Short Fiction – Page 20 – circularstaircase

Of Tea and Sympathix

With lime green floral shears, Lori cut the tight, twisted rubber band from its colorful bunch of flowers. Blood orange cosmos, blue-violet columbines, lacy fern fronds rained down into the kitchen sink. Snip, snip, snip, with quick, efficient motions Lori cut each flower stem diagonally. The warm sun rested on her bent shoulders. With a quick deliberate head gesture, she turned on Netazon. The home screen appeared a few inches Lori’s face with its familiar red N logo bounded by the date, the time, and a friendly “Hi, Lori, what are we watching today? Here’s what’s trending” below. Her fingers gently sorted the blooms.

She looked up at the glimmering images. Sports Highlights, Best WorldStar Clips of 2039 Volume 2, British mystery show, Comedy movie, another British mystery show, each flitted by. The Great British Baking Show flickered before her eyes. Ooo bread week, she thought, this is a good day. With a swift up-down head movement, Lori selected her show. She adjusted its volume quickly so as not to disturb Jameson typing away on his old Tab with a mug of Earl Grey besides him at the kitchen table. Lori surveyed the flowers, absentmindedly dried her hands on her sunny yellow apron, and headed for the dining room.

The screen winked off as Lori turned and flashed on again to her left as she searched the top shelf of her antique pie safe. The opening music played over images of a tent full of anxious amateur bakers and then a quick fade to commercial. Lori rummaged a lower shelf.

“Not feeling yourself? Overwhelmed? Always anxious? Now’s there’s help. Now there is Flaviron,” said the commercial.

A beautiful model with silver temples wrapped in an elegant knitted shawl walked solemnly under autumn trees in the commercial. The announcer’s placid tone washed over Lori. She selected one of her favorite vases, a tall slender fluted cylinder of milk glass with scalloped edges that Jameson and she had gotten at that little shop in Providencetown when they had hid that time from a sudden rainstorm. Lori ran her fingers along the smooth, familiar surface.

“…the long-acting solution to depression, bipolar disorder, baby blues,” the commercial continued, curling around her head.

She snatched a green metal frog and returned to the kitchen. From the corner of her eye, Lori could see the lovely model twirling merrily under falling golden leaves, shawl flowing around her, her head thrown back.

“Honestly, I don’t believe what the Commission said I know the computers are listening to anything we say and selling our information to Facebook and AppleSoft and the government and God know who else. Just the other day I was telling Suz I wanted to spruce up my look and Facebook I kid you not sent my ads for hair extensions and exercise bras all day. I mean honestly I couldn’t even enjoy Ollie’s fall break photos. Honestly, it’s like—“

“Are you all right?” Jameson’s tone more than his question struck her into silence. Lori search his face, the dark rimmed glasses, the serious hazel eyes with laugh lines, the salt and pepper hair, the tightly clenched mouth. She followed his gaze to her own hand and then realized she was squeezing the frog so tightly that its tiny metal prongs had pricked her flesh and a thin ribbon of blood trailed down her arm. Lori rushed to the sink and bathed her fingers in cool water. The baking reality show returned over the sink. The hosts telling jokes about bread in the English countryside. Lori hummed to herself under the cool water as Jameson’s eyes surveyed her movements. His gaze returned to his device.

This is a good day. Briskly, Lori returned to the flowers. The screen slightly above her head showed contestants frantically making brioche. Jameson and I had coffee and toast and eggs this morning. No headaches, no gray cloud. Such a good day. We went to the farmers’ market and the weather was lovely. We went to that stand with the good crumb cakes and there were beets and collards and even a handful of gorgeous grape tomatoes and Jameson had picked out two bouquets for her.

Lori placed the metal frog in the vase’s base and filled the container with warm water and an aspirin. Then she added each flower cautiously building up the arrangement. She pulled the leaves from each flower stem below the water line and imagined pulling off her own skin in long strip the way you peel Granny Smiths for a pie. She pushed the thought away. Above her, the contestants continued to race around their baking stations.

“Not feeling yourself? Overwhelmed? Always anxious? Now’s there’s help.” The sounds of the commercial returned.

Without looking up, Lori moved more quickly, crushing the bits of stem and leaves into the garbage disposal with a long wooden spoon. Flowers slammed together. “Hon, did you see that funny video from Oliver? I don’t know if he sent to you, too. Where he found his girlfriend’s cat in his shoebox?” Lori’s voice was cheerful and eager. “He tried to put the box lid on and that cat wasn’t having it. He always knows how to have a good time, my Ollie. He was a happy baby and he is still is—

“Now there is Flaviron. The freedom of Flaviron.

“I know he hates to hear me call him baby, but he’s always my baby boy and speaking of babies did you see Taylor’s photos of Isaac and Ruby? Can you believe they are graduating?” Her voice rose higher, came faster.

