth and began to hang the wet sheets, humming an old hymn as she worked. It was a glorious wash day - warm and clear with a strong wind that whipped the sheets back and forth on the line - they cracked and rose to meet the wind, one after another after another, like great white birds lifting off in flight. Nana stepped back, nodded in satisfaction, pocketed the remaining clothespins and the lifted the basket to her hip. The factory whistle blew and she glanced at her watch approvingly.

That night I crawled into bed with sheets smelling of the outside - crisp and clean and cool. I fell asleep to the sounds of the curtains blowing softly away from the open window, the tide slapping against the breakwater, faint music from John Sullivan's boat, and a Red Sox baseball game playing on Nana's little battery powered radio. She was a die hard Boston fan and would listen until the end and her morning mood would be influenced by the outcome of the game. I crossed my fingers for a win. Soon I could hear the click clack of her knitting needles and knew that she was in the leather rocker by the side window with a small glass of sherry, knitting and listening to the radio, her small feet propped up a needlework footstool my great grandmother had made and glancing up at every car that came around the curve. It was all familiar and comforting and a good way to fall asleep.

Nana's Dining Room Table

Storm clouds had been gathering all day and the air was heavy and damp. By early afternoon the skies were nearly black except for the lightning flashes on the horizon. The schoolhouse was closed and the children sent home to help their families get ready. Windows were boarded up or x'd with masking tape, drinking water was collected along with first aid supplies, blankets, canned food. Cattle and other livestock were brought in to shelter and the minister prepared the church to serve as a refuge. The storm was coming, a category 5 hurricane, and the small island was dead in it's path. The evacuation order had come the previous day but the village had evacuated only the very old and the very sick, preferring to stay and defend their homes and livelihoods as best they could. I was born in this house, my grandmother announced, and I'll not leave it come hell or high water.

Landfall was just after 5 o'clock. The wind was deafening and the rain hit like hammerblows, the whole house shuddered and trembled. The flagpole toppled with an enormous crash and the sunporch windows blew out in a mad shower of jagged, flying glass. Water poured though the broken windows and under the door and furniture
disappeared in a whirlwind of hail. The interior windows held but the water in the sunporch had reached critical levels and the pressure cracked open the door at the same time there was a tremendous crash from upstairs and an avalanche of water and debris poured down the stairs only to meet the incoming flood from the sunporch. Up on the table, right now! Nana shouted as dirty water swirled around her ankles. The massive dining room table seated ten and had been in her family for as long as anyone could remember but we scrambled up and over the sides like drenched monkeys. The huge clawfoot legs never wavered although the water eventually reached almost halfway to the table surface. Lesser furniture would've washed away but Nana's table was well rooted by it's own weight and by history and it would survive as would we all.

The vicious storm passed through during the night and the next morning dawned brilliantly clear and sunny. Having done its worst, the water had receded. An upstairs window was broken as well as all the glass on the sunporch and there was water damage everywhere, but relatively speaking, we'd gotten off lightly. Nana packed
linens and towels and food in the big Lincoln and we began to navigate our way to the church. The damage was beyond description - roofs missing, trees and power poles downed, cars picked up and flung into ditches by the winds, broken windows and houses missing steps and walls. The road was littered with pieces of furniture, sections of fences, barrels, car parts, even half of a fishing boat. There were serious injuries, mostly from wind driven debris, but miraculously, no one had died. The clean up would take years, some families would never recover entirely, some fishing boats would never set sail again, but all would try.

A Line in the Sand

You're not going anywhere, young lady! my mother was shouting, spitting the words out and so redfaced that I started thinking about apoplexy. I stood my ground, I'm going to the library, I repeated. The hell you are! she screamed with spittle now actually on her chin. The hell I'm not! I yelled back.

It was a small victory when I slammed the door behind me and shut out her last words, You just wait until your father gets home! A small victory, but a significant one - the very first time I'd openly defied her, brazenly refused a direct order and actually challenged her one on one. My heart was pounding a little faster than usual and there were butterflies in my belly but I was on the sidewalk, on my feet, so I started walking. It hadn't been the first confrontation and it wasn't to be the last but it had been definitive. The balance of power between us had finally shifted and the sensation was so strong that it was a breath away from being physical. Somewhere deep inside I knew that this time there'd be no going back, no forced apologies, no false peacemaking. This would not, as my daddy liked to say, be put behind us and forgotten. Whatever had been been between us, and it had been neither motherly or daughterly, had been severed. I was in new territory, probably dangerous territory and I would have to watch every step I took. I had called her a drunken bitch and told her to go to hell. She had responded that she'd see me dead before allowing me to talk that way to her and immediately reached for the telephone. Nobody's going to save you this time! she screeched and I tore it out of her hands and threw it against the wall.
She flung a candlestick at me and I ducked and said I wished she'd die and leave us in peace and as I heard the words I realized how true they were.

