Mom’s Last Christmas
Cathy De Wolf
(Until Food or Death do us part) - or a little of both.
There is no humor in seeing your Mother dying of cancer. The only things you remember are those few last moments, like her final Christmas, trying to bring her the finest meal that you can produce. No grand parting scenes like we’ve seen in movies: as Heathcliff holds Cathy for a final moment begging her not to die, as Clint Eastwood holds a young confederate soldier in his arms and gives him a final smoke from his cigarillo, as Rutger Hauer saves Harrison Ford’s life at the end of “Blade Runner” and nails his robotic hand open so he can catch the Blade Runners fall, releasing a dove for mankind. My final attempt was nowhere near as dramatic and nearly catastrophic.
Mom was endlessly proud that I was a “gourmet” cook. She taught me well throughout a frugal youth with Duck L’Orange, Prime Rib, Spaghetti, Cheese soufflés, pineapple upside-down cakes and her incredible Mocha Torte. For the most part we had frightful frozen lima beans, peas, broccoli, Spam, Roast Beef Hash from a can and Grilled (American wrapped sliced cheese) sandwiches, canned soup and 2 to 3 cookies for dessert. But those special occasions were amazing. She taught me how to cook a turkey but to this day turkey is my nemesis.
On that Christmas day in particular, many of her dearest friends were there to celebrate what would be, as they knew, her last Christmas. She lived in a small town in Illinois. At that time I lived in Oregon with my husband and she practically ordered me to be there and make one of my superb dinners for her and her family of friends. Her friendships had evolved through her fine nature photography – a passion that grew later in life. Always a nature lover, she decided to learn about photography and it became her greatest love and finest gift. A teacher by nature, an artist, inquisitive, intelligent and diligent, she became one of the best nature photographers in the Illinois/Wisconsin area. Winning many awards, she stopped competing so that others could win. She helped start a nature only photographic club , and taught innumerable others with patience. However, her students did not leave without a few scars as Mom was honest…really, really honest.
So, my husband Ed and I arrived. Ed is a Vietnam War Vet. He is a Marine. He will tell you, once a Marine, always a Marine: Sempre Fi. On the other hand I’m a former Rock n’ roll guitarist, traveler and misguided woman in so many ways. I’m a good cook though, until that Christmas. When we arrived we were met by a woman, my Mom, whose pain and illness clearly showed. Translucent skin, tiny, fragile as if she could be walking on eggshells and only she would break. No tears from us. We were there to make her Christmas perfect. Just the word “perfect” should never be uttered. Unless disaster is what you expect.
Small towns have many charms, especially for one who loves nature. However, they don’t have big grocery stores always. But wait, this one did! But my husband and I couldn’t find it until after the Dinner from … . After finding that my Mom had dried spices from 15 years ago and not much else except for Lean Cuisines, we set out with our menu on our mind. I call my husband, affectionately my souz chef because I hate chopping (especially onions). So he gets the dirty work. Off we went to pick up fresh herbs, or new dried herbs, brie cheese or any other kind of cheese that would go with fresh bread, water crackers, any kind of crackers but Saltines. We were met by a sweet older woman who owned this small market and smiled constantly while I asked her impossible questions. “Do you have Brie Cheese,” I asked hopefully, knowing we were on the outskirts of every big city one could image. “Brie Cheese?” she answered quizzically, “what is that?” While I attempted to ask for every other cheese my little Food Network brain could think of, she cheerfully pointed out their rolled pasteurized cheddar cheese and walnut roll as the only available cheese, except for American. Fresh spices, there were none. New spices were there, but the cost was so high that I could only get a small plastic container of Poultry Seasoning. Not despairing, since my Mom used it unsparingly on her turkey and dressing, I figured it would more than suffice.
Mom wanted fresh cranberries. There were none to be found. Mom wanted a Pumpkin Pie. I’m no baker and there were two frozen ones. I wanted some nice wine. Let’s just say it was O.K. and I got plenty of it. Fresh vegetables turned into frozen peas, the stuffing turned into boxed, but the potatoes and butter were real. The celery and onions would do.
As we returned with our groceries, Mom looked expectantly into our treasures. No fresh brussel sprouts with chestnuts, but she did love peas. Insisting that cranberries and other fresh herbs and vegetables could be found at the new Ralph’s in town we cruised for half an hour and never found it. Later, too late, we discovered we were idiots. It was hidden behind a couple of other stores. We tried, but trial and error doesn’t always work out in the allotted time
The time for guest arrivals arrives at this least convenient moment. As in timing a turkey dinner with a brand new oven hell bent on destroying your bird and the frozen carcass it arrived in. 450 degrees and then 350 for 4 hours – well, my teeter-totter! The oven stopped working when I turned it down after 30 minutes to 350. Always oblivious to my nemesis, I carried on with other tasks with my husband. Mom wanted old-fashioned mashed potatoes with her very old mixer and we complied. Of course, skin on the potatoes was not in fashion and perhaps a health hazard. So peel we did as we heard peals of laughter as the guest came in and ate the cheese ball and wine with good cheer. Thank God for good cheer and gentle mid-western hearts. They loved my Mother and it showed.
The oven hated me or the turkey (perhaps both) and it showed. Only the top was cooked while the rest was frozen completely through. Mom was hungry and tired. Others were getting a little too wine-cheerful and so I carved off the cooked minimal portion. Ed worked on the crazy with the bits of frozen, greasy water beneath the turkey. Usually excellent at gravy, this turned to lumps. A hungry bunch, yet so happy to keep company with my Mom, Ed and I did our best. Our best seemed good enough for these fine nature photographers who had an admiration that went farther than their taste buds. Has my “reputation” was ruined as a fine chef, I watched as people devoured bits of turkey, curdled gravy, gluey potatoes and whatever frozen peas we managed. Oh and the canned Cranberry Sauce with the Cranberry Jelly was not a hit. We did have pie!
Nevertheless, the party continued in good cheer. Sadly, Mom grew weaker. She asked me, in the kitchen, to kindly tell her friends to leave. They were reminiscing, loving Mom, unwilling to let her go. Her body was unable to sustain her throughout their good intentions. I tried in my own etiquette-proven way. Still, it did not work. Perhaps the wine? I went to my Marine husband and asked them to nicely tell them to go home. Mom was suffering. He did so with a way only a war veteran can. He didn’t order anyone out, but had an authority in his voice that comes with being a Marine. They left with smiles and understanding. I put Mom to bed. The next day she hugged me and said “Thank you and I love you.” Then she moved to my husband. She gave him the tightest hug of all and whispered, “I’m so glad you married my daughter.” That meant everything to him.
My Mom never hugged us. It was just in the day. Parents weren’t huggers. No problems at all. They showed us in their way. Two days later we left. One month later, my twin was with her as she was dying.
My twin called and took care of our Mom as she was passing away (my twin carried the burden in so many ways) still I was able to say “I love you and goodbye.” I don’t know if Mom heard me, but she took care of her death as she took care of her life: with strength, intelligence and a gift to so many.
However, her last Christmas dinner truly tasted horrible but what a wonder: good friends and a chance to say farewell.
A Ghost Story
Florence, Italy—October, 192x.
I lost my wife and parents to influenza during the rampage
of that disease after the end of the Great War. Since my wife and I had no
children, and because my parents left me well-situated, at the age of 42, I no longer
continued in my profession. It was then that I decided to travel to the
continent. I felt extreme melancholy at home, thus I set out for the Old World,
and eventually, to Florence. In this seat of the Italian Renaissance, my
long-time home now, these strange events first took place.
I met an expatriate from the States that day outside the Palazzo
del Bargello. He had lived in Florence off-and-on for ten years. When I told
him where I stayed, he said, “Ah, the murder house...”
https://archive.org/details/haunted_man_rg_librivox
A holiday story by Dickens read by Ruth Golding. Marvelous
The text is here. Enjoy.
https://books.google.com/books?id=riMEAAAAQAAJ&printsec=frontcover&dq=a+haunted+man+dickens&hl=en&sa=X&ei=IumRVPywDYKlyATQrYLIBA&ved=0CB8Q6AEwAA#v=onepage&q=a%20haunted%20man%20dickens&f=false
-------------------------------------------------------
----------------
SHATTERED SANTA
FC
Kids—boys and girls wait for Santa. Building up the expectations. Waiting, waiting... What wonders? A bike, a doll, a skateboard, a Barbie Dream House. Come, Santa come. Let them count the days. Be good. Better not cry. Better not pout.
Are the kids single-parent? Ignored? Poor?
Santa's coming... The snow is on the roof. The ice coats the windows. Santa's coming. There's snowballs, and sliding, and school vacation. The expectations grow. Wonder of wonders underneath the tree. If there is a tree.
My mother always wanted a tree that glimmered with flocking. The purest white or her dream, flocked pink. Ah, she was more a child than I. And when I had a step-father, or my mother had a boyfriend in the house, times were more bountiful. This I never knew. We ate okay, always—while I lived at home. Though we never had that pink tree.
A bike, a skateboard. Santa's coming. No snow in Southern California. No snow in Las Vegas. Flocked snow on the trees. How did Santa come when we had no chimneys? Through the windows of course. Leave the cookies and milk on the table. Maybe we can catch him in the act.
One Christmas, Mom was single. She gave me the talk. (Santa's coming.) “You know, Christmas this year might not be so hot. Parents have to help him out with money at Christmas time, and I don't have so much this year.”
Ah, the ornament hits the ground. Shatters under the tree. Tiny tree sitting on a coffee table. The cat bats another, and it swings. No flocking. No pink. No bike. Santa's coming.
But, no matter. Rich or poor. What did it really mean? To kids, left wondering why Santa failed them or parents failed them, what does it mean? No bike, skateboard, doll or Barbie Dream House. Life is full of disappointments. Santa's coming. Pink trees and holidays. Parents drinking and arguments. Not enough food. The expectations. The ornaments broken on the ground.
I will not stand, holier than thou, with a rant about the real meaning of Christmas. But let us stand upon more solid ground at this time of year. Santa never brings comfort, love, or succor. Hug your children, your grandchildren, and feed their hearts.
Santa's coming.
-------------
I wrote this years ago when I was about fourteen and it's quite Halloweeny
Mom’s Last Christmas
pon
the floor, and move around,
SHATTERED SANTA
FC
Kids—boys and girls wait for Santa. Building up the expectations. Waiting, waiting... What wonders? A bike, a doll, a skateboard, a Barbie Dream House. Come, Santa come. Let them count the days. Be good. Better not cry. Better not pout.
Are the kids single-parent? Ignored? Poor?
Santa's coming... The snow is on the roof. The ice coats the windows. Santa's coming. There's snowballs, and sliding, and school vacation. The expectations grow. Wonder of wonders underneath the tree. If there is a tree.
My mother always wanted a tree that glimmered with flocking. The purest white or her dream, flocked pink. Ah, she was more a child than I. And when I had a step-father, or my mother had a boyfriend in the house, times were more bountiful. This I never knew. We ate okay, always—while I lived at home. Though we never had that pink tree.
A bike, a skateboard. Santa's coming. No snow in Southern California. No snow in Las Vegas. Flocked snow on the trees. How did Santa come when we had no chimneys? Through the windows of course. Leave the cookies and milk on the table. Maybe we can catch him in the act.
One Christmas, Mom was single. She gave me the talk. (Santa's coming.) “You know, Christmas this year might not be so hot. Parents have to help him out with money at Christmas time, and I don't have so much this year.”
Ah, the ornament hits the ground. Shatters under the tree. Tiny tree sitting on a coffee table. The cat bats another, and it swings. No flocking. No pink. No bike. Santa's coming.
But, no matter. Rich or poor. What did it really mean? To kids, left wondering why Santa failed them or parents failed them, what does it mean? No bike, skateboard, doll or Barbie Dream House. Life is full of disappointments. Santa's coming. Pink trees and holidays. Parents drinking and arguments. Not enough food. The expectations. The ornaments broken on the ground.
I will not stand, holier than thou, with a rant about the real meaning of Christmas. But let us stand upon more solid ground at this time of year. Santa never brings comfort, love, or succor. Hug your children, your grandchildren, and feed their hearts.
Santa's coming.
-------------
I wrote this years ago when I was about fourteen and it's quite Halloweeny
Melancholy Minstrel
of the Night
Emily Grenfell
 |
| Drawing by Emily Grenfell |
One dark night of a silver moon,
In
a village, in a small dark room,
There lived a boy with jet
black hair,
Sensitive ears, and a jet black stare.
Although
he looked not nine years old,
He’d never seen the day –
I’m told,
For when the moon rose up its’ head,
The
little boy rose from his bed.
The sun, he did not care
to see,
With other children he could not be,
He
never knew a mother’s hand,
A father’s love, he could
not stand,
Day by day he spent his life,
Tucked up
warm and out of sight.
Who knew by night a boy roamed
free,
Through the town till hours wee?
Out of
the house he’d make his way,
Through the streets and
alleyways,
Crouching under window frames,
List’ning
till the break of day.
Hunger was in his stomach
not,
Longing for that something hot.
Instead the
sounds of eating made,
The emptiness inside him fade.
And
when hunger was satisfied,
He would his entertainment
find,
The streets at night are dark ‘tis said,
And
many a man from them has fled.
But this boy, who needs not
food,
Finds them appeasing to his mood.
To the
graveyard, moonlit he goes,
And wakes the churches horrid
foes.
The steeple in the darkness towers,
The
cross it in the night time glowers,
Beneath it rising, one
two three,
Come spectres, ghouls - and minstrelsy
As
if from the ground is rising,
It’s haunted notes the host
beguiling.
The dance is started fiendishly,
The
dark boy leads the company.
