Slick

The stranger with the soft drawl drops a nickel in the jukebox and the familiar strains of Patsy Kline's Walkin' After Midnight fill every corner of the smoky canteen. Stern, suspicious faces relax, some even begin to smile. You can make a lot of new friends with Patsy Kline.

“Buy you a beer, Slick?” Sparrow offers and extends his hand.

“Don't mind if I do,” the stranger says agreeably although it comes out “Don' mah'n if Ah do.” He accepts the handshake and Sparrow nods to old Bill behind the counter then slides over to make room in the cracked leather booth. The stranger joins us with a lazy grin and a tip of his cowboy hat.

“Ma'am,” he nods to me, “How ya'll doin'.”

Johnny gives me a swift kick beneath the tabletop to stir my manners.

“Shut yer mouth, girl,” Sparrow rumbles, “You'll catch flies.”

“Oh, sorry,” I manage to say. I'm having trouble because the stranger bears an unsettling resemblance to Paul Newman and I'm thinking his blue eyes could surely get a girl into trouble. As if he could read my mind - and is used to such reactions, I suspect - he gives me a friendly wink.

“No cause to worry, ma'am,” he tells me, “Ah'm as harmless as they come.”

Johnny's between me and the door and there's no place to run. Worse, no way to stop the blush I feel rising like a hot cloud. I make a show over lighting an Export but fumble the match and Johnny has to steady my hands. Pull yourself together! a disgusted and violently embarrassed voice in my head is yelling, Jesus, will somebody make some small talk!

Sparrow does exactly that and I feel myself cringe with relief. I don't hear much of it because of the roaring in my ears but at least the heat on my face is cooling off and presently I'm able to take a breath and lift my head again. That's the moment when I realize that the stranger, Sparrow and Johnny are all chatting amiably and no one is paying me the slightest attention.

Imagine that. Making a fool of yourself over a stranger with a southern drawl and Paul Newman eyes isn't fatal. Not even at sixteen.

Man Pride

“Take away a man's pride when it's all he's got left,” Michael tells me with a sigh, “And there's no telling what he's likely to do.”

We are in the midst of a spirited debate about the best way to handle our latest deadbeat client. I have a personal interest since I haven't been paid in two weeks, first due to his check not being here and second due to it bouncing like a ping pong ball. I'm in favor of billboards all over the city, preferably with lights, calling the scum out by name and warning people about him although, I grudgingly admit, I'd settle for resinstituting a debtor's prison or stocks on the courthouse lawn. Michael is less vindictive and playing with the idea of a simple breach of contract lawsuit but I know for a fact that kneecapping the self-important, sleazy little prick has crossed his mind.

“It's something about a man's psyche,” he muses, more to himself than me, “Humiliate him when he's down and he's got nothing left to lose, no reason not to turn violent.”

This strikes me as a preposterous idea but when I say so, it earns me a dark look.

“I've seen it happen.” he assures me and I shrug.

It's unsettling to realize that Michael, who normally stands just a little to the right of Ghengis Khan, has a generous streak far wider than my own. It may be that his newfound poverty has released some buried treasure of tolerance, I think, but the thought is erased quickly.

“I'm not in the mood to have pot shots taken at me,” he says and he's not entirely joking, “So we'll try to take the high ground as much as we can.”

“Man's a pathalogical liar,” I argue back but without much enthusiasm, “And he can't make up his mind which works best, being a braggart or a victim. I don't like being played.”

This works its way into a final email and immediately elicits another hollow promise to pay - “Within the hour!” he writes - and a veritable shopping list of personal hardships and new scapegoats.

The hour passes. Then another. And another. There's no money.

I'm up to my knees in man pride.

The Witch of Little River

“The way gossip travels between one end of this island and the other, “ my grandmother was saying in a voice like ice, “It's a wonder there's any road left! Now, if you please, one of you will tell me how this....this sheer..... rubbish about Edwina Frost got started! And you'll oblige me by bein' quick about it or I'll know the reason why!”

Ruthie and I stared fixedly at the floor, hoping against hope that it might swallow us whole.

“If either of you expect to leave this room,” Nana said in her most severe tone, “I advise you to dry your tears and speak up before I lose my patience! Come now, I know you didn't make it up your own selves!”

Ruthie tightened her grip on my hand, telling me what I already knew, that there was no way out. We were going to have to own up.

“Betty Jean told us,” she mumbled dismally.

“She heard it from Gloria.” I added.

My grandmother sighed hugely.

“And who did Gloria hear it from?” Nana demanded, her voice frigid with disdain.

“She said Juanita told her...her cousin's boyfriend....” my voice trailed off and Ruthie had to take over for me.