The sanctuary of the library ended at nine and as I walked down the steps, I wasn't surprised to see my daddy waiting for me, leaning against the old station wagon with a sorrowful expression. Wordlessly, he opened the door for me and I slid in. We sat there for a few moments and then he asked if I wanted to tell him my side. There was no point in telling him that she'd unaccountably trashed my room, looking for Lord knew what, or that she'd called me a thief and a liar while tearing up my precious books, smashing the mirror and broken my belongings. I shook my head and looked away. She won't speak to you, he said gravely, or to me until you apologize. I looked straight ahead, held my head up stubbornly and said, Fine. With a huge sigh, he turned the key in the ignition and we drove home in a familiar cold war kind of silence. Your mother .......... began once and I cut him off in a fury, My mother is a drunk and a hateful bitch and you always take her side! The words came out in a rage of guilt and despair, born of a desperate longing to be heard and an agonizing need to be understood but it was breaking the rules to speak of her drinking and once we'd pulled into the driveway, he ordered me to my room.

It had been a small victory in a great war and there had been a price. In the end it changed only the way I saw myself and that was enough. After a few weeks, the incident was all but forgotten and life, such as it was, resumed except that there was a subtle change in the way she talked to me, as if she was being just the tiniest bit cautious, as if she suspected that I might fight back. There would be many more such small victories and defeats, many more triumphs and concessions as I grew older and she spiraled into alcoholic madness. What there would not be was forgiveness or reconciliation. In the end, only the war itself won.

Nathaniel's Garden

Nathaniel knows his flowers. He is a trimly built black man, somewhere between 40 and 60, with a ready smile and a greying mustache. He is a morning person, arriving long before the office opens, to plant and transplant the newly delivered flowers. He is frighteningly respectful and courteous and although barely literate, he is on a first name basis with each flower. He handles them with great care and delicacy - using gloves only for the roses - and he talks to them as he works. I see him on his knees in front of the flower beds, smiling at the pansies and jonquils and caladium, gently encouraging the lilacs and azaleas, beaming at the ivy as he coaxes it up the trellis. Though it's early, it's already nearly 80 and the sun blazes fiercely. Nathaniel keeps a hand towel across one shoulder, to wipe his face and hands as he works but his shirt is already soaked with sweat. He doesn't seem to mind the heat, it's a natural part of his garden. Under his care, the flower beds blossom and thrive until they are a mass of color and greenery, all reaching for the sky like anxious children begging for candy. Later in the morning, Nathaniel will put away his shovel and spade, replace the wheelbarrow in the shed, and patiently water down the beds until he is satisfied. He will walk all around the big old house, inspecting his work slowly, stopping now and again to pull a dead leaf, remove a stray branch, or sweep dirt from the brick patio. Lastly, he will test the soil in the massive pots by the front door, making sure the begonias can breathe and grow properly. All this he does out of love for the flowers and the soil, for nature and the beauty she provides.

Nathaniel's garden is a work of art and a labor of love.

The Road Back

The Allison twins, Davey and Donny, were six years old when they shot and killed their mother.

They had discovered their daddy's hunting rifle in the closet under the dark stairway and been playing a noisy game of cowboys and Indians when their mother came in to quiet them. Startled, they turned at the sharp sound of her voice and the gun went off. She was, as people came to say, dead before she hit the floor. Wakened by the blast, John Allison raced out of his bedroom to find his wife sprawled and bloody on the kitchen linoleum and his sons screaming over her body. Both boys were covered in blood and hysterical and John, a good and decent man, gathered them to him and carried them outside to the front steps where he began to sob. He was twenty four and Jenny had been two years younger.

