After The Fall

 

It happened on a perfectly innocent walk across the Walgreen’s parking lot. I never did see how or why – a ripple in the cement perhaps or a loose shoelace – but I suddenly found myself hunched over and pitching forward. After two or three steps, physics kicked in, then momentum, then gravity and I found myself crashing into the concrete. There was a rip in the knee of my jeans, two fingernails were torn, and I had three dime-sized scrapes on my knuckles, all raw and bleeding but to my amazement, nothing was broken. Humiliated and horrified that this graceless act might have been witnessed, I scrambled to my feet, snatched up my keys and purse and skittered to my car like a wounded water bug.

A week or so later, I decided to change the light bulb above the kitchen sink. I dragged one of the dining room chairs to the sink and (carefully) climbed up but the fixture was still just out of reach so I climbed a little higher (again, carefully) into the sink, braced myself against the cabinet and changed the bulb. I fell on the way of getting down, somehow losing my balance, twisting sideways and pitching off the chair, landing on my whole right side with enough impact to set my dentures to rattling. I laid there for several seconds, anticipating an abrupt shock of pain from a shattered shoulder, elbow or most likely hip, but nothing came. Except for a ragged patch of skin on my elbow which was bleeding freely and hurt like a son of a bitch, I was miraculously intact. From 4 feet off the floor to linoleum and nothing broken.

“Jesus wept,” I told the anxious little dachshund who had come to investigate, “I must be made of iron.”

I hauled myself to my feet, bandaged the elbow and replaced the dining room chair. Then the medical alert alarm sounded like an air raid siren, scaring us both out of a year’s growth.

“Here comes the cavalry,” I told the little dachshund, “Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.”

I thanked and assured the concerned voice at the other end of the line that I was fine. I had taken a tumble, I explained (seeing no need to give her any details), but no harm done. I appreciated their calling and was glad to know that the system worked.

Moments later my cell phone rang and my friend, Michael, demanded to know how had I fallen and was I really alright.

“I was changing a light bulb,” I explained a little impatiently, “and I lost my balance and ……..how the hell did you know I fell?”

“I’m your emergency contact,” he said mildly, “They said you’d fallen and were fine but they’re required to let me know. So, are you? Fine, I mean?”

The odd thing about both of these falls was what went through my head in between upright and impact. I had time to think and understand that I was going to hit the ground and hit it hard, even enough time to curse and say a small prayer that I’d be able to get up. It was curious and a little unsettling. I’ve fallen before and probably will again but I don’t recall being that aware of what was happening during the fall. Things happen, of course, but usually it’s normality one second and on the ground the next. You hardly have time to dwell on, worry or dissect what’s happening. Looking back, I don’t recommend having the time to reflect on it.

I do hope there’s no truth to that old 3^rd time’s the charm crap.

Watch Your Step

Suspended by a thin thread of spider silk, the leaf spun and danced in the late afternoon light like a crazed ballerina. It would pause for a few seconds, then race upward and to the left, fluttering and swirling madly. Then it would drop down, pause for another few seconds, then repeat the movements to the right. It took me several minutes of watching before I realized that there was only the mildest of breezes, certainly nothing that could account for this reckless and frenzied behavior. Leaves don’t think or plan or move in predictable patterns, I realized, and they certainly are not defiant. Curious, I left the deck and walked toward the back fence with the dogs trotting at my heels. When I got closer, I saw that the leaf was actually a small butterfly, stuck to the silk like glue and despite its best desperate efforts, unable to break free. Poor thing, I thought to myself, you must be exhausted and you wouldn’t make much of a meal, and with one quick gesture, I severed the strand of silk and watched the butterfly soar off in a blur of blue and gold and backlit sunshine. It was, I decided, as good as any a metaphor for life – not all traps are made of steel jaws or quicksand. Some are delicate, practically invisible and woven of silken threads. You might not even notice until you’ve stepped over the threshold and suddenly found yourself captive.

Watch where you’re going.

Home

 

It was just before nine when I pulled into the grocery store parking lot and though the sun was out, it was still chilly, 50 degrees or so, I thought. Hardly unpleasant unless you were homeless like the little lady propped up against one of the outside pillars of the grocery store. She was small boned and thin, wearing 2 pairs of trousers, mismatched shoes and wrapped up in a tattered blue blanket that didn’t offer much protection from the cold. She met my eyes as I passed her, offering up a mostly toothless grin and nodding. She could’ve been 30 or 40 or 100 for all I could tell. She wasn’t bothering anyone, wasn’t panhandling or asking for $2 bus fare, just sitting on the concrete, hugging her knees to her frail chest, holding tight to the blue blanket and trying to keep warm. She was still there when I came out with a week’s worth of groceries and without any warning, something about her struck me. I unloaded the cart and returned it to the store then for whatever reason (which I still don’t know), stopped and knelt down beside her, asked her how she was doing and did she need some help. She shook her head and with one scrawny hand reached for the imitation Swarovski crystal on my key chain.