“FDA approved Flaviron is the long-acting solution to depression, bipolar disorder, baby blues with the total suppression of all strong emotions. Flaviron puts you back in control. Flaviron puts your family back on track. Contact your doctor today for–

“I remember holding them in my arms. I remember the day they were born as if it were yesterday and now they are both taller than me and actually graduating high school.” Delphiniums, ragged pieces of asparagus fern, columbines, ranunculus, cosmos, she plowed them in, spearing each in place. Lori raced into the dining room, vase in hand, towards the dining table, paper thin ranunculus petals falling behind her. Suddenly her midriff hit the dining room chair and she dropped the heavy vessel on the table. The vase fell and tripped over almost in slow motion, water raced across the table, flowers splattered.

“Are you all right?” Jameson said.

He rushed into the room, his hands found her waist. Lori sidestepped his grasp and started mopping up the water with an embroidered yellow cocktail napkin with one hand while the vase in the other hand gently leaked water from a hairline crack. Over Lori’s head a grey-haired woman was spinning and then one of those baking shows Lori liked so much came on. Jameson took the vase from her, placed it in the sink, and fetched paper towels for the floor and table. I’ll have to get that vase mended. There is a guy who sharpens knives at the farmers’ market. I think he can mend pottery and vases and stuff. I’ll looked up his shop. It’s still a good day. I can pick up some nice roses too at the supermarket when I get the milk. First a nap. My head, my head. Her shoulders were raised and her head throbbed. Jameson turned off the program with an abrupt gesture and Lori looked up at him with a grateful smile. He kissed her forehead gingerly.

Jameson returned to his Tab after Lori had wearily climbed the stairs for bed. He sat down wearily, his Earl Grey long grown cold. An ad popped up on his device screen. It was an attractive older woman walking under trees. The woman in the ad had a scarf, a little like the ones Lori used to knit when Oliver was little. She was always doing projects, making things. Jameson took a long draw of his cold, now bitter tea. Is Your Loved One Not Herself? Would you like to learn more? it read. His hand hovered over the ad then he brushed it away.

Jameson had been researching Flaviron for weeks. He read about the success rates in the clinical trials, the significant positive effects in prisons and juvenile detention facilities. He had pored over articles and blogs, potential side effects, potential benefits, the pros and the cons. This wasn’t like that terrible thing with Sympathix last year, he said to himself. Not at all. Besides you can believe everything you read anymore. The press were always making up bogeymen, creating tempests in teapots to sell more ads. People love to sit around and bitch and moan instead of actually doing things, getting things done. Granted a few people got hurt with Sympathix, a few out of many, and they were pretty messed up to begin with. Besides that was a different drug company and they had finagled the early trials. That couldn’t happen again.

“Everyone is always so sensitive nowadays over every little thing.” Jameson said out loud.

The ad refreshed on his Tab.

“Now, there’s Flaviron. The freedom of Flaviron,” the announcer said. An image appeared of the same attractive woman wrapped in a shawl now walking arm in arm with a guy through a park in autumn.

Jameson thought about a trip Lori and he had taken to New England years ago. A smile came to his lips. He knew under the latest guidelines husbands could seek and obtain prescriptions for their wives. It is done all the time. Would it be so bad to try? Just a little and he could stop if there was the slightest side effect. What’s the big deal? New and Improved, now colorless and tasteless. Would you like to learn more?

Jameson finished his mug of tea and tapped the ad.

The Quiet

I wake up to screaming. High pitched, blood-curdling squeals—almost like a child’s cry—fill my bedroom raging in through the open window. Blindly I run out of our bedroom across the hall to the stairs. The screaming races from the front yard whips along the side of the house and rushes into the backyard. Frantically I pound down the circular stairs, spinning through the foyer, through the kitchen, finally to the backyard door.

The screams are louder, closer, right there. I wretch open the back-door lock. I throw open the back door. Cool night air floods in and I hit silence.

My eyes devour the darkness for the source of the sounds. Nothing. I can just make out the outlines of our trees and shrubs, the neighbor’s trees and the neighbor’s shrubs. I fumble with the light switches. The back porch overhead lamp sputters on throwing a pathetic pool of light.

Now I see our overturned wheelbarrow, the weeds, Kennedy’s twisted water slide leaning forlornly against back fence, and our old empty rabbit hutch. I search the yard with my eyes hungrily. Suddenly cold in my nightgown, my heart still pounding in my chest, I close the back door.

Slowly, I climb back up the stairs suddenly weary. I peek into Kennedy’s bedroom. Twinks uncurls and recurls at the foot of her bed, sleepily winks at me, and begins to purr furiously. Kennedy’s room is very warm and lit by a plush star-studded turtle nightlight. She is dead asleep, tiny hands clenched tight, her blanket with tiny tiaras and pink flowers kicked to the floor. I resist the urge to go to her bed to sleep cradled against her warm back and instead I pick up her bedclothes and tuck her to bed.