And when the theme is at
its’ height,
The ‘goyles from their plinths alight
U
Mom’s Last Christmas
Cathy De Wolf
(Until Food or Death do us part) - or a little of both.
There is no humor in seeing your Mother dying of cancer. The only things you remember are those few last moments, like her final Christmas, trying to bring her the finest meal that you can produce. No grand parting scenes like we’ve seen in movies: as Heathcliff holds Cathy for a final moment begging her not to die, as Clint Eastwood holds a young confederate soldier in his arms and gives him a final smoke from his cigarillo, as Rutger Hauer saves Harrison Ford’s life at the end of “Blade Runner” and nails his robotic hand open so he can catch the Blade Runners fall, releasing a dove for mankind. My final attempt was nowhere near as dramatic and nearly catastrophic.
Mom was endlessly proud that I was a “gourmet” cook. She taught me well throughout a frugal youth with Duck L’Orange, Prime Rib, Spaghetti, Cheese soufflés, pineapple upside-down cakes and her incredible Mocha Torte. For the most part we had frightful frozen lima beans, peas, broccoli, Spam, Roast Beef Hash from a can and Grilled (American wrapped sliced cheese) sandwiches, canned soup and 2 to 3 cookies for dessert. But those special occasions were amazing. She taught me how to cook a turkey but to this day turkey is my nemesis.
On that Christmas day in particular, many of her dearest friends were there to celebrate what would be, as they knew, her last Christmas. She lived in a small town in Illinois. At that time I lived in Oregon with my husband and she practically ordered me to be there and make one of my superb dinners for her and her family of friends. Her friendships had evolved through her fine nature photography – a passion that grew later in life. Always a nature lover, she decided to learn about photography and it became her greatest love and finest gift. A teacher by nature, an artist, inquisitive, intelligent and diligent, she became one of the best nature photographers in the Illinois/Wisconsin area. Winning many awards, she stopped competing so that others could win. She helped start a nature only photographic club , and taught innumerable others with patience. However, her students did not leave without a few scars as Mom was honest…really, really honest.
So, my husband Ed and I arrived. Ed is a Vietnam War Vet. He is a Marine. He will tell you, once a Marine, always a Marine: Sempre Fi. On the other hand I’m a former Rock n’ roll guitarist, traveler and misguided woman in so many ways. I’m a good cook though, until that Christmas. When we arrived we were met by a woman, my Mom, whose pain and illness clearly showed. Translucent skin, tiny, fragile as if she could be walking on eggshells and only she would break. No tears from us. We were there to make her Christmas perfect. Just the word “perfect” should never be uttered. Unless disaster is what you expect.
Small towns have many charms, especially for one who loves nature. However, they don’t have big grocery stores always. But wait, this one did! But my husband and I couldn’t find it until after the Dinner from … . After finding that my Mom had dried spices from 15 years ago and not much else except for Lean Cuisines, we set out with our menu on our mind. I call my husband, affectionately my souz chef because I hate chopping (especially onions). So he gets the dirty work. Off we went to pick up fresh herbs, or new dried herbs, brie cheese or any other kind of cheese that would go with fresh bread, water crackers, any kind of crackers but Saltines. We were met by a sweet older woman who owned this small market and smiled constantly while I asked her impossible questions. “Do you have Brie Cheese,” I asked hopefully, knowing we were on the outskirts of every big city one could image. “Brie Cheese?” she answered quizzically, “what is that?” While I attempted to ask for every other cheese my little Food Network brain could think of, she cheerfully pointed out their rolled pasteurized cheddar cheese and walnut roll as the only available cheese, except for American. Fresh spices, there were none. New spices were there, but the cost was so high that I could only get a small plastic container of Poultry Seasoning. Not despairing, since my Mom used it unsparingly on her turkey and dressing, I figured it would more than suffice.
Mom wanted fresh cranberries. There were none to be found. Mom wanted a Pumpkin Pie. I’m no baker and there were two frozen ones. I wanted some nice wine. Let’s just say it was O.K. and I got plenty of it. Fresh vegetables turned into frozen peas, the stuffing turned into boxed, but the potatoes and butter were real. The celery and onions would do.
As we returned with our groceries, Mom looked expectantly into our treasures. No fresh brussel sprouts with chestnuts, but she did love peas. Insisting that cranberries and other fresh herbs and vegetables could be found at the new Ralph’s in town we cruised for half an hour and never found it. Later, too late, we discovered we were idiots. It was hidden behind a couple of other stores. We tried, but trial and error doesn’t always work out in the allotted time
The time for guest arrivals arrives at this least convenient moment. As in timing a turkey dinner with a brand new oven hell bent on destroying your bird and the frozen carcass it arrived in. 450 degrees and then 350 for 4 hours – well, my teeter-totter! The oven stopped working when I turned it down after 30 minutes to 350. Always oblivious to my nemesis, I carried on with other tasks with my husband. Mom wanted old-fashioned mashed potatoes with her very old mixer and we complied. Of course, skin on the potatoes was not in fashion and perhaps a health hazard. So peel we did as we heard peals of laughter as the guest came in and ate the cheese ball and wine with good cheer. Thank God for good cheer and gentle mid-western hearts. They loved my Mother and it showed.
The oven hated me or the turkey (perhaps both) and it showed. Only the top was cooked while the rest was frozen completely through. Mom was hungry and tired. Others were getting a little too wine-cheerful and so I carved off the cooked minimal portion. Ed worked on the crazy with the bits of frozen, greasy water beneath the turkey. Usually excellent at gravy, this turned to lumps. A hungry bunch, yet so happy to keep company with my Mom, Ed and I did our best. Our best seemed good enough for these fine nature photographers who had an admiration that went farther than their taste buds. Has my “reputation” was ruined as a fine chef, I watched as people devoured bits of turkey, curdled gravy, gluey potatoes and whatever frozen peas we managed. Oh and the canned Cranberry Sauce with the Cranberry Jelly was not a hit. We did have pie!
Nevertheless, the party continued in good cheer. Sadly, Mom grew weaker. She asked me, in the kitchen, to kindly tell her friends to leave. They were reminiscing, loving Mom, unwilling to let her go. Her body was unable to sustain her throughout their good intentions. I tried in my own etiquette-proven way. Still, it did not work. Perhaps the wine? I went to my Marine husband and asked them to nicely tell them to go home. Mom was suffering. He did so with a way only a war veteran can. He didn’t order anyone out, but had an authority in his voice that comes with being a Marine. They left with smiles and understanding. I put Mom to bed. The next day she hugged me and said “Thank you and I love you.” Then she moved to my husband. She gave him the tightest hug of all and whispered, “I’m so glad you married my daughter.” That meant everything to him.
My Mom never hugged us. It was just in the day. Parents weren’t huggers. No problems at all. They showed us in their way. Two days later we left. One month later, my twin was with her as she was dying.
My twin called and took care of our Mom as she was passing away (my twin carried the burden in so many ways) still I was able to say “I love you and goodbye.” I don’t know if Mom heard me, but she took care of her death as she took care of her life: with strength, intelligence and a gift to so many.
However, her last Christmas dinner truly tasted horrible but what a wonder: good friends and a chance to say farewell.
pon
the floor, and move around,
Over the damp and trodden
ground.
The church bell sounds the witching hour,
The
music dead, the creatures cower,
The boy upon a tombstone
stood,
Points to the creatures – where he would.
They
heed his sign, and leap away,
Through the streets and
alleyways,
Their ghoulish forms strange shadows make,
In
their beds, small children wake,
No child over eight years
old,
Is bothered by the sudden cold,
That visit
from a spectre brings,
Or dread t’which ghouls are said to
cling.
The dark boy, in his churchyard stands,
On
the tombstone raised up his hands,
The time is two before
the hour,
The creatures summoned by his power.
They
to their beds beneath the ground,
Are returned without a
sound.
The goyles to their plinths return.
-------------------------------
Upon a Mountaintop in Greece
FC 10/19/13
Orpheus
singer and poet beyond all others
offspring of Calliope
and perhaps the son of a god
began his climb
to the temple of Dionysus
though he worshiped none but the Sun
As he ascended
some maidens joined him
forming a procession
some walked behind him
and some led
The maidens wore gossamer robes
that sometimes shimmered in the morning light
and sometimes the light shone through
Some of the women
carried cages full of doves
or birds of song
one led a lamb
another a fawn
and one pulled geese behind
another led some ducks
and even a swan
came along
golden baskets laden
with all manners of fruit
and vessels full of wine
the maidens carried
Thus the poet
passed the hours of his climb
in conversation with his fair companions
One, perhaps the most lovely of them all
asked him
“Are you the one called Orpheus?
Who sings and speaks such sweet words
and harps so well
that none can ignore
your godlike spell?”
Without a hesitation
he replied,
“I have no equal
in music nor in verse.
I have beguiled all souls
of Heaven, Hell, and Earth.”
So gazing at the maidens
he walked up the mountainside
No, he was not blind
though he took no comfort in women
since his bride, Eurydice succumbed
victim of the satyr
and the serpents
She, taken down to the underworld
and left behind
But atop the mountain
near dusk
Orpheus and the maidens
at the temple of Dionysus
sat in a meadow
kissed by all manner of spring flowers
The poet sang
and spoke words of beauty
beyond what all others might speak
The maidens gathered round him
listening, it seemed
as he sang
recited
and stroked his harp
Though the women, feigned delight
in their eyes
no worship could be found
for Orpheus
or his arts
Then the full moon rose
blood red in the sky
Orpheus sang and sang
and drank wine
more and more
as the fires roared
The maidens undulated
to some unheard sound it seemed
the moonlight shining through their robes
the colors gem-like
green, red, blue, and silver
reflected off the cloth
As the night wore on and on
Orpheus hunger began to grow
as if by magic
the maidens seemed to know his mind
Within his view
one reached inside the cage of doves
then, while staring in the poet's eyes
she snapped the neck of the bird
so that he heard the “crack”
then she yanked the feathers off
and with the sharpest knife
gutted the creature
and when she had done
licked her fingers
Three doves upon a spit
were prepared for him
And he asked
the most beautiful maiden
who kept near him
all through the day
and the night
if she were not hungry
for three doves
fed barely one that hungered such as he
and certainly not two
But she shook her head
and said, “These are made especially for you.
I have no love for the flesh
of doves
touched by such fiery flames.”
So, Orpheus ate
while the women waited upon him
filling his cup with wine
every time its contents vanished
Then sated
again, he sang and sang
spoke his poems
harped
Again the women danced
again, the music not his
but as if they moved
to some rhythm of the moon
until, too drunk to sing or stroke
another note
he stopped
With that
his most beautiful companion
straddled him
and took his hands in hers
her eyes promised much
as did her thighs
Though Orpheus thought
to keep his love for his wife pure
What harm could a kiss or two do
On such a night as this?
The mist had begun to settle on the mountaintop
and would not such contact warm him?
The beauty leaned down
her mouth swollen with desire
her lips red
and wet
closer and closer she leaned into him
but instead of easing toward his lips
she found his neck
and ripped the thin skin there
with the sharpest teeth
Orpheus tried to escape
but the women then swarmed over him
He tried to scream
but one woman bit his lips
and silenced him
They pulled and pulled at his limbs
as if he were one of the doves
and no matter how he struggled
he could not move
from their clutches
Then, in the moonlight
with his eyes
grown huge with fright
Orpheus saw
one of the maidens had a knife
she carved away at him
he felt his arm give
and pull away
and another arm
and a leg, and another
all this he saw
until his eyes
were filmed with blood
Then, he breathed his last
as a maiden
carved away his head
The maidens spent some days
upon the mountaintop
They sent the head of Orpheus
downstream
floating
where two women found it
first imagining it a dream
For some days
all the voices of nature
unheard
for the wailing of the mortals
for the greatest of the bards.
---------------------------
Dogs at the Gate
Frank Criscenti
I am not a man who is easily misled. Never have I believed in creatures of the night, nor specters, nor ghoulies, nor goblins. As a God-fearing man, even if I were a sort who believed in the preternatural, I trust in the Lord to protect me.
Now, I have walked the road leading from The Golden Friars public house to my own home a thousand times. The trip is little more than a mile. It leads past no place of notoriety. No sites of ancient scaffolding line the road. There is neither church yard nor graves. Whether I have had my fill of ale, or none; whether darkness or twilight, I had never so much as stumbled upon that road.
That is, until Bindon Babel returned.
Bindon was the eldest child of Silas Babel, a villain already old when I was born. Silas married his young second cousin, and she was more beast of burden than mate. Those who remembered him better than I, said he lost his wife from fever soon after the birth of the last child. Many felt Silas' mistreatment led to his poor wife's death. The elder Babel had two sons and a daughter. His daughter, who had taken her mother's place as workhorse, died of consumption at 15; and some six months after, the youngest son died when a tree he'd attempted to fell, fell upon him--or so Silas swore.
Silas Babel lived on a rocky plot of land with an unkempt orchard surrounding it. This land joined the road I spoke of earlier by way of a broken gate. The Babel home was little more than a hovel. Here Silas drank and rarely ventured outside. Villagers called him Godless. They said he'd never darkened the door of a church except when he enslaved his wife.
The son Bindon left to travel and find fortune for the sake of his family. When his sister and brother died, the surviving brother attended neither funeral. Some 15 years later, Silas Babel also died. If not for a black dog howling outside the door, Silas might not have been found for weeks. As it was, in death, the pale, wrinkled Silas looked little changed from his living self. Again, the son failed to return for services. In all the years of his absence, neither sister, brother, father, nor anyone from the village heard from or about Bindon Babel.
Then, some dozen years after the death of his father, the remaining Babel from the village, returned.
