My friend Sam stopped by today, reminding me once again of how difficult it is to watch someone you care about gradually deteriorate.
Thinner than ever, his arms hang loosely from his t shirt sleeves and his blue jeans don't even pretend to fit. His hair is uncombed. he needs a shave, and he walks with a stiff, inflexible gait, as of his legs were made of wood. His very face is misshapen, cheeks puffed up toward his eyes like a full mouthed chipmunk, jaw loose, making me think that his teeth don't fit very well. He chews gum with a vengeance and it impairs his already scattered speech, his eyes are little manic and he's restless, barely acknowledging the attentions of the dogs that he once loved. He skips from subject to subject and back again, his thoughts randomized and painfully cluttered.
He is moving, he tells me, and when I ask why, he launches on a bitter stream of invective about his landlord - the broken windows, the leaks in the roof, the backed up plumbing, the failed air conditioning unit - all unrepaired for years and then the final insult, yet another rent increase. He's had enough, he tells me, there's no reward for eight years of loyal renting, no justice in the world. He rambles on, eventually losing steam and his train of thought at the same time. The dogs whine and nudge him for attention - he has known them both since they were born - and he absently strokes them while asking me how I am but he doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, I hear of his latest new friends, of dinners out and evenings of wine and sunsets, of how many new young girls are begging to pose for him and how nudity, done right, is art. There is less and less of the friend I once had in him and when he gets up to leave I don't ask him to stay for supper as I would've once done, don't suggest we get together soon, don't tell him to keep in touch. This is a static-y stranger, a man at playing at contentment while at odds with the world.
He leaves, half lurching, half staggering down the steps toward the driveway, walking stilt-like and carefully, a scarecrow figure in rumpled, ill fitting clothing. He hadn't hugged me goodbye as he would've done once, didn't turn at the car for a final wave and a grin. I closed the front door quietly, feeling sad and relieved, hoping that he would not call again. It's too difficult to watch someone you once cared about deteriorate and turn into a stranger.
We all have our saturation points. Mine came today, when, after a morning of listening to a litany of health complaints from a co-worker and a deep sigh following each and every telephone call, I left for lunch and stalled at the first intersection. Something's misfiring, my mechanic assured me cheerfully, I can look at it tomorrow. It's always tomorrow in the world of car trouble. I got home, arriving the same time as the letter carrier and made the mistake of opening the front door while he was still depositing mail. The black dog, who had clearly had him in her sights before he reached the door, lunged like a wild thing, careening through the screen and onto the steps in one amazing motion. I caught her in mid-leap, twenty pounds of struggling, powerful and very irate dog, determined to defend her territory at all costs. She's not a bad dog, I told him weakly, She has issues. The unnerved postal employee fled, leaving a trail of scattered mail and magazines in his wake and giving me a dark look over his shoulder. The black dog, still barking and fighting for the freedom to chase, began licking my face and neck, proud of her behavior and happy to have won another round, unimpressed with the severe scolding that followed and content to race in mad circles around me while I began the midday feeding. Enough! I heard myself shout through the chaos and slammed my fist on the counter, startling the pacing cats and causing the small brown dog to immediately seek shelter under the table, I'm doing the best I can!
I regretted this outburst instantly and made amends, counting to ten and taking several deep breaths before apologizing and regaining my composure. My temper rarely gets the best of me and my animals - with the notable exception of the black dog - were certainly not to blame. It was a minor meltdown but a telling one, making me realize that I need a break from work and caretaking and bad weather. I canceled my plans to come home and collapse, opting instead for a quiet dinner at a downtown restaurant and an evening of music and picture taking.
There are times when you just have to put it all down.
Through a haze of sweet smelling pipe smoke, the old fisherman watched the parade pass by. Leaning in the doorway of the cafe, he adjusted his cap to shade his eyes then idly hooked his thumbs in his suspenders - the tourists didn't appear to notice him and the dog at his feet slept peacefully through all the chatter and noise. When local folk passed and nodded to him, he nodded back, the barest hint of a smile passing across his face. A smallish blue green parrot perched nonchanlantly on his shoulder, so still and serene that it might have been made of wood.
Mornin', Samuel, my daddy said as we passed by, Think it might rain?
