The Marionette Man

It was the first cool morning since spring had turned to summer and downtown was still and eerily quiet except for the distant church bells and deserted except for the homeless sleeping on the courthouse lawn. There was a faint, leftover mist in the air though I thought it would burn off by mid-morning. It was here on this Sunday before Labor Day that I met the man who feeds the birds.

He was sitting on one of the iron benches, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and scattering birdseed to a thick flock of pigeons from a rusty Community Coffee can held firmly between his knees. They billed and cooed around his ankles, a chorus line of them perched on the top rung behind him, one or two had actually landed on his left shoulder. His jacket was smeared with guano but he didn't seem to mind. Amid all this sea of blue and gray, a brown and white bird fluttered and landed on his free shoulder. He cupped a handful of birdseed and held it out to her, smiling as she ate right from his hand. As I got closer, I realized he was singing - I caught some of the words, Hail, hail, the gang's all here - and I recognized “Alabama Jubilee”.

When he noticed me watching, he nodded and gave me a little wave. The movement unsettled the pigeons and they rose in a feathery cloud, circled over him for a few seconds, then slowly landed back all around him.

After another few minutes, he turned the coffee can upside down and emptied the remains onto the grass then stowed the can in a battered knapsack. The pigeons, seeming to understand that breakfast was over, wandered off and he slowly got to his feet and dusted himself off.

He was, I saw immediately, uncommonly tall. His clothes hung on his skeletal frame like limp dustcloths.

Mornin', ma'am, he said politely, Ain't it a fine day to be alive.

It is that, I agreed, But your friends have gone.

Oh, they be back long about noon, I reckon, he shrugged, them and me, and the squirrels, we got a 'rangement.

Given his height and slender build, I'd expected him to be light on feet. I'd imagined his limbs would be fluid like a dancer - or maybe a basketball player – but to my surprise, he moved like a marionette. His motions were jerky and disconnected and his hightop clad feet were clunky, his footsteps thudded. When I looked a little closer, I realized that what I'd taken for thin was closer to emaciated. He was all angles and sharp edges, from his gaunt, hollow face with the smudges under his eyes all the way to his bony knees. His khaki pants ended above his ankles and his jacket sleeves rode up to above his wrists but - more surprise - he was belt-less,

his pants held up by a pair of bright, Christmas red suspenders. He wrangled the knapsack over his shoulders, gave the suspenders a smart double thumbed snap and began walking across the courthouse lawn in the direction, I hoped, of Christian Services.

He reached the crosswalk and although there wasn't a car in sight, he still waited obediently for the light to change, then looked both ways and headed across. From the opposite sidewalk, he turned and tipped his cap to me then disappeared into an alley.  The leftover pigeons on the courthouse lawn took flight, formed a loose formation overhead, and followed.

Pumps and Pearls

The women in my family – all dead now, of course – bore a striking resemblance to each other while they lived.

My grandmother, her sister, and both their daughters were frighteningly alike physically and always at odds emotionally. I wonder that we managed to survive some of those summer vacations, particularly when Nana's only brother and his wife were added to the mix. If there was one thing that united the women, it was a far reaching and long standing dislike of the former headmistress, the dreaded sister-in-law, my Aunt Helen.

In a family of hard drinking, not afraid to get their hands dirty, mostly un-playtex'd and loud women who were raising clearly hooligan children, there just was no comfortable place for Helen. She lived to be proper, thrived on her Back Bay-ness and Beacon Hill upbringing.

Take away her pumps and pearls, my Aunt Elaine said once, and all you've got left is Miss Clairol with a face lift.

And perfect nails, my mother, whose own were bitten to the quick, added nastily.

Born to wealth and privilege, that one, Nana said bitterly, Used every bit of the hot water to take a bath last night. Can't think why in the world she married into this family.

My Aunt Zel, the only petite one in the bunch and crippled since childhood – polio had left her with a deformed foot and a severe limp despite the cruel othopedic shoes she always wore and though her husband made jokes about not marrying her just to go dancing, she was sensitive about it – trilled a little laugh, perfect for her tiny, elf-like form.

She needed a retirement fund, said the least venomous among us and didn't even blush.