Quietly return to my own room. I make a plump nest of pillows on my side of the bed. I kick my own duvet viciously to the floor and settle under the cool, cool sheets. It’s 3:26 am. The night screams have happened again.

I try to sleep. 3:37 am. I turn and twist. 3:42 am. I flip over the good pillow and lay very still hoping that if I pretended to sleep very, very well I would fall asleep. 4:02 am. I give up. I reach for my iPad and start researching useless things. At 5:23 am I turn off my alarm before it rings and begin limping through another day.

Kennedy wakes up like a rocket, bursting with questions and songs and occasional pirouettes. I sleepwalk through our morning routine, brush teeth, get dressed, eat breakfast, load laundry, pack lunches–turkey sandwiches and apple slices with onions on mine and a juice box with hers–drop off Kennedy at daycare, drive to work, collapse on desk. At each step of the morning, I return to thoughts of the night.

According to my late-night internet research the screaming in the night is the sound of rabbits, rabbits in distress, particularly rabbits in distress when they are being eaten by foxes. Wild bunnies invade our raised beds day and night, but mostly at night. Among the cukes and black Russian tomatoes each night, the rabbits come for food and instead encounter foxes. Rabbits are silent, no purring, no barking, their only sound is a scream before dying.

I’ve put up chicken wire and squirrel netting. I sprayed the garden with wolf urine. I even listened to my mother God help me and sprinkled human hair from the Hair Cuttery around the vegetable garden. Now I sweat out the end of summer with the windows closed, but still I can hear them. The first time I heard a rabbit’s screaming I must’ve dreamt a fox had broken into our bunny’s hutch. I ran into the backyard, tore up the cage, searching for Paddington before waking up to remember our own rabbit had died last spring.

I lose myself at work, editing articles, reviewing captions, pretending to listen during staff meetings. Only on the long drive home does the night returns to my mind. Will I lay awake all night restless and waiting? Will it be peaceful? Will I hear the screams again? When will I ever get a good night’s sleep?

It is a relief to finally head home, discarding the mask of politeness and efficiency on the passenger seat. I pick up my daughter and together we head to ShopRite for a roast chicken and quinoa salad for me and nuggets for her. Over dinner, Kennedy fills the house. The evening slowly unfurls from dinner to cleanup to Kennedy’s taking out each and every toy from her bedroom to the living room, to making tomorrow’s lunches, bath time, bouncy pajama time, story time, bed time, please one more story time, real bedtime and watching Kennedy, suddenly, effortlessly fall into sleep.

I reach over and stroke her curls. She has my dark coloring but Liam’s hair, a loose explosion of big curls. I watch her even, slow breaths and twirl a lock of her soft dark brown hair around my finger. She strikes my hand away in her sleep and rolls over. I head down stairs with heavy slow steps. I pick up the toys and books and stuffed animals, carrying them to the bookshelf or the basket on the staircase landing. By the stairs I stop to needlessly straighten the coats on coat rack. I hug Liam’s old jacket then I quickly push away the jacket and my grief. Overhead I hear footsteps.

“Did you wake up honey?”

I wait for Kennedy’s voice to ring out for a request for a glass of water or a hug or yet another story. Silence. With a tired shrug, I return to Hungry Hungry Hippos, carefully collecting the white marbles that have escaped the broken box waiting for a plaintive mommy. I pour myself a predicable glass of box wine. I find a paperback and settle onto the sofa. Gently I pushed a stubbornly sullen Twinks off the blanket on the sofa back and cover myself with the warmed, slightly hairy blanket.

My book hits the floor with a sudden bang waking me up. Stiff, I reach for the paperback hoping I can read myself back to sleep. A puffed ball of orange fur, Twinks is standing stock still in the middle of the living room peering up at the ceiling. Soft solid footsteps cross the living room ceiling. The steps are solid, heavy, too heavy. They are not coming from Kennedy’s room on the second floor into the hallway, but from higher up from the third floor Liam’s office. The sound of steps drift down the third floor stairs. There is a pause. I look at Twinks; he looks at me. I realize I’m holding my breath. There is the gentle squeak of the heavy five panel door to the third floor as it opens. Twinks flattens his ears against her head and zips into the dining room, runs around the dining room chairs and barrels through the kitchen through the cat door and disappears into the basement..

My eyes return to the living room ceiling. The footsteps from the third floor stairway head to our bedroom then quiet. I sit perfectly still. I close my book. I untangle from the blanket and head for the stairs. I climb up to bed, I climb up to curl up in a crescent on my side of the bed, I climb up to feel again a warm arm rest gently across my back, I climb up to sleep.

Winter Is Coming

It’s December 23rd and I have officially bound off my last knitted Christmas gift of 2014. As I reflect over my projects I have gathered some life lessons.