Rumors at the Golden Friars spread for weeks. Some said Bindon had been a mercenary on the continent, and amassed a small fortune in loot. Others swore he'd been aboard a coastal raider prowling the waters of West Africa. A third rumor put Bindon in America at the head of a gang of thieves and murderers. No one, frequenters of the public house, or the wags who passed tales at the back fence, figured Bindon had acquired his money by legal means. But make no mistake, it seemed as if this Babel at least had a surplus of money.
This money, ill-gotten or no, Bindon Babel hurriedly spent. First he married. Like his father, he found a girl much younger than himself. And, like his father, he mistreated the poor thing. Then, he gambled on cards and the races. He drank too much. He travelled with men with shady pasts. In a matter of months, he gambled, misplaced, or invested without return most all his funds. Soon, his wife, misused always, caught a chill and died. Bindon Babel disappeared into the same hovel as his father, broken and mad.
Then, I witnessed the odd events that began along the road from Golden Friars. First, every night for some weeks, I saw a small black dog I'd never seen before at the gate to Babel's land. The dog sat without seeming to notice me as I passed. Then, one twilight, Bindon, weaving, held onto the gate, staring out at the road. Perhaps I wanted talk for the public house, or perhaps I felt neighborly, even with a man such as this, so I greeted Babel.
"Good evening, sir," I said. "Where is your dog this evening?"
"I have no dog," he said, "and this evening has nothing to recommend it."
Taken aback, I bid the man farewell.
The very next night, a black dog stood at Babel's gate. It seemed odd, but the dog had grown considerably, as if it had shot up in stature in just a day. Also, while it again seemed to take little notice of me, something in its demeanor struck me as more aggressive.
A week later after this second sighting of the dog, Bindon again appeared at his gate. He stood some way out into the road, looking in one direction then the other. This time he addressed me.
"Have you seen anything strange around here?" he asked.
"There is a stray or perhaps two stray black dogs who sit at your gate in the evenings. This is all I can report."
Bindon Babel cursed then, and without another word, dashed through the gate.
The next evening, yet a larger black dog, very similar to the first two--so similar that they must have come from the same family--appeared at the gate. This animal's fur stood up along the top of his spine and neck. Though it took little notice of me, I put as much distance as the road allowed between it and me.
As I walked along the road toward my house, behind me I heard the panting of a dog. Afraid, I turned, but saw nothing. I looked about, to each side of the road but saw nothing. I retraced my steps, and found no dog. Naturally, I thought of the black dogs from Babel's, but I saw nothing. Yet, when I resumed my way home, again I heard the panting of a dog following me. Again I stopped. The panting stopped, but I saw nothing. I started home again, and the panting started again. I ran then, alarmed.
The very next day Bindon again stood by his gate, in obvious distress. He asked me if I had seen anything odd that night. I told him a family of strays must have adopted his land as home and that one had followed me last night. In truth, I thought these animals must be Babel's.
"I am worried I may be mauled along the road some evening," I said. "Someone should get the sheriff to remove these brutes."
I thought Babel might admit that this family of animals belonged to him, and that he'd curse me for my comment. Instead, he agreed with me.
"Yes. The sheriff is a good idea. These devils roam my property late at night. I can't sleep. They scratch at my door. They whine. Sometimes I hear them growling near the windows. Fetch the sheriff. They're devils." He then spit out another string of profanities.
The next evening, as I approached Babel's gate with trepidation, another even larger dog stood. It took no notice of me, but I dashed past it, wishing I had a club for protection. Again, I heard an invisible dog of some great size panting behind me all the way home. When I mentioned this to my wife, she suggested that the dog probably followed me behind a hedge and that in the dusk, I would not necessarily have seen him.
"But I never saw him hedge or not, yet I heard him still."
My wife shrugged, but seemed unconcerned.
The next evening, and it was early evening this time, on my way from the Golden Friars, Babel sat in the dirt in the road, in front of his gate, crying.
"I'm not a bad man," he said. "My poor mother. My poor wife. I should have come home. Brother, sister. I should have come home. There was enough for all. Did you know them?"
"I had seen your wife several times," I said.
"Poor girl. She deserved better. She never did no wrong. Not to a living soul. It's all my fault. I deserve it. I surely deserve it. They'll never let me rest." With that, he rose, and trudged through his gate.
The next day, an even larger black dog stood at the gate. This time the animal eyed me every step. It seemed ready to pounce on me, and seemed to be guarding the entrance to Babel's property. I sprinted past the gate. All the way home, I ran. Behind me, unseen, some great hound chased me, panting and growling.
It took nearly a week for me to recover from my fright. The next time I went to the Golden Friars, I asked a few of the lads to accompany me home. A couple of ales each at my expense gained me this gang. We all carried sticks. All the way to Babel's the younger men bragged what they would do to any dog that dared to molest me or them. Then, at Babel's gate, five black dogs of various size stood near the road.
At the sight of us, the dogs began to howl. They crowded through the gate then, still howling, and somehow, they disappeared. The bunch of us heard nothing from them. None of us had been to Babel's since he'd returned. As soon as we came within sight of the dilapidated house, we noticed the door standing open, and the windows broken through.
"Bindon!" we cried. "Babel. Bindon Babel!"
No answer came from the house. As a group, we decided to enter. Perhaps the dogs were inside the house.
Inside, we found no dogs. We did find Bindon Babel on the floor. It looked as if he'd been attacked by wolves. His clothes were shredded. His entire body was covered with blood and in some places one could see the bites. Upon a table sat a sheet of paper. "The dogs are walking on two legs," it read.
FC 10/19/13
Orpheus
singer and poet beyond all others
offspring of Calliope
and perhaps the son of a god
began his climb
to the temple of Dionysus
though he worshiped none but the Sun
As he ascended
some maidens joined him
forming a procession
some walked behind him
and some led
The maidens wore gossamer robes
that sometimes shimmered in the morning light
and sometimes the light shone through
Some of the women
carried cages full of doves
or birds of song
one led a lamb
another a fawn
and one pulled geese behind
another led some ducks
and even a swan
came along
golden baskets laden
with all manners of fruit
and vessels full of wine
the maidens carried
Thus the poet
passed the hours of his climb
in conversation with his fair companions
One, perhaps the most lovely of them all
asked him
“Are you the one called Orpheus?
Who sings and speaks such sweet words
and harps so well
that none can ignore
your godlike spell?”
Without a hesitation
he replied,
“I have no equal
in music nor in verse.
I have beguiled all souls
of Heaven, Hell, and Earth.”
So gazing at the maidens
he walked up the mountainside
No, he was not blind
though he took no comfort in women
since his bride, Eurydice succumbed
victim of the satyr
and the serpents
She, taken down to the underworld
and left behind
But atop the mountain
near dusk
Orpheus and the maidens
at the temple of Dionysus
sat in a meadow
kissed by all manner of spring flowers
The poet sang
and spoke words of beauty
beyond what all others might speak
The maidens gathered round him
listening, it seemed
as he sang
recited
and stroked his harp
Though the women, feigned delight
in their eyes
no worship could be found
for Orpheus
or his arts
Then the full moon rose
blood red in the sky
Orpheus sang and sang
and drank wine
more and more
as the fires roared
The maidens undulated
to some unheard sound it seemed
the moonlight shining through their robes
the colors gem-like
green, red, blue, and silver
reflected off the cloth
As the night wore on and on
Orpheus hunger began to grow
as if by magic
the maidens seemed to know his mind
Within his view
one reached inside the cage of doves
then, while staring in the poet's eyes
she snapped the neck of the bird
so that he heard the “crack”
then she yanked the feathers off
and with the sharpest knife
gutted the creature
and when she had done
licked her fingers
Three doves upon a spit
were prepared for him
And he asked
the most beautiful maiden
who kept near him
all through the day
and the night
if she were not hungry
for three doves
fed barely one that hungered such as he
and certainly not two
But she shook her head
and said, “These are made especially for you.
I have no love for the flesh
of doves
touched by such fiery flames.”
So, Orpheus ate
while the women waited upon him
filling his cup with wine
every time its contents vanished
Then sated
again, he sang and sang
spoke his poems
harped
Again the women danced
again, the music not his
but as if they moved
to some rhythm of the moon
until, too drunk to sing or stroke
another note
he stopped
With that
his most beautiful companion
straddled him
and took his hands in hers
her eyes promised much
as did her thighs
Though Orpheus thought
to keep his love for his wife pure
What harm could a kiss or two do
On such a night as this?
The mist had begun to settle on the mountaintop
and would not such contact warm him?
The beauty leaned down
her mouth swollen with desire
her lips red
and wet
closer and closer she leaned into him
but instead of easing toward his lips
she found his neck
and ripped the thin skin there
with the sharpest teeth
Orpheus tried to escape
but the women then swarmed over him
He tried to scream
but one woman bit his lips
and silenced him
They pulled and pulled at his limbs
as if he were one of the doves
and no matter how he struggled
he could not move
from their clutches
Then, in the moonlight
with his eyes
grown huge with fright
Orpheus saw
one of the maidens had a knife
she carved away at him
he felt his arm give
and pull away
and another arm
and a leg, and another
all this he saw
until his eyes
were filmed with blood
Then, he breathed his last
as a maiden
carved away his head
The maidens spent some days
upon the mountaintop
They sent the head of Orpheus
downstream
floating
where two women found it
first imagining it a dream
For some days
all the voices of nature
unheard
for the wailing of the mortals
for the greatest of the bards.
---------------------------
Dogs at the Gate
Frank Criscenti
I am not a man who is easily misled. Never have I believed in creatures of the night, nor specters, nor ghoulies, nor goblins. As a God-fearing man, even if I were a sort who believed in the preternatural, I trust in the Lord to protect me.
Now, I have walked the road leading from The Golden Friars public house to my own home a thousand times. The trip is little more than a mile. It leads past no place of notoriety. No sites of ancient scaffolding line the road. There is neither church yard nor graves. Whether I have had my fill of ale, or none; whether darkness or twilight, I had never so much as stumbled upon that road.
That is, until Bindon Babel returned.
Bindon was the eldest child of Silas Babel, a villain already old when I was born. Silas married his young second cousin, and she was more beast of burden than mate. Those who remembered him better than I, said he lost his wife from fever soon after the birth of the last child. Many felt Silas' mistreatment led to his poor wife's death. The elder Babel had two sons and a daughter. His daughter, who had taken her mother's place as workhorse, died of consumption at 15; and some six months after, the youngest son died when a tree he'd attempted to fell, fell upon him--or so Silas swore.
Silas Babel lived on a rocky plot of land with an unkempt orchard surrounding it. This land joined the road I spoke of earlier by way of a broken gate. The Babel home was little more than a hovel. Here Silas drank and rarely ventured outside. Villagers called him Godless. They said he'd never darkened the door of a church except when he enslaved his wife.
The son Bindon left to travel and find fortune for the sake of his family. When his sister and brother died, the surviving brother attended neither funeral. Some 15 years later, Silas Babel also died. If not for a black dog howling outside the door, Silas might not have been found for weeks. As it was, in death, the pale, wrinkled Silas looked little changed from his living self. Again, the son failed to return for services. In all the years of his absence, neither sister, brother, father, nor anyone from the village heard from or about Bindon Babel.
Then, some dozen years after the death of his father, the remaining Babel from the village, returned.
Rumors at the Golden Friars spread for weeks. Some said Bindon had been a mercenary on the continent, and amassed a small fortune in loot. Others swore he'd been aboard a coastal raider prowling the waters of West Africa. A third rumor put Bindon in America at the head of a gang of thieves and murderers. No one, frequenters of the public house, or the wags who passed tales at the back fence, figured Bindon had acquired his money by legal means. But make no mistake, it seemed as if this Babel at least had a surplus of money.
This money, ill-gotten or no, Bindon Babel hurriedly spent. First he married. Like his father, he found a girl much younger than himself. And, like his father, he mistreated the poor thing. Then, he gambled on cards and the races. He drank too much. He travelled with men with shady pasts. In a matter of months, he gambled, misplaced, or invested without return most all his funds. Soon, his wife, misused always, caught a chill and died. Bindon Babel disappeared into the same hovel as his father, broken and mad.
Then, I witnessed the odd events that began along the road from Golden Friars. First, every night for some weeks, I saw a small black dog I'd never seen before at the gate to Babel's land. The dog sat without seeming to notice me as I passed. Then, one twilight, Bindon, weaving, held onto the gate, staring out at the road. Perhaps I wanted talk for the public house, or perhaps I felt neighborly, even with a man such as this, so I greeted Babel.
"Good evening, sir," I said. "Where is your dog this evening?"
"I have no dog," he said, "and this evening has nothing to recommend it."
Taken aback, I bid the man farewell.
The very next night, a black dog stood at Babel's gate. It seemed odd, but the dog had grown considerably, as if it had shot up in stature in just a day. Also, while it again seemed to take little notice of me, something in its demeanor struck me as more aggressive.
A week later after this second sighting of the dog, Bindon again appeared at his gate. He stood some way out into the road, looking in one direction then the other. This time he addressed me.
"Have you seen anything strange around here?" he asked.
"There is a stray or perhaps two stray black dogs who sit at your gate in the evenings. This is all I can report."
Bindon Babel cursed then, and without another word, dashed through the gate.
The next evening, yet a larger black dog, very similar to the first two--so similar that they must have come from the same family--appeared at the gate. This animal's fur stood up along the top of his spine and neck. Though it took little notice of me, I put as much distance as the road allowed between it and me.
As I walked along the road toward my house, behind me I heard the panting of a dog. Afraid, I turned, but saw nothing. I looked about, to each side of the road but saw nothing. I retraced my steps, and found no dog. Naturally, I thought of the black dogs from Babel's, but I saw nothing. Yet, when I resumed my way home, again I heard the panting of a dog following me. Again I stopped. The panting stopped, but I saw nothing. I started home again, and the panting started again. I ran then, alarmed.