My mother and her cousin, so alike they were often mistaken for sisters, laughed outloud.

Is this what I'll be when I'm old, I found myself thinking, a small, chubby woman with crepe paper skin and an acid tongue?

It seems so.  Nothing predicts likes genetics and nothing unites us like a common enemy.

Second Thoughts

You don't have to be in this old world very long before you learn that people will disappoint you, but somehow the later life surprises leave a bitter taste. Recently I've seen a woman friend beneath her mask and it wasn't pretty. I wasn't so much troubled by finding the malice and anger underneath as I was by never suspecting there was a mask at all. Where, I wonder, was my natural cynicism in the face of all this goodness and light?

To be honest, I suppose I'm more annoyed with my own self for not seeing more clearly. I've known her for years, always admired and respected her, held her up as an example and even tried to emulate her at times. I've never heard her say or seen her write anything even in the neighborhood of ugly about anyone, not ever. She was a model of kindness, of charity, of fairness. When she was maligned at a difficult time after a nasty breakup, she never answered in kind, always embracing the idea that you never know the battles or demons others are fighting. I've defended her and was proud and grateful to call her a friend. Even when faced with proof of the harm she's tried to do, my mind fights against it.

The betrayal is made sharper because I'm not one who sees the good in everyone. Again, to be honest, I gave up looking years ago. If there's a lesson here, maybe it's about my own flaws and how I can still be taken in.   We're all easy prey for someone.

A Carnival of Cats

I can't say he didn't warn me. He did meow.

I'm lying on the loveseat in the sunroom, trying to rest my aching back. It's agreeably warm from the late afternoon sun and the steady drone of the television is making me sleepy. The eldest cat, remarkably agile for his years and still light on his feet when he wants to be, launches himself from the floor and with a plaintive meow, lands squarely on my midsection. It's way too late to tense my muscles and prepare and I'm barely able to catch my breath. He makes eye contact long enough to issue a second meow then completes his ritual with a front and back leg stretch and an extravagant yawn before arranging himself and promptly going to sleep. No matter what we tell ourselves, cat owners are, first and foremost, furniture. It often takes us years to accept this simple fact but it's an irrevocable truth. The cat has known it all along.

He doesn't stay long - another universal truth about cats is that they frequently have the attention span of an amoeba - and when he hears or senses something that stirs his curiosity, he snaps awake like a spring, digs his claws into my sides and thighs, and takes off like a shot. The second eldest cat, the tabby, immediately arrives to take his place. She is timid, wary, and far more cautious, approaching by stealth and silence and waiting patiently for an invitation. When I give it, she reaches up with her front paws and then slowly and delicately climbs to my side. She's too dignified to actually sleep on me and is quite content to curl around my ankles, keeping her back to the wall in case of a sudden attack. I scratch her ears and she pushes back firmly but gently, then settles in with her paws tucked neatly beneath her. It isn't long until she's startled by the slam of a car door from next door. She tenses and does a quick scan for any approaching hazard then slinks down, jumps lightly to the desk and then to the top of the armoire. I admire her gracefulness, her discretion and most of all her refusal to run with the crowd.

An empty lap is not to be tolerated and it's just minutes later that the younger black cat appears.

Though the largest of my feline family, he's the quietest and the most independent and I only know he's there because of his tiny, mouse-like meow. He alerts me to his presence with a two second warning and springs, all 20 pounds landing with a considerable thump on my chest. I'm nose to nose with his heart-shaped face and brilliant yellow eyes - I do try my best not to play favorites but he is the most elegant and gorgeous thing - so I don't protest when he twines around my neck and nudges my chin. His long hair gives him a big cat aura, much like a lion, and he soon slips to my side and burrows compactly against me, his head resting on my shoulder and his entire body vibrating. He consents to my stroking his thick fur. It's hard to tell which of us is more content.