First start early.
I started making Christmas presents last summer. I was filled with creativity and time stretched before me like an infinite road. Who cares if it’s ninety degrees. Starting early also gave me time to screw up without stressing. I bought some new skeins of pretty thick and thin yarn that knitted up just weird. Not bad, just weird. I kinda of like this pair of cowls but ultimately decided the projects were a little too odd for gifting.
Second keep track of your shit.
As summer rolled into autumn I bounced from project to project careening wildly attracted by new patterns and pretty pieces of strings. Seriously have you seen Ombré by Friea? There nothing wrong with being a magpie as long as you keep stuff organized. I kept slowing down because I would lose patterns or balls would escape to the nether regions of the sofa.
Third go big.
If you didn’t do the second step and really what magpie would, don’t be afraid to pick up the thickest nicest yarn you can.
But when you use bulky yarn make sure the pattern suits the yarn. Quick and ugly doesn’t fit anyone wheelhouse. Last week, I bought two lovely skeins of Isaac Mizhak variegated wool and jumped into my tried and true fave quick pattern. Disaster. I ended frogging three times until I found the pattern that really suited the cushy jewel tones of the yarn. If I had stopped to think, to consider carefully, I could have saved myself a lot of time. And that was the fourth and final lesson: always consider what you’re working with. This is always the hardest, I’ve learned and forgotten it hundreds of times and I suspect I’ll be learning it again next Christmas.

One Book Leads To Another

Despite my bloggy silence I am still writing as well as doing some research on hoarding to recharge and inform a certain story I’m wrestling with. Despite my struggles, I haven’t given up and I feel encouraged that I will write the knots out my tangled story or die trying.
Thank to my writing group for support on my journey and here is a sample from the last meeting, which I think I will refashion as an ending for another mired story.
Stay tuned.

I love everything. I love the sidewalk, especially after it rains and smells of mud and dry earthworms. I love these rocks these pee splashed egg round rocks right here along the driveway. I love love the patch of long grass by the side of this house, yes, it’s dryer towel warm and soft and I can keep an eye on that cat in that window. I inhale the crisp blades of grass–a bright, sharp, candy sweet, rolled newspaper smell–nosing them left and right, no cat, right and left, no cat yet. Turning circles in my favorite napping spot, I knead the lawn until each blade was folded into the ideal sleeping position, and then I settle in.
The whine of a car trunk opening wakes me. The nice lady with friendly hands is carrying suitcases, then boxes, then trash bags. Raising a wiry eyebrow I watch and wait. The other lady, the get out my yard lady, comes out now, carrying some clothes on hangers. The nice lady with friendly hands grabs them from her quickly. I watch for a fight. Their eyes are angry but arms stay loose and limp. Slowly I walk to the car door, my head low and cautious.
The nice lady returns carrying the little girl who throws rocks. The girl is sleep heavy with pink wet lickable cheeks. I could smell the salt on her face. She puts the girls in the car.
“Hi, Bubba,” calls the nice lady, her eyes moist and kind.
I wag my tail enthusiastically. My whole bottom wags from side to side. The nice lady smiles at me but no head pat, no belly rub. I watch her car drive out of the driveway down the road past the hill, gone. I eye the other lady wondering if I have to move on, but she is smiling too. The screen door shuts quietly. I notice that cat is watching now with an angry flicking tail. I turn three times left and three times right to annoy her then I fall back to sleep.

An Experiment

Here’s the first paragraph of a new story I’m working. I’m very happy with how the work is progressing which never happens so perhaps it’s good or perhaps I’m loopy.

“Signs are very important. You can’t ever forget that,” MaryRose said, fluttering between the coffee machine and stovetop. News radio blared from the tiny, much duct-taped transistor radio as MaryRose gently stirred the eggs. She watched her son absently scratching his stubbly beard, rubbing his chin like his father used to when he was pretending not to listen.
Her son’s eyes never left his phone. Swiftly, MaryRose took out two slices of wheat bread from the loaf on top of the cookbooks on top of the breadbox and headed for the toaster.
“Remember that thing that happened to your Aunt Miriam. I told her and told her but she never listened to me. Matthew are you listening to me?”
“The eggs are burning.”
She raced to the stove with the bread, stopped short and then ran back to the toaster. Matthew slipped his phone into his hip pocket and stalked over to the cupboard. He opened the door swiftly as cockroaches slithered away frantically from the light. Matthew grabbed the nearest cup rinsed it in the sink. MaryRose hurried to the stovetop to rescue the charred eggs.
“Matty, they’re not too bad. Just a little crispy on the edges. They’re good, good,” MaryRose stammered cheerfully, switched off the stove, and hurried to the cabinet for a plate. A shower of dead and live roaches spilled onto the crowded countertop.
“Damn, damn,” MaryRose whispered to herself, while hurrying back to the stove. She slid two eggs onto the plate and turned to watch Matthew walk out of the back door with his backpack and coffee cup.
MaryRose watched the door slam shut. She left the eggs on kitchen table at Matty’s place and then shuffled to her corner of the sofa bathed in the soft blue of the television set.