The old man glanced at the sky and then at the parrot, giving his shoulder a slight shrug. The bird fluttered it's wings just a bit and opened it's eyes long enough to cackle God save the queen! and Samuel shook his head, Tain't likely. My daddy smiled and walked on but I stopped in my tracks, never having seen a parrot before and certainly not one that could speak. The bird regarded me with disinterest until Samuel shrugged his shoulder again, then it shifted it's spiky little, taloned feet and cawed, Come to order! Come to order! God save the queen! Samuel almost smiled and the dog woke briefly, then laid his head down on his paws and went back to sleep. The parrot spread it's wings, gave itself a shake and shrieked a curseword followed by an even louder God save the queen! By then a small crowd was beginning to gather, tourists and fascinated children alike watched as the old fisherman produced a handful of seeds and the bird delicately pecked them from his palm and continued to speak. Come to order! it squawked and Be seated! and more God save the queen!
The children laughed with delight, besieging Samuel with questions - Can I feed him? Can he count? What's his name? Can he fly? Who's the queen? Where did you get him?
His name be Micah, Samuel replied, He's from a dark continent, very far away, and he can fly like the Lord's own wind if'n he has a mind to. And, the old man paused, narrowing his eyes and giving us all a warning look, he bites.
We all took a respectful step back while the parrot screeched out Take your seats! Take your seats! God save the queen! Then, as if listening to a waltz, he began to bob his head up and down and sway back and forth on the old man's shoulder, squawking curses and pecking. It was a curious and graceful dance, interspersed with curses and it woke the dog who roused himself and gave a mighty yawn. Time to go, Samuel told him, and the old man, the parrot, and the dog - a strange and marvelous threesome - began ambling down the sidewalk toward the docks, the sun at their backs and the carefree summer day stretched out before them like an invitation.
All humor, I once read, is based on malice. Now there's a bitter thought.
My first husband was somewhat of an expert on this, knowing instinctively where to aim and how to hit the target dead on. He was always careful to disguise these little poison darts with a friendly slap on the back and much hearty laughter and his targets usually responded in kind, at least superficially. It was a stealthy kind of attack, cloaked in friendship and intimacy, born of insecurity and a need to be the center of attention. Sadly, since he was so accurate, he was rarely called to account and those he targeted tended to laugh right along with him, agreeing that it was all in good fun, no real harm intended.
I have wondered - endlessly and uselessly - if we had not returned to his home territory and his family, would he have been different, would he have remained kind, true to his feelings, or gentle. The boy I married was quick witted and funny and although he could be sharp tongued, he was rarely mean spirited. He was generous with his feelings and his time, determined to succeed despite his name and inheritance. He wanted to make it on his own and had left the South and traveled to a college in New England to find not just independence but anonymity, to shed the caste system that wealth had provided him with, to live on his own terms. The man he became was caustic and callous, easily re-integrating into his family and their expectations, accepting their kid gloved rules and embracing their lifestyle. His name opened doors and he went through without a backward glance, effortlessly reinventing his values and goals. The boy I married exchanged his tattered jeans and long hair for a three piece suit and a Porsche, swapped his ideals for small town prominence, and in the end, became all that he been against.
Worse, he expected me to make the same journey and the same transformation, to become an accessory rather than a partner. I watched this process with dismay, anger, and a sense of being left behind, feeling inadequate and unwilling to be made over into an acceptable - and by his new standards - presentable wife.
Success and a three piece suit without a social conscience leads to arrogance and arrogance leads to condescension which reinforces the feeling that it's acceptable and funny to attack others and disguise it as humor. A name does not a better person make, money does not buy class, an intact family is more than breeding and appearance and two people on different life paths cannot travel together for long.
It wasn't the kind of day you'd want to live more than once.
The prospect of losing two cats, maybe even three, was devastating. I had closed my eyes to their age and ill health, praying for some kind of miracle that would restore them and me. Not only was there no miracle, there was now the distinct possibility that I might lose a third. My thoughts were clouded with fear and dread and it was difficult to concentrate on insurance claims. As always, I couldn't imagine where I would find the resolve and courage to do what was best for them and let them go.