“He saw it with his own eyes!” she finished with just the tiniest, most infinitesimal speck of defiance. My heart sank even lower.

“Saw what exactly?” By then Nana was actually growling and we were wishing we'd never been born. She reached out and grasped roughly at my chin, forcing me to make eye contact.

“She was making brooms!” I wailed.

“To fly on and steal children!” Ruthie said desperately and burst into tears, “She stole the Albrights!”

Nana let go of me and sank back into her chair. Her shoulders sagged and she covered her eyes with one liver spotted hand. There was no sound except for Ruthie and I sobbing helplessly and the ship's clock in the background. My grandmother, pale faced and visibly shaken, lit a cigarette and closed her eyes, wearily waiting for us to cry ourselves out. The ship's clock chimed the quarter hour before she spoke again and her voice was even but hard.

“It might interest you to know,” she said tightly, “that little Connie Albright got the measles and it went through the whole family like grease through a goose. The doctor quarantined all twleve of them because it's contaigious. Moreover, Edwina Frost is a weaver.  She weaves blankets and shawls and baskets for the tourists and when she hasn't much work, she weaves brooms. To sweep with. There's one in my very own pantry and probably in every house on this island. All of which you could have found out quite easily if you'd bothered to ask.”

Ruthie and I cringed at the contempt in her tone but it was about to get much worse.

“I'm ashamed of you both,” she said bitterly, “Very ashamed that you would be so cruel to someone you don't know, more ashamed that you would spread gossip and most ashamed that I had to drag it out of you.” This brought on matching floods of tears but gained us no mercy.

“I will decide on a punishment later,” she said cooly, “for now, you can go to your room and think about what you've done.”

“We're sorry!” we blubbered, not quite in unison, but it was useless. She would not be moved.

The knock on the door came two days later when we'd not been out of the bedroom except for meals.

“Girls!” Nana called, “There's someone here to see you.”

We came down the stairs uncertainly. And there she was, the woman we had called The Witch of Little River, the falsely accused child stealer and broom rider. She was tall and thin with a long braid of silver hair twining over one shoulder. She was wearing sandals, a plain brown dress that reached her ankles and a necklace of sea glass.

“Girls,” my grandmother said calmly, “Miss Edwina Frost has come to call. You'll do well to close your mouths and remember your manners.”

“Come in, children,” the lady in the brown dress said kindly, “I don't bite.” And this I do remember clearly. She smiled. Our trepidation eased slightly but we were still feeling those anxious butterflies.

“It's all arranged,” Nana said evenly, “Miss Edwina has agreed to have you visit for a week and learn weaving and broom making. I expect you to be proper house guests, be tidy and quiet and help out as needed. If you pay attention, you might learn something.”

When, ever so slowly, it began to dawn on us that this was the punishment, relief washed over us like the incoming tide. For whatever reason, Nana had chosen this totally unexpected way to teach us a lesson. We looked at Miss Edwina - however could we have possibly thought her to be a witch? - and saw only a middle aged woman with kind eyes and a healthy tan. No warts, no elongated chin, no blackened talons at the tips of her fingers. The Witch of Little River captured us with an entirely unexpected spell of forgiveness.

Our week with her stretched to two. We learned a little about weaving and spinning and broom making and a lot about growing up and the value of not being part of the crowd. She taught us how to draw water at the well, how to hoe a garden, build a fire and pill a cat. At night we sat on her front porch and she taught us songs about sailors and shipwrecks and lost loves. She knew Bible stories and fairy tales equally well and told each with delight, making both a little magical. Toward the end of our second week, she surprised us with an illustrated copy of The Wizard of Oz.

“They only had the one copy,” she told us, “So you'll have to share.”

She'd underlined the passage where Glinda, The Good Witch of the North, tells Dorothy that she herself is a witch and that only bad witches are ugly. When she showed us, we laughed 'til we cried and hugged her neck fiercely. On our last night, she gave us each a hand woven basket of polished sea glass and a promise that she would teach us to make necklaces the next summer.

I still have my sea glass but Miss Edwina took sick that winter with pneumonia. She wouldn't leave Little River, Ruthie wrote me, and she died in the spring. She was ten years younger than I am now.

Every now and again, I think about having a necklace made from my sea glass but I never get around to it. I think I like it too much just the way it is.

In Harm's Way

Are you busy? my friend Charli asks when I pick up my cell phone.

Not 'specially, I tell her.

Are you sitting down? she wants to know and that's when I hear the trembling in her voice, the nearness to tears. She's hanging on but only by a thread. My chest tightens and my knees unexpectedly give way. I close my eyes and sink into the sunroom loveseat with a dreadful premonition that someone I care about is dying. It could have been anything although in this day and age, good news was too much to hope for. Maybe a little musical gossip, juicy but harmless. Maybe an invitation to lunch, news of a booking or some new idea for a song. But no. Because there was that tremble in her voice, that god awful halting tone that was holding back tears, that ragged breathing.