School Daze

School has finally begun. And while it has been rough to juggle getting school supplies and going to parent/teacher meetings (I still haven’t gotten the kids sneakers!), I have found the more rigid schedule of fall more conducive to writing than the languid days of summer. Ideas have began to percolate.

Falling Down

Once at my old house, I climbed up a narrow flight of stairs with a mailing tube full of large knitting needles (don’t ask). The bottom fell out of my tube, the needles followed the bottom, and when I leaned over to pick up a needle I fell down said narrow stairs careening over pastel metallic needles all the way. Apparently, my writing mojo took a similar spectacular fall this summer.
Ladies and gentleman, I have fallen off my writer’s wagon like Jack Lemon in Days of Wine & Roses. The kids had summer camp and summer trips and my inspiration went on vacation. But I like to think that my inspiration was re-charging and not merely slumbering. God help me, I’m not Lee Remick in Days of Wine & Roses. I will get off the floor, splash cold water on my face,and write into the sunset.
And I designed some flyers for the new knitting guild that I’m starting so that counts for something.

Keep On

“Language is to the mind more than light is to the eye.”
William Gibson
I was on such a good run with my writing but lately my imagination has collapsed into a shuddering heap. On the doors of my office cabinet where I keep my computer and supplies I have beloved quotes on post it notes and random scraps of paper. Whenever I used to hit writer’s block while working on articles I would look around me for inspiration. Lately since I tend to write on my mobile devices I have taken to saving quotes in my notepad. Here’s my latest quote and below is the first paragraph of my latest story. Hopefully I can prod my imagination of the couch and finish it soon.

Legs akimbo, Isis paused in mid grooming to spy a small, chartreuse spider crawling down the window. The spider scurried back up the curtain rod and Isis stood and stretched in one fluid, languid motion. After curling into a perfect crescent on the window seat, Isis settled down to sleep. Through nearly closed eyes she watched Kathleen’s fingers move across sheets of cool smooth paper, she watched the tendrils of the creeping jenny make shadows on the wall, she watched where the floors met the walls, then she watched Kathleen again listening to the scratch of her red hard pencil on the smooth smooth paper before closing her eyes to sleep. The child was nearby. Isis swiveled her ears in the direction of the stairs just beyond the door. Suddenly a scream, small and sharp, ripped through the room. Isis flashed under the plant stand, ears low and wary.

The Quiet

Two weeks into the Writing 101 workshop series, and I have not had as much time to write as I would like there is work and the kids’ summer learning sessions, and Sharknado 2. But I did find time to submit a short story to a local literary journal. The first time in many years and that is almost as good as as Tara Reid with a jigsaw hand.