“Pretty,” she said quietly and gave me another one of those toothless smiles.

The only cash I had was a couple of crinkled up dollar bills but I pulled them out of my pocket and pressed them into her hand. She thanked me and asked God to bless me.

“Do you have somewhere to go?” I asked.

She nodded, but there was a faraway look in her eyes and I wasn’t at all sure she was aware of me or herself. A customer from the deli next door appeared and slipped a handful of bills into her hand. She thanked him and asked God to bless him as well. He smiled at us both.

“You take care of yourself,” I told her.

“Where you going?” she asked me and when I said home, she said “Me too.”

As I was driving away, the deli customer re-appeared with a container of coffee and a sweet roll wrapped in a napkin. He put them beside her on the concrete, gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze and quickly walked away.

I couldn’t let go of the image of her and her blanket and when I got home, I ran inside for my camera and drove back to the store. She had moved to a wooden bench in front of the deli by then and she looked even smaller and more fragile than before. There was something about her mismatched shoes, one sandal and one regular shoe, that had hooked me.

“Would you mind if I took your picture?” I asked her.

She peered at me intently, at my Nikon, at the Swarovski crystal, over my shoulder into the parking lot. She asked my name and I told her. She looked again at the camera and shrugged.

“Why you want to make my pitcher?” she asked.

“Because I think you’re a beautiful lady,” I said simply and she shrugged again.

I ran into the grocery store to cash a check and when I came out, one of the cashiers was sitting beside her. They were sharing a cigarette and there was something tragically touching about it. The cashier smiled at me and told the little lady to remember, she was off at 2:00. I took my pictures, handed over a half pack of my own cigarettes and a $10 dollar bill. She squeezed my hand, wrapped her blanket around her shoulders and told me she’d be going soon.

“Is it far?” I asked.

“Not as the crow flies,” she said brightly and gave me a wink.

The Prowler

 

It was just after 1:30 in the morning when the dogs began to bark frantically and throw their small bodies against the window. Not sure what the problem was, I came awake slowly and it took a few seconds to realize that the front porch security light had come on. I was thinking stray cat or maybe a hungry raccoon when the pounding started and I understood that this was human noise and not wildlife.

“LET ME IN!” a male voice was yelling urgently, “PLEASE LET ME IN! SOMEONE’S SHOOTING AT ME!”

More fists against the door, the dogs going wild, but no gunfire. I couldn’t see anyone from the window and going to the door was out of the question but I could hear him, alternately yelling and talking to himself, and relentlessly pounding on the door.

“GO AWAY!” I shouted, “I’M CALLING THE POLICE!”

“LET ME IN!” he repeated over and over again, “IT’S NOT SAFE HERE!”

I found my phone and dialed 911, was more or less instantly connected with a police dispatcher who calmly told me to make sure my doors were locked, asked if I was armed, and reassured me that officers were on the way. She would stay on the line with me until they arrived, she said and very gently told me that she knew it seemed like forever but it had actually only been 4 minutes, and just then a pair of police cars pulled up. Even as the officers approached the house, my prowler continued banging on the door and ranting wildly, but thoughtfully stayed right in the center of the security light until the police escorted him off the porch, into handcuffs, and then into the back of the first patrol car.

The dogs were still in a frenzy over all this commotion but I managed to calm them after several minutes and only then did I let myself think about how terrified I’d been. A sudden and almost paralyzing attack of the what if’s soon followed – what if the door had given way, what if he’d had a gun, what if the dogs hadn’t heard him, what if someone actually had been shooting at him and he wasn’t some wild eyed, delusional meth addict having some kind of psychotic episode. One of the officers knocked at the door to make sure I was okay and I quickly realized that all the what ifs didn’t bear thinking about. I let the dogs out briefly, gave them each an extra biscuit, and crawled back into my nest in the love seat and hoped for sleep.

It was, I admit, a long night but morning came as mornings do and life went on. All that was left was the uneasy but faint under taste of my home almost being violated. And I feel like even that will pass.

There is, however, still a melancholy longing for a time when life was simpler, saner, and safer. I fear it will never come again.

Darkness

 

It’s a routine morning as I tend the animals and work on waking up and then with a crash I can almost hear, I remember my friend Marissa took her own life yesterday and the world is suddenly darker.