My love of cats seems to have been with me always but the truth is I was into my 20's before I learned to love them. I was suspicious of such independent minded creatures, so distant and strong willed, so indifferent to affection. I wasn't willing to work for their approval when dogs were so readily available, devoted by nature and always anxious for attention and praise. Clearly, a cat was a challenge I didn't need or especially want. Now, having loved and lived with them for over 40 years, I can't imagine what I was thinking and what I missed. Black, tiger, calico, tabby - each has been unique, each has been a gift. Some have been timid and reclusive, some have been extroverted and pushy, some have been loving and some have been standoffish, but each has been one of a kind and utterly irreplaceable. Each was a joy, a trial, a treasure and a heartbreak. The pain of losing them never heals but it becomes almost bearable knowing that their suffering is ended.
Meanwhile, the third cat is home, looking all the world as if he'd lost a fight with a threshing machine, but intact and on the mend. He sleeps beside me, curled up tightly and purring fitfully, dreaming perhaps of better days and healing. Just as I do.
It's the unexpected that brings you to your knees.
For months now, I've been trying to prepare for the inevitable loss of my old tabby and my even older tortoiseshell. They are both thin and wasting away, well into their teens and although they have lived good lives and been well loved, although I know it's time to let them go, it's a decision I've put off for far too long. I was not prepared to face the possible loss of a younger and healthier cat.
I woke to the sound of labored breathing and discovered the small black cat huddled in a corner. One eye was crusted shut, the other filled with pus, his nose was clogged with mucus and one entire side of his face was swollen and covered with scales. In total panic, I wrapped him in a towel and headed for the vet's, convinced that it would be nothing short of a miracle if he survived the 20 minute drive, anticipating every ragged, choking breath would be his last. We made it just as the clinic opened its doors and within seconds he was put on oxygen and fluids, antibiotics were administered, one of the techs gently wiped his eyes with a wet washcloth. I answered questions about caustic chemicals, poisons, toxins, had anything changed in the house, was anything different, could he possibly have gotten outside or gotten into a fight. I watched them draw blood and check for fever, watched the dismayed faces treating him turn from concern to genuine fear then to relief as his breathing eased a bit. They stroked him, talked to him, and soothed him as best they could. On the sidelines, all I could do was pray.
Today as I held the old tabby and the old tortoiseshell and Doc gave them a final injection, I was still praying. Patch went quietly, gently, without fuss or protest, simply laying her head on my arm and drifting off to whatever place is next. Chloe, true to her nature, died as she had lived, growling and pushing back and mad as hell.
Afterward I saw the younger cat, face still swollen but eyes clear and breathing normal, almost well enough to come home. Mercy comes in many forms.
The yacht was fully staffed - a chef, a maid, several young man in black trousers and white shirts who's only job it seemed was to see to every whim of every guest, a captain and a capable crew. The prospect of a week at sea in the warm waters and picturesque ports of the Caribbean seemed like a gift from above.
We left from Puerto Rico, sailing into a bright ocean with sun and blue skies above. I felt at home with the salt spray and the water, it was familiar and comforting. A table was laid on deck, linen napkins and sparkling silverware, a vase of flowers. Lunch and champagne were served precisely at one, dinner at eight, and in between the chef was always available to whip up a light snack. We sailed mainly at night when all but the crew slept so as the sunny days were free for sunbathing and swimming, an impromptu game of bridge, or some lazy fishing. Along the way we stopped in Martinque for a day, in St. Kitts for an afternoon, and finally in Jamaica where we shopped and roamed until dark and spent the evening on the flagstoned terrace of an oceanside hotel, watching the boats in the harbor and drinking rum punch.
For me, it all came to a screeching halt the following morning. While my mother in law tended to some last minute shopping and my father in law and husband lazed poolside, I discovered the side of Jamaica you don't see in the travel brochures. Following a sing song sound from beyond the shopping district, I walked along a dirt road to the shacks, the stray dogs, the crushing poverty. Children in rags begging for coins, old people so thin that I could see their ribcages and a group of women in a circle on the ground, plucking chickens and singing in French. No tourist trade here, no colorful shops or gregarious vendors, no high flying flags or well appointed horse drawn carriages. This side of Jamaica wasn't for the rich Americans or other carriage trade in their linen dresses and seersucker suits, stocking up on paperback novels and duty free liquor and my liberal social conscience had kicked in with unexpected force. The images refused to go away and the yacht lost its charm, leaving me with a wretched sense of guilt and unearned, undeserved good fortune.