The Quiet
I wake up to screaming. Strangely high pitched, blood-curdling squeals almost like a child’s cry but distinctly not human fill my bedroom through the open window. I run blindly out of my room across the hall to the stairs. The screeching races from the front yard down the side of the house and into the backyard. Frantically I pound down the stairs across the living room through the kitchen to the backyard door. The screams are louder, closer. I throw open the back door. Cool night air floods in and I hit silence.
My eyes devour the darkness. Nothing. I can just make out the outlines of my trees and shrubs, the neighbor’s trees and shrubs. I fumble with the light switches. The back porch overhead lamp flutter on throwing a pathetic pool of light to show the overturned wheelbarrow and Kennedy’s twisted water slide leaning forlornly against back railing. I look and look. Suddenly cold in my underwear, my heart still pounding in my chest, I close the back door.
Slowly, I climb back up the stairs suddenly weary. I peek into Kennedy’s bedroom. She is dead asleep, tiny hands clenched tight, sheets kicked to the floor. I resist the urge to go to her bed to sleep cradled against her warm back and quietly return to my own room. I make a plump nest of pillows in the middle of the headboard. I kick the duvet viciously to the floor and settle under the cool, cool sheets. It’s 3:26 am. The night screams have happened again.
I try to sleep. 3:37 am. I turn and twist. 3:42 am. I flip over the good pillow and lay very still hoping that if I pretended to sleep very, very well I would actually fall asleep. 4:02 am. I give up. I reach for my iPad and start researching useless things. At 6:23 am I turn off my alarm before it rings and begin limping through another day.
Kennedy wakes up like a rocket, already bursting of random questions and meandering stories. I blaze through the morning routine, brush teeth, get dressed, eat breakfast, do a load of laundry, grab lunches, drop off Kennedy at daycare, drive to work, collapse on desk. At each step of the day, I return to thoughts of the night. According to the almighty Internet the screaming in the night is rabbits. I know this and I know there is nothing I can do about it. Rabbits as I have learned (also from the Internet) are nocturnal. The stupid rabbits visit my vegetable garden at night and meet the local foxes, which are also nocturnal. I’ve put up chicken wire and squirrel netting, but still the rabbits come. I sprayed the garden with garlic oil and wolf urine, but still the rabbits come. I have sweated it out with the windows closed and looked into various affordable air conditioners that would work with my new vinyl windows in my very old house, but still I hear the screaming at night.
I try to lose myself at work, fussing with reports, pretending to listen to other people’s stores. I appear cheerful and attentive but the night is always on my mind. Will I lay awake all night restless and waiting? Will it be peaceful? Will I hear the screams again? When will I ever get a good night’s sleep?
It is a relief to finally head home, dropping the mask of politeness. I pick up my daughter and together we head to the grocery store. Kennedy tells me about a little boy she likes who seems not particularly bright and all the things she saw during her day including the make-believe ones. The day unwinds into dinner, Kennedy’s taking out each and every toy, cleaning up dinner, making tomorrow’s lunches, bath time, story time, bed time, please one more story time and watching Kennedy, suddenly, easily fall into sleep.
I reach over and stroke her curls, watching her even, slow breaths. She strikes my hand away in her sleep and rolls over. I head down stairs with heavy slow steps. I starting picking up toys and carrying them to the toy box in the dining room and the basket on the staircase landing. By the stairs I stop to needlessly straighten the coats on coat rack. I hug Liam’s old jacket then I quickly push away the jacket and my grief. Overhead I hear footsteps.
“Did you wake up honey?”
I wait for Kennedy’s voice to ring out for a request for a glass of water or a hug or yet another story. Silence. With a tired shrug, I return to Hungry Hungry Hippos, carefully collecting the white marbles that have escaped the broken box. I pick up my Ngaio Marsh paperback and settle on the sofa. Gently I pushed my stubbornly sullen cat, SarahJane, off the blanket on the sofa back and cover myself with the warmed, slightly hairy blanket.
My book hits the floor with a sudden bang waking me up. Despite the killer cramp in my neck, I reach for the paperback hoping I can read myself back to sleep. SarahJane is standing stock still in the middle of the living room peering up at the ceiling. Soft solid footsteps cross the living room ceiling. The steps are too soft. They are not coming from Kennedy’s room on the second floor into the hallway, but from higher up in Liam’s old office in the attic. The sound of steps drift down the third floor stairs. There is a pause. I look at SarahJane; she looks at me. I realize I’m holding my breath. There is the gentle squeak of the heavy five panel door to the third floor as it opens. SarahJane flattens her ears against her head and runs with quick hopping steps under the dining room table.
My eyes return to the living room ceiling. The footsteps from the third floor stairway head to our, my, our bedroom then quiet. I sit perfectly still. Then I place my bookmark in my book. I untangle from the blanket and head for the stairs. I climb up to bed, I climb up to curl up in a crescent on my side of the bed, I climb up to feel again a warm arm rest gently across my back, I climb up to sleep.