No one was prosecuted. The mounties came and an inquest was held in the church and as everyone expected, Jenny's death was ruled an accident shooting. The boys were sent to live with relatives in Yarmouth while John tried to come to terms with his shattered life. Accidental or not, the fact was that his sons had killed their mother, a reality that would never go away, and John had no clear idea how to accept it or get past it. He loved his boys but he had loved Jenny too and reconciliation seemed far beyond his grasp. How am I to look at their faces and not blame them? he asked my grandmother, how am I to forgive them for what they did? Nana sighed but she had no answers so she simply forced him to drink tea with brandy and repeated the same words over and over to him, Time, John, give it time. But time brought no change and no healing and by the summer following the shooting when the boys were still away, Miss Hilda stepped in and swept away all sentimentality like so much debris under her feet. First, she took stock of the island girls and commandeered those she found fit for a cleaning crew and set them to work on the Allison house. Under her watchful eyes, it was put right, inside and out, in just under three days. She then enlisted my grandmother to call her the next time John appeared, and as he sat drinking tea and brandy on the sunporch, in strode Miss Hilda. Come now, John, she told him sharply, we're going for a walk. He reached for the brandy and she struck his wrist smartly with her stick. I disapprove of spirts, sir, she said in her no-nonsense tone, especially when used to excess. He met her gaze with a haunted look in his eyes and his shoulders sagged. For a fraction of a second Miss Hilda wavered then in a voice as cold as steel she made what amounted to a speech. Do not think, sir, for one moment, that I or anyone within three hundred miles is unaware of your situation, however, this maudlin self pity has run its course. You have two sons and it's high time you saw to their needs. Now get up! And she punctuated this last with a another strike of her stick. John got up.

Miss Hilda and John walked - 'round the Old Road, all the way to the other side of the cove and back, then past the point and over the coastline, coming out at the softball field. They walked that day, and for several days that followed and Miss Hilda showed no mercy, no diplomacy, no weariness and no inclination to give up. She walked John Allison into submission and back to life. When the boys finally came home, Miss Hilda went every day to cook and clean and put the family back together until she felt that they could manage on their own. She nagged,
lectured, manipulated, threatened, dominated, reasoned, counseled and arbitrated until they were whole again.
It was her finest hour.

The House Jack Built

My mother's friend, Jack, had come to visit for a couple of weeks and fallen completely under the spell of the island, its weather and views, its people. He immediately began looking for property to buy and settled on a tract of land slightly up island with a breathtaking view of the ocean. By the following summer, his house, complete with a gravel driveway and an open front deck was finished and he had started the landscaping, a process he mostly had to do himself as the concept was unfamiliar to the villagers. They tended to think that his determination to mold nature made him slightly off, Things grow or they don't, Uncle Shad said with a frown and everyone agreed.

My mother's friendship with Jack was immediately suspect. He was a short, pudgy and unattractive man with thinning hair and a deformed left hand. He drank expensive liquor, smoked only imported cigars, and enjoyed spreading money around. His bright red Triumph sportscar raced like the wind over the dusty, dirt roads of the island, leaving frightened children and mystified residents in its wake. He and my mother took to spending afternoons playing cards and drinking on the deck of his secluded house. Passing boats could hear the music that blared from the expensive speakers and the fishermen shook their heads in disapproval of such "city ways". Jack's money couldn't buy their acceptance or their silence and soon my grandmother caught wind of the goings on at the fancy house that overlooked the ocean and put an end to it. There was a violent scene on the sunporch in which my grandmother stood, arms folded in the doorway, forbidding my mother to see Jack. My mother refused loudly, saying she was "free, white and over 21" and would see anyone she damn well pleased. Nana responded with an angry " not while you're under my roof, you won't " and when my mother tried to push past her, Nana slapped her. Stunned, my mother fell back, slack jawed with surprise, a red handprint already blossoming on the side of her face. Bitch! she snarled and Nana,
very quietly, not giving an inch of ground, and with frightening control in her voice, said, Whore. There was a sudden dead silence between them. I could hear every tick of the mantle clock, every wheezing breath my mother took, and each one of my grandmother's footsteps as she walked away.
I crept back to my room, opened the window and crawled out to the roof where I could easily jump to the ground, then ran for the safety of the woodshed.

I wasn't sure, but I didn't think that kind of thing went on in other families that I knew. I barricaded myself behind the wood and tried to sort it out. No one defied or challenged my mother, at least not more than once, the misery that followed was never worth it. And while Jack ususally made me feel like I wanted to wash after he touched me, he surely wasn't worth name calling and slapping. I was pretty sure I knew what the words had meant but hearing my mother and grandmother use them against each other was scary. Still trying to work it all out, I fell asleep in the sawdust with the good smell of wood all around me. And that was where Nana found me later that night. Supper's ready, she said, go wash up. There was no sign of my mother and the table was only set for two, as it would be for several days and nights to follow.

