Natural Law

Natural law tells me that by now the number of cats sharing my life should be diminishing - I have lost four in this year alone, determined to let attrition take its course - and yet, without my seeking them out, they find me be at it the duck pond or on my front doorstep in the arms of a pretty blonde who's mother knew I wouldn't be able to say no. The word "Sucker" must be emblazoned on my forehead for all the world to see. In the past month, the feline count has gone from five to four to five to four to five. It makes me dizzy.

This latest, a tiny, six week old, all black ( my greatest weakness) and yet to be named little boy has already made his mark. At the approach of one of the other cats, he mounts what would be, save for his stature, an impressive display of hissing, spitting, growling, and the comical sideways walk kittens favor when perceiving a threat. He has already taken several swipes at the black dog and made more than one advance toward the small brown one - the former met with a combination of hostility and bewilderment, the latter with abject terror. No pushover, this little one, his tough stuff attitude has already gained him a grudging respect. The smaller they are, I often think, the more they have to prove. The week ahead will be a handful as territory is redefined, dominance challenged, tempers soothed and patience tested.

After scolding one's cat, one looks into its face and is seized by the ugly suspicion that it understood every word.
And has filed it for reference. - Charlotte Gray

Confessions

In the dim light of the restaurant with flickering candles casting shadows on his face and soft but jazzy piano music in the background, I listened to my soon to be ex-husband confess - how he had met her, where they had spent time, how sorry he was. I was not surprised to discover that I was angry at the deception and betrayal and how easily he had lied, more so that I had never noticed - but I was blindsided by the fact that I didn't feel hurt when this should have been, all my senses told me, a mortal wound. I was silent as he shared the details of the affair, only half hearing the words. I was, I came to understand, searching for some shattered emotion of jealousy or rage or pain beyond bearing but all I found was unheated anger and a mild sense of relief. My world didn't come crashing down around me, the sky didn't fall, I don't think I even cried until much later. I did watch his face and his eyes, idly wondering how much of what he was telling me was actually true and how much was for effect - after ten years of marriage I did know that he could play a part and play it well - but I was also beginning to realize that he had lost his audience and that the theater was almost empty. It was time to go.

After that it was a blur of lawyers and paperwork and division of property - all very civil and amicable and proper.
I was sad to leave a house I loved, undone by the loss of friends but mostly torn and shredded to pieces by having to leave all but one cat behind. At the last moment, I came very near to changing my mind - the thought of never seeing my beloved animals again came perilously close to derailing my decision. I had always known that should some disaster befall us and I were forced to choose between saving husband or cats that it would be no contest, in hindsight, a fact that perhaps did little to reinforce the marriage. But I did go - apprehensive, uncertain, awed by my decision and most of all free - I did go.

The boy I had married with hair down to his waist and a liking for ragged jeans and leather vests, the boy who made his living hawking an underground Boston paper on the city streets, the boy who had dropped out of college and wanted to make a difference, had begun to transform into the man he finally became, a man who would've crushed the boy he had been and ground him to dust.

And it had begun on a routine weekday night in a small restaurant with candle light and piano music. What strange and mystifying turns our lives take, how little we choose to know about those we have cared for when feelings turn cold. During the following three day road trip I spent most of my time pondering beginnings and endings, trying to sort out how people become estranged and are driven or drift apart. I never found any answers but I did begin to wonder why he had chosen to confess, why when silence would've been simpler and less effort, he had opted for brutal honesty. He could've gotten away with it and I would never have been the wiser - a need to be forgiven seemed unlikely, a troubled conscience would've been rationalized away, fear of exposure wasn't realistic. I didn't like thinking that it had been about manipulation or some hidden agenda or perverse need to come clean and win approval or admiration so I put it out of my mind and just drove. If ever the truth were to fight its way through, I decided, I would deal with it then. Meanwhile I imagined a door, heavy with age and in need of a fresh coat of paint, silently swinging shut, it's lock falling cleanly into place, securely trapping the past on the other side.

The black cat - if I were to admit it, independent, feisty, a troublemaker, bad tempered and very high maintenance but always the one I had loved the best and the most intensely - slept peacefully in my lap. That night in a rundown Mississippi motel room, I held him against me and cried myself to sleep, not for the man or the marriage or the life I had left, but for the three other cats.