Out In The Garden

The cake was surprisingly heavy. A lemon pound cake with soft peaks of homemade vanilla frosting perched on a batter bowl green cake stand. Bea fought back the sudden urge to put flowers–daisies perhaps–around the base of the cake or a generous sprinkle of silver dragees or jimmies or something. But she knew Leo wouldn’t cotton to that. She carried the cake cautiously into the dining room as Bobby and Monica burst into a giggly off key version of Happy Birthday.
Instead of singing Jamie was playing a kiddie tambourine and gyrating around the table.
“All right, all right, settle down!” Laughing, Leo shouted over the din. The kids sang louder. He patted my hand as I put the flowerless cake on the table. Leo looked up at me with a bedraggled smile. We looked over at the kids as they launched into yet another verse of Happy Birthday. He lifted his hand to my cheek and the alarm clock went off.
My eyes flew open and I reached for Leo’s side of the bed before I remembered he wasn’t there anymore.
Bea bolted upright and smacked the large display digital alarm clock. She considered lingering in bed, rolling in the sheets, making a fortress of pillows against the day. Instead out of habit, Bea grimly set her feet on the floor. Her legs had been her best feature. She was tall and her legs were once coppery brown long and lean. They were still long but now she stared down at varicose veins in thick sturdy calves.
With quick, efficient movements, Bea made the bed tight as a drum. She smoothed the already smooth sheets and absently patted Leo’s side. Next she straighten up the bedroom wiping away imaginary dust and rearranging the large stack of magazines, journals, and books on her side of the bed. Leo’s nightstand held only a tall, narrow lamp and a snowglobe of a country house from their last trip to Lancaster.
Bea dusted it gently and then held it up to the window admiring the tiny shutters and front porch with a swing. She had grown up in a house like this with six brothers and sisters. As the fourth child, second daughter her chief duties were laundry and not getting in the way. When she was young Bea would steal away to the barn to draw pictures on stolen pieces of butcher paper and stare out at the sky. Bea remembered she had called to attention to the globe in some little gift shop and Leo had secretly brought it for her. She headed downstairs and made breakfast, Greek yogurt with peaches, dry rye toast, two eggs over easy. She looked down at her plate surprised because she had wanted scrambled eggs with sausages. The phone rang breaking Bea’s thoughts.
“Hey, Mom. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“No, sweetheart, I can always make time for you.” Bea tighten her stomach for disappointment. With the phone cradled between her shoulder and her ear, Bea listened to her daughter weave a tapestry of lies about the trip with her granddaughters planned for this summer.
Frustrated Bea suddenly broke in. “I just don’t understand. I thought this was all arranged. The girls would stay with me the first two weeks after school ended.” Bea tried to control her voice, to rein in her rising emotions.
“I know, I know, Mom, but Taylor has this new tutor and camp is starting earlier than I thought,” Monica stuttered. Her words rushing over one another. “I mean if there was anything I could do.”
“So Aaron wants the kids to go to his parents’ house, right? They have the big house and the pool and of course the beach house. We can forget the beach house. This is ridiculous Monica. We can share the time. Let me talk to him–”
“No!” Monica suddenly snapped. “Please Mom this is not about Sarah and Paul.”
“So what is it about?”
Monica went silent. Bea gripped the phone desperate to catch every word. Monica exhaled.
“Look, Mommy, try to understand. You know what it is like trying to make everyone happy and the girls are getting older and want to make plans with their friends and being caught in the middle and the drive is so long and you know how Aaron gets and you know how it is.” Monica said, biting her lip.
Bea leaned her back against the wall to keep the room from spinning. She twisted the phone cord in her hand.
“Maybe we could do something at the end of summer? I think Aaron has a few days before school starts again.”
Bea let her daughter babble on pretending to understand until the conversation dwindled and sputtered to an awkward stop. She hung up the phone wearily. A card from the French memo board drifted to the floor.
Happy Birthday, hope you have the happiest of birthdays all my love Bobby. She could tell that the card was signed by his wife, Mika. She wrote the same thing every year. Bea slipped the card onto the board with the utility bill and a few yellowed recipes. Breakfast forgotten, Bea walked into the dining room to put away the chest of dress up clothes and basket of arts and crafts that she had set up on the table.
In the late afternoon, Bea polished the furniture. The lemon oil glimmered over the dark veins of wood. She placed a square glass vase in the center of the dining room table. Roses from her garden fell to one side bleeding red petals on to the freshly polished surface. Tenderly Bea gathered the petals in her hand and carried them to the trash. She carried the whole arrangement into the kitchen. In the bright white and harvest gold colored kitchen the arrangement looked top heavy. She thought she heard the mailman coming early. She hurried to the door, peeking out of its small window. Nothing. Bea went through her shelf of vases by the sink and chose a curvy milk glass one with a wide mouth. Carefully Bea transferred the roses from the clear vase to the white one. More petals rained into the sink. Avoiding thorns Bea twisted the flowers into a more pleasing shape. The roses fell over to the other side.
The mailbox lid creaked. Bea hurried to the door and then slowed her steps. Her mail was two advertisements, some bills, and a card from her old school for the upcoming Harvest Festival.
Memories flooded into her of the pumpkin painting, apple bobbing contests, corn husk dolls and the children laughing and the heady sweetness of warm mulled cider and Mrs. Weismann’s homemade bread and butter pickles. She turned the orange and forest green save the date card over. Bea had been on that committee for eleven years and had chaired it for seven before the bitches from Language Arts took over everything. She flung the cardstock into the trash. As she closed the door Bea noticed the oblong box leaning by the door. She didn’t remember what it was at first then realized it was the insect habitat she had ordered for the kids. She hadn’t wanted the summer to be all princess tea parties; she wanted the girls to have science and adventure. What she got was a box of praying mantids.
