My cousin MaryAnne was finally getting married which meant my mother, sister Elisa and I had to go shopping for new dresses and shoes. When shopping day finally arrived we all climbed into Mom’s car – even Dad who followed us everywhere.
So off we went to Macy’s, happily chatting about what kind of dresses we wanted to get – grown up ones this time. Dad said maybe he’d look for a new suit but Mom reminded him he had a perfectly good one reserved for weddings and funerals. Maybe a new shirt and tie but that’s it. We weren’t the Rockefeller’s after all. Dad grumbled something and Mom informed him that she would happily turn the car around and take him home. She was in charge and we knew today was going to go her way. The rest of the ride to the store was quiet and sullen.
Finally Mom pulled into the parking lot and we excitedly jumped out, running for the entrance. “No running!” Mom screamed after us. “This is a fine department store and you are to act like young ladies at all times. And we stay together. No wandering off. Is that understood?” And we hung our heads and mumbled “Yes, Mom.”
Once inside, Mom told Dad to meet us back there in exactly one hour and off he went to the men’s department. Mom, Elisa and I went to the elevator to get to the 2nd Floor. The elevator was being serviced so we had to take the escalator, but the up escalator was also being serviced.
“Well, isn’t this dandy?!” my mother huffed. “How are we supposed to get upstairs?”
The repair man replied “Up the down escalator. Just walk up and jump off. See – everyone’s doing it.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever seen. I’m not doing that. We’ll just have to come back another day.”
“No, please!” we pleaded. “We’re here already. Come on – we’ll help you.”
Reluctantly Mom agreed. We stepped onto the down escalator and started climbing up. It was actually quite easy – until we got to the top. Elisa and I jumped off but Mom couldn’t do it. This stoic, practical, fearless woman suddenly looked like a hamster on a wheel, all the while screeching “Help me! Help me!”
No matter how many times we told her to just stand still and ride the escalator down, she just didn’t get it. People kept jumping by her like gazelles on the Serengeti while she huffed and puffed, treading water. Elisa and I got on the escalator, held Mom’s arms to keep her steady and rode down to safety on the 1st Floor. Mom was mortified.
Smoothing out her dress, Mom walked to where Dad was dutifully waiting for us. “Perfect timing! Did you girls have fun?”
Mom gave Dad the most withering look . “This store has definitely gone downhill. We will not be coming back here any time soon. We’re going home. Everyone to the car. Now!”
It was Saturday afternoon and the old priest sat in the confessional, humming and examining his fingernails as he waited for the penitent to arrive. Usually the most devout went to confession every week, sometimes more than that. Most of the confessions were harmless while others could curl your hair.
Just as the priest was about to nod off, a middle-aged woman entered the confessional and said “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I committed adultery twice this week.” The priest was understandably upset but forgave her, told her to say six Hail Marys and advised her not to let it happen again.
During the week eight more people confessed the same sin. The priest forgave them all but by the end of the month over fifty people confessed to committing adultery and he was ready to scream. He was so disappointed by the behavior of his parishioners that the following Sunday he greeted the congregation with the following announcement: “From now on if any of you needs to confess to committing adultery, don’t say that word. Instead say you tripped in a pothole and fell down – something along those lines. I don’t want to hear that distasteful word ever again.” The people were embarrassed and ashamed to look at the priest but they honored his request and did as he asked.
Months went by and the number of people who tripped in potholes or fell down was mind-boggling. Even people from other churches began coming to confess their sins to the kindly old priest. After all, saying “Itripped in a pothole”was much more palatable than admitting to committing adultery. The penitent parishioners certainly were creative and the priest heard every euphemism for “adultery” under the sun!
Suddenly the old priest passed away and was replaced by young priest fresh from the seminary and anxious to do God’s work. The new priest knew nothing about the “adultery arrangement”. One day a young woman came to confession and admitted to tripping in a pothole and twisting her ankle on a cobblestone … twice. The priest was rather perplexed but simply replied “That’s alright, my child. Just watch your step next time.” This happened so often that the young priest felt compelled to take the issue of the potholes up with the mayor and city council.