I never knew where my mother had gone, only that one day she came home. The scene on the sunporch was never mentioned again and from then on, when Jack visited, my grandmother was always present. With no fuel for the fire, village talk moved on to the next small scandal and some years later when Jack's house was leveled by a hurricane and the debris blown out to sea, pieces were found sixty miles up the coast. The foundation eventually caved in on itself and nature's landscaping took possession again. It became a beautiful place to watch sunsets.

The G String Set

Even a strip club is entitled to advertise, my ad-exec husband told me indignantly. They're just trying to make a living like the rest of us.

And that was how we came to be in a seedy, dark and slightly disreputable strip joint at 2am on a Saturday morning. The club was across the river in an area known as "The Strip" - a place built of flashing neon and unlit doorways, crowded little no-name bars, anonymous dives catering to the darker instincts of the patrons, a place that was quickly living up to all my pre-conceived notions. The owner, an olive skinned, dark haired and mustached little man who just missed being good looking, was Jimmy. He and his tall, leggy, blonde wife had been running the bar for years - both bartended , kept the books, acted as bouncers, and Darlene filled in for absent dancers as needed. Drinks on the house! Jimmy yelled as we entered and embraced us both vigorously then stepped back and gave me an appraising look, nodded and said Pleased to meetcha, what'll you have, and began steering us toward the bar. I accepted a glass of wine, grateful to have something to focus on besides the roomful of sad, hunched over men drinking in solitary silence and watching the stage with tired, spiritless eyes. The jukebox began a scratchy country song, and a waitress in pasties, a G string and spike heels gave it a kick as she passed, not even causing a ripple in the tray of drinks she carried. Dancers came and went on stage, their faces bored and indifferent, their bodies moving to the music by rote and habit. Rotating colored spotlights flashed on them, briefly lighting up breasts or buttocks but not their faces. There was something dismal and weary in their performances and something even more randomly discouraging on the faces of the men waching. There was sadness and bitterness in the very air.

A second glass of wine appeared at my elbow, delivered by a young woman with tassels on her nipples and a cloud of blonde hair. Hi, she said with a genuine smile, I'm Linda and she stretched out her hand. She was in her 30's, I imagined, heavily made up with streaks of sweat across her naked shoulders and down her sides. Even in her 4 inch heels, she was petite with bright blue eyes, good teeth and a fresh manicure. A $20 bill was tucked inside her G string. If I can get you anything else, hon, ask me now, she said, I'm off in ten minutes. I shook my head and she gave me another smile and staccato'd her way around the bar, tassels swinging with her every step. Later I was to learn some surprising things about Linda and most of the other dancers - she was a single mother with two little girls and a school teacher during the day. Another girl was working her way through law school and yet another worked for the local arts council. All were alone and raising children, struggling to make ends meet and doing what they had to. They considered stripping a low class but high paying way to supplement their incomes and it was very clear that they all considered it just another job. None were invested beyond their paychecks, none ever saw customers outside the club, none drank or did drugs or liked getting home late to their kids. None felt proud of or diminished by their stripping. Minus her blonde wig, makeup and 4 inch heels, dressed in sweats and running shoes and carrying a copy of The New York Times, Linda shrugged and said, It's just a job, hon, just a job.

A Joyful Noise

I woke to church bells and the smell of bacon. Nana's voice called up the stairs, making sure I was awake and reminding me that we were going to Sunday service. I heard my brothers rough housing in the room next to mine and Lady's chain jingling as she came running up the steps and launched herself onto the bed. Sunshine streamed in the front windows and the day was cool and crystal clear. It was late August and soon we would be making preparations to leave the island, another summer gone seemingly before it had begun. Nana called again, a slight edge in her voice, and knowing how she hated to be late for church, I put thoughts of leaving aside and got up.

Not attending church was never an option, not even for my mother. My grandmother had strong and clearly defined feelings about Sunday mornings and repentance and we were all required to accompany her. When we didn't have a minister, villagers conducted services themselves, and the old Baptist hymns rang out through the open doors and windows with all the spirit of the island behind them. Beulah Land, Brighten the Corner Where You Are, Standing on the Promises, The Old Rugged Cross and my grandmother's favorite, In the Garden. Everyone knew every verse of every hymn, even The Church in the Wildwood, and we sang - if not well - with enthusiasm and pride and gusto. We cleansed our spirits with music and celebration and reverence. The choir didn't have robes and there was no church organ but before she died, old Mrs. Melanson had donated her upright piano and her daughter, Marlene, had taught herself the hymns. The keys were yellowed with age, some stained brown and slightly warped, B flat didn't play at all, but no one minded except Aunt Jenny, the choirmistress, who finally gave up when Uncle Shad observed to her, The good Lord says to make a joyful noise, Jenny, reckon He don't much care what key it's in.