Sighing, Bea bought the box over to the counter, thought better of it and set the box on the bench by the back door. She pulled the flowers from the white vase and stuffed them back into the clear square vase. Bea returned the square vase to the table trailing scarlet petals all the way.
Scented with basil flowers and rosemary, Bea came in from the backyard garden carrying a basket of roses, cosmos, and herbs. Her knees and back ached from the demands of their sprawling flower beds. Vintage blue and green Mason jars lined the kitchen counters ready for the latest project. This time she was making a few bouquets for her neighbors. Sailing past, she knocked over a long oblong box sitting on the mudroom bench. Startled, Bea picked it up and stared at it. It was the praying mantis farm she had bought for the girls. The words: Open Immediately: Perishable shouted out to her. Bea remembered once Leo had ordered butterfly cocoons for his biology class and they had been delivered accidentally to the cafeteria and left to rot in a corner.
Quickly she dropped the flower basket in sink and rushed the box to the kitchen table. Bea carefully removed the contents scrambling to come up with some neighbor’s child to give the set to. The Browns, no the Schiavellis, no. Bea imagined having to explain why her grandchildren had not come, having to offer a neighbor the wonderful gift of bugs. She would simply throw the whole thing away. Out fell the praying mantis egg sac in its special sealed plastic tube. Golden tan, wrinkled, slightly smaller than a walnut, each sac held approximately 200 eggs. Bea turned the smooth cylinder in her hand filled with a curious mixture of revulsion and delight. Tenderly she placed the tube on her gingham placemat and started reading the kit’s instructions.
Bea wiped down the kitchen counters with brusque strokes. Then she peeked into the dining room. Bea swept the big squares of speckled black and white linoleum. Then she peeked into the dining room. Bea sprayed the kitchen table with cleaner, threw the cloth at it and went into the dining room. She pulled a dining room chair over to the antique sewing table under the big picture window and stared at her praying mantis habitat. Bea misted the egg sac lightly with distilled spring water and watched as drops of water glistened on the tawny brown sac. The habitat was a hideous kelly green with a cheap plastic base and a polyester mesh cover. Leo used to recommend this company, but she suspected the quality had come down over the years. Bea had lined the base with paper towels and spaghum moss based on some videos she had watched on youtube. The sewing table was the ideal choice because it was durable and window was sunny. Was it too sunny? Maybe the dining table was cooler? The kitchen was too drafty. Bea was afraid of temperature changes. She was afraid that she was misting too much? Or not enough? Leo used to do science experiments with all the kids, real Mr. Wizard-type stuff. Bea ruffled in the dry air. It had been two weeks of nothing. She returned to her damp kitchen table.
Navigating the busy shopping center parking lot, Bea carried the wire milk crate of books into the bookstore. The crate was filled with children’s books, some brand new with tight, uncracked spines, others worn and well read from when her own children were small. She had been buying books and saving books for the grandkids when they came to visit but she had finally decided to ship her children their favorites and dump the rest. It was the beginning of August. No visits, no trips, she had even tossed the praying mantis eggs sacs outside and thrown away the kit. There was too much clutter in the house. She had been setting aside boxes of clothes and dishes for a yard sale or Good Will. The kid books were the first step. Bea pushed into The Moving Bookstore.
“Is this the last crate Mrs. Williamson? Are you sure I can’t help you unload the car?”
“Bea is that you?” Bea spun around into Veronica’s outstretched arms. Suddenly she was engulfed in a bear hug.
“I haven’t seen you in a million years. We have to get together. We just have to get together. You remember Sylvia?”
Bea shook her head cautiously, trying to jostle her memory.
“Of course you remember Sylvia. She was short with lots of hair. Her husband has been sick with cancer but he’s doing better and she started a book club. That is right up your alley.”
Bea wasn’t sure to be sad or happy for this unknown Sylvia so she sort of shrugged in a concerned way and waited for a break in Sylvia’s flow of words. She waited a long time.
“Well, Ronnie, I am so sorry to hear about Roberta and Willis but I have to run I just wanted to pick up a book for Taylor, Monica’s daughter. Give me a call with the details on the bookclub. I just have to scoot to the back for that gift and hurry to the post office.” Bea hurried to the children’s section and hid behind a Dr. Seuss display. Veronica was still up at the front blocking the exit. Determined not to make friends, Bea sat on a squashed bean bag chair and began to skim through a thick collection of Frances Hodgson Burnett novels that was being used to prop open a window. She hadn’t read The Little Princess in years. Soon she had a tall stack of old and new favorites.

As her old Pontiac turned up the familiar street of her neighborhood, Bea slowed down. Here were the streets she had pushed a stroller, greeted neighbors, held block parties. Many familiar faces had gone, some houses slightly changed, a new complex crowded in, only the trees seemed the same. Weary, Bea turned into her driveway. She hoisted her milk crate of newly acquired books out of the passenger seat. Shimmering in the back yard Bea noticed a strange emerald light.
Bea headed back towards the light lugging the milk crate of books. She walked past the children’s leftover vegetable garden and Leo’s well tended roses. The egg sacs must have hatched. The center of the backyard was an explosion of tiny praying mantids. On the stone bench, on the hosta leaves, even the windows of the old shed, every surface was covered in shining insect bodies. Lime green, emerald green, a few were a pale glowing celadon. Bea set down her crate and sat on it. Hundreds of small precise eyes turned in her direction each surveyed her patiently, calmly, unafraid. Slowly the insects dispersed picking through the clipped grass and over the carefully selected paving stones. One even crawled over Bea’s leg in its unhurried progress out of the garden. Bea sat staring. She watched and waited until each one had gone. Looking at the garden one last time Bea stood up and walked away.