Like unexpected company, rude awakenings arrive without invitation and overstay their welcome. You can make conversation with them or leave the room but you can't pretend they aren't there.
Out?? Miss Hilda exclaimed incredulously, Out?? She glared at the helpless shopkeeper, her face dark with threat. Eugene, a loud rap of her walking stick, Be good enough to explain to me how you can conceivably be "out" of peanut butter AND maple syrup at this time of year!
Mr. McIntyre lowered his eyes and wrung his hands together despairingly. I should have more by the end of the week, Miz Elliott, he mumbled, I'll have them delivered.
That, Eugene, will hardly be sufficient, Miss Hilda snapped and turned on her heel, stalking out, her polished riding boots clacking sharply on the sawdust covered floor and pausing only long enough to wait for one of the men playing checkers to leave the game and open the door for her. Disgraceful, Eugene! she threw back over her shoulder, Poor planning and utter ineptitiude, I should say. Disgraceful!
At the island's only other general store, Aunt Jenny had no better news, confessing that she had indeed sold her entire inventory of peanut butter and maple syrup to Willie Foot not three days before, as well as a dozen balls of twine, a set of paint brushes, a box of nails, a hacksaw and a Union Jack flag. Suspicions began to form in Miss Hilda's mind at the mention of the flag and she left, so distraught that she opened the door herself, leaving Aunt Jenny open mouthed in surprise and a half dozen old fishermen half risen off their seats.
News of the shortage spread quickly and thoroughly, the entire island community taken up with curiosity and wonder at Willie's purchases. Willie himself was nowhere to be found although a search of his ruined old house did produce the remains - a nearly empty box of nails, a lone ball of twine and several empty gallon cans of maple syrup. There was no sign of peanut butter or a hacksaw but in the back room, Uncle Len discovered a pair of wooden saw horses nearly buried in wood shavings and cut up logs. The flag, neatly sliced into strips, was tacked over one broken window. Hell's bells, Uncle Shad remarked to Uncle Len, What the blazes has that damn fool gotten up to now?
The answer came much later in the summer, on a clear Saturday evening, in the cove, just after the tide had come in. Willie Foot, his hair colored bright green and sticking out at all angles, his eyes wild with excitement appeared on the water in a makeshift raft. He was, as Uncle Shad later reported to my grandmother, Bare ass nekked and standin' at attention, polin' that green wood raft for all he was worth, takin' on more water with every stroke, but damned if he didn't make it to shore. Miz McIntyre, well, she run out there with a buncha towels, tryin' to hide her eyes and cover 'im up all at the same time!
An inspection of the raft revealed a neat layer of peanut butter carefully spread between each log, twine had been triple wrapped and tied to hold them together and each log was nailed to the next. The entire contraption had been glazed with maple syrup - top, bottom, and all four sides. After a day or so of sun and tide, it gradually broke apart and was abandoned to the salt water and the gulls. Willie salvaged a battered log - no one dared ask why - and while dragging it home he tripped on a piece of leftover twine, fell and rolled into the ditch, breaking his leg in two places. Rowena was recruited to splint the shattered leg, Uncle Len's old pickup was improvised into an emergency ambulance and the two of them carried Willie to the mainland hospital where he was greeted like an old friend. He returned several months later, courtesy of the mail car, gleeful as ever, more or less intact, and no more perpetually dazed then when he had left. He was one of their own and they were more than willing to settle in and wait for the next chapter of madness. They had no idea what it might be or when but no doubt at all that it would come.
In her spare time, Miss Clara tended the cemetery behind the chuch, bringing fresh flowers, planting and re-planting borders, gathering fallen leaves and wayward tree branches. She kept a small polishing rag in her apron pocket and would go from headstone to headstone, wiping away smudges of dirt while her painted pony contendedly grazed not far away. And Clara sang while she worked, old Baptist hymns and Buddy Holly songs, show tunes she'd learned from the radio, old time gospel and forgotten blues. When she wasn't singing, she was talking - long, involved, one sided conversations with the dead - cheerfully bring them up to date on their families and island goings on, birthdays and the weather, the latest gossip and news, births and deaths and who was keeping company with who. She told of Willie Foot's latest adventures, of the revenuers and their raids on the island's well hidden stills, of what was playing at the picture show that week, Rowena's new foals and kittens, Miss Hilda's newest battle with Mr. McIntyre, and the progress of the new post office building. When she was done, she packed away her pocket knife and gardening tools, brushed the dirt off her knees and apron, and rode the painted pony home again.