I am now, I tell her and waited.

The words come in an incoherent rush, punctuated by sobs just this side of hysteria. Halfway through, her crying becomes wailing and for my part, the world goes dark and the little sunroom begins to swirl in and out of focus. Something inside me shuts down. I hear it. I can almost see the light leaving.

Are you alone? I ask, Is Greg home?

He's on his way, she says and her voice breaks badly. For several minutes she can't speak and I don't even try to fill the silence. It isn't awkward but it's maliciously and cruelly sad. When she gets a little control back, she tells me more about our mutual and very, very dear friend, Blue.

Stage four lung cancer. Not operable, not curable. Treatable with chemo and radiation if she chooses but only a 15 month survival rate. Wading through all the medical and technical terms and opinions is like being up to your knees in a swamp wearing steel toed boots. We do it hand in hand but at the end, there's no way of reaching the shore. The shore itself is treacherous with truth and the unbearable reality that short of a miracle, a beloved and precious friend is going to die.

Miracles do happen, I remind myself but the words are artificial and hollow. Where is my faith when I need it the most, I wonder bitterly. The sad fact is that regardless of who lives and who dies, this often miserable old world keeps turning. Tomorrow is likely to come whether you or I or Blue are here or not. Life stops for no one and in the fullness of time, we all fade into dusty memories. We are, as the saying goes, born alone and we die alone. And in between, I suspect we live more alone and more often than we recognize.

My hope is that my old friend will be granted a miracle. But if she's not, those that love her will come together and keep her company. We'll bring her whatever comfort and care we can, for as long as we can. Some will do it up close and personal, others will do it from a distance. People will say prayers and bring food, light candles and make sure she has music. Her much loved dog, a roly-poly dachshund mix, will be fed and walked and when the time comes, someone will open their own home, take him in, and give him the life she would have.

When I see her a few days later, she's smiling and optimistic and determined. She tells me about the cancer and we walk for awhile, hands comfortably 'round each other's waists, two old friends talking quietly and laughing just a little. She tells me she's going to have it treated and I tell her how glad I am although privately I can't bear thinking what chemo and radiation are likely to do to her tiny, rail-thin frame. I tell her that I understand her wanting to keep it quiet - she has visions of people whispering “dead man walking” things behind her back and she's never been able to abide people feeling sorry for her - but cancer treatment is not kind, I remind her, and people are going to notice. She shrugs and tells me she'll cross that bridge when she comes to it.

Everything's going to be fine, she says, smiling and perfectly dry-eyed.

I smile back.  Thinking if only I could scoop up her tiny, scrawny little self and put her in my back pocket for safekeeping.  I want so badly to take her out of harm's way.

I remember someone once telling me you must choose your battles.  There are times when it's the only choice you have.

The Truth About Elsie Pyne

Elsie Pyne turned her first trick in the back alley of a Halifax hotel when she was fourteen. It was, she often said, the easiest and quickest twenty bucks she ever made and, she was proud to add, she never looked back.

Twenty dollars and a a bottle of perfume! she gloated when she told us about it.

Ruthie and I were horrified.

No, you didn't! Ruthie exclaimed, here eyes wide with shock, Liar!

Elsie produced a carefully folded, still crisp $20 bill from her bra and laughed.

Did so too! she chirped, And I'm gon' do it again! It ain't nothin'!

You cain't! Ruthie said a little desperately and then lowered her voice to a harsh whisper, Daddy says girls who take money for.........like that......they's whores! Bound for hell, he says!

I ain't worried 'bout goin' to no hell, Ruth, Elsie snapped defiantly, and I ain't washin' no more dishes in that dirty ol' cafe neither! And you, girl, she added, scowling and taking a step toward Ruthie who instantly backed up, You ain't tellin' nobody nothin' 'bout this or I'll be seein' you black and blue all over!

The threat made Ruthie pale and bite down on her lower lip. Hard. So hard I thought it might bleed.

You could come home, Elsie, I said tentatively, I heard Miz McIntyre's lookin' for help in the store.

Bet Rawlie'd give you your old job back in a New York minute, Ruthie added.

I ain't gon' be nobody's shop girl, Elsie said grimly, And I sure as hell ain't gon' go back to shovelin' fish guts in that goddamn factory neither! I'm gittin' out! You jist see if I don't!