On some level, I think we all choose what we hear and see, what we acknowledge and what we don't, what hurts us and what doesn't. Cats - wise secretive and mindful of human frailty - keep their confessions to themselves. Once again, we could learn something from them.

Widget

Knowing the signs of renal failure in a cat is knowledge I would almost rather not have - it means an end of options and an end of life.

This morning the half persian, an ex barn cat of indeterminate age, an exceedingly private and anti social animal who never leaves her nook under the bed except for meals, didn't appear for breakfast. I found her curled on the sunroom floor and when I lifted her she didn't file her usual protest. She has never been more than a wisp of a creature so it was hard to tell if she had lost weight but her neglected coat, her dull eyes, her lethargy told the story. Sick at heart, I wrapped her in a blanket and cradled her, wishing that love could repair her damaged insides, praying that the years she had spent with me had been good ones for her, despising the fact that all that was left was to end her pain.

I had thought that the duck pond kitten had been sent because Fate knows a sucker when She sees one. Now I began to wonder if the shy, old barn cat's death might not have been in the cards all along and that this was Fate's way of playing the game - one arrives unexpectedly, one departs just as unexpectedly - all part of the natural cycle, as my daddy would surely tell me, all part of God's plan. There are times when I think that God's plan has too much pain.

She went without protest, taking one long breath and then closing her copper colored eyes, laying her head on my hands and finding, I have to believe, a place to be made well and whole again.

Second Entrance

Microphone in hand, French cuffs starched and shoes shined, he leapt on stage with a wide smile and outstretched his arms. IF YOU BELIEVE IN GOD, he shouted, THEN MAKE SOME NOISE!!! There was a deafening silence from the small and lonely crowd as well as from the sound system which at that point was to have burst into a thundering and inspirational karaoke gospel number - his smile faded and he left the stage, shoulders sagging. Several minutes later he tried again but the moment had been lost, the carefully orchestrated spontaneity has evaporated and the handful of people watching glanced his way then returned to their barbeque and beans. They had come to hear the blues on this steamy hot holiday, each dutifully paying the ten dollar admission fee and finding seats under the tent, drinking beer and ice water and fanning themselves against the sweltering humidity. They hadn't foreseen a revivalist with a blaring pre-recorded choir as back up. Come to hear THE BLUES, someone yelled, Not a damn prayer meetin'!

I packed my camera gear away and headed for the exit - hot, sweaty, and slightly offended. A friend stopped me and asked why I was leaving and I admitted the truth, that whether or not I believed in God was between me and God and that it was too hot to praise Jesus and mean it. A very small part of me felt a very minor bit of shame at this but there it was - I had come for a festival not a revival. In your face faith, no matter how sincere or well intentioned, tends to jangle my nerves and annoy me.

Religion has become a matter of being exclusive and more than that, a matter of being "right". Those who don't agree will perish or lose their souls, heaven is unattainable if you're not born again. There's no room for differing views, no allowing for the possibility that there might be some validity in an alternative outlook or belief. In organized religion, the Christian-ness has been scrubbed away from Christian and the very meaning of the word is cloudy. Is it Christian to burn the holy books of other religions to make a questionable point? Is it Christian to force feed salvation to the masses? Is it Christian to condemn those who don't celebrate the way we do? I suppose some would say yes, by all means, recruit and convert for Jesus at any cost as long as you're selective about it. I have a suspicion that Jesus might not agree.

And so I trudge home with so called worship songs ringing in my ears, pondering the difference between religion and faith, between religion and spirituality, between spirituality and faith, and thinking that maybe in the long run, none of matters in the slightest. Whatever waits in the afterlife - if there is an afterlife - is likely laughing at all of us anyway and biding its time. Faith, like conversations between a lawyer and a client, is privileged and private.
Salvation is personal and being born once was more than enough for me. When religious fever infects politics and social programs and human rights, there isn't much worth praying for save the destruction of non-believers and I don't know a single religion preaching that brand of hatred.

So if you believe in God, make some noise. But do it quietly.