The very next day Bindon again stood by his gate, in obvious distress. He asked me if I had seen anything odd that night. I told him a family of strays must have adopted his land as home and that one had followed me last night. In truth, I thought these animals must be Babel's.
"I am worried I may be mauled along the road some evening," I said. "Someone should get the sheriff to remove these brutes."
I thought Babel might admit that this family of animals belonged to him, and that he'd curse me for my comment. Instead, he agreed with me.
"Yes. The sheriff is a good idea. These devils roam my property late at night. I can't sleep. They scratch at my door. They whine. Sometimes I hear them growling near the windows. Fetch the sheriff. They're devils." He then spit out another string of profanities.
The next evening, as I approached Babel's gate with trepidation, another even larger dog stood. It took no notice of me, but I dashed past it, wishing I had a club for protection. Again, I heard an invisible dog of some great size panting behind me all the way home. When I mentioned this to my wife, she suggested that the dog probably followed me behind a hedge and that in the dusk, I would not necessarily have seen him.
"But I never saw him hedge or not, yet I heard him still."
My wife shrugged, but seemed unconcerned.
The next evening, and it was early evening this time, on my way from the Golden Friars, Babel sat in the dirt in the road, in front of his gate, crying.
"I'm not a bad man," he said. "My poor mother. My poor wife. I should have come home. Brother, sister. I should have come home. There was enough for all. Did you know them?"
"I had seen your wife several times," I said.
"Poor girl. She deserved better. She never did no wrong. Not to a living soul. It's all my fault. I deserve it. I surely deserve it. They'll never let me rest." With that, he rose, and trudged through his gate.
The next day, an even larger black dog stood at the gate. This time the animal eyed me every step. It seemed ready to pounce on me, and seemed to be guarding the entrance to Babel's property. I sprinted past the gate. All the way home, I ran. Behind me, unseen, some great hound chased me, panting and growling.
It took nearly a week for me to recover from my fright. The next time I went to the Golden Friars, I asked a few of the lads to accompany me home. A couple of ales each at my expense gained me this gang. We all carried sticks. All the way to Babel's the younger men bragged what they would do to any dog that dared to molest me or them. Then, at Babel's gate, five black dogs of various size stood near the road.
At the sight of us, the dogs began to howl. They crowded through the gate then, still howling, and somehow, they disappeared. The bunch of us heard nothing from them. None of us had been to Babel's since he'd returned. As soon as we came within sight of the dilapidated house, we noticed the door standing open, and the windows broken through.
"Bindon!" we cried. "Babel. Bindon Babel!"
No answer came from the house. As a group, we decided to enter. Perhaps the dogs were inside the house.
Inside, we found no dogs. We did find Bindon Babel on the floor. It looked as if he'd been attacked by wolves. His clothes were shredded. His entire body was covered with blood and in some places one could see the bites. Upon a table sat a sheet of paper. "The dogs are walking on two legs," it read.
------------------------------------------------------
The Return of the Black Dog fiction by Frank Criscenti
Georgie Mathis leaned back against the Macy's building. It wasn't hot-- nothing like hot but he was sweating and weak. He spread out his legs and nearly kicked over his can.
"Help a brother out," he said to a passing black man.
Nothing. The man never even acknowledged him.
Georgie hadn't even the energy to curse.
His dog sat next to him. Black dog. Nice dog. Nicest dog Georgie ever saw. Didn't steal his food like the pigeons or the passing mutts.
Black dog, Georgie called him Porgie, he didn't know why, Porgie never stared at him when he ate. Didn't beg food and act hungry. With Porgie, Georgie came first. Georgie ate, then the dog. It seemed like the only reason Porgie ate when his master fed him was to please his master. A little food. A little water. Porgie was good to go.
But not Georgie. He couldn't even budge today. Wasn't for the old white lady with the sandwich and the five, Georgie likely would've starved.
He let his hand rest on the dog. Dog couldn't weigh more than 15 pounds, but his hand sunk into the fur and he stroked. "Best dog I ever had," he said. "Only dog I ever had."
Georgie closed his eyes and pulled in the warmth. Nothing like hot today, and not cold, but the sweat rolled down his face and Georgie shivered. San Francisco weather, cold and hot at the same time.
He spoke to the dog. "Wish you could hook me up, Porgie. I could use a little something you know. Lord knows, I can't even get up off my butt."
The man closed his eyes. He remembered the days in the projects. He remembered the mean-ass dogs all over and the mean-ass people. He tried to see his grandmother's face. If his grandma wouldn't have died so long ago, Georgie would've been okay. He hummed aloud to the church music he heard inside his head. Grandma took him to church. Lotta good it did him, or her. Old woman passed when she was 50, and he was just 13. No more church. That was it for him. His mama living anywhere she found a man. His dad who knew where.
Wait, Georgie stopped humming. He knew where the old man had been. He met him first time in the joint. When Georgie did five for drugs, he met the old man. Father hooked him up in the joint.
"You my boy," he said. "I'll take care of you."
Later the old man beat him up over a debt.
"I'll take care of you," the old man said.
Georgie came out of the joint worse than ever.
The dog stirred.
His master came around. "You're the softest thing," he said. "You're like the only one who sees me."
The dog stared into his master's eyes. "Man, it's like you read my mind," Georgie said.
The legs kept passing him by. He listened for the sound of coins dropping.
Nothing.
He'd owned the dog for a couple of weeks. The dog adopted him. Came up to him right at the very spot he sat, right up against the back of the Macy's building and sat down.
Georgie tried to shoo the dog off. Even tried once or twice to kick the mutt. But Porgie dodged the blows, not so much for himself, but seemingly so his new owner wouldn't feel bad about hurting him.
So George put up with him. Then he saw that people paid just a little more attention to him when the dog was there. The extra money in his can more than made up for the dog food. Porgie didn't eat much. It seemed as if he could've lived on air for all he asked.
The black dog crawled onto his master's lap.
"I'm so cold," Georgie said. "You be my blanket, dog."
The man felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up. It was Blowfly, the dealer. Everyone hated Blowfly.
"Hey there Georgie, long time. Where you been?" Blowfly said.
The dealer's nose was running. That's why the name.
"You need something Georgie boy?"
The old man thought of the five in his pocket. "I don't have much," he said. "I been off the stuff for a couple of weeks. But I'm suffering. What can you do for five?"
Blowfly scowled, then grinned. "Man, we old friends, you know. I fix you up with something. Let's see the color of your money."
Georgie dug into his pocket. Nothing. He dug into the other. Still nothing. He looked into the can, and around him. He shooed the dog off his lap, got up on his aching knees and searched the ground. Nothing. The five was gone.
"I had it," he said. "I think I got some holes in my pockets. I know it's here somewhere."
But the money couldn't be found.
Blowfly scowled again and wiped his nose with his shirt.
"How 'bout I pay you tomorrow?" Georgie asked.
"How 'bout you get hit by a car today then I don't see you again. This ain't the charity ward my man. I can't go around giving it away. I got expenses. Overhead."
Georgie grabbed the man's hand. He'd always hated to touch Blowfly or anything Blowfly touched, but he felt desperate. "I been a good customer in my time," he said.
"Let go of me!" Blowfly snatched his hand away and made as if he were going to club Georgie. "You're a shaky bag of bones. Look at you and that damn dog. Neither one of you worth a damn."
Then Blowfly smiled again. "Tell you what," he said, "You give me your dog and I'll fix you up."
Georgie closed his eyes and thought. Nobody ever loved him like that dog. Nobody.
"Come on," said Blowfly. "I ain't gonna hurt him."
"You're gonna feed him to a pit, aren't you."
Blowfly would make some points by handing over the dog to some gangster so the gangster could watch his pit tear Porgie apart.
"Nah, would I do that? I'd give it to my girlfriend."
Blowfly had no girlfriend Georgie bet.
"You'd feed him to a pit. I know it. Feed him to a pit for fun."
The dog nosed into Georgie. It didn't seem like a plea for mercy, he thought. It seemed like the dog would accept whatever was most important to Georgie. What he needed, the dog would give, even in sacrifice. The dog nosed him so he would make up his mind. So he wouldn't suffer over the decision.
"I'll find my five and take care of business later."
Blowfly smiled. "Whatever you say, Georgie. But the offer stands. I take the dog and fix you up."
Georgie sighed and waved the dealer off. He watched him stroll down the block, turn and go out of sight.
He pulled the dog close to him. Man, nothing ever felt as nice as his dog, except maybe a pipe. But the black dog warmed him almost as well.
Porgie rose, and the five dollar bill was on the ground where he'd sat.
Georgie felt a surge of anger and wanted to throw the dog into the traffic. But it quickly subsided and he laughed. Then collapsed on the ground, unconscious.
He awoke, shivering.
It was almost dark, apparently no one had thought him anything but drunk. He'd been there hours. Porgie lay across his stomach. Georgie's hand dropped onto thedog, and stroked.
The lights flashed. The black dog was the one fixed point in Georgie's life for those moments.
"Can you sit up?" someone asked.
"Wha..."
He felt the dog pulled away from him. They pulled Georgie onto the stretcher.
"My dog!" Georgie said.
Porgie licked his hand. The old man let his hand rest onto the dog's neck. "What's going on, dog?" he said. "What are they doing to me?"
The last thing he felt was the warmth of the black dog. His hand sunk into the fur, into the warmth. The world about him swirled. The lights. The warmth. The sounds off in a distance now. And the lights in his head dimming. His hand clutched at Porgie.Then Georgie passed. His hand dropped, and the dog took off, avoiding any attempts to hold him.
The black dog ran down the street. He ran through the Tenderloin, avoiding traffic. Ran without stopping. Dodged the cars that never seemed to notice him. He ran and then turned on Van Ness. He kept running. Maybe two miles. Then he turned on Jackson. Past a couple of the foreign embassies. Then the black dog slipped through the metal bars of a gate and under a shrub in the well-kept yard. The black dogclosed his eyes and waited.
In the morning the black dog heard a door open and close.
Voices. Female voices.
He stretched then shook off the dew off his fur.
The dog ran to the old woman with the cane and her Filipina helper.
He shook his tail so his whole back end swayed. The dog smiled.
"What's this?" The old white lady with the cane said.
"Stay away," said the Filipina, standing between the dog and the old woman. She threatened a kick.
The old lady smiled. "No, no. It's okay Consuelo. The dog isn't a threat."
Consuelo eyed the dog without easing back.
"Mrs. Connell, you don't know anything about this dog," she said. "Let's go inside and I'll call the pound."
Mrs. Connell waved her caretaker off. "This dog is just lost and hungry," she said. "I can tell."
Mrs. Connell never actually had a dog in her life. She grew up in San Francisco, born into a large family who lived modestly and without dogs.
When she married young, her husband hated dogs, so she never owned one ever. But something about this animal gave her confidence. It's friendliness seemed obvious to her.
The dog made its way around Consuelo and licked the old woman's hand.
"You are so sweet," said the old woman.
"Look out the dog doesn't knock you down," the younger Consuelo said.
"No, no. This dog understands. It is very well-behaved. It doesn't seem to have a collar."
"A runaway. Probably infested with bugs."
"No. It has been cared for. It seems healthy."
"Until your house is filled with fleas. I should call the pound."
The dog looked up at the old woman. It seemed to her as if the dog had an uncanny sort of knowledge of her. As if the dog knew more about her than most people.
The old woman, Mrs. Maria Connell had been beautiful once. She'd been an only child of a fine Spanish family-- devoutly Catholic. She married at 19. A man 20 years older than her. An Irishman-- very rich-- very ruthless. She quickly became pregnant. Her husband at first berated her, then he began to slap her.
Mrs. Connell took it. Even to the day of the birth, she took it. After the birth, she took the slapping. Even as it got more violent, she allowed it.
She prayed. When praying didn't stop the beatings, she went to see her priest. Mr. Connell hit her and hit her almost daily.
He hit her when the baby cried.
He hit her when she cried.
He hit her even though she prayed, and even though she visited the priest. Maria went to mass on Wednesdays and lit a candle, not for herself, but for her husband. She went to mass on Sundays and lit a candle. Sometimes she lit a candle for all of them, herself, her husband, and William, the baby.
When William began to toddle about the house, Mr. Connell screamed at the child and slapped him for knocking over a vase.
Maria came dashing out from the kitchen with a six-inch kitchen knife. She plowed into her husband and knocked him to the ground. With the knife at her husband's throat, she told him, "You need to leave here and never come back. I will kill you if you do. Do you understand? I will kill you. If you ever hurt my son again I will gouge out your eyes and leave you in the street to die. Now go."
Mr. Connell left. He never entered the house again. And, like a good Catholic, he remained married to Maria.
After ten years, he died, leaving his wife and son with his fortune.
Though Mr. Connell never hit his son again, he did find fault with every thing the boy attempted. William Connell grew up disappointed and unsure of himself.
The dog lapped at the water Mrs. Connell set out in a bowl for him. She watched. This black dog seemed very well-behaved. She knew nothing about dogs, but could tell this one had arrived at her home for some reason. No dog had picked her before.
She wondered, would William have come out better if he'd had a dog. He always seemed afraid of them.
Ah, William, she sighed. Her only child and a troubled soul. Divorced since last year. A suicide attempt at college. A failed business. Loans and gifts from his mother never seemed to make a difference. He never could get over the hump.
Mrs. Connell seldom saw him now. If he called, he seemed preoccupied.
Could it be that he needed a dog as a child?
Mrs. Connell smiled as the dog ate some fish leftovers from a few days ago.
Consuelo hovered at the kitchen door, distrustful.