The Memory Closet

The locked door seemed to be daring me. It was at the top of the stairs, fashioned of old wood slats painted white and peeling in several places. There were spaces between the slats and the smell of cedar chips drifted out but all I could see was darkness and mystery. There was no other locked door in the house and between my imagination and my curiosity, I was fascinated by the possibilitities of what it might contain. When I asked my grandmother for the key, she chased me off with a frown and a brisk Curiosity killed the cat, go play outside. I did as I was told but the locked door stayed with me, its forbidden contents preying on my mind.

I was not an especially mindful child but I was a patient one. When Nana made one of her weekly trips to the mainland, I made myself scarce until she had left, then knowing I had several hours to myself, I raided the tool chest and screwdriver in hand, I climbed the stairs. The old door stood passively on its old hinges, not much of a challenge, I thought but my heart began to pound in my chest anyway and I hesitated just long enough to lose my nerve. Like a frightened rabbit, I scurried away, replaced the screwdriver and ran outside into the sunshine. All that summer the mystery of the locked door gnawed at me, curiosity and fear of getting caught fighting in my head like two old soldiers, equally matched, equally stubborn, neither willing to give up
.
My daddy came for a week in late August. We went fishing off the breakwater, played scrabble at night on the sunporch, took walks around the Old Road and picked blackberries and strawberries out of the fields. Before he was to leave, I summoned the nerve to ask him about the locked door and he laughed, saying there was likely nothing behind it but linens and blankets and old quilts. When I persisted, he cheerfully gave in, and together we climbed the stairs. He produced an old fashioned key and opened the door with a dramatic flair - the old slats shuddered and creaked on their hinges and I ducked behind him in sudden terror. Still laughing, he touseled my hair and took my hand, Whatever did you think you'd find? he asked, the laughter turning to an understanding smile.

It was just a shadowy old closet, filled with linens and blankets and old quilts, piles of dusty books, an unstrung tennis racket, discarded hatboxes. A cedar chest in one corner held my great grandmother's wedding dress still folded between layers of thin paper, yellowed but intact. There were boxes of faded photographs, old newspapers,
an empty jewelry case, a row of tiny crystal perfume bottles, a cracked mirror and an old wash basin and pitcher on a three legged stand. It's a memory closet, my daddy told me, this is where your grandmother keeps the things she can't bear to throw away. He shut the door and relocked it, then knelt in front of me. Sometimes, the mystery is better left unsolved.

The Ties That Bind

To my dismay, I have my mother's hands - stubby and short fingers - so every two weeks I make the time to have my nails shaped and polished. It's more than just vanity, I don't like to look at my hands and be reminded.

Her nails were always ragged and grimy. She favored bright red lipstick that often smeared on her teeth and the corners of her mouth. She would apply her makeup unevenly then slap on face powder and the effect was clownish and sometimes grotesque. Under it all, there was an odor of decay and alcohol and urine, it seemed to come from her very pores and saturate her clothing. I couldn't bear to have her touch or be near me. She took to wearing discount polyester pants, gaudy cheap tops and misshapen shoes and carried a plastic purse. It was like being around fruit slowly rotting, swollen and collapsing in on itself.

She spent her weeks alone, closed up in a filthy little house with only the tv and a cat for company. Her trips out were for beer, cigarettes, and bingo. Alone and unhappy, her body as well as her mind began to deteriorate - she developed diabetes, chronic bronchitus, obstructive lung disease and dementia. She began to live in sync with the television soap operas and game shows, following them obsessively as if they were real life. My daddy came on weekends and despaired of the state of the house but said nothing. They lived around each other, sleeping in separate rooms, having limited and meaningless conversations about nothing and arguments about everything. They had each constructed a life apart from the other and although they remained married, their relationship had become like stale cigarette smoke. They were trapped in a windowless room, unable to work together to find a way out, unwilling to tolerate each other, but still dependent each on the other, one out of fear, one out of guilt. One needed care, one was willing to provide it - whatever remained between them stayed between them, whatever kept them together was passive but powerful. They had found a way to accept and reconcile their circumstances without interfering in each others lives and while sad and tragic and wasteful, it served.

Perhaps we are not truly meant to understand the lives of others or the ties that bind them.