The Bottom of the Well

The wheelchair is computerized and hung with all manner of electronic gages and life support systems. It breathes for her and monitors her heart and other internal organs. She is strapped in like an astronaut except for the fact that there are wires and tubes and lighted displays everywhere. Her head, feet and arms are immobilized, her body held rigidly upright. She drinks through a straw and eats through an IV while machines process her waste material. She is alive but only just, I think and am immediately horrified by my reaction, ashamed to have thought such a thing. She smiles at me and I wave - a gesture so small and insignificant that it appalls me when I think it's something she will never do. She and her husband join a group of friends, slipping in easily and becoming part of the circle at once - they make room for the bulky chair without a second thought, possibly not even noticing it - it's as much a part of her as their own limbs are of them. There is no pity here, no guilt, no one looks away or pretends not to see her. This, I think, is what redeems us, this is hope and acceptance and courage in the face of unimaginable adversity and unfairness.

This would be the very bottom of the well for many people, myself included, but she has chosen differently,
bravely, and optimistically. If she is not defeated, how can I possibly complain about my lot in life? Gratitude is often forgotten in the dull routine of struggle and we can lose sight of how much we have, how much we can do, of all the taken for granted things we encounter from one day to the next. To be alive is a wondrous thing and to be grateful is a means of beating back all the petty resentments and slights, all that is not up to standard, all that we would change to suit just ourselves and all the perceived flaws in others. Here is a young woman deprived of all but her mind, soul, and heart -

What she lacks in mobility, she makes up for in perseverance.
What she lacks in freedom, she counters with faith.
What she lacks in a conventional life, she misses but does not mourn.

I don't know her illness or her circumstances but it matters little because she is so much more than either. Her smile and soft spoken hello remind me that every day is a gift even without wrapping paper and ribbon.

Go Forth and Pray

Around 1905, Mark Twain wrote the following satirical prayer:

"O Lord our Father, our young patriots, idols of our hearts, go forth to battle -- be Thou near them! With them -- in spirit -- we also go forth from the sweet peace of our beloved firesides to smite the foe. O Lord our God, help us to tear their soldiers to bloody shreds with our shells; help us to cover their smiling fields with the pale forms of their patriot dead; help us to drown the thunder of the guns with the shrieks of their wounded, writhing in pain; help us to lay waste their humble homes with a hurricane of fire; help us to wring the hearts of their unoffending widows with unavailing grief; help us to turn them out roofless with little children to wander unfriended the wastes of their desolated land in rags and hunger and thirst, sports of the sun flames of summer and the icy winds of winter, broken in spirit, worn with travail, imploring Thee for the refuge of the grave and denied it -- for our sakes who adore Thee, Lord, blast their hopes, blight their lives, protract their bitter pilgrimage, make heavy their steps, water their way with their tears, stain the white snow with the blood of their wounded feet! We ask it, in the spirit of love, of Him Who is the Source of Love, and Who is the ever-faithful refuge and friend of all that are sore beset and seek His aid with humble and contrite hearts. Amen.

Interesting thing, prayer - for it to be successful, you have to know what to pray for and learn to recognize when the answer is no.

Secrets: The Saving Grace of a Grandmother

Waverly Oaks was a bike ride away from home and yet it was like crossing some great divide between a real and an imagined life. There were wooden benches under magnificent old oak trees, a small pond with geese and ducks, picnic benches scattered in the shade and a children's play area with a swing set, slide, and a downscaled climbing wall. The walkways were bordered with flowers and ivy and it was always cool, breezy and peaceful, a perfect getaway place for a child in flight.

I went back there the last time I was in New England, to sit on a bench and reflect on my grandmother's life and recent death. Things were not much changed - the climbing wall had been repainted and the children's area updated but the the peace was still there. In the middle of the day there were few visitors, one family feeding the ducks, an old couple walking arm in arm, a nanny with a stroller and a small, well behaved terrier on a leash. I sat and smoked and thought of the funeral yet to come and of all the times Nana had discovered me here after a family quarrel had gotten out of hand. It was a private place and she never told anyone where I ran to escape, she simply appeared and sat with me, sometimes bringing a plastic bag of breadcrumbs, sometimes not, and then taking me for ice cream before we made the short trip home, my bike carefully stowed in the trunk. She understood that sometimes being alone and sorting things out is the only remedy - more, she understood that her interference in my raising always had a penalty, so most times she dropped me a few blocks from the house and I pedaled home as if I'd been just around the corner. This is between us, she told me, Let's keep it that way.

Of all the people in my childhood, I think my grandmother influenced me the most. Despite her faults and flaws, she was an ever present force of stability and level headedness, of rational thought and protection. She knew how to respect and keep a secret.