The priest telephoned the mayor and they planned to meet the next day. “Mr. Mayor”, the priest said. “Something needs to be done about the deplorable conditions of the roads in this town. People keep tripping in potholes or falling off broken curbs every day.”
“Oh, that” he answered and everyone began laughing hysterically when they realized the priest had no idea about the secret of the potholes.
The priest was taken aback and angered by the mayor and city council’s cavalier attitude.
“This is no laughing matter, Mr. Mayor! I can’t understand why you think it’s so funny. Why, your own wife tripped and fell in potholes six times last week!”
Within the four walls of a hut in Wingdale, NY there once resided a couple, recluses who kept to themselves. It’s said that everyone has a story and this couple was no exception.
Many years ago as young newlyweds they longed for a child but were not able to conceive. They sought the advice of seers, gypsies, magicians and an astronomer. They were given advice, told to try this method and that, including eating a stew made with boiled lentils, cows liver and tomatoes and a tea made with the branches of the nettle plant.
The couple tried for years without success when suddenly the wife, now middle-aged, found she was pregnant. The thrilled couple consulted the seers, gypsies, magicians and astronomers who told them the wife was too old and the babe would not survive. But survive it did and grew inside its mother, causing her great discomfort, malformation and pain. Finally the time arrived for the birth and the midwife was called.
The wife labored for hours and the baby’s head finally began to crown. As more of the head began to emerge, the midwife screamed in terror and ran from the hut, leaving the couple alone to deliver their baby.
Trepidatiously, the husband took the midwife’s place and immediately recoiled in fear and disgust. The wife pleaded for her husband to pull the baby from her body but the babe was so repugnant, he refused. Reaching down between her legs, the wife grabbed hold and her eyes filled with fear as her hands touched the baby’s body for the first time. When her next contraction came she pulled until the babe was finally free. Asking her husband to bring the lantern closer so she could see the infant, the new mother gasped and cried out in horror and sorrow.
The poor babe was grotesque for directly on the top of his forehead grew a large second head. The eyes were fused closed and the mouth was a mere slit. Oddly enough, the boy’s ‘normal’ head was beautifully shaped with extremely handsome features.
“Toss it into the hearth” the husband demanded “and we will say he died at birth.”
“I will not” exclaimed the wife.
Her husband stared at the floor, then without looking back, he left the hut, heading to the tavern to drown his sorrows. Word of the birth had already reached the town but the father informed everyone that the baby had died. After a few hours and filled with remorse, he returned to the hut only to find his wife and baby gone. In the morning he went searching for his wife and baby but never found them. Eventually he died, a broken man.
No trace was ever found of the mother or baby. Possibly they died. Maybe they were befriended by a traveling circus. Perhaps they were apprehended and brought to the Wingdale Psychiatric Hospital. To this day the life of the pitiful and mysterious family remains just that – a pitiful mystery.
“Course of action for today – tackle the basement!” announced my husband Ned. “Care to join me, Jan?”
“Why not? I’ve got writer’s block anyway” I replied glumly.
“After you, madame” said Ned, bowing extravagantly.
Seven months ago we moved into our little beach house. It’s in good condition and Ned’s handy so employing a repairman wasn’t necessary. The former owners left a few things behind; it would be nice to find a treasure or two. After sifting through mostly junk, we decided on a floor lamp, a wine rack and a hammock.
“Jan, look at this old dower box. Want to store your blankets in it? If not, I can use it for something.”
“I don’t think so, hon. Looks kinda beat up to me. It’s all yours. What are your plans?”
“Ah … you’ll see” Ned answered inscrutably.
“Ok, mystery man. I’m heading back up. Have fun!”
Still putting off writing, I tossed the ingredients for beef stew into the slow cooker for dinner this chilly December night. Glancing out the kitchen window I caught a glimpse of Mr. Sandman, the stray cat who hangs out in the beachgrass surrounding our house. After making a pot of tea I set off to the sunroom, my blank laptop mocking me.