"I will call the pound now Mrs. Connell. You can't have a dog under your feet. What if he knocks you over?"
The dog finished the fish and looked up at Mrs. Connell.
"I like this dog," she said. "He'll be careful of me."
The dog wagged his tail.
At night, Mrs. Connell sat in her living room with the dog at her feet. She sat there humming. Ave Maria. Why that song, she wondered. Yet it would not leave her head.
The dog slept.
Consuelo was in Mrs. Connell's bedroom, preparing to leave for the night.
Mrs. Connell hummed and thought. She should call William. He never seemed to be home when she called, but she should call him.
She leaned over, grabbed the phone, then dialed.
It rang three times before he answered.
"Hello Mother," he said.
"William," she said and paused. "William, you know I haven't seen you in two months?"
"Has it been that long?"
"Yes, dear. And you know, I miss you terribly."
For 30 seconds, he did not respond.
"Is something wrong? Are you okay?"
"Of course. But I miss you. You have always been such a good son."
"What's going on?" He sounded frantic.
"Nothing, William. Nothing. Come home son. You need to come home."
Mrs. Connell hung up the phone and hummed the song.
"I will put the animal out now," she said.
"Where?" Asked Mrs. Connell.
"Where it's come from," said Consuelo.
"No, you won't put it out. I want him to stay."
Consuelo tried to lock the black dog out of the bedroom when she put Mrs. Connell in her bed. Mrs. Connell would have none of it.
The dog lay on the floor next to the bed.
The Filipina shook her head. "I don't like this dog."
The old woman waved her away.
After her helper left, Mrs. Connell let her hand fall over the bedside. The black doglicked her hand. "You are so sweet," she said. "What shall we call you? Sweetie? I like that, do you?"
The dog put it's paws on the bed and nuzzled the old woman. "So sweet," she said again.
Her eyes began to close. The dog lay on the floor again.
Some music played on the radio that Consuelo left on for Mrs. Connell every night before she left. Schubert's Unfinished Symphony played softly. Mrs. Connell drifted in and out of sleep, awaking now and again as the piece played. Once she sighed. Always the dog seemed in just the right place to touch its fur if the hand fell over the bed. Perhaps she imagined it. Perhaps the dog really was there to comfort her almost like a nurse, even in a manner that a lover might. She'd never had a real lover.
William came to the house in San Francisco the next morning. He came even before the mist had cleared. Mrs. Connell knew he'd never been an early riser, even as a child on Christmas morning. His face looked even redder than the last time she'd seen him-- his hair looked thinner. He fought to catch his breath after only a one block walk from his parking spot.
"Don't let me forget to move my car," he said to Consuelo.
His mother pretended she hadn't noticed his unhealthy demeanor. The black dogwent immediately to William.
"Who is this?" he asked.
"Sweetie," she said, sitting at the dining room table.
William pretended to disapprove of the animal even though he immediately rubbed its head. "Just what you need," he said.
The dog licked his hand.
Consuelo poured him coffee. She shook her head for his benefit at the mention of thedog. "I told her she doesn't need any dog."
He shrugged. His hand sunk into the animal's fur. It comforted him. He'd never owned a dog. William closed his eyes. His heart jumped a beat. He gasped for breath.
"William?" his mother said. "Are you all right?"
Such softness. Such warmth. He missed the comfort of other creatures in his solitary existence.
"William?"
He tried to refocus on his mother. He lifted his hand with great effort to indicate he was okay, though he wasn't.
"I'm-- all-- right," he said. "I'm all right."
The black dog sat next to him then leaned against his leg.
"I'd forgotten," William said more to himself than to the women. His thoughts went to his wife. What had he accomplished? What would they say about him after he'd left his life behind? Would they say he'd given comfort to others?
Reflexively his hand fell onto the dog's head. Surely he was supposed to outlive his mother, but he knew he would not. And he'd never felt anything so soft. Never ever in his life.
THE END
"Help a brother out," he said to a passing black man.
Nothing. The man never even acknowledged him.
Georgie hadn't even the energy to curse.
His dog sat next to him. Black dog. Nice dog. Nicest dog Georgie ever saw. Didn't steal his food like the pigeons or the passing mutts.
Black dog, Georgie called him Porgie, he didn't know why, Porgie never stared at him when he ate. Didn't beg food and act hungry. With Porgie, Georgie came first. Georgie ate, then the dog. It seemed like the only reason Porgie ate when his master fed him was to please his master. A little food. A little water. Porgie was good to go.
But not Georgie. He couldn't even budge today. Wasn't for the old white lady with the sandwich and the five, Georgie likely would've starved.
He let his hand rest on the dog. Dog couldn't weigh more than 15 pounds, but his hand sunk into the fur and he stroked. "Best dog I ever had," he said. "Only dog I ever had."
Georgie closed his eyes and pulled in the warmth. Nothing like hot today, and not cold, but the sweat rolled down his face and Georgie shivered. San Francisco weather, cold and hot at the same time.
He spoke to the dog. "Wish you could hook me up, Porgie. I could use a little something you know. Lord knows, I can't even get up off my butt."
The man closed his eyes. He remembered the days in the projects. He remembered the mean-ass dogs all over and the mean-ass people. He tried to see his grandmother's face. If his grandma wouldn't have died so long ago, Georgie would've been okay. He hummed aloud to the church music he heard inside his head. Grandma took him to church. Lotta good it did him, or her. Old woman passed when she was 50, and he was just 13. No more church. That was it for him. His mama living anywhere she found a man. His dad who knew where.
Wait, Georgie stopped humming. He knew where the old man had been. He met him first time in the joint. When Georgie did five for drugs, he met the old man. Father hooked him up in the joint.
"You my boy," he said. "I'll take care of you."
Later the old man beat him up over a debt.
"I'll take care of you," the old man said.
Georgie came out of the joint worse than ever.
The dog stirred.
His master came around. "You're the softest thing," he said. "You're like the only one who sees me."
The dog stared into his master's eyes. "Man, it's like you read my mind," Georgie said.
The legs kept passing him by. He listened for the sound of coins dropping.
Nothing.
He'd owned the dog for a couple of weeks. The dog adopted him. Came up to him right at the very spot he sat, right up against the back of the Macy's building and sat down.
Georgie tried to shoo the dog off. Even tried once or twice to kick the mutt. But Porgie dodged the blows, not so much for himself, but seemingly so his new owner wouldn't feel bad about hurting him.
So George put up with him. Then he saw that people paid just a little more attention to him when the dog was there. The extra money in his can more than made up for the dog food. Porgie didn't eat much. It seemed as if he could've lived on air for all he asked.
The black dog crawled onto his master's lap.
"I'm so cold," Georgie said. "You be my blanket, dog."
The man felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up. It was Blowfly, the dealer. Everyone hated Blowfly.
"Hey there Georgie, long time. Where you been?" Blowfly said.
The dealer's nose was running. That's why the name.
"You need something Georgie boy?"
The old man thought of the five in his pocket. "I don't have much," he said. "I been off the stuff for a couple of weeks. But I'm suffering. What can you do for five?"
Blowfly scowled, then grinned. "Man, we old friends, you know. I fix you up with something. Let's see the color of your money."
Georgie dug into his pocket. Nothing. He dug into the other. Still nothing. He looked into the can, and around him. He shooed the dog off his lap, got up on his aching knees and searched the ground. Nothing. The five was gone.
"I had it," he said. "I think I got some holes in my pockets. I know it's here somewhere."
But the money couldn't be found.
Blowfly scowled again and wiped his nose with his shirt.
"How 'bout I pay you tomorrow?" Georgie asked.
"How 'bout you get hit by a car today then I don't see you again. This ain't the charity ward my man. I can't go around giving it away. I got expenses. Overhead."
Georgie grabbed the man's hand. He'd always hated to touch Blowfly or anything Blowfly touched, but he felt desperate. "I been a good customer in my time," he said.
"Let go of me!" Blowfly snatched his hand away and made as if he were going to club Georgie. "You're a shaky bag of bones. Look at you and that damn dog. Neither one of you worth a damn."
Then Blowfly smiled again. "Tell you what," he said, "You give me your dog and I'll fix you up."
Georgie closed his eyes and thought. Nobody ever loved him like that dog. Nobody.
"Come on," said Blowfly. "I ain't gonna hurt him."
"You're gonna feed him to a pit, aren't you."
Blowfly would make some points by handing over the dog to some gangster so the gangster could watch his pit tear Porgie apart.
"Nah, would I do that? I'd give it to my girlfriend."
Blowfly had no girlfriend Georgie bet.
"You'd feed him to a pit. I know it. Feed him to a pit for fun."
The dog nosed into Georgie. It didn't seem like a plea for mercy, he thought. It seemed like the dog would accept whatever was most important to Georgie. What he needed, the dog would give, even in sacrifice. The dog nosed him so he would make up his mind. So he wouldn't suffer over the decision.
"I'll find my five and take care of business later."
Blowfly smiled. "Whatever you say, Georgie. But the offer stands. I take the dog and fix you up."
Georgie sighed and waved the dealer off. He watched him stroll down the block, turn and go out of sight.
He pulled the dog close to him. Man, nothing ever felt as nice as his dog, except maybe a pipe. But the black dog warmed him almost as well.
Porgie rose, and the five dollar bill was on the ground where he'd sat.
Georgie felt a surge of anger and wanted to throw the dog into the traffic. But it quickly subsided and he laughed. Then collapsed on the ground, unconscious.
He awoke, shivering.
It was almost dark, apparently no one had thought him anything but drunk. He'd been there hours. Porgie lay across his stomach. Georgie's hand dropped onto thedog, and stroked.
The lights flashed. The black dog was the one fixed point in Georgie's life for those moments.
"Can you sit up?" someone asked.
"Wha..."
He felt the dog pulled away from him. They pulled Georgie onto the stretcher.
"My dog!" Georgie said.
Porgie licked his hand. The old man let his hand rest onto the dog's neck. "What's going on, dog?" he said. "What are they doing to me?"
The last thing he felt was the warmth of the black dog. His hand sunk into the fur, into the warmth. The world about him swirled. The lights. The warmth. The sounds off in a distance now. And the lights in his head dimming. His hand clutched at Porgie.Then Georgie passed. His hand dropped, and the dog took off, avoiding any attempts to hold him.
The black dog ran down the street. He ran through the Tenderloin, avoiding traffic. Ran without stopping. Dodged the cars that never seemed to notice him. He ran and then turned on Van Ness. He kept running. Maybe two miles. Then he turned on Jackson. Past a couple of the foreign embassies. Then the black dog slipped through the metal bars of a gate and under a shrub in the well-kept yard. The black dogclosed his eyes and waited.
In the morning the black dog heard a door open and close.
Voices. Female voices.
He stretched then shook off the dew off his fur.
The dog ran to the old woman with the cane and her Filipina helper.
He shook his tail so his whole back end swayed. The dog smiled.
"What's this?" The old white lady with the cane said.
"Stay away," said the Filipina, standing between the dog and the old woman. She threatened a kick.
The old lady smiled. "No, no. It's okay Consuelo. The dog isn't a threat."
Consuelo eyed the dog without easing back.
"Mrs. Connell, you don't know anything about this dog," she said. "Let's go inside and I'll call the pound."
Mrs. Connell waved her caretaker off. "This dog is just lost and hungry," she said. "I can tell."
Mrs. Connell never actually had a dog in her life. She grew up in San Francisco, born into a large family who lived modestly and without dogs.
When she married young, her husband hated dogs, so she never owned one ever. But something about this animal gave her confidence. It's friendliness seemed obvious to her.
The dog made its way around Consuelo and licked the old woman's hand.
"You are so sweet," said the old woman.
"Look out the dog doesn't knock you down," the younger Consuelo said.
"No, no. This dog understands. It is very well-behaved. It doesn't seem to have a collar."
"A runaway. Probably infested with bugs."
"No. It has been cared for. It seems healthy."
"Until your house is filled with fleas. I should call the pound."
The dog looked up at the old woman. It seemed to her as if the dog had an uncanny sort of knowledge of her. As if the dog knew more about her than most people.
The old woman, Mrs. Maria Connell had been beautiful once. She'd been an only child of a fine Spanish family-- devoutly Catholic. She married at 19. A man 20 years older than her. An Irishman-- very rich-- very ruthless. She quickly became pregnant. Her husband at first berated her, then he began to slap her.
Mrs. Connell took it. Even to the day of the birth, she took it. After the birth, she took the slapping. Even as it got more violent, she allowed it.
She prayed. When praying didn't stop the beatings, she went to see her priest. Mr. Connell hit her and hit her almost daily.
He hit her when the baby cried.
He hit her when she cried.
He hit her even though she prayed, and even though she visited the priest. Maria went to mass on Wednesdays and lit a candle, not for herself, but for her husband. She went to mass on Sundays and lit a candle. Sometimes she lit a candle for all of them, herself, her husband, and William, the baby.
When William began to toddle about the house, Mr. Connell screamed at the child and slapped him for knocking over a vase.
Maria came dashing out from the kitchen with a six-inch kitchen knife. She plowed into her husband and knocked him to the ground. With the knife at her husband's throat, she told him, "You need to leave here and never come back. I will kill you if you do. Do you understand? I will kill you. If you ever hurt my son again I will gouge out your eyes and leave you in the street to die. Now go."
Mr. Connell left. He never entered the house again. And, like a good Catholic, he remained married to Maria.
After ten years, he died, leaving his wife and son with his fortune.
Though Mr. Connell never hit his son again, he did find fault with every thing the boy attempted. William Connell grew up disappointed and unsure of himself.