Time, of course, marched stubbornly on and as we both grew older we discovered exactly how many things we disagreed on - she grew to be more conservative with each passing year, eventually being perilously close to an ultra right wing view of the world while I tested my liberal wings and tried to fly. In one of the more heated debates, she called me a naive, dope smoking, hippie anarchist - a phrase she had heard on the nightly news - and I responded by accusing her of being an old school, blue haired, intolerant elitist - a phrase I had picked up from an underground Boston paper - my daddy doubled over with laughter at this exchange and called us both too idiotic for words.

Sitting in Waverly Oaks on a chilly fall afternoon, I recalled this and other foolishness we had shared and was sad for the children who hadn't had the saving grace of a grandmother and a secret keeper.

Street Clothes & A Smile

She walked into the front office, bypassed the waiting room and the check in counter and despite the fact that are signs everywhere with the doctor's name and credentials prominently displayed, shifted her gum to to one cheek and demanded, This Doctor So and So's office? I watched her take a long slug of Coke then leave the open can on the front counter and felt my heart drop a notch or two. Our newest nurse assistant had arrived - black scrubs, black mascara, heavy pancake makeup and red painted talons for fingernails. I wondered idly if I would be missed were I to step into the supply room and bang my head against the wall.

The day, overbooked as usual and with the computers down again, did not seem promising. With a waiting room full of patients and one in every exam room, I watched a bit stunned as the new girl stepped out for not one but two smoke breaks. With chart in hand, she called patients back - in truth, she stood at the doorway and bellowed out their first names with not so much as a smile - saying things like "She don't need no xrays, right?" The words hurt my ears and offended the language. By noon, with a blinding headache and fearing that the doctor might ask me for an evaluation of this new hire - Well, I imagined myself saying, She was here on time - I fled. The truth, that she was coarse, showed no respect for the age and experience of our largely geriatric patients, and had the personality of a shrub, would not be what he wanted to hear. She would be gone, I was reasonably sure, due to her own making, in a matter of weeks, possibly days, and the merry go round of optimistic interviews would start all over again. There seems to be no end to this sad parade of sullen ineptitude and indifference, this long and well stocked offering of entitlement-minded and inappropriate people. Could there be, I wondered, an assembly plant or factory downstate, discreetly churning out cookie cut young women with no more sense or poise or willingness to work than say a salmon mousse? Were there satellite sites specializing in right wing disconnected politicians or even a Tea Party division, mass producing the likes of Sarah Palin lookalikes and threatening to overthrow the government?

It was a silly notion but it lightened my mood and helped my frustration to fade. We can be, I reminded myself, our own worst enemies when we forget the basics. Still, I often wonder if we wouldn't hire the Devil himself if he wore street clothes and a smile.

To no one's surprise and everyone's relief, she was gone a short three weeks later, sulking out after a bitter exchange and saying not a word. The atmosphere immediately lightened and good natures were magically restored as if a dark cloud had abruptly passed. We have been here more times than I can count and have yet to learn anything but hope pushes its way through despite bad soil and lack of water and no sunlight. Surely, we think, amid all these parasites and weeds, a single flower is waiting to be discovered.

Destination Unknown

Marcus arrived on the island during a week of dense fog and chilly temperatures. He was, he told Cap on the crossing, looking for a place to escape and rest, to evaluate and reflect and do a little quiet writing. Cap allowed that he had come to the right place and suggested he drop by The Canteen and ask about lodgings. A writer, he muttered, If that don't beat all. You get paid for doin' that? Marcus admitted that he did and Cap shook his head, Ain't never had no writer here. If that don't beat all.

Word traveled at the usual lightning pace and by the time Marcus reached The Point, the locals were already lined up to see and appraise this curious newcomer. They made room as he exited his Army green jeep, nodding as he passed and watching his every move, silently taking in the details of his muddy work boots and denim shirt, his shaggy graying hair and beard. They noticed the small gold stud in his ear, the typewriter on the back seat, the carton of notebooks carelessly packed next to a well worn backpack and the ice chest brimming with beer. Don't look like no writer, Sparrow observed as the door closed behind him and Uncle Willie laughed, How'd you know, buck, you ain't never seen no writer. As it happened though, Miss Hilda had - claiming to actually have had tea with Virginia Woollf in her younger years - and she was amenable to opening her spare bedroom to the stranger provided he was prepared to accept her terms and not get in her way. Marcus produced proof of citizenship, took an oath not to partake of alcohol on the premises, allowed an inspection of his two suitcases and typewriter, agreed to no womanizing, and took up residence that afternoon. The ice chest and its dozen or so bottles of Molson's were traded for a carton of Du Mauriers and a pack of pencils at McIntyre's and the writer happily settled in to a flowery second floor bedroom with lace curtains and a window overlooking the cove.