Marissa. A vibrant, compassionate, gifted musician. A wife. A mother of a 5 year old son and a 3 month old daughter. A home health care nurse and a woman full of faith. How could such a thing have happened and how do you make sense of it? Her devastated and bewildered husband collapses with grief and shock and an entire music community grieves.

By the next morning, a meal train has been established and it goes clear to Thanksgiving.

Her family and his are both local and they step up and in immediately. An absolute torrent of messages of love and support flood social media, offering prayers and play dates and even dog sitting. This was a woman who was not just much loved, but treasured and the idea that such a darkness as overtook her even exists is frightening. That it could be hidden is terrifying.

In less than 24 hours, a Gofundme account has raised over $20,000 and upped their goal to $25,000. A half day later, they’ve made the $25,000 and upped it to $30.000, the day after that to $40,000. I imagine it will be met if not exceeded by the end of the today. The messages on social media continue to mount – they are heartbreaking and it begins to be apparent that this lovely woman touched more lives than you could count. Childhood friends post pictures from school and work and evenings out, happier times that will never be again. How do you tell a little 5 year old boy that his mother is gone for always?

Absent some mitigating factor, it’s about the darkness, an evil and seductive trickster if ever there was one. She wasn’t incurably ill with some disease that would’ve savaged her body and mind and taken her life in the end. There was no chronic, untreatable pain. She wasn’t facing a life of incarceration without hope for release or working through some addiction. And yet, the darkness somehow convinced her that she was a failure and that her husband and babies and family and friends would all be better off without her. She couldn’t have been more wrong.

Most of the time, I’m not sure whether or not I believe in God or an afterlife but things like this make me want to, even if it’s nothing more than finding peace.

Full Circle

 

Ruthie was practicing “Star of the East” on the piano when her daddy got home. He sank into his easy chair in front of the television – one of the only ones on the whole island – and growled at her to stop. She didn’t hear him and with cobra like speed, he rose, strode to the piano and slammed the cover down on her hands. When she screamed, he snarled and delivered a quick and furious backhand across her cheek, sending her tumbling off the bench and onto the floor. After a second or two, we broke through the paralysis of shock and terror and bolted, running like hell was at our backs and gaining.

Sadly, neither of us was completely unfamiliar with domestic violence but this was new – close up, bloody and absolutely terrifying – we were running for our lives and instinctively headed for Doc McDonald’s. Ruthie was cradling her hands against her heart and sobbing.

Her mouth was bleeding badly but neither of us slowed down. We didn’t know if the devil would chase us and we weren’t about to find out. What we did know, had always known so it seemed, was that an old drunk didn’t have a prayer of catching up with two healthy, 1o year olds, even if one was injured. Still, we ran like the wind, all the way to Doc’s.

Three fingers on Ruthie’s left hand and two on her right were broken and it took four stitches to close the wound at the corner of her mouth. Remarkably, Doc asked no questions, just set about splinting, bandaging and sewing her up, gave her a shot for the pain and then packed us into his old station wagon and looking like death come for the old dog, drove us to The Point and my grandmother. As we pulled into and down the gravel driveway, Ruthie elbowed me sharply.

“When they ask us,” she whispered low, harsh, and urgent, “I fell. We was runnin’ and I tripped and fell in the ditch. Cross your heart that’s what you tell ’em!”

I knew in my heart how unfair it was and I wanted to protest the lie but I didn’t. I couldn’t overlook Ruthie’s bruised, tear stained face and broken hands but I knew the truth could bring even worse. It began to seem like a small lie, a well intended cover up and best for all concerned. Feeling sick and frightened, I crossed my heart. I was sure Doc would know the truth and positive Nana wouldn’t believe us but I crossed my heart anyway.

“I fell,” Ruthie told Doc and Nana stubbornly.

“Reckon she tripped over a rock,” I said shakily, “Fell right into the ditch.”

“You was runnin’,” my grandmother said with a gentleness I’d never have expected, “Who was in front?”

“I was,” I said, eager to step up because when you’re ten and lying doesn’t come natural, you make mistakes.

“If you was in front,” Doc said casually, “How’d you see her fall?”

“I heard it,” I said at once, more than a little proud of my cleverness, “And when I turned around she was in the ditch.”

“That what happened, Ruth?” the doctor asked and Ruthie nodded.

“I fell,” she repeated, so sincerely that I almost believed her, “Weren’t nobody’s fault.”

“And why,” Nana asked almost casually, “Were you runnin’ in the first place?”

And that’s when the trap door came down because we had no answer and it was clear anything we came up with would be just one more fable. We opted to take our chances with shrugs and silence, hoping to buy ourselves some time but we knew that neither Doc nor my grandmother were in the market. We then opted for tears and must’ve looked perilously pitiful because the adults exchanged glances and then let us go for the moment. We fled upstairs to the room we always shared when Ruthie spent the night and curled up together on the big double bed. We didn’t talk and it wasn’t long before being worn out and still a little in shock, we fell asleep.