The dog lapped at the water Mrs. Connell set out in a bowl for him. She watched. This black dog seemed very well-behaved. She knew nothing about dogs, but could tell this one had arrived at her home for some reason. No dog had picked her before.
She wondered, would William have come out better if he'd had a dog. He always seemed afraid of them.
Ah, William, she sighed. Her only child and a troubled soul. Divorced since last year. A suicide attempt at college. A failed business. Loans and gifts from his mother never seemed to make a difference. He never could get over the hump.
Mrs. Connell seldom saw him now. If he called, he seemed preoccupied.
Could it be that he needed a dog as a child?
Mrs. Connell smiled as the dog ate some fish leftovers from a few days ago.
Consuelo hovered at the kitchen door, distrustful.
"I will call the pound now Mrs. Connell. You can't have a dog under your feet. What if he knocks you over?"
The dog finished the fish and looked up at Mrs. Connell.
"I like this dog," she said. "He'll be careful of me."
The dog wagged his tail.
At night, Mrs. Connell sat in her living room with the dog at her feet. She sat there humming. Ave Maria. Why that song, she wondered. Yet it would not leave her head.
The dog slept.
Consuelo was in Mrs. Connell's bedroom, preparing to leave for the night.
Mrs. Connell hummed and thought. She should call William. He never seemed to be home when she called, but she should call him.
She leaned over, grabbed the phone, then dialed.
It rang three times before he answered.
"Hello Mother," he said.
"William," she said and paused. "William, you know I haven't seen you in two months?"
"Has it been that long?"
"Yes, dear. And you know, I miss you terribly."
For 30 seconds, he did not respond.
"Is something wrong? Are you okay?"
"Of course. But I miss you. You have always been such a good son."
"What's going on?" He sounded frantic.
"Nothing, William. Nothing. Come home son. You need to come home."
Mrs. Connell hung up the phone and hummed the song.
"I will put the animal out now," she said.
"Where?" Asked Mrs. Connell.
"Where it's come from," said Consuelo.
"No, you won't put it out. I want him to stay."
Consuelo tried to lock the black dog out of the bedroom when she put Mrs. Connell in her bed. Mrs. Connell would have none of it.
The dog lay on the floor next to the bed.
The Filipina shook her head. "I don't like this dog."
The old woman waved her away.
After her helper left, Mrs. Connell let her hand fall over the bedside. The black doglicked her hand. "You are so sweet," she said. "What shall we call you? Sweetie? I like that, do you?"
The dog put it's paws on the bed and nuzzled the old woman. "So sweet," she said again.
Her eyes began to close. The dog lay on the floor again.
Some music played on the radio that Consuelo left on for Mrs. Connell every night before she left. Schubert's Unfinished Symphony played softly. Mrs. Connell drifted in and out of sleep, awaking now and again as the piece played. Once she sighed. Always the dog seemed in just the right place to touch its fur if the hand fell over the bed. Perhaps she imagined it. Perhaps the dog really was there to comfort her almost like a nurse, even in a manner that a lover might. She'd never had a real lover.
William came to the house in San Francisco the next morning. He came even before the mist had cleared. Mrs. Connell knew he'd never been an early riser, even as a child on Christmas morning. His face looked even redder than the last time she'd seen him-- his hair looked thinner. He fought to catch his breath after only a one block walk from his parking spot.
"Don't let me forget to move my car," he said to Consuelo.
His mother pretended she hadn't noticed his unhealthy demeanor. The black dogwent immediately to William.
"Who is this?" he asked.
"Sweetie," she said, sitting at the dining room table.
William pretended to disapprove of the animal even though he immediately rubbed its head. "Just what you need," he said.
The dog licked his hand.
Consuelo poured him coffee. She shook her head for his benefit at the mention of thedog. "I told her she doesn't need any dog."
He shrugged. His hand sunk into the animal's fur. It comforted him. He'd never owned a dog. William closed his eyes. His heart jumped a beat. He gasped for breath.
"William?" his mother said. "Are you all right?"
Such softness. Such warmth. He missed the comfort of other creatures in his solitary existence.
"William?"
He tried to refocus on his mother. He lifted his hand with great effort to indicate he was okay, though he wasn't.
"I'm-- all-- right," he said. "I'm all right."
The black dog sat next to him then leaned against his leg.
"I'd forgotten," William said more to himself than to the women. His thoughts went to his wife. What had he accomplished? What would they say about him after he'd left his life behind? Would they say he'd given comfort to others?
Reflexively his hand fell onto the dog's head. Surely he was supposed to outlive his mother, but he knew he would not. And he'd never felt anything so soft. Never ever in his life.
THE END
Dining With Maurice
A short story by Frank Criscenti
It was a terrible time in Wayne's life for his dog to start acting weird.
Wayne had spent a half-hour just that morning, studying his thinning hair. And, after another argument last night, his five-year-old relationship with Janice seemed over for good this time. So when he looked out and saw Maurice, the dog he'd owned for 16 years, chomping down mouthfuls of soil, it seemed somehow the beginning of the end.
Wayne called Janice about the dog. It was a good excuse to talk.
"Yes?" she said, sounding impatient.
"The dog's acting crazy."
"What's he doing?"
"He eats dirt."
"So take him to the vet. He's probably senile."
"You think so?"
It was a good point. Janice always had the easy answers. He sensed the end of their conversation and was anxious to seize this opportunity.
"Do you want to meet for dinner?" he asked.
"No."
"How 'bout a movie tomorrow? There's a French film at the Guild."
"I have plans," she said, and hung up.
Wayne had been seeing a psychiatrist for several months. Janice had suggested it some time ago and he finally relented. The psychiatrist looked like Joanne Woodward.
Every week, Wayne arrived 15 minutes early at the medical center, with Maurice riding in the passenger's seat. They'd park. Before Wayne went in to his appointment he took Maurice for a short walk around the parking lot. They wouldn't walk far since the dog suffered from arthritis. Maurice would hobble about, sniff and snort about the islands of trees and bushes, pissing here and there. Wayne tugged at the leash before Maurice became overly-interested in any morsels of soil. After their walk, he'd put the dog in the car and roll the window down a little for air. Then Wayne went inside to his appointment.
"Call me Ellen..." the doctor would say when Wayne called her "Doctor."
"Ellen..." he would say.
"Wayne..." the doctor would say.
During some sessions that was as close as they got to a breakthrough. They'd exchange pleasantries, then all conversation stopped. All the words unsaid probably meant something, but Wayne couldn't decide what it might be. Whenever he was at a session he kept thinking of the concept of negative space.
When he asked why she didn't ask him questions, she said it wasn't her job. That he would talk when he was ready.
But Wayne never felt ready.
It depressed him. He worried he might have some incurable malaise.
Wayne called Maurice's vet.
"Have you ever heard of a dog eating dirt?" he asked the receptionist.
She said no, but hold and she would ask the vet.
The vet got on. "What does he eat?"
"Dirt."
"What kind of dirt?"
"Just your ordinary garden variety," Wayne said. "He prefers the clods actually."
"Do you feed him?"
"Of course. He gets kibble, a little canned stuff, and a few left-overs."
"This happens sometimes," the vet said. "Make an appointment with my receptionist and bring him in."
He lied to the receptionist and told her he would make an appointment as soon as he checked his schedule.
Wayne decided as long as Maurice remained healthy enough for an old, unhealthy dog, what harm could a couple of mouthfuls of dirt do.
One night Wayne awoke to strange animal moans in the backyard. He threw on his robe and went outside to find Maurice rolling in the dirt, his eyes glassy and full of terror. Once, on a vacation in Northern California, when Wayne was a child, his father hit a deer with the car. He remembered the deer had the same look in its eyes right before the car hit it. Wayne thought it was the end for his buddy. He carried the dog into the house, took him on his lap. All night he sat up, stroking Maurice's grey-flecked muzzle. Come morning, Wayne called in sick to his job at the Department of Motor Vehicles. He made Maurice vegetable beef soup from a can and fed him with a big wooden spoon. That afternoon Maurice wobbled to his feet, though he listed. When the dog wagged his tail it seemed to throw off his balance completely.
Wayne took his pal to the vet. The vet kept Maurice overnight. When Wayne called the vet early the next afternoon, the vet told him the dog had congestive heart failure and all the tests he'd run and all the pills he might give might allow Maurice another six months of life.
Wayne called Janice and told her about Maurice.
"Sometimes I think you loved that dog more than me," Janice said.
"That's not true," he said, though it was.
They argued.
Janice hung up on Wayne.
She always took the easy way out.
Wayne picked up Maurice from the vet in the afternoon after work. The bill came to $606. Maurice wagged his tail so hard when he saw Wayne that he slipped off his feet to the floor. The dog looked up at his master, then licked his paw, seemingly embarassed for his lack of control.
One day, Wayne decided to open up to Ellen and tell her about his arguments with Janice.
He said, "Janice says I'm noncommital and obsessive. She says I'm certainly neurotic and possibly psychotic."
"Who is she to say?" Ellen said. "She's not a professional."
"Do you think I am?"
"What?"
"What she said."
"That pisses me off," Ellen said.
"Ellen."
"What?"
"Am I possibly psychotic?"
"Do you think you are?"
"I don't know," he said. "I mean, I can't tell one way or the other. It's me we're talking about. That's why I come here after all."
"That's right," she said. "You're here to learn about yourself. What some nonprofessional says about you is irrelevant."
"Right," he said.
"Right," she said.
So Wayne talked about himself. He talked about Janice. Everything Wayne revealed about himself and how he felt, Ellen, though seeminly preoccupied, said it was reasonable that he felt the way he did, she understood why he would respond the way he did. It wasn't important what a nonprofessional said about him.
It depressed Wayne.
Then he told Ellen about Maurice eating dirt. Ellen seemed to find the story interesting. She said in humans such a condition was called "parorexia." Professionals knew that, she said, and some people ate fabric, ashes from ashtrays, whole pencils and even worse.
By the time Wayne left the office he had decided even his dog led a more interesting life than he.
One night Wayne ordered take-out Chinese food and brought it home and shared it with Maurice. They ate together at the dinette in the kitchen. The dog ate chow mein, fried shrimps, and beef from the broccoli beef.
A few nights later Wayne ordered two Philly cheese steak sandwiches-- one for him and one for the dog.
Wayne longed to take his pal to Paris. From what Wayne understood, the French had a healthy respect for dogs, allowed their pets to dine with them even in the best restaurants.
Wayne called a travel agent and asked about touring France with a dog. The agent said he'd look into it but called back the next day and told him the laws about bringing animals into France were overly-restrictive.
This news depressed Wayne.
Wayne went to one of the best French restaurants in town and ordered two meals to go. He told the waiter it was for a shut-in. It wasn't really lying to say that, he'd decided.
Wayne sat on a chair near the reception area while the meal was being prepared. Men in suits and ties and women in black dresses with strands of white pearls stared at him as he sat there waiting. To shut out their stares, Wayne closed his eyes and imagined himself and Maurice in France, drinking wine and munching escargot. He wondered if Maurice would eat escargot. Could he get Maurice a little tie to wear over his neck for formal dinners? He thought how they would sit there, in France, in a French restaurant, and the French people would say to the two of them, "Quel chien adorable!"
At home, Maurice devored the filet de boeuf.
Wayne told Ellen abouot dining with his dog. It seemed to perk her interest.
"Maybe you need to go out of the house more," she said.
But there wasn't time. Maurice needed him.
The dog's health became worse. Wayne took him back to the vet but the vet said nothing could be done.
Wayne asked for time off work. He had it coming. He rarely took vacations, only when Janice had insisted he take her someplace.
Besides, this was an emergency.
Wayne stayed home all day and cooked for himself and his pal. He always was a pretty fair cook, if unadventurous.
Maurice lay around most of the day, dozing in the triangle of sunlight on the floor in the dining room. The dog only ventured outside for a few minutes a day to do his business and have a mouthful of dirt. At dinnertime, Wayne had to lift Maurice into his seat at the dinette. The dog ate less and less, even when served steaks, meatloaf, or boneless chicken. He was wasting away.
It depressed Wayne.
Wayne called Janice.
"Maurice doesn't hardly eat at all," he said.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I know you cared for him."
"He's not gone yet," Wayne said.
There was a brief silence.
He thought she might be thinking up a remedy for the dog's poor appetite. Maybe she would give him a recipe. A special steak Janice, or salmon in puff pastry Janice. She always had the easy answers.
"Wayne," she said after a moment.
"Yes?" he said. That was it. All would be well. Janice would come back to him and they would care for Maurice together. He would show off his new skills in the kitchen. They would go to France together-- no, they would move to France with Maurice.
"I've been seeing someone else for some time now," she said. "It's serious."
Well, there it was, Janice just looking out for her own narrow self-interest. "This is more serious," he said. "How unprofessional of you to bring it up." Wayne hung up.
He told Ellen about Maurice.
"Sometimes you have to let an old friend go and move on with your life," she said.
"I don't want to," he said.
"You must."
Before Wayne left that day he stopped at the receptionist's desk and cancelled the rest of his appointments with the doctor.
Maurice fell one day while he was walking on the hardwood floor. He just collapsed. Wayne was alerted to the fall by the scrape of Maurice's nails.
The dog lay in the hallway, legs spread at an odd angle. When Wayne ran up to him , Maurice never bothered to try to get to his feet, but just lay there, staring up at Wayne with a sad, helpless look in his brown dog eyes.
The end was near. Wayne couldn't let his pal know he knew, but then again, he couldn't let him go without some special goodbye.
Wayne decided to make Maurice a special dinner with all his favorites.
He went shopping. He cooked all day. When the meal was prepared, he lifted Maurice into the seat at the dinette, and brought the covered plates to the table. He toasted the dog with a goblet of wine, then uncovered the plates. There was dirt with rice and dirt with meatloaf and dirt with apple tart. Wayne and his pal ate and, for a little while, it seemed as if they hadn't a care in the world.