Miss Hilda regularly albeit covertly listened for the rat a tat sound of the typewriter. Sometimes it played late at night, sometimes it drifted out through the window before the sun rose and sometimes all was silent. During the warm days after the fogbank moved on, Marcus would shoulder his backpack and walk off across the hills, a thermos of coffee and a small camera slung around his neck. He prowled like a cat, stepping quietly through the tables of salt fish drying in the sun, walking the rocky coast and wading into the waves, finding the driftwood littered corners of the coves and settling in at the tree lines to watch the seals play and glisten. He discovered back paths through the woods that led to forgotten whiskey stills and abandoned fishing shacks, he collected shells and kelp and took pictures of the tiny creatures whisking through the tidepools past Old Hat's. And he engaged the islanders with an easy smile and a gentle tread - getting Sparrow to reminise about his days at sea, learning history from Uncle Willie and how to throw a net from Uncle Shad. John Sullivan took him along to pull lobster traps and Jimmy opened his small classroom for him. He sat in on Uncle Bernie's stories, making notes on a yellow pad and even persuaded Rowena to teach him to make herb tea. He visited the cemetery and sat respectfully among the graves while Miss Clara gardened and sang and in time he was accepted, welcomed, included - no insignificant achievement for a stranger in a tiny village who treasured its isolation and privacy. Cain't say exactly why, Bill Albright told Nana on the way back from picking up the mail, But the man seems to fit. Knows his place, don't abuse nothin'. Don't seem like my notion on a writer.

Whatever Marcus did or didn't write, he didn't share it. By summer's end, he had, according to Hilda, filled dozens of notebooks and had a ream of typewritten pages in a water stained, discolored old binder. She discovered it only after he'd gone - one foggy September morning he had carelessly packed up the green Jeep, filled his thermos, left her a crinkled hundred dollar bill stuck in a corner of the mirror and driven off, destination unknown. The binder made the rounds that fall and came to end up with the schoolmaster, who read it twice, then stored it in an old sea chest, wrapped in plastic and securely taped. Of this, Marcus had written on the inside cover, I will not write for the public. It has been a gift to me. Do with it what you will with my thanks and my blessing.

Of Breeding Bereft

Edgecombe, my Aunt Helen murmured, Do be a dear and fetch me my pills. I fear I feel a migraine coming on. She carefully removed her reading glasses and laid them and the slim, gilt edged book of poetry she had been reading on the chair arm, then pressed her perfect French manicured fingertips to her temples. Boston born and Beacon Hill bred, this was her first visit to the island and she was still recovering from the shock of a five bedroom house with only one bathroom, the lack of what she delicately referred to as "help", and most of all, the appallingly widespread use of linoleum - no carpeting, no area rugs, no tile or imitation wood, just plain old linoleum in every room. She had stood hesitantly in the kitchen then slowly made her way through the rest of the house, finally remembering her upbringing and telling my grandmother, How .....marvelously practical, Alice! And so clever of you to have thought of it!

Uncle Eddie, always the first to admit that his upper class wife has been born into the wrong century - You'd have been perfect in the late 1800's, my dear, you were made for watercress sandwiches and parasols - obediently fetched the pills. And I would've worn a cutaway and a monocle and courted you in a horse drawn carriage with a lap robe and hot bricks for your feet!

Edgecombe, Aunt Helen protested sharply, Really, you are uncommonly annoying at times.

Uncle Eddie laughed and kissed her cheek, And you, dear heart, are an insufferable elitist but I adore you!