We stayed put until Nana woke us for supper a few hours later. She’d called Aunt Jenny, she told us casually and explained that Ruthie would be staying with us for a day or so. If Ruthie’s mother had her suspicions, she kept them to herself just as she did the bruises that often appeared on her arms and neck. And then, just after supper, we got a visit from Remy Prime, the only law enforcement the RCMP had on the island. He and my grandmother talked quietly on the sun porch with the door closed for well over an hour and it was coming dark when he left. Ruthie and I, young but old enough to understand consequences, were too frightened to even speak to him.

In a perfect world, there would have been some justice and maybe even some change but we were a tiny fishing village on one end of a 12 mile long island- isolated, proud, self sufficient and in favor of quietly solving our own problems. Nobody was going to be rehabilitated or go to jail, there would be no counseling for the victims nor any retribution. Ruthie went home after a couple of days and as far as we knew, her daddy never raised his hand to her or her mother for years. Too many folks were watching. Much later, when he drank himself into a stupor and drowned, nobody talked much about it and nobody mourned. It was ruled an accident and there were no questions asked.

I didn’t hear it myself but when he was asked about it, Remy Prime reportedly said, “Weren’t nobody’s fault. He fell.”

The Virtue of Ignorance

 

Imagine you’re a wannabe actor living in a poverty-stricken, crime-infested Southern city in a state where racism and white supremacy still make the rules. Corruption is so commonplace that no one even notices anymore. There is no hope for education or decent health care or finding a job. Falling down shotgun shacks line the sidewalk-less forgotten neighborhoods and everywhere you look the streets and bridges are falling apart. Even in the traditionally best parts of town, there’s no safe place left to shop, walk, drive, work or live.

Now imagine that, as unlikely as it seems, a casting company is coming to town to make an M. Night Shyamalan film and as an aspiring actor, you are offered $500 a day to learn a half dozen lines and be in the film. Provided you are vaccinated against COVID 19 and are willing to wear a face mask when not shooting. I myself would be doing handstands to get to the nearest vaccination site but not in this city. No, here we prefer to go maskless and refuse to vaccinate. Our faith is in God and science is a Chinese hoax. We prize our ignorance, crow about our rights, shoot anyone who gets in our way and step over our dead. It’s not a pretty sight. It could be worse, I remind myself, I could live in Texas.

The world has changed and I’m not persuaded it’s for the better.

With a handful of exceptions, if left to their own devices and consciences, people will not do the right thing.

With a handful of exceptions, businesses and corporations will choose profit over people every time, no matter the consequences.

With a handful of exceptions, there is not a politician on any level with the most remote sense of integrity or compassion or concern for his constituents or country.

With a handful of exceptions, I didn’t know the people I thought I knew at all. To see their true colors exposed is sickening.

A run of the mill Saturday night in this city brings news of three separate drive by shootings, not in the places you don’t go after dark but in the upscale zip codes of the wealthy and privileged. The front windows of a hospital are are shot out, innocent passengers in nearby vehicles are terrorized, a high speed police chase ensues and three teenagers are dead. No one can say why or what they were thinking but when they are caught, a veritable arsenal of weapons is seized, leaving some in this community to be stunned and others to shrug in resignation. The following week, an office-involved shooting takes another teenage life and though over 2o police units respond, it’s barely reported in the news. We are so accustomed to the violence that it’s hardly on our radar anymore. It would seem we have resigned ourselves to our own ignorance and its consequences.

Not surprisingly, the movie company changes its mind about filming here and decides to move on to a city with a little less gunfire, a little more concern for human life, and a place where ignorance is less of a virtue.

“The real weapons of mass
destruction are the hardening hearts of humanity.”

Leonard Cohen

The Mohawk Man

 

Being a creature of habit, I take the same route to work every day and it takes me to the same bus stop at the same intersection twice a day. For several weeks in June, I saw The Mohawk Man at the bus stop each morning and evening. He was tall and muscular with a finely chiseled face, always dressed in the same clothes – black nylon sweat pants and matching jacket over a bright red strappy t shirt and high tops – in the morning he would usually be stretched out on his side on the bench, head and shoulders resting on his backpack, high tops crossed at the ankles. In the evening though he was upright, meager possessions spread out on the bench for inspection, just part of the landscape. Sometimes he wore a red and black headband across his forehead. Except for the mohawk and the long braid, his head was shaved and tanned on both sides. A piece of cardboard was propped up against the bench. “God is good,” the hand lettered first line read, then “Able To Work” on the second, and finally “Be Kind To The Homeless” at the bottom. I was (selfishly) curious and captivated and I couldn’t help but think about what a great subject he would be for a portrait. I wondered what his story was, where he showered, was he actually homeless, where did he go to relieve himself, did he work, did he have family, what did he think about as he spent long hot days and nights on a bench at a bus stop. Before I could work out how best to approach him though, it was July and he disappeared. Maybe he just changed bus stops like you might change a room, I thought. Maybe he moved on or found work. Maybe he was in jail or worse. I didn’t much like the possibility that I would never know but there it was. At this particular bus stop, the tenants change pretty regularly, there one day and gone the next.