By the sounds of sawing, drilling and hammering coming from the basement, Ned was having a grand time working on that beat up dower box. A couple of hours later he wandered up from his workshop, a sprinkling of sawdust icing his hair. Ned grinned and twitched his nose, appreciatively sniffing the aroma enveloping the kitchen.
“Mmm – beef stew! How’s the writing, hon.”
“Don’t ask. Hey, guess who I saw today. Mr. Sandman.”
“You don’t say” Ned replied. “I was thinking about him just the other day.”
I ladled the stew into bowls while my husband sliced the freshly baked bread and poured glasses of pinot noir. “So, when can I see what you’ve been working on?” I inquired.
“Right after dinner” Ned replied. “I think it’s damn good!”
We finished up and Ned anxiously led me downstairs. “Well, there it is. What do you think?”
I was speechless; there in the window was a home for Mr. Sandman!
Ned had opened the old hopper window at the top of the basement wall and, using a carabiner, secured the heavy window pane to a beam in the ceiling. He carefully inserted the dower box into the window opening; it was a perfect fit! Ned had sawed a doorway facing outside; a piece of an old rubber car mat with vertical cuts served as the front door curtain. A carpet remnant covered the wood floor of the box and a soft baby blanket provided a cozy nook in the corner. Ned had removed the back of the dower box and reattached it with hinges on one side and a latch on the other, giving us easy access to the box. A peephole drilled into the back panel allowed us to peek inside to make sure all was well. Ned had anchored the box to the wall with several short, sturdy bungee ties. There was even a small safety heater attached to the ‘ceiling’ of the box. He had thought of everything!
Giving me a wink, Ned opened the latch on the back panel, slid in a small plate of cat food and secured the latch.
“Oh, my soulful, sensitive man!” I exclaimed, hugging my husband tightly.
It snowed lightly that night and there were paw prints leading to the dower box. Ned and I exchanged looks and raced downstairs as quietly as possible. We tiptoed to the box and peeked through the peephole. A sleepy and very contented Mr. Sandman had found his way home.
“Instantly Irresistible” read the label on the perfume bottle at a shop in Bangkok. I was, shall we say, drawn here after several misunderstandings with the Sydney Police Department. I called it “gaining a profit”; they called it “pickpocketing”.
Contrary to the Sydney Police, my parents and my friends, I’m not a complete loser – just a partial one. I worked in a book store back home but got canned when I ‘borrowed’ a few dollars from the register. The shop owner called the police on me, even though “he really liked me and hated doing it” . Then there was the ‘incident’ which brought me here.
Now I’m washing dishes for a restaurant, just barely getting by. The waitresses, all sisters, live together downstairs in a shoebox of an apartment near the supply room. I sleep on a cot in the basement and use the grungy bathroom – better than nothing. There’s a basement window which I crawl through when I get home late and the restaurant is closed. Only the owner and the eldest sister have a key.
Sometimes when the sisters are working I’ll go downstairs for supplies, take a small detour into that shoebox and help myself to their tip money. I’m wondering – can I be considered a ‘housebreaker’ if the door isn’t locked?
I have a clandestine girlfriend, too. She’s a cleaner at the tailor shop nearby. I saw her through the shop window and she looked up and smiled. One dark night after work I waited for her outside the shop and asked if I could walk her home. She agreed but said only half way – her family would not approve. She lives with her parents and 11 siblings. All of what she earns goes to her family. She owns only a few clothes and a ragged cloth pouch. I surprised her with a bottle of perfume which I found in a moldy wood crate behind the shop. She smiled happily and slipped it into her pouch. Her name is “Piti” and she calls me “Sam” which isn’t even my name but that’s ok. No one knows I exist.
After dark the next night I waited for Piti but she never showed. Disappointed, I skulked home. The same thing happened the next two nights and on the fourth day during my break I glanced in the tailor shop window only to see a different cleaning girl. “Where was Piti?” I wondered, becoming concerned.
Several days later I overheard the sisters talking. Piti had become deathly sick – an apparent toxic reaction to old perfume from a bottle found in her pouch. She had been in quarantine, but died this morning.