My grandmother listened to all this while glaring stubbornly at the puzzle pieces as if willing them to fall into place.
Shall I bring you a cold compress, Helen, dear, or a cup of peppermint tea? she asked with a sacccharine sweetness and her sister in law narrowed her eyes in suspicion and shook her head. It was at that precise moment that Willie Foot arrived at the sunporch side door - impressively astride a pair of stilts - hopped down and peered in through the glass with a broad, toothless smile, his hair looking as if he'd been plugged into an electrical outlet and his crossed eyes dancing. Aunt Helen gave a small, ladylike scream and clutched at her pearls, Alice! There's a savage at the door! she exclaimed, Heaven protect us! And with one last wide eyed, open mouthed breath, she promptly fainted.

Once more into the fray, dear friends! Uncle Eddie cheerfully misquoted as my exasperated grandmother went to the door. Judas Priest, Willie! she demanded crossly, Stilts? Put them back where you found them this very minute! Pulling a dollar bill from her apron pocket, she handed it to the wild little man - he in turn tried to kiss her hand - and she slapped his wrist sharply, Go on with you! Willie carefully folded the bill and tucked it behind one ear, then remounted the stilts and like a careening wind mill headed down the front path, losing his balance and tumbling into the ditch just as he reached the road. Nana shook her head and beckoned to me, Go and see if he's broken anything, she told me with an overcome sigh, But first, bring me the smelling salts.

Willie was no more battered or bruised than usual - even the stilts were intact - but Aunt Helen spent the rest of the day in bed with the curtains drawn and the door closed. Uncle Eddie carried her dinner to her on a tray and consented to Nana's suggestion of a little brandy in her coffee. By the next morning, she appeared to have regained her composure and although pale and a little shaken, she sat stiffly at the dining room table and allowed herself to be served. Nana discreetly doctored her coffee with additional brandy before suggesting a trip to the mainland. To civilization? Helen asked hopefully and my grandmother nodded, Such as it is, Helen, dear, such as it is. Uncle Eddie poured her more coffee and smiled.

To her credit, my Aunt Helen persevered and lasted the entire week, as planned, although she was never to visit the island again. She spent her days reading and writing letters home, working on her embroidery and keeping a wary eye for strangers and savages at the windows. Nana kept her little bottle of smelling salts close at hand while Uncle Eddie fished and chopped wood, picked berries and grew tanned and happy in the company of fishermen, family, and old friends.

Helen's thank you note, postmarked from the mainland and arriving the very day after their departure, prompting my grandmother to believe it had been written well in advance, was socially correct and unflattering. My dear Alice, she wrote, We are grateful for your hospitality, the weather was clement and the surroundings quite beautiful . The
islanders, although of breeding bereft, have an intriguing life style. I know you will understand that it is not always wise for the classes to mingle so we will not be returning next year. We would, however, be pleased to entertain you at Beacon Hill.

Nana read it twice then dropped it into the old wood stove.

My dear Helen, she wrote back, I completely understand your feelings but do hope that you will reconsider next year. Given sufficient time, I'm quite confident that I can turn around the island's unfortunate opinion of you. We may be of breeding bereft, but we are a forgiving and tolerant people. As to Beacon Hill, I fear the distance has become too great for me to travel.

"There are times when two people need to step apart from one another, but there is no rule that says they have to turn and fire."
Robert Brault, poet and free lance writer

Check to Check to Chicken

I have a theory that ordinary people with money, don't think about those without.

Under our new system, we were to turn in hours on the 10th and 25th of each month. Paychecks, we were told, would follow 5 days later, thereby always keeping us a week behind. Despite the fact that we were only told of this new arrangement after it was put into effect, no one protested - any consistency was welcome for those of us struggling to live check to check and weary of paydays that often seemed like an afterthought. So came the 30th of August - my grocery list was in my purse, our little nurse had promised her children hamburgers for supper, and a coworker had assured her day care center that she would stop by that evening to catch up her bill. What is it that you don't understand? the doctor had snapped when we questioned him, You're paid on the 1st and 15th, simple as that. Shall I draw you a picture? And with a shoulder shrug of dismissal, he walked away, unwilling to even hear a word about this latest discrepancy in communication. Even the part about the 1st and the 15th hadn't been literally true, I thought bitterly, since checks were cut else where and we frequently didn't receive them until the 3rd of the 17th - the difference in days was critical to us, a matter of no concern to him.

Anger, fueled by stress and a vague but sharpening sense of betrayal and being taken advantage of, of being treated like a nuisance and a not very bright one at that, began to build within me. The headache that had been trying to come on all day - for a long string of days if I were to choose to be honest about it - broke free with a sudden and clarifying vengeance - people with money don't think about people without it, I thought again, To hell with this.