The closest I ever came to homelessness was a few short months spent in a poorly heated garage with a camp shower, a sink, a commode and a black cat named Magic. We had come all the way from New England in just a few short days, leaving my husband to sell our mountain top cabin, pack up the remaining animals and belongings and join us. The cat and I ate fast food twice a day, slept in a sleeping bag and listened to a small and tinny portable radio at night. There was no cell phone or computer or cable. It might not have been much but looking back, it was sure as hell better than a bench at a bus stop in 100 degree heat.

I have an idea it takes a special kind of strength to be homeless and live on the streets.

A Possum Tale

 

Hands down, it was the best imitation of death I’ve ever seen.

The dogs were barking frantically which they never do unless they find an intruder in the yard and when I went out to quiet them, I discovered what they’d discovered – a possum, dead as a door nail, you’d have sworn – lying on it’s side with its tail curled and it’s tongue hanging out. The dogs approached with a mix of fascination and fear, barking wildly and loudly, but being careful not to get too close to the corpse. It was barely seven in the morning and they were unwilling to leave their find. After several minutes of threats and calling and coaxing, I had to carry them both- very reluctantly- back inside. Clearly, they’d found a prize and didn’t want to leave it. After another several minutes, the possum stirred, raised it’s snout and looked around as if assessing the danger, then got to its feet and casually ambled off and out of sight. When I was sure he’d had time to climb the fence or tunnel out or do whatever possums do to come and go, I let the dogs out again. They spent some serious time in search of the curious creature but eventually got distracted and gave up the hunt.

To be sure, a possum is not one of God’s more beautiful creations but it does no harm and its passive nature of playing dead appeals to my own non-confrontational nature. I often wish I myself could just play dead until the danger passes.

Dogs Of Chaos

 

There are days and then there are days you wish you could live without.

I’d been at work less than an hour when things began to go downhill and I could feel chaos nipping at my heels like a pack of wild dogs. It was already nearly 90 inside and the humidity was like a sauna. The animals were restless and underfoot, snapping at each other and picking fights. There was no Sweet’n’Low for Michael’s coffee and having slept badly, he was already in a temper when the ADD/HDD commenced and he couldn’t find any of his diabetic testing supplies. He began a frantic search of his landfill of a desk, snatching up piles of paper and empty cigarette packs, notes scribbled on matchbook covers, half full coke cans, assorted cables and wires, unopened mail with sticky notes attached, samples of cologne, unpaid bills, and the ever present clear makeup case of several dozen prescription bottles. Manilla folders went flying, a new pair of shoes tumbled into the trashcan next to the desk, packing material and cellophane wrappers from God knew what were swept to the floor. Somewhere under this mountain of debris, his cell phone began ringing and he let loose a stream of colorful cursing. In the midst of all this mayhem, there was a knock on the door and the dogs erupted savagely and made a charge for the front office. They hit the door en masse, a snarling tangle of howling hounds with saliva dripping jaws and mad eyes and the startled UPS driver dropped his armful of packages and fled. I could now feel the chaos like canine teeth gnawing at my ankles and I envied him his freedom.

“ENOUGH!” I screeched like a fishwife and slammed my fist onto my desk, “GET THE HELL AWAY FROM THAT DOOR AND CARRY YOUR SORRY, FLEA BITTEN BUTTS OUTSIDE BEFORE I BEAT YOU SENSELESS!” And amazingly enough, perhaps sensing that an invisible line had been crossed, they did. Which left me free to deal with Michael.

“STOP!” I shouted at him, “SIT!”

He looked at me, wild eyed and frenzied, then dropped the fistfuls of trash he was clutching and dropped to his chair. He looked undone and defeated and very angry, exactly the way I was feeling, but someone in this house had to be an adult, I reminded myself. Clearly, it wasn’t to be Michael or the damn dogs. I forced myself to take a breath and chaos relaxed its grip just a fraction. My rule has always been that this madness stops at the door of my office. I can’t change what he is or how he is but I don’t have to be sucked under and drown along with him.