I was reeling. I did this to Piti. I killed her! She was a perfect angel, the sweetest part of my life. Everything I do hurts someone. In the course of three weeks I’ve gone from petty thief to murderer. Everyone is right. I’m a complete loser. I don’t know how I’m going to live with myself.
I was jogging down the marina boardwalk one day last week, my two loyal yellow labs, Daisy and Molly, right by my side. It had been quite a while since we were out together like this and the warm sun felt great on my face. I had locked myself away in my apartment after the death of my beloved black lab, Duke, only taking the girls out when necessary.
But that day I looked at them and realized how my melancholy had affected them. They had become as listless and lost as I. Well, this wasn’t fair to anyone – staying cooped up inside mourning – so off we went on that beautiful day in May. At first it felt like forced fun, just not right being at our favorite place without our buddy, Duke. We started out slowly, three sad sacks just moseying down by the sea, but soon the smell of saltwater and the spray of the ocean began to invigorate us and we picked up our pace.
“Yeah, we needed this, girls. It’s good to be back outside, isn’t it?” and Daisy and Molly looked up at me, their big brown eyes happy again.
We rounded a curve in the boardwalk and off in the distance I noticed a big Cadillac with tinted windows parked outside one of the warehouses. We drew closer and I saw the chauffeur leaning against the car, working on his tan. As we jogged by, the guy yelled out “Yo, pal! Looks like you lost your dog.”
Caught off guard by his statement, I stopped abruptly, nearly tumbling over the girls. With a quizzical expression on my face, I looked at the guy. Without saying a word, he pointed to the leash I had tied around my waist – Duke’s leash – for old time’s sake.
“Oh, this” I said somewhat sheepishly, and before I realized what was happening, I told this total stranger my sad story about Duke.
To my utter disbelief this hulking goon of a guy broke down like a baby, telling me about his dog that died when he was a kid. Just then the door to the warehouse flew open and a couple of very large, intimidating men came out followed by a short squatty guy chomping on a cigar and sporting the most ridiculous toupee I’d ever seen.
This little guy was obviously the boss. He walked around the back of the car and stood there shaking his head. “Mama mia, Bruno, it’s been twenty-plus years since Spot died. I get it. I’m a dog lover myself but enough’s enough. This happens every friggin time. Now say bye bye to the nice doggies and get in the car.”
Wiping his nose on his sleeve, Bruno did as instructed. It was only when the car door opened that I spotted the lustrous black lab in the front seat and my heart stopped for a second.
“Papa’s here, Leonardo” said the man with the toupee. “Andiamo, Bruno! Let’s go home.”
Invisible. That’s the first word I thought of when I saw my mother glance over at me. Her eyes were blank, her expression impassive. I was just a face in a crowd; I might as well have been invisible.
She sat in the middle of the music room of the nursing home, fellow residents all around her as they sang old standards from the 1940’s, members of the blissfully unaware chorus. Noticing an empty chair, I sat down beside my mother and began to sing along to those beloved ancestral tunes carved in her now addled brain. My mother turned to look at me, totally unaware of who I was. She smiled and I smiled back, feeling a pang of guilt for I was simply there doing my duty, fulfilling an obligation … just as she had done all her life.
In the 58 years since my birth, we were never close … just one of those sadly unfulfilled relationships between mother and daughter. If she ever loved me, she didn’t show it. And I did not love her. Yet here I was. Why? Was I driven by misplaced guilt … compelled to visit … seeking approval?
So we sat side by side singing Sentimental Journey and when the song was over my mother turned to me and said “You have a lovely voice. Would you like to see my room?” and I surprised myself by cheerfully answering “Yes!”
Prior to moving into the facility, mother lived in a small house next to my sister. If nothing else, it was convenient. I lived far enough away to avoid any interaction but my sister was burdened for quite a few years caring for our mother – a regiment of one following orders. She tended to her until it became unbearable. Sis decorated our mother’s room in the nursing home with many of her personal effects and furnishings and I felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole when I entered her room. I remembered her curtains and matching bedspread, the mirrored perfume tray on her dresser, her tortoise shell hairbrush and comb set and numerous photographs in gilded frames. I looked around as if seeing everything for the first time. Perhaps there was more truth in that than I realized.