The 4^th wave is the tuxedo cat, an even tempered animal if ever there was one, affectionate to the point of being obnoxious and louder than all four put together. She's more muscled up than actually overweight and when she decides she needs attention, she's relentless. She announces her arrival with a determined series of head butts and a stream of nerve-grating meows and eventually she pushes and shoves her way onto the loveseat, perches on my knees and stares at me defiantly, daring me to try and dislodge her. I suspect that my recent back pain is a result of lifting up the hatchback on my little car since the struts went bad but it's equally possible that lifting the tuxedo cat out of my computer chair two or three times a day is a contributing factor. She's a hefty girl without the slightest delicacy, distressingly vocal and frequently directly in my path. She disdains the concept of right of way and it never seems to occur to her to move.

The last to arrive is the kitten. I hear a chorus of chirping as she clears the gate and a second later she's crossing the threshold at her usual breakneck speed and leaping onto me like a downhill racer. She begins to knead the minute she lands - she has fierce concentration - and her claws sink in like tiny razors. I tap her nose to get her attention and tell her to cut it out and she gives me a resentful look and digs in deeper. I lift her with one hand and deposit her back on the floor but persistence is her middle name and she's back in a flash, winding her small body into a ball and settling herself on my thighs. I decide it's as workable a compromise as I'm likely to get and reach for my newest Stephen King novel but this offends her. She immediately crawls into the underneath space between the book and me and protests with a gentle swipe of her paw. Furniture, she's reminding me, just furniture. Stephen King will have to wait.

For more than tonight, it turns out because I haven't turned on any lights and darkness falls.  It's still comfortably warm and with only the flickering light of the television to see by, I drift off to sleep. My last thought is: this is my life, a carnival of cats.

When All Else Fails, Bring Up Jesus

This is the Bible belt, I remind myself. When all else fails, bring up Jesus.

There's a good deal of debate on social media about Donald Trump's tax escapades. A friend posts that he did nothing but take advantage of the existing system, exactly as she herself has done, but that he does plan to overhaul the law to make it fair for everyone.

I ask her - nicely, once I get my gag reflex under control - what would be his motivation.

She tells me that any good CPA knows how to game the system, that everyone would like to pay less in taxes, and that she is pleased to know that Trump agrees with her that the entire tax structure should be made over.

I don't dispute this but feel compelled to say that she didn't answer my question. Again, I say, what would be his motivation.

Because it's the right thing to do, she finally says, It's what she'd do in his place.

I rack my memory but for the life of me can't come up with a single instance of Trump doing the right thing because it's the right thing. The man has the morals of an alley cat in heat and all the polish of pond scum.

So, I say, you think that the right thing trumps (as it were) self-interest?

She assures me she does than wanders off into a tangent about being a good tax paying Christian. Fairness, she tells me, is a Christian value.

I suggest that religion is irrelevant to the conversation.

She offers to pray for me.

Please don't trouble yourself, I reply.

I hate to bring up Jesus, she says, but He's the only path away from self-interest.

I would hope I can have christian values and beliefs without being a Christian, I say.  I don't expect her to get the distinction and I'm not disappointed.

You can't have a rational conversation with anyone who thinks Trump will do anything at all that goes against his self-interest or that Jesus belongs in the White House. I'm a small C christian at best. I unfollow her and move along.

That Invisibility Thing

 “I will not share another meal with a person who is invisible,” my Aunt Helen announced haughtily, “It's simply not the done thing.”

My grandmother refused to take the bait. “Suit yourself, Helen, dear,” she said blithely, “I reckon you kin make yourself a plate if you've a mind to.”

She was making applesauce while my mother was putting the finishing touches on a blueberry pie and the kitchen smelled of sunshine and cinnamon. “Porkchops for supper,” she remarked to me, “Go and see if Merrill and Harry will stay to supper.”

I trotted obediently off while my scandalized aunt stalked out.

“No need to mention the porkchops,” Nana called after me knowing that Aunt Helen would hear and not able to resist a parting shot, “Harry's not partial to 'em.”

My mother, delicately and neatly laying strips of dough across the top of the pie until she was satisfied with the basket weave effect, laughed out loud. It was one of those infrequent moments when mother and daughter put aside their differences and united. She methodically pressed her thumb all around the rim of the piecrust then stepped back and gave it a critical look before pronouncing it oven ready.

“Ayuh,” Nana agreed, “It'll do. Dont' forget to light the pilot light.”

The moment evaporated.