THE END.
This story first appeared in the Santa Clara Review. Spring 1993. It also appeared a few times on my blog, The Dog Chronicles and on Magdalena Biela's wonderful website under essays.
It was a terrible time in Wayne's life for his dog to start acting weird.
Wayne had spent a half-hour just that morning, studying his thinning hair. And, after another argument last night, his five-year-old relationship with Janice seemed over for good this time. So when he looked out and saw Maurice, the dog he'd owned for 16 years, chomping down mouthfuls of soil, it seemed somehow the beginning of the end.
Wayne called Janice about the dog. It was a good excuse to talk.
"Yes?" she said, sounding impatient.
"The dog's acting crazy."
"What's he doing?"
"He eats dirt."
"So take him to the vet. He's probably senile."
"You think so?"
It was a good point. Janice always had the easy answers. He sensed the end of their conversation and was anxious to seize this opportunity.
"Do you want to meet for dinner?" he asked.
"No."
"How 'bout a movie tomorrow? There's a French film at the Guild."
"I have plans," she said, and hung up.
Wayne had been seeing a psychiatrist for several months. Janice had suggested it some time ago and he finally relented. The psychiatrist looked like Joanne Woodward.
Every week, Wayne arrived 15 minutes early at the medical center, with Maurice riding in the passenger's seat. They'd park. Before Wayne went in to his appointment he took Maurice for a short walk around the parking lot. They wouldn't walk far since the dog suffered from arthritis. Maurice would hobble about, sniff and snort about the islands of trees and bushes, pissing here and there. Wayne tugged at the leash before Maurice became overly-interested in any morsels of soil. After their walk, he'd put the dog in the car and roll the window down a little for air. Then Wayne went inside to his appointment.
"Call me Ellen..." the doctor would say when Wayne called her "Doctor."
"Ellen..." he would say.
"Wayne..." the doctor would say.
During some sessions that was as close as they got to a breakthrough. They'd exchange pleasantries, then all conversation stopped. All the words unsaid probably meant something, but Wayne couldn't decide what it might be. Whenever he was at a session he kept thinking of the concept of negative space.
When he asked why she didn't ask him questions, she said it wasn't her job. That he would talk when he was ready.
But Wayne never felt ready.
It depressed him. He worried he might have some incurable malaise.
Wayne called Maurice's vet.
"Have you ever heard of a dog eating dirt?" he asked the receptionist.
She said no, but hold and she would ask the vet.
The vet got on. "What does he eat?"
"Dirt."
"What kind of dirt?"
"Just your ordinary garden variety," Wayne said. "He prefers the clods actually."
"Do you feed him?"
"Of course. He gets kibble, a little canned stuff, and a few left-overs."
"This happens sometimes," the vet said. "Make an appointment with my receptionist and bring him in."
He lied to the receptionist and told her he would make an appointment as soon as he checked his schedule.
Wayne decided as long as Maurice remained healthy enough for an old, unhealthy dog, what harm could a couple of mouthfuls of dirt do.
One night Wayne awoke to strange animal moans in the backyard. He threw on his robe and went outside to find Maurice rolling in the dirt, his eyes glassy and full of terror. Once, on a vacation in Northern California, when Wayne was a child, his father hit a deer with the car. He remembered the deer had the same look in its eyes right before the car hit it. Wayne thought it was the end for his buddy. He carried the dog into the house, took him on his lap. All night he sat up, stroking Maurice's grey-flecked muzzle. Come morning, Wayne called in sick to his job at the Department of Motor Vehicles. He made Maurice vegetable beef soup from a can and fed him with a big wooden spoon. That afternoon Maurice wobbled to his feet, though he listed. When the dog wagged his tail it seemed to throw off his balance completely.
Wayne took his pal to the vet. The vet kept Maurice overnight. When Wayne called the vet early the next afternoon, the vet told him the dog had congestive heart failure and all the tests he'd run and all the pills he might give might allow Maurice another six months of life.
Wayne called Janice and told her about Maurice.
"Sometimes I think you loved that dog more than me," Janice said.
"That's not true," he said, though it was.
They argued.
Janice hung up on Wayne.
She always took the easy way out.
Wayne picked up Maurice from the vet in the afternoon after work. The bill came to $606. Maurice wagged his tail so hard when he saw Wayne that he slipped off his feet to the floor. The dog looked up at his master, then licked his paw, seemingly embarassed for his lack of control.
One day, Wayne decided to open up to Ellen and tell her about his arguments with Janice.
He said, "Janice says I'm noncommital and obsessive. She says I'm certainly neurotic and possibly psychotic."
"Who is she to say?" Ellen said. "She's not a professional."
"Do you think I am?"
"What?"
"What she said."
"That pisses me off," Ellen said.
"Ellen."
"What?"
"Am I possibly psychotic?"
"Do you think you are?"
"I don't know," he said. "I mean, I can't tell one way or the other. It's me we're talking about. That's why I come here after all."
"That's right," she said. "You're here to learn about yourself. What some nonprofessional says about you is irrelevant."
"Right," he said.
"Right," she said.
So Wayne talked about himself. He talked about Janice. Everything Wayne revealed about himself and how he felt, Ellen, though seeminly preoccupied, said it was reasonable that he felt the way he did, she understood why he would respond the way he did. It wasn't important what a nonprofessional said about him.
It depressed Wayne.
Then he told Ellen about Maurice eating dirt. Ellen seemed to find the story interesting. She said in humans such a condition was called "parorexia." Professionals knew that, she said, and some people ate fabric, ashes from ashtrays, whole pencils and even worse.
By the time Wayne left the office he had decided even his dog led a more interesting life than he.
One night Wayne ordered take-out Chinese food and brought it home and shared it with Maurice. They ate together at the dinette in the kitchen. The dog ate chow mein, fried shrimps, and beef from the broccoli beef.
A few nights later Wayne ordered two Philly cheese steak sandwiches-- one for him and one for the dog.
Wayne longed to take his pal to Paris. From what Wayne understood, the French had a healthy respect for dogs, allowed their pets to dine with them even in the best restaurants.
Wayne called a travel agent and asked about touring France with a dog. The agent said he'd look into it but called back the next day and told him the laws about bringing animals into France were overly-restrictive.
This news depressed Wayne.
Wayne went to one of the best French restaurants in town and ordered two meals to go. He told the waiter it was for a shut-in. It wasn't really lying to say that, he'd decided.
Wayne sat on a chair near the reception area while the meal was being prepared. Men in suits and ties and women in black dresses with strands of white pearls stared at him as he sat there waiting. To shut out their stares, Wayne closed his eyes and imagined himself and Maurice in France, drinking wine and munching escargot. He wondered if Maurice would eat escargot. Could he get Maurice a little tie to wear over his neck for formal dinners? He thought how they would sit there, in France, in a French restaurant, and the French people would say to the two of them, "Quel chien adorable!"
At home, Maurice devored the filet de boeuf.
Wayne told Ellen abouot dining with his dog. It seemed to perk her interest.
"Maybe you need to go out of the house more," she said.
But there wasn't time. Maurice needed him.
The dog's health became worse. Wayne took him back to the vet but the vet said nothing could be done.
Wayne asked for time off work. He had it coming. He rarely took vacations, only when Janice had insisted he take her someplace.
Besides, this was an emergency.
Wayne stayed home all day and cooked for himself and his pal. He always was a pretty fair cook, if unadventurous.
Maurice lay around most of the day, dozing in the triangle of sunlight on the floor in the dining room. The dog only ventured outside for a few minutes a day to do his business and have a mouthful of dirt. At dinnertime, Wayne had to lift Maurice into his seat at the dinette. The dog ate less and less, even when served steaks, meatloaf, or boneless chicken. He was wasting away.
It depressed Wayne.
Wayne called Janice.
"Maurice doesn't hardly eat at all," he said.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I know you cared for him."
"He's not gone yet," Wayne said.
There was a brief silence.
He thought she might be thinking up a remedy for the dog's poor appetite. Maybe she would give him a recipe. A special steak Janice, or salmon in puff pastry Janice. She always had the easy answers.
"Wayne," she said after a moment.
"Yes?" he said. That was it. All would be well. Janice would come back to him and they would care for Maurice together. He would show off his new skills in the kitchen. They would go to France together-- no, they would move to France with Maurice.
"I've been seeing someone else for some time now," she said. "It's serious."
Well, there it was, Janice just looking out for her own narrow self-interest. "This is more serious," he said. "How unprofessional of you to bring it up." Wayne hung up.
He told Ellen about Maurice.
"Sometimes you have to let an old friend go and move on with your life," she said.
"I don't want to," he said.
"You must."
Before Wayne left that day he stopped at the receptionist's desk and cancelled the rest of his appointments with the doctor.
Maurice fell one day while he was walking on the hardwood floor. He just collapsed. Wayne was alerted to the fall by the scrape of Maurice's nails.
The dog lay in the hallway, legs spread at an odd angle. When Wayne ran up to him , Maurice never bothered to try to get to his feet, but just lay there, staring up at Wayne with a sad, helpless look in his brown dog eyes.
The end was near. Wayne couldn't let his pal know he knew, but then again, he couldn't let him go without some special goodbye.
Wayne decided to make Maurice a special dinner with all his favorites.
He went shopping. He cooked all day. When the meal was prepared, he lifted Maurice into the seat at the dinette, and brought the covered plates to the table. He toasted the dog with a goblet of wine, then uncovered the plates. There was dirt with rice and dirt with meatloaf and dirt with apple tart. Wayne and his pal ate and, for a little while, it seemed as if they hadn't a care in the world.
THE END.
This story first appeared in the Santa Clara Review. Spring 1993. It also appeared a few times on my blog, The Dog Chronicles and on Magdalena Biela's wonderful website under essays.
Lost Toy
by Ci'Monique Green
This is my favorite part of the day. This still, reflective moment before all the cacophony begins. The jade waters of the Puget Sound seem just as quiet, just as calmly intuitive as I remember from last year.
Oh, how I wish that calm were true.
I pull my argyle scarf tighter around my neck as I lean over the weather-beaten rail of the ferryboat, rigid against February’s arctic breath on my graying beard. Whidbey Island is drawing close ahead, and the slow-moving vessel eases its way toward that last tug into the dock.
While I take those final deep puffs of moist air into my nostrils, the sudden pull on my trench coat stirs me back to earth. My favorite moment has passed, and the cacophony begins.
“O’Brien!!! I can’t find my mom! She has my other Gameboy and I need it! Thaddeus won’t share and he’s being mean to me again. I hate him! I really, really need my Gameboy now, O’Brien! Help me find it… Pu-leeeeeze!”
I drag in an audible sigh, clasping my gloved hands around little Ethan’s face. Frustated – again, that his parents have reduced his precious life to another life-and-death crisis over a silly electronic game.
I lower my grainy face down to Ethan’s butter-smooth one, and focus my speckled eyes on his crystal blues.
“Master Ethan. It’ll be alright. I’ll find your game in no time, okay?”
His dimpled six-year-old fingers clutch onto my trench like it is a rope dropped down from Heaven. Platinum blond eyelashes blink away petrified tears with plump, salty splashes.
He sniffs, and wipes his red nose with the cuffs of his designer ski jacket from Bergdorf’s. “Really, O’Brien?! You promise?” His eyes are big and pleading, with entirely too much excruciation. He’s latched me again with his tiny grip.
I give his soft cheeks a meaningful squeeze, trying to push my comfort into him. “Yes, Master Ethan. I promise.”
An imprisoned smile escapes his lips and his whitened knuckles slowly turn me loose. Then he skips down the wood-paneled floor in relief, hanging all his hope on my every word. I stretch up tall, watching him bounce away, with familiar sadness tackling me once again.
My name is O’Brien Mason Channing. I am the longtime butler of the Stirgus family. Mr. and Mrs. Sterling and Constance Stirgus; the wealthy seed of old Virginia aristocracy. They are both young enough to be my own children, and painfully spoiled enough to warrant a good swat to their creased Calvin Klein’s. I manage the household affairs of their Montpelier estate, which includes managing their household affairs everywhere in the world.
What the Stirguses do not know – because they’ve never asked and do not care – is that I, too, am royalty.
As a baby, I slumbered in a four-poster crib with regal crowns hanging from each corner. There were speckles of stars like diamonds dancing in the ceiling above my little head. And as my mother nursed me, she always adorned her neck with a string of pearls, so I would remember that my mom was a wealthy queen.
Indeed, royalty I was. Loved and bred by my enchanting parents, Hank and Dot, in the finest trailer home in all Flint, Michigan.
Our looming poverty, my dad would say, belied how enormously rich we were in happiness.
The crowns that hung on my crib were fashioned by my mom with old, smudged newspapers. The stars in the sky above me shone through the rusty fissures of our trailer’s cracked ceiling. Every stormy morning diamond droplets of rain somersaulted from the cottony clouds onto my tattered blanket. And those lovely pearls clasping a hug around my mother’s neck were a string of tiny, scratched plastic balls my father found laying against the curb in town. But still, he draped the necklace beneath the face of his beloved, and kissed his undying ardor into her blushing cheeks.
When I was born on the thin floorboard of our dusty trailer, my mother gave me a name that would remind me daily of the richness of our family’s joy. The priceless life I carry within my pedigree.
So even as a lifetime servant to the rare, ultra-wealthy class of generations-old money, I am yet royalty.
This weekend Sir Sterling, Madame Constance, Master Ethan, and Master Thaddeus are gathering at their winter cabin on Whidbey Island – a charming northern neighbor of Seattle. In December we were at their private Palm Springs resort, and last autumn we nestled into their Nantucket mansion flogged by an array of golden leaves.