“Come, I want to show you something” my mother beckoned, and she led me to a wall on which hung two identical color portraits – high school graduation paintings of my sister and me. Mother pointed to my portrait and said “That’s my beautiful daughter, Nancy”. Then she pointed to my sister’s portrait and said “I have no idea who that is”, and she walked away unfazed.
Why did she recognize my portrait – the prodigal daughter who stood right beside her? How could she not remember my sister? Those questions remain unanswered. My mother passed away shortly after our visit.
Now that I’m older and infinitely wiser, I believe my mother truly tried her best. And in the end isn’t that all we can ask of anyone?
Invisible in the temporary blackness of the night, the trio of soldiers separated from their regiment crept silently through the rain-soaked jungle. One had an injured leg as the result of a skirmish and was in excruciating pain. He knew his injury would impede their progress and he pleaded with his comrades to leave him to die alone with dignity, as was their ancestral custom. The steadfast friends were adamant and refused to abandon him in the middle of enemy territory. Instead they worked in tandem to carry their wounded brother – a selfless act that did indeed slow them down but they would have it no other way and refused to discuss the topic any further.
Exhausted and frightened, they persevered through the seemingly endless night, scrambling for cover as quickly and quietly as physically possible whenever they spied the opposition or heard murmurings in the darkness. Soon the slowly rising first light would inevitably dispel their cover and finding shelter for the day would become a priority. Looking around they took stock of their surroundings – trees, bushes, and marshlands – none of which would provide adequate concealment or refuge.
Walking on, the soldiers spotted a huge boulder in the distance and as they drew nearer they noticed a small aperture. The decision was agreed upon that one would investigate the opening while the other two hid beneath the shelter of the low hanging branches of a weeping willow tree. After a while the scout returned with good news – there was a small cave inside the rock with room enough for the three of them to take shelter. Painstakingly, one soldier carried his injured brother on his back and squeezed through the crevice while the third searched for something for them to eat. Finally for the first time in hours the exhausted trio was able to get some rest. Huddled together, they eventually drifted off to a fitful sleep.
After a few hours, the wounded soldier awoke with a fever, his leg swollen and throbbing. Since it was now midday, it was too risky to leave the cave. Outside was sweltering and humid and the chance of them being caught, especially hindered by a wounded friend, would be great. No … they would stay where they were until it was safe to venture out. To pass the time they talked about life back in their village and the family members awaiting them. All they knew was army life, following in the footsteps of their fathers and grandfathers. It was not an easy life and they were in constant peril but they soldiered on.
Suddenly their wounded brother heaved a ragged breath and died. Saddened yet aware they must move on, the soldiers covered him with rocks and began the slow crawl out. Without warning the long sticky tongue of a giant anteater slithered through the crack and swallowed the startled army ants. They struggled bravely, as courageous ants are wont to do, but in the end they could not prevail.
I had been making eye contact all night with the ridiculously gorgeous bartender at my Christmas party so I was pleased to see her lingering behind after the last guest left. I was captivated by this amazing looking creature. Lustrous dark hair framed her perfect face and caressed her shoulders. Her skin was radiant with a glowing tan and her lips were full, revealing sparkling teeth when she smiled. But the most striking feature was her eyes – piercing crystal blue.
She wore high heeled sandals and a short dress of gossamer silver lamé – spaghetti straps, low-scooped neckline and backless – leaving no doubt she was without bra or panties. She was innately arousing and bewitching.
This was my first Christmas party since my divorce. My ex got our Manhattan apartment and I got our Miami condo. Truthfully, I much prefer Christmas in NY; Miami’s just too damn hot.
I made sure everything was perfect – the food, the booze, the waitstaff and, of course, the bartender. She worked independently and was highly recommended by my friend. I could see why. I knew nothing but her first name – Alexandra.
So now here it was around 2:00 AM; Alexandra and I were alone, the guests and hired help long gone. Sipping my drink, I looked out the open window at the twinkling Christmas lights on the street below while Alexandra finished up at the bar.