Clara's house was the only one in Flower Cove. It consisted of three rooms and a tin roof and was accessible only through a path that wound its way through the dark trees for nearly a mile. John Sullivan had added the wraparound porch over several summers, hand carrying the lumber through the woods, several boards at a time and never complaining. On it, Clara kept her window boxes of flowers, tubs of ferns and ivy and spices, a matched set of rocking chairs. Several iron caldrons sat on one side and she had fashioned a clothesline on the other. A battery operated radio played continuously, other than the ever present sea birds and the far off seal colony, it was Clara's only companion. No one, save Long John Sullivan had ever seen the interior of the house and when pressed for details, he remained stoic and silent as ever.
The little house was built on the edge of the woods and Clara's front yard was coastline. We often played there, collecting shells and driftwood at low tide, racing the waves at high, gathering firewood for Clara's little wood stove while she served gingerbread. Sometimes she let us carry water from the well and would reward us with tales of shipwrecks and pirates and the ghosts that haunted the surrounding woods. They only visit at night, she would say, As a rule, ghosts are very shy. They were, so Clara told us, spirits of sailors and whiskey makers long dead and buried, A rowdy bunch, they can be, she said with a wink, always lookin' to make a mite of mischief, but mostly friendly seein' as they know I mind the graveyard.
Do you talk them, Miss Clara? we asked breathlessly, Do they talk back?
Clara smiled patiently, adjusting her long, black skirts and putting one wrinkled fingertip to her lips. Ain't nuthin' worse 'n' chatty spirit, she laughed gaily, 'Ceptin' if I was to start listenin'. And with that she turned to watch the sunset and would talk to us no more of ghosts. The painted pony grazed peacefully at the edge of the trees until Clara nodded off in her old rocking chair, then he picked his way toward the porch and stood motionless, keeping watch over the old woman as dark shadows began to stretch over the rocky sand. The path through to the woods was a shorter route home but we decided to follow the coastline instead - not that we actually believed, we told each other, it was just that a scolding seemed harmless against the unlikely possibility of waking the dead and we had not been raised to be reckless.
The painted pony watched us go with a shake of his mane and a soft whinney that sounded like goodbye.
Looking out from behind the counter into the restaurant, I was reminded of a cluster of crows.
Not only was every table taken, people stood in twos and threes between them, wine glasses and margaritas held high, voices shrill and shrieking, each trying to drown out the other. The bar was four deep and harried servers darted back and forth, balancing trays and plates and crystal with enviable skill. Though I was thirty feet from the nearest table, I could hear the cross conversations and the drink orders, the debates over which wine to try, the familiar pick up lines being tried, all the social niceties being put into play, southern style. The Thursday night musicians arrived, set up in a crowded corner and began their repertoire of cover songs, though I doubted anyone was listening, and gradually the image of crows became an image of chattering magpies - all noise and nonsense.
I sometimes wonder if a world with less noise wouldn't be a better world in which to hear, if we weren't all trying so hard to out do, out shout and out argue ourselves. Perhaps we would be better listeners - willing to yield some of our precious time to the opposition, willing to make room for another perspective and relinquish the spotlight of moral certainty to another's point of view. My daddy would laugh at me for such thinking, tell me to have more faith and worry less about the dark side of human nature, to trust in right conquering wrong and good outliving evil. It was an argument he made often and I think, at times, actually believed if only for the sake of his children and his peace of mind. It wasn't quite as loud a world then and being inherently a gentle, peaceful and fair minded man, he needed to see the good. He was perpetually in search of a silver lining, always expecting a rainbow after each storm and a generous minded elf at every rainbow's end.
I suspect that if a cluster of crows had invaded the backyard maple tree, even if he'd had the means to shoot at them, he'd have tried shushing them first.