As usual, Sir Sterling’s best friend Hunter is joining us, in hopes of easing the sting from his wife’s traumatic death. The equally-affluent New England couple was always a part of our annual retreats. Madame Eudora’s sickness came suddenly and inexplicably, leaving all who knew her reeling with shock. How vivacious life could ominously shrivel to a hollow cadaver wove a mystery only the walls can reveal. She died five years ago, but ostensibly, Sir Hunter’s wounds are still fresh.
So he says.
As I walk along the length of the crowded double-decker ferry, I pan my eyes looking for Madame Constance. I reach the spiral staircase and press my Oxfords into the iron steps, descending to the bottom floor. Over in the corner, tucked tight behind the coffee stand, I spot the Madame. She doesn’t see me – clearly because of the distraction before her perfectly make-upped face.
She is in Sir Hunter’s arms… laughing, smiling. Looking enamored, free and unattached. I see his whispers tickle her begging interest. Her hands grapple for the darkness of their secrets. And as she swings her head back in another ripple of delight, I see the little game box fly from her fingertips and topple overdeck into the burgeoning waters below.
I turn quick on my heels, climbing the slick stairs, just as both of them catch a guilty glimpse of me.
Just like last year. And the years before.
Minutes later, as the ferry approaches the dock, I come alongside Sir Sterling, surprised that he’s already corralled the boys around him. As I halt my footsteps, little Ethan’s eyes are peeled on me, dug into me. Searching desperately for my fulfilled promise. But when his battered stare slowly drops to my empty hands, I shudder under the mantle I must wear of being the source of his disappointment once again. The guiltless, but guilty bearer of bad news. And I realize, just by the pained gloss of his blue gaze, that his mother – to him – is just as lost as his little toy. It is not the video game he wants... but the foreign and elusive touch; the momentary wisp of love from the one who held it.
As is my custom, I tack a forced smile across my beard and reach for Ethan’s hand, pulling him into a hug, strong enough, I pray, to be a healing salve for his abandoned needs. And just then, Sir Hunter comes up quickly behind me.
Looking past my shoulder, Sir Sterling peers at his old Vassar College friend, decades of trust and brotherly fellowship distorting his eyes. “Hey buddy! Have you seen Constance?”
I turn my head up to the wind, silent and aching as usual. I hear Sir Hunter sniff in a masked puff of shame, and I wonder – as I have a million times, when I will be brave enough to finally tell the truth.
“Uh, no, buddy. Haven’t seen her in a while. What about you O’Brien?”
##
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
This story originally appeared in a magazine called Pulse in 1994.
Asleep
Frank Criscenti
One night she called. Tim, asleep again, answered on the second ring. He hadn't spoken to Deidre for twenty years.
"Imagine us living in the same place all these years and not bumping into each other," she said.
"It's a big city," he said.
"I didn't get up the nerve to call until tonight. I was out with some friends and I drank too much wine so I called. Why weren't you at the reunion?"
"I didn't have the money." He sat up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "I'm unemployed."
"If there was one person I wanted to see there it was you," she said.
He didn't know what to say so he said nothing.
 |
| Waterhouse |
Deidre filled the silence. She said she was widowed "Imagine, at thirty-six," and overworked trying to care for her husband's business and lonely sometimes. She talked about high school, a time inTim's life he would just as soon forget. At the end of the call, she insisted they meet for lunch Wednesday. "My treat," she said. "It'll give me a chance to pay you back."
"You don't need to pay me back," he said.
But she insisted.
On Wednesday morning when the alarm rang, Tim reset it and went back to sleep. The alarm rang again and he reset it. It rang again and he stayed in bed checking the clock every minute or so. He thought, I'll lay here just one more minute, but he dozed and didn't rise for ten more minutes. When he finally got out of bed he had to rush around to get ready. He showered, and dressed in his navy-blue blazer with the frayed pocket where he always kept his big ring of keys and his power-tie with the grease stain on it. They were the only decent clothes he had left. He wore them to job interviews, dinners, weddings, funerals, and any other occasion that might arise.
He chased and caught a streetcar two minutes after he left his Sunset district studio. Somehow, Tim arrived downtown on time. He sat in the lobby of the hotel where he was to meet Deidre, yawning.
She arrived twenty minutes late. When she walked in, he recognized her right away. She hadn't changed much. Something about the luminescence of the pearls and the cashmere next to her smotth, unlined skin made her look younger than he hoped she'd look. Tim wondered if she'd had plastic surgery. He thought, if he were rich and handsome he'd want to be seen with a woman like her. But being seen with her now would only make him feel inadequate. His legs felt like jelly. He panicked as he looked around for an exit--but too late--she'd spotted him.
"Tim?" she said as she approached.
"Deidre?" he said, trying for nonchalance.
"Good to see you," she said. "You still look the same."
"And you still look like a kid," he said.
"If only it were true." She took him by the arm. On the way to the elevator to the restaurant she jabbered all the while about traffic and business calls. "I really know nothing about business," she said.
At the entrance to the restaurant, the maitre d' addressed her as Mrs. St. Clair. "If Mrs. St. Clair and the gentleman will follow me," he said.
Tim hoped they wouldn't be seated under the massive chandelier. Wouldn't want to be under that thing when the next big quake hit. The maitre d' seated them at a table overlooking the garden-court.
The menus came. While Tim tried to decide what to order, she talked about problems involving "a property in Monterey."
He hoped she wouldn't forget her promise to buy the lunch. Of course, he'd feign an offer to buy, that was only fair.
"I'll have the chicken," she said when the waiter came for their order.
"The chicken breast with the brandy and artichokes?" the waiter asked.
"No, no." She yanked open the menu and jabbed at it with her finger. "This," she said.
"The baked?" the waiter asked.
"Whatever."
Tim ordered a steak.
"What kind of wine should we have?" Deidre said, passing him the wine list.
"None for me," Tim said.
"Why not?" She squinted at him as if this were some sort of trickery.
"I'm a recovering alcoholic."
"Oh." There was a moment's silence. "I didn't know. Do you mind if I have wine? Would it bother you?"
"Not at all," Tim lied.
She opened the list and pointed.
After the waiter left she said, "So, after all these years here we are."
"Here we are," Tim said.
She talked.
Tim only half-listened. He could feel the sweat soaking the back of his shirt. It seemed difficult to concentrate on what she was saying.
When the wine came, Deidre made a toast. "To old friends," she said.
"Skoal," Tim said and raised his glass of water with lemon. After he drank he picked up the bottle of wine and read the label.
During lunch, Deidre did most of the talking. She picked at her chicken. Every time the waiter passed he refilled her wine glass. The more she drank the less she talked about business and the more she talked about high school. Tim chewed his steak and nodded at the appropriate times. The food was good, even if he didn't know who was paying for it.
While Tim picked apart a pear tart, Deidre asked, "Remember that night at Buddy Burgers? You really saved my skin."
"I didn't save your skin, but I remember."
At the fast food joint where Tim worked, Robert Rossi, Deidre's boyfriend had punched Deidre in the face. Tim rushed out from behind the counter swinging the metal bar they used to close off the rear entrance at night, and chased Robert out of the place. It was his only act of heroism. Then Tim gave the other workers, Carlos and Bill Peters, the rest of the night off. He closed up the restaurant one hour early, and drove Deidre home. He lost his job for the act of chivalry. On top of that, Robert Rossi had made the last few weeks of Tim's senior year hell.
"What a night," Deidre said while the waiter poured the last of the merlot into her glass.
That night, in the car, she's leaned against the passenger's side door in her off-the-shoulder, forest green formal. He could smell her perfume mixed with the odor of beer. Even with the mascara running down her face and a thick, cut lip, he still thought she was beautiful. For a moment, Tim thought about pulling over and trying to comfort her. Imagine what she would've told her friends if he'd tried to kiss her or something.
"You lost you job," she said as she set the empty wine glass on the table.
"It was a lousy job anyway." Since then there were more lost jobs, a bankruptcy and a divorce.
"And here we are," she said.
"Here we are," he repeated.
She reached across the table and took his hand. "Twenty years," she said.
Deidre paid for the lunch with her American Express. Until the waiter brought the receipt, Tim continued to protest, if weakly.
"I won't hear of it," she said.
Tim stood.
Deidre stood and staggered. "Whoops," she said. "I'm afraid I've had too much to drink."
"How are you getting home?" he asked.
"Will you drive me?" she said and leaned against him. "My car is here in the garage."
When the valet brought Deidre's Cadillac, he handed Tim the keys. A shiver coursed through Tim. He felt like he held her whole life in his hands.
She lived in Pacific Heights in an apartment building. When they arrived, she pointed the automatic garage door opener at the garage door. She held the device as if she hadn't done the same thing a thousand times and aimed with one eye closed.
Tim parked.
She said, "Here we are. You'll come up, of course."
"I guess."
As they walked to the elevator, she took his arm. "I moved out of the house on Franklin shortly after Fred died. That was his house--his family's. He had adult children from a previous marriage and when they started looking at me funny, I got out. I still kept our house in Carmel, though. Maybe you can see it sometime."
Her apartment took up the entire sixth floor. Tim unlocked the front door. They entered and Deidre kicked off her shoes.
"Can I get you something?" she asked.
"I'm stuffed," he said.
"Well, I'm going to have another glass of wine. Go sit." She pointed toward the living room. She left for what he imagined was the kitchen.
Tim slipped Deidre's keys into his pocket with the others.
The apartment smelled of furniture wax. The living room was all blond wood, antiques, paintings, and sculptures. It looked more like an art gallery than a residence. There was an uncluttered, almost unnatural order to the place. He sat on the sofa.
Deidre walked into the living room. One hand held the glass she was drinking from and the other carried a bottle of wine. Deidre put the bottle on the coffee table. She sat next to him.
"Sure I can't get you anything?" she asked.
"Positive."
She sipped her wine then set her glass down. When she pulled her feet up on the sofa, it brought her closer to him. "So, tell me about yourself," she said.
He could feel her breath on his cheek. "Not much to tell," he said, "I'm trying to get my life together."
"Do you need work?"
"I'm okay," Tim said. "I've got some possibilities."
"Because if you need a job, Fred's business always needs good people. Are you interested?"
"Maybe I should go." He stood, but she grabbed his hand . "Sit," she said. "I'm not trying to insult you. I just want to help."
Tim sat.
She didn't let go of his hand. "I don't think you understand how you saved me that night. I was always expected to be so perfect."
Tim stared at the floor. Deidre leaned into him, kissed him on the cheek and hugged him. He didn't hug back but she held on anyway for a minute. When she broke the hug she said, "Don't you like me?"
He felt shaky suddenly. He didn't know if this was a come-on or not, so he said of course he liked her--why wouldn't he?
"You're not gay or anything?" she asked. "I mean it's all right if you are, but I'm just wondering if I'm wasting my time..."
"No," he said. He wasn't sure if he wanted to be the subject of a what-would've-happened-if-you-would've-kissed-me experiment. Deidre must have sensed his confusion because she returned to small talk and drinking her wine.
Before Tim left that day, Deidre made him promise to come back to the apartment Sunday night for dinner. She told him to think about the job. St. Clair Properties really could use someone and if he wanted, they would discuss it then. He promised he would think it over. At the door, she kissed him, on the lips this time.
Tim walked down Van Ness, headed for a locksmith near Broadway. After he had copies of all of Deidre's keys made, he walked back to her apartment. She rang him in. He returned her keys and apologized for his absentmindedness.
She grinned. "Come in for awhile," she said.
"I have to get home."
"Don't forget Sunday," she said, then kissed him.
Tim took a bus back home and went to bed.
Thursday, Tim called Deidre and got her answering machine. He took a bus then walked to her apartment building. No one was in the lobby. He rang her apartment. When he got no answer, he let himself in with the key. After he rode the elevator to her floor, Tim entered the apartment.
It felt like this every time he went back. There was a thrill to it--a shiver. His heart always seemed to skip when he first entered. He always felt light-headed. His skin felt cool and hot at the same time. It had felt the same when he went back to Buddy Burgers and to what used to be his house after the divorce and in the early morning hours when he sneaked into all the offices where he'd worked using the keys he always copied.
Tim walked into Deidre's bedrooom. He looked in her closet hoping to find the same forest-green formal she wore that night in high school when he drove her home. Instead, he found the cashmere sweater and skirt she'd worn on Wednesday. Tim rubbed it against his cheek. It felt soft and smelled of her perfume. Her clothes smelled like he remembered. That was a part of her appeal even back in high school, the scent of her as she passed in the hall. Even then he would breathe in her almost ethereal tropical flower scent and sigh sometimes as she passed.
He went through her drawers, took a pair of her panties and rubbed them between his fingers. He imagined the garment close to her skin. The waistband would leave a reddish mark around her waist. Maybe someday he would get to see that mark and kiss it until the redness disappeared to pinkness and the pinkness to pale white. That night back in high school--he'd wanted to kiss the hurt away. That was all, just kiss the hurt away.
Tim replaced the panties, straightened the drawer, then closed it. He got onto the bed. The bedspread felt cool on his back. He looked at his watch and decided to stay only ten more minutes. Tim closed his eyes. The whole room smelled of her. It felt of her. He could imagine being with her. The sensation of Deidre made him dizzy and drained his strength. He could stay on the bed forever. Anxious, again he checked his watch. Nine more minutes. He sighed as he curled up and reclosed his eyes. Time was passing very slowly, he thought. Sometimes, at the best of times, each minute seemed very long indeed. He inhaled her scent from the bedspread and closed his eyes. Before he fell to sleep, he imagined he could feel Deidre's lips brushing his cheek.###
No comments:
Post a Comment