As usual, we got past it and things settled down. Keeping the chaos at bay is becoming a full time job.

An Offer of Grace

 

During the last conversation with my daddy, I was only dimly aware that I was being manipulated. He had fallen into his speaking with his bereaved voice, kind and understanding, a little reverent and a lot empathetic. It was so effective that I very nearly missed hearing the ultimatum.

“Your mother is dying,” he said with a comforting reasonableness, “Nothing else matters. You have to make peace with her. If you can’t bring yourself to see and talk with her, neither your brothers or I will be able to see or talk with you.”

The words were so calm, so measured, so deceptive. I heard them but it took several seconds for me to comprehend that I was being disinherited. He was offering me a way back in, a path to grace and forgiveness. All that was required was for me to accept the terms.

“Nothing else matters,” he repeated ever so gently, “Please say you’ll come and see her before it’s too late.”

I knew two things he didn’t, first, that it was already too late and second that he was wrong. I stumbled through some half assed version of I’m sorry you feel that way and then heard him sigh deeply, just before he hung up. I never spoke with him again.

I never regretted my mother’s death and I didn’t know either one of my brothers well enough to miss them but much as I tried to deny it, the realty of not having my daddy in my life haunted me for years. He had taught me to love satire, crossword puzzles and Dixieland jazz. He spent hours teaching me to ride a bike, helped me to sell my Girl Scout cookies, was almost always there to supplement my allowance and more often than not, stood up for me against my mother, at least in his way. He was handsome but never minded looking silly – I remember in the winter, he slept in a knit woolen cap and heavy socks and when he dressed up in full masonic regalia, somehow managed to retain not just his dignity, but his sense of humor as well. He played piano by ear and despaired of my ever learning to play bridge. He could make one scotch on the rocks last for an entire evening, smoked Lucky Strikes for most of his adult life, helped me with my homework and never missed a parent teacher conference.

He also protected and enabled my mother and grandfather from the consequences of their drinking for decades. He worked far more hours than were necessary so as to avoid coming home. He had a long term affair with the widow of a close friend. He was a peacemaker, a negotiator, an enabler and unless absolutely cornered, would always choose flight over fight, a habit, I’m sorry to say, he sadly passed to me so that even now, just the thought of a raised voice can send me running for the nearest exit. He was neither a perfect man nor a perfect parent and it took me most of my life to realize he had his own demons but at the time of my mother’s death, all I could see was that he abandoned me. He changed the rules of engagement and tried to blackmail me with the threat of permanent estrangement.

When time didn’t heal the wounds and distance didn’t bring any peace of mind, I was forced to look elsewhere for help. My Al Anon group was a source of support and serenity and it helped but the guilt continued to gnaw at me. I turned to books and read everything I could find about addiction, co-dependency, adult children of alcoholics. I learned the language of recovery and how to detach, build self-esteem, look inward for solutions, not people please. I recognized my near obsessive need to control my world and those in it and tried hard to accept the things and the people I couldn’t change. After 10 years of being married to an alcoholic, I even realized that I shouldn’t judge my daddy for being in the exact same situation. He had 3 children and 30 years of marriage on me and was, estrangement or not, doing the best he could. As improbable as it seemed, we shared the same guilt, weaknesses, fears, flaws, struggles and desperation. The knowledge didn’t resolve anything. The time for reconciliation had passed and my mother died in 1991. To my absolute astonishment, I learned that my daddy re-married just two years later. It eased my mind considerably and I was very glad for him. Although their time together was brief but I’m very sure it was right, peaceful, and long overdue. Through my one cousin still speaking to me, I learned that my brothers did not share my opinion and were not kind about it. Neither their resentment nor their cruelty surprised me. Ours was a family of strangers, not given to thinking outside of our own space and our worlds were very small.

It took just over a month of twice weekly sessions with a therapist to clear my mind and make me see that I hadn’t been wrong to choose self preservation over forced compliance.

“After denial,” the doctor would tell me repeatedly, “Guilt is the most powerful force in the world. Don’t feed it.”

Sometimes unlearning the lessons of childhood takes a whole lifetime. Forgiveness takes even longer, if it comes at all. Maybe it’s enough to get to a place of understanding, even if you find yourself alone there.