“Join me for a nightcap?” I asked.
She smiled, poured herself a Smirnoff peppermint vodka and joined me at the window. We stood in silence watching the lights in the distance, the seductive Miami air washing over us. Her hair smelled of gardenias and I impulsively reached out to caress the silken tresses. She leaned into me and I buried my face in her hair, inhaling the intoxicating aroma.
She turned to me and I cupped her face in my hands, rubbing my thumb slowly across her parted lips. I kissed her deeply, delighting in the sweet taste of peppermint. We silently stared into each other’s eyes as she took a step backwards. Slowly she slid her fingers under the straps of her dress. I watched mesmerized as the shimmering fabric slid to the floor like a wounded butterfly.
She stood motionless, the amber light from the bar casting provocative shadows across her body. She was exquisite. Stepping over her discarded dress, Alexandra slowly walked toward me. I scooped her up in my arms and carried her to the sofa. She was delicious, insatiable … like nothing I’d ever experienced.
I reluctantly got up from the sofa and went to the bar for drinks. Suddenly I felt a searing pain in my head and collapsed, catching a fleeting glimpse of silver lamé before passing out. When I finally came to, I had a blinding headache, there was a broken vodka bottle on the floor, my wallet and Rolex were gone and my wall safe was empty.
That sexy little bitch had pulled off the perfect heist. Merry Fucking Christmas to me!
It had been a busy night at my bar and I was cleaning up after the last guest left. It was Christmas Eve and most people headed out a little early to get home or do last-minute shopping. I locked up, turned off the lights and went upstairs to the apartment I shared with my wife Nicole and our little girl Mariah.
It was quiet in our apartment but I could see a dim light coming from Mariah’s room. I peeked in to see my girls saying their evening prayers. My daughter’s sweet voice was hushed but I heard her say “And God, please tell Santa the only thing I really want for Christmas is a kitty”.
I sat in the living room staring at the Christmas tree. Nicole came in and sat beside me. “You heard?” I nodded and said “You know, Nic, she’s such a good girl, never asks us for anything. I have to see if I can find her a kitten.”
“At this hour, Kevin? Where are you going to go?”
“Honestly Nic, I have no idea – but I have to try.”
Every place I tried was either closed or sold out of kittens and puppies. Even the humane society and animal shelters had no kittens. I drove up to Westchester and down to Brooklyn with no luck. Time was running out and I was getting more and more depressed with every passing minute. I just wanted to make Mariah happy; disappointing my little girl on Christmas was not an option.
As I was heading back home, Nicole called. “Kevin, did you have any luck?”
“No luck, Nic. I’m tired, I’m frustrated and I’m really bummed out. I’m gonna stop for a quick cup of coffee and I’ll be home in a few. Love ya.”
I pulled into a 24-hour Dunkin Donuts and ordered a coffee while the store owner’s cat rubbed up against my leg. “Adding insult to injury” I thought. At this God-forsaken hour the store was empty. I asked to use their restroom and as I walked to the back of the shop, I noticed a box in the corner. Normally a box wouldn’t interest me but this box was whimpering. I gently flipped up the top and to my amazement saw four kittens in the box. Forgetting my need to use the restroom, I raced back out front, startling the owner.
“Sir, I’ve been driving all night looking to buy a kitten for my daughter for Christmas. Please, I’m begging you! Can I possibly buy one of your kittens?”
The owner looked at me and said “Aw, no man. They’re not for sale.”
I stared at him blankly, not knowing what to say. I was exhausted and frustrating and finding a box full of kittens was a miracle. At this point I did’t care about my pride – all that mattered was Mariah – and I was willing to beg. I slowly got down on one knee.
The store owner looked shocked and even a little embarrassed. “Aw, come on man! What are you doing?” he asked incredulously. “Get up off the floor. I already told you I can’t sell you a kitten.”
I stood, looking him square in the eye. “I know, sir, but it’s my little girl. She … ” and he cut me off in mid sentence.
“I can’t sell you one” he repeated emphatically. “But I’ll gladly give you one for your kid.”