Uncle Joe had worked for my grandfather all of his adult life. He had been a vibrant, handsome man with a mane of thick white hair and blue eyes always full of mischief. Now he sat in a wheelchair, confined and stricken by a stroke, never to walk or speak again. His pretty and substantially much younger wife, who had never been far from his side during the good times, was with him round the clock, keeping him dressed, shaved, and occupied. She read to him, fed him, saw to it that he didn't cheat on his physical therapy, got him up each morning and put him to bed each night. She entertained him with gossip and crossword puzzles, forced him to see old friends, took him to Red Sox games, wheel chair and all. She never gave up or let up, never compromised, never accepted his paralysis as a permanent despite all the doctors telling her to make peace with the inevitable. After the first year, she made her only concession and hired a part time nurse to come on weekends and a three day a week housekeeper.
This strength of purpose and determination, this loyalty, stunned Uncle Joe's friends and in particular, the female members of my family. Aunt Vickie had long been reputed to be a former chorus girl from New York, a girl with an ache to perform at Radio City Music Hall, a burning ambition to be on stage, and Probably, my viperish Aunt Helen said darkly, Of Low Character. My mother agreed, A barfly, she said scornfully, Only after his money. My grandmother was a trifle more charitable, her tolerant side making an effort if not a a very enthusiastic one, Well, she replied tartly, At least she's not a common street walker. My daddy, caught in mid swallow of ginger ale, over heard this conversation and laughed so hard he nearly choked, For the love of God, he sputtered, She's from Vermont! She was a waitress at a diner in Stowe! Not to be outdone, my Uncle Eddie joined in the fray, Not only that, you old battleaxes, she's a Democrat! he yelled from the safety of the kitchen, And worse, he paused for dramatic effect before adding, I have it on good authority, a Yankees fan!
This bit of blasphemy was too much for my grandmother who detested the arrogant New York team. Mind your business, Eddie, she warned him, Don't think I can't still wash your mouth out with soap. Uncle Eddie and my daddy collapsed with laughter at this threat and my mother and Aunt Helen stiffened their spines in righteous indignation, furious at being caught being in their own cattiness and backstabbing.
I never knew what Aunt Vickie actually was - but chorus girl, playmate, golddigger or hash slinger -
she stuck with my Uncle Joe for the remainder of his life, at his side through every illness and every dark hour and in the end, all I knew for sure was that she had been a good and faithful wife for more than thirty years, that she had loved him every minute of every year, and that she was barely fifty when he died. She buried him quietly in Mount Auburn Cemetery with my daddy and Uncle Eddie at her side, then took a train to Vermont. She never remarried.
The old woman came across the pond in a pirogue, paddling in smooth, graceful, hand over hand motions and picking up debris. She wore gold spectacles and a flowered sun bonnet.
Good morning! she called to me, scooping up a discarded water bottle and a Walmart plastic bag from the surface of the water. Protesting ducks quacked their annoyance with her and a startled turtle on a floating branch dived for cover with a soft splash. Fine morning, don't you think? It was just after eight in the morning, already in the high 90's and personally I thought the heat and humidity were god awful unbearable but it was too early and would've taken too much energy to argue so I nodded. She smiled at me, snatched a styrofoam cup off a clump of weeds and captured a mangled soda can with one quick flip of her wrist. The pirogue came dangerously close to shore as she reached for a scrap of newspaper wrapped around a fast food wrapper but at the last moment she deftly reversed her course and continued her way downstream, calling good naturedly over her shoulder, Don't litter, will you, dear! The last I saw of her she was retrieving a rusty tin can from the weeds - she rinsed it out several times before adding it to a green mesh bag of trash balanced in her lap and paddling on her way, sun in her face, ducks ahead and in her wake, no piece of offending trash too small to be ignored. The pirogue disappeared around a bend silently and smoothly, leaving the barest of ripples behind and the small environmental activist cheefully gathering up the trails of indifferent and uncaring humans too lazy to walk the dozen steps to a trash barrel.
I walked further down the bayou, passing strutting geese leading parades of ducks and other geese to the water,
passing old fishermen with tin cans of worms and cane poles, sitting on overturned plastic buckets and squinting against the sun. Children carrying cellophane bags of stale bread skittered on the banks under the watchful and amused eyes of parents, a young couple holding hands and pushing a stroller walked by and early morning joggers, undetered by the heat or humidity, panted past. The geese on the sidewalk, heads tucked beneath their wings in slumber, slept on.