Bringing Tuesday Home

 

My across the street neighbors have dogs and some peculiar ideas about caring for them. They leave their inside front door open so that their ancient, crippled up, and badly overweight lab, Tuesday, can push his way outside and cruise the neighborhood. At least once or twice a week, I find him wandering down the block, confused, moving slower than molasses, and willing to follow any friendly voice. I keep a leash in my car and he gives me a grateful look as I slip it over his head and lead him home. We walk very slowly, keeping to the grass when possible to save his paws from the intense Louisiana heat, and giving him time to figure out where he is. He’s like a very chunky, very old man who’s lost his way but doesn’t know it. When we get to his house, he mounts the steps carefully and waits while I slip off the leash. I open the storm door and he wanders inside. There’s no sign of life beyond the slow, deliberate clack of his nails on the wood floor. I sometimes call out to see if anyone’s home but I’ve never gotten an answer so I don’t bother anymore.

I’ve talked with his owners who always seem surprised that I go to the trouble of bringing him home but they don’t seem to think it’s a problem. They thank me and shrug off the idea that he could become permanently lost or hit by a car. They appear proud that he’s learned to open the door on his own, don’t seem to be concerned about leaving their house wide open when no one’s at home, and often promise to scold their teenagers who, when they are home, don’t pay any attention to the old dog. I’m not sure they’re even aware of how often he gets out or that someone brings him home.

On this day, he had gotten to the end of the block and actually crossed over to the next. It was a long walk home.

Kitty Stark and The Ginger Cat

 

There were two schools of thought about Kitty Stark: One, that her madness had overtaken her so slowly and so discreetly that no one had noticed for several years and two, that it was a quiet kind of madness, not likely to put anyone in the community at risk.

“Long as she don’t bother us, ain’t no need to bother her none,” as Sparrow put it, “I heard tell it’s called peaceful coexistence.”

“It’s called everybody mindin’ they’s own bidness,” Long John said sourly, “I reckon we could use a little more of it.”

Ruthie and I had just turned 10 the summer Kitty began talking to the ginger cat about what the Moon People had to say. Kitty herself was just shy of her 42nd birthday. She and the ginger cat lived in the attic of the house she’d been born in, midway between Bill Albright’s still and the old cemetery, a stone’s throw from the water’s edge. The house was in a state of mild disrepair but the attic window offered an unobstructed and bright view of the ocean and the evening moonrises were clear and close as day. Kitty and the nameless ginger cat watched them nightly, hearing and seeing impossible things as easily as falling off a log and never once questioning that it might not be real.

One mild summer morning, Nana woke with an itch for blueberry fungy. She gave Ruthie and I each 3 shiny quarters and two plastic pails and sent us up island to pick blueberries at Miz Kitty’s.

“But Nana,” I halfheartedly protested, “Everybody knows Miz Kitty’s crazy. She talks to the moon!”

“No, she don’t,” Nana said and gave me an encouraging pat on the bottom, “Kitty Stark talks to the cat and the cat talks to the moon. They’re both harmless. Now git!”

We got to Miz Kitty’s about noon and found her in a rocking chair on her front porch, shelling peas and listening to a Red Sox game. She’d already set out a pitcher of milk and a plate of peanut butter cookies for us and the ginger cat was innocently napping on the window sill. Every now and again his tail would switch slightly but otherwise he was still as a statue.

“Don’t pay him no mind,” Miz Kitty said with a shrug, “I ‘spect he jist wants you to know he’s listenin’. He listens to most everything but don’t say much ‘cept to me.”

“Folks say he talks to the moon,” Ruthie blurted out with the boldness I so envied, “And that the moon talks back.”

“Do they now,” Miz Kitty said impassively, “What else do folks say?”

I started to speak, thought better of it and would’ve stayed quiet except that Ruthie gave me a sharp elbow jab in the ribs.

“That he kin tell the future,” I said reluctantly, “Like when a boat ain’t comin’ back or a still’s gon’ blow.”

“Or if’n you’re in the family way, whether it’ll be a boy or a girl,” Ruthie added.

At this, Miz Kitty laughed so hard she nearly spilled the bowl of peas. On the window still, the ginger cat opened one eye and gave us a quick, suspicious look then twitched his tail, stretched expansively, and jumped lightly down. He began the delicate process of grooming his paws and whiskers and, as cats do, keeping an eye on his audience while pretending we weren’t there.

“I declare,” Kitty Stark said with a definite smile in her voice, “I reckon if’n one old cat could do all that, he’d be some slick. Now I’m thinkin’, you might get to berry pickin’ or you’ll be late to supper.”

We each dutifully handed over our two quarters and Miz Kitty pocketed them, thanked us and nodded in the direction of the blueberry patch.

“Mind you, keep an eye on the sun,” she called after us, “It’s a ways back to The Point and if you don’t get there by dark, your grandma like to skin you alive.”

It might have been my imagination, but I thought she called once more. I could’ve sworn I heard her say “Leastways, that’s what the cat says.”

Chaos Theory

 

Sometimes you just know.