Predictably, the first telephone call the following morning was an apology - he'd been tired and out of sorts and hadn't meant to be impatient ( rude? ) or uncivil ( sarcastic? ). And this is where the part about taking my own advice comes in - Let it go, I told myself sternly, Get past it and don't make it an issue. And while a part of me wanted to do just that, the natural cynic in me grabbed the reins and my stubborn side fought back. I know how you feel, he had assured me and then suggested that direct deposit would solve the problem. When was the last time you couldn't feed your child, I wanted to ask, When was the last time you couldn't afford cat food or had to choose between keeping the lights on and buying gasoline? When was the last time you were actually uncomfortable with the financial side of your life? The concept that he could have the remotest idea how I felt was laughable, condescending, and patently false. It was, I finally began to see, a tactic and I resented that it might have worked in less dire circumstances. Sadly, I am disinclined to let it go - I think it speaks to a larger problem.

People with money don't think about people without it. It's not malice or arrogance or indifference, just a simple and straightforward lack of awareness, an unwillingness to allow an unpleasant reality access to their busy lives. When confronted with it, they're surprised and defensive, impatient to bypass it and in the case of employers, anxious to shed their responsibility to soothe their own conscience. A problem ignored is not a problem.

I can accept this or not, move on or not, stay angry and resentful or not. Either way, the bills will keep on coming and the cats will need to be fed. Gone the carefree college days, the two income married days, the living on love days. The question remains, is there enough chicken in the freezer to feed us all?

The Late News

Slow to anger and patient beyond any reasonable expectation, the old dog lays by the fire and watches - with mild interest - the antics of the cat and the ball of yarn. Nana has not discovered the intrusion into her knitting basket just yet, having fallen half asleep in her chair by the window just as the late news comes on. My daddy sleeps on the sofa, the Sunday papers spread carelessly over his upper body, an unfinished crossword still held in one hand. The sudden and sharp ringing of the old black rotary telephone startles them both to wakefulness.

It's November and there's a chill in the air. The streetlights seem hazy against the night sky, they glow with soft vaporish light and almost seem to throw off sparks as well as a low, static-y hum. A police car has appeared on the street, it's red and blue lights illuminating the yard as it pulls into the driveway. No way this is good news, I hear my grandmother mutter under her breath as she makes her way to the front door, the old dog trailing behind her like a lean, low shadow. The cat stops its play and jumps to the window sill where it ducks behind the heavy drapes and perches, silently watching and waiting. The peaceful and sleepy late night has taken on a grim feel and there is an omen-like aura to it, a warning of something dark about to emerge.

My grandfather - a successful funeral director in nearby Cambridge and a man of some local prominence because of it - has been arrested and returned home in handcuffs. He is truculent, uncooperative, indignant, hostile, and very drunk, barely able to stand even as he pours a steady stream of abuse on the police officers. His links to the coroner and the city have afforded him the courtesy of being driven home rather than to jail but the officers are weary of making this particular journey for a vile, old drunk and they tell my grandmother so. Their language is tactful but their point is made and Nana, too furious to cry and too ashamed to mount a defense, stands aside as they bring him in. My daddy half walks and half carries him up the stairs while she looks on - and for the first time I get a glimpse of a bitter and desperately unhappy woman, trapped and beaten down. I begin to comprehend my daddy and all that damage that alcohol can do, all the secrets it can force you to keep.

The old dog returns to the fireplace and the cat slips down from the window sill and curls up beside him. The commotion from upstairs - shouted curses and crying, the sound of something falling heavily onto bare floor - eventually dies out and the house grows quiet. The late news finishes and is replaced by an old black and white movie, a 1940's Jimmy Cagney film noir that promises high drama and a cast of award winning actors in their finest roles. My grandmother and daddy sit at the breakfast table smoking and drinking coffee, trying to rationalize and find some meaning and understanding in the events of the night. Like father, like daughter, I hear Nana say as she flicks light switches off and locks the front door, I don't know how much more I can stand.

I hold my breath and hope not to be discovered. I don't want them to know how much I've witnessed and will remember or how much it's all beginning to make sense. It'll be better in the morning, my daddy says softly, we'll figure something out.

It was easier and less dangerous to believe Jimmy Cagney.