Considering that people who lead idle lives meddle, gossip travels and men talk, it was nothing short of remarkable that no one ever found out. Ruthie and I grew up, learned a little more about the world and got over our horror. Sometimes on a Sunday morning, Elsie might be home for the weekend and would come to church. She always arrived just a little late and sat alone but after services, there would be just a hint of “Evening in Paris” in the air and a crisp, neatly folded $20 bill in the collection basket.

Chickens Crossing

It's sprinkling just enough to turn the streets damp and confound the windshield wipers. I'm cruising one of the oldest streets in the neighborhood, a tree-lined and terribly historic thoroughfare, when from one of the lawns of one of the lesser mansions, comes a chicken. It's directly in my path and without the merest glance into my rear view mirror, my foot automatically hits the brakes, causing the little car to go into a mild skid and my heart to very nearly implode. The chicken gives me a snooty look and continues across the street as if it had every right not to cross at the light. Just when I'm giving thanks for my narrow escape and without any warning at all, both lanes are suddenly awash in chickens and traffic comes to an abrupt and unhappy standstill.

People are out of their cars, cursing and clapping their hands, shooing the birds and running in all directions. It's very much like a barnyard of.......well, chickens.

I count nine in all. Nine chickens casually crossing a busy avenue in the middle of a city with fairly strict health codes. It's oddly exhilarating. When the last one is safely across, people climb back into their cars and traffic resumes. There's no particular indication that anyone except me has found this to be unusual and since I have no desire to call attention to the fact that I found it very much out of the ordinary, I pull back from the curb I so nearly hit and point the little blue car toward home.

At the intersection though, I can't resist a glance at the station wagon next to me. It's filled with children, laughing, pointing and flapping pretend wings. The soccer mom at the wheel looks exasperated but when she meets my eyes and I smile, she smiles back and then we both dissolve into such helpless laughter that we nearly miss the green light. She looks one way, I look the other, and then we give each other a mutual chicken-free thumbs up and go our separate ways.

The world can be a ghastly place, filled with ugliness and unkindness. We need more silliness, more lighthearted moments. We need to hold onto to our sense of wonder longer.

In a word, we need more chickens.

Is That You, Rose Comfort?

After several minutes of waiting for the rain to let up, I decide the odds are against me and make a desperate run for the door. It only takes a few seconds but I'm soaked to the skin by the time I turn my key in the lock and am immediately trounced upon by four, anxiety-ridden dogs who do not react well to storms.

Is that you, Rose Comfort? I hear Michael yell.

One look in the hall mirror confirms it. I see a small bedraggled, half drowned woman with no makeup and her wild, frizzy hair in a tangle. She looks tired. She looks old.  Her shoes are full of water.  In her camisole and flimsy harem pants, she looks like a refugee.

Guess so, Michael, I call back and shiver like a dog shaking off the rain. What's the emergency?

He's sitting at his desk amid an avalanche of paper and debris. Magazines, stacks of unopened mail, not one but two overflowing ashtrays, several soda cans, a couple of magnifying glasses. A Wandering Jew he picked up at the Dollar Store sits precariously near the edge of the massively cluttered old desk. There's a shoebox full of nails and screws and picture hangers under the crooked lamp, a random pile of paperclips at his elbow, his partly open checkbook is hanging from a side drawer. There are pieces of what look like a broken cell phone scattered here and there and a raggedy-edged plastic bag of dog treats nearly buried under an almost never used telephone book. Everything is littered with yellow sticky notes. I'm thinking if I close my eyes and pinch myself, maybe I'll wake up.

The emergency? I prompt him and sigh.

Oh, he says absently, right. I need you to see if you can find my wallet.

It's a wonder you can find any..... I began and then stopped. I was cold. I was dripping. My shoes were squishing and I'd just realized that I'd forgotten my teeth. I tried to tell myself I'd misheard him.

You called me out, I said slowly and as articulately as anyone whose dentures were in a glass of Polident'ed water on her kitchen counter could, after dark. On a Sunday night. In a fucking monsoon. Because you lost your wallet? ARE YOU DERANGED? ARE YOU STARK, RAVING, OUT OF YOUR MIND MAD?

He looked so surprised - so comically wounded! - that I began to laugh. I couldn't help it and I couldn't stop it. I took a step backward, tripped over one of the dogs and half fell, half stumbled into one of the good leather chairs.

Do you want a towel? he asked uncertainly and I laughed harder.

It was one of those absurd moments between friends when you realize that all storms will eventually pass and that there's no remedy for life except laughter.

Do you think, I finally said, that maybe this could wait until morning?  

He nodded and I dripped and squished my way to the door and back into the rain. Just before I turned the key, I yelled that he'd better hope I didn't come down with pneumonia. He yelled back thank you! and I could hear him smile.