I don’t need quantum physics to know that the overturned kitchen trash can or the rolls of eviscerated paper towels are the work of the cur dog. He might as well have signed his name.

Similarly, credit for the chewed up house slippers and the desecrated cactus plant goes to the girl pit mix. Their tastes are different but the end result is always the same: destruction. Only the little pit mix, standing watch at the window in case of backyard intruders, is innocent. He’s loud and obnoxious and aggressive, often nippy and the first to get on my last nerve, but he’s never been destructive. Oh, sure, he can find a discarded plastic dog food container with the accuracy of a heat seeking missile, but he’s quite content to chew it and only it to pieces. The girl pit relies on Michael’s absent mindedness and usually finds only those targets of opportunity he leaves in plain sight – shoes and slippers are her favorites with weather stripping and linoleum close seconds – but I have seen evidence of search and destroy missions for pillows or couch stuffing. It’s the cur dog who is the most agile and determined. He is undeterred by gates or closed cabinet doors or high shelves – he has, as best we can tell, learned to climb, jump or otherwise propel himself onto counters and sinks etc to reach his goal. He’s also quite partial to used coffee grounds or filters, we’re not sure which. Michael absolutely swears he recently jumped from a second story window to the concrete front porch at the sight of a squirrel but I’m not convinced. Seems to me he’d have broken a leg or two, at the least, but I perhaps he just bounces better than I imagine. Michael thinks he could’ve cleared the concrete and the iron gate, landed in the shrubs and then jumped the gate to get back on the porch. The dog isn’t talking so we may never know.

I pick up a pair of underwear, the remains of a toothbrush, a roll of duct tape, a half eaten tape measure and what’s left of its packaging, a dry erase marker, several miniature candy wrappers, a sheet of stamps and a handful of what appears to have started life as a kitchen sponge. In the office I stumble across a bagful of plastic shot glasses, chewed and cracked and shattered almost beyond recognition, a cell phone charger cord with the charging end missing,

the pieces of a Bic lighter, and the forlorn remnants of a scented candle, glass holder and all.

The kitchen floor is littered with empty sugar packets, more ragged pieces of sponge, a tattered leash and dog collar, a couple of dishtowels, a small scrub brush and a half dozen or more torn up paper grocery bags.

The evidence strongly suggested a two pronged attack, concerted, focused and certainly highly organized. “My, my, my,” I could hear Tommy Lee Jones saying as he surveys the bus crash scene from The Fugitive, “What a mess.”

The dogs pranced and danced around me and each other as if I’d been gone for years, completely oblivious to the damage and destruction they’d created in just four hours, anxious for attention and food. I shooed them out the back door and down the steps and set about cleaning up. There are times when you just need to embrace the chaos.

Deliver Me

 

The salon is quiet as a tomb and I sit in the chair, trying not to fidget while Anna snips and cuts and hums softly to herself. One reason I like her is that she’s slow and meticulous, another is that after a minute or two of small talk (she asks after my dogs, I ask after her kids) when I first get there, she’s all work. She never feels the need to chatter at or entertain me. I dislike these visits, always feel that something more is required of me rather than just to shut my eyes and let her work but I’ve never known exactly what it is. A trust issue, perhaps. Putting my hair in the care of another after I neglect it for months. I often expect a gentle scolding for waiting so long between appointments but unlike other hairdressers I’ve had, Anna seems to understand and she never raises the issue.

I always make a “first thing in the morning” appointment and I’ve gotten accustomed to being the only client. On this day, however, a second stylist and a second client, both considerably pregnant, arrive. It’s eight in the morning and I’m remarkably unprepared for the conversation that follows. They are two chairs away and I can hear every word and grisly detail about dilation widths and how long it takes, the pros and cons of epidurals, contraction timing, an animated debate about the value of amniocentesis and the C-section vs natural childbirth debate.

Finally there is a graphic discussion of afterbirth and stitches.

“You want to be cut not torn,” Anna says casually, “They can stitch a cut in a straight line but if you’re torn, it’s ragged.”

Both pregnant women enthusiastically agree. As best I can tell, the number of stitches is a badge of honor. It takes me a moment or two to realize that somewhere between natural childbirth and stitches, I began to feel lightheaded and a little shivery. A voice in my head kept repeating Dear God, please, no more, but there’s no mercy and no escape. Anna doesn’t appear to notice my discomfort and the two pregnant women chatter on. Fortunately, their conversation turns to child raising rather than birthing and then to the husband’s role in the process, all the way from conception to the delivery room.

“Imagine,” one cackles, “If men got pregnant!”

“Tell me about it!” the other replies and laughs.

“All done!” Anna announces with a final fluff of my bangs.

You have no idea, I think to myself and run for the exit.