“Mother, I never forget to light the pilot light,” my mother said testily, “You'd think I'd never baked a pie before!”

Aunt Helen stalked back in, hat and gloves in hand and in a snit. Uncle Eddie was trailing behind her, an amused expression on his face.

“We're going to Digby for the day,” she said pointedly, “We'll be back after supper.”

“Whatever you think best, Helen, dear.” Nana shrugged.

“Waste of a perfectly good day, in my opinion,” Uncle Eddie said with a rueful grin, “That Harry's a nice enough fella 'cept for that invisibility thing.”

“Edgecomb!” Aunt Helen exclaimed in horror and turned deathly pale. She disliked calling attention to the family's more colorful eccentricities. Uncle Eddie obediently held the screen door for her and gave her a smart salute.

“Coming, dear.” He stopped long enough to give Nana's apron strings a playful tug and reminded my mother to save him a slice of pie then reluctantly followed his headmistress wife.

“Really, Helen, such a fuss over a harmless figment.” I heard him call. Aunt Helen stiffened her spine and marched on.

“What's a pigment?” I immediately wanted to know.

“Figment! Figment!” my exasperated mother howled, “It means Merrill made him up!”

“No call to shout, Jan,” Nana snapped, “Child ain't deaf and neither am I!”

“I reckon there's worse things than bein' invisible,” she added philosophically, “Jan, did you remember to light the oven?”

My mother threw up her hands in defeat.

The Siege

It began with an innocent ring of the doorbell and went badly, irretrievably wrong immediately.

I had a lap full of contracts and other paperwork so Michael went to answer it. In a matter of seconds, it went from Can I help you? to Get off my lawn, niggers!

The man and woman had arrived on the bus and rather than wait for the property manager who was to show them the apartment, came through the gate and up to the front door, asking for “the housing commission”. Michael told them they had the wrong address but they were insistent, seeming to believe that he was lying. They cursed him and called him white trash and he reacted with typical temper, calling them no account niggers and ordering them off his property. They responded by calling him an HIV fag. After that, there was no turning back. He was foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog.

He snatched the telephone to call the property management people and let loose a firestorm of hatefulness and threats. Midway through that conversation, the hapless rental agent arrived and was subjected to an even more racist rant. She tried to point out that housing discrimination is illegal but he shouted her down with a promise that they'd damn well better start discriminating or there'd be dead niggers in the driveway. Horrified and appalled, she stumbled into her SUV and frantically drove off, thinking I'm sure, that she'd encountered a raving, bigoted lunatic. It wasn't all that far from the truth, I thought. The coloreds, he likes to lecture me, are naturally shiftless, ill mannered, and prone to crime and violence. They're too lazy to work and their poverty is self-inflicted. Given the opportunity, they'll steal white folks, the government, and each other blind. Being too stubborn to learn, they're ignorant by choice, always in search of a handout or a welfare check. This is venom he learned practically before he could walk and it's been reinforced his entire life. I can't change his thinking so I've learned to ignore him or leave.

Back in the now, I give him several minutes to regain his mind and composure before suggesting he take a deep breath and consider his blood pressure. He has found his Hollywood prop gun, a wickedly realistic looking firearm and he's pacing between his office and mine, holding it in a deathgrip.

HIV fag! he snarls, Called me an HIV fag in my own driveway! Motherfucking niggers!

Well, I tell him calmly, You have to admit it's creative.

He stops, gives me a quick glare that rapidly changes to a sly sort of grin, lowers the gun.

What  do you think gave it away? he wants to know, The fag part, I mean.

Beats me, I tell him with a shrug, Now put that damfool thing away and get a grip before you have a damn stroke. You know perfectly well that housing discrimination is illegal and no reputable property management company is going to risk going to jail because you're a raging racist who doesn't want to rent to blacks.

Well, they should, he mutters defiantly.

Well, they won't, I say just as defiantly, now get over it. I can't change you, hell, I've given up trying, but for Christ's sake, keep it to yourself. The way you're going, somebody's likely to aim at you and shoot me.

After a day or so, he manages to step back a little – not far enough to suit me but enough to get a grip on his temper, his emotions, and his language – and life resumes its odd but normal track.

Racism has a way of wearing a body out.