I swear to God, I could have kissed him. Grinning like an idiot, I grabbed him by the shoulders. “Bless you, sir. Merry Christmas!”
“Sit down and drink your coffee” he said as he shuffled off to the back of the store humming “Jingle Bells”.
Christmas morning Mariah excitedly ran into the kitchen and saw the mugs of hot cocoa and the Dunkin Donuts Munchkins box on the table. “Yay, Christmas Munchkins!” she squealed as she reached for the box, her big green eyes opening wide when she saw the tiny kitty staring back at her.
Yay! Daddy’s bringing down the boxes of Christmas decorations from the attic! There’s a bunch of plastic tubs with a million trillion ornaments in them and a ginormous box with the tree. Daddy’s saying bad words ‘cause the box is heavy and Mommy keeps slapping his arm and telling him to be quiet. Mommy said it’s Christmas Eve and we gotta put up the tree and cook all this stinky fish for dinner. Yuck! I wanna have pizza but she said no ‘cause fish is the Italian trabition, whatever that is.
Oh no! The tree is broken! Why can’t we have a real tree like my friend Susie? Her family cuts a tree down and I think it smells just like the forest. Daddy says it’s ok. The tree isn’t broken. It comes in pieces and we gotta put it together. I’m gonna go watch cartoons now. I don’t wanna put the tree together. It boring. I just wanna hang ornaments. Daddy always lifts me way up high to put the angel on the tippy top of the tree.
Daddy’s calling me. Wow! The tree is covered with lights and it’s time to hang the ornaments! Mommy has a box that nobody’s allowed to touch ‘cause it’s got all her special ornaments. I don’t know what’s so special about them. I’ve got a fluffy unicorn. Now THAT’S special! I gotta use the step stool to reach the higher branches. Mommy says I better not fall in the tree like I did last year. Boy, did she get mad! Finally it’s time for the angel and Daddy lifts me way up high to reach the top. She’s the most beautiful angel I’ve ever seen and I just wanna stare at her all night.
Ding! Dong! Yay! Grammy and Poppy are here! Poppy says the fish smells delicious. Pee yoo! I’m not gonna eat it. I’m just gonna have some pisgetti. After dinner Mommy says we gotta get dressed for church. I don’t wanna go but Grammy says we gotta go.
Oh man! There’s no place to park and Daddy’s saying more bad words. Mommy’s slapping his arm again. FINALLY we park and go inside. Whoa! It’s so pretty! So many candles and twinkly lights. And there must be a zillion people! Poppy says they’re all a bunch of phonies. Boy, Grammy gave him a really big swat! We squeeze onto a bench and I snuggle into Mommy’s fur coat. It’s so soft and warm. I just wanna go to sleep. Maybe I can nap for just a little while ‘cause Santa’s coming tonight and I’m gonna stay up all night and wait for him.
Woohoo! I did it! I stayed up all ni…..
Wait a minute. How’d I get in my jammies? And I’m in bed! It’s Christmas morning and I missed Santa! I run down the stairs and Mommy’s making bacon and pancakes. Yay!! Santa came! Santa came! Look at all the presents! Mommy says breakfast first, then we can open the presents.
Confusion and mayhem seemed to follow Jane Connors wherever she went. She was a bright, inquisitive girl with a bit of a stubborn streak and insisted on doing things her own way. Most times they didn’t turn out very well. As far back as people can recall, Jane had a knack for making trouble, finding trouble or getting into trouble.
One spring day while Jane was out picking wildflowers, she spotted some daisies in her neighbor’s garden. She opened the gate, plucked a handful and went on her merry way – forgetting to close the gate. The neighbor’s dog trotted out, sniffing the air until he found the source of the delicious scent – a drying rack of smoked salami and sausages in a backyard across the street. In the blink of an eye the meat was swallowed up and the dog happily ran home for a nap. And Jane was totally oblivious.
Then there was the time Jane’s dad didn’t approve of ‘those juvenile delinquent characters’ she was hanging out with. “Oh, don’t worry” said her mom. “They’re good kids and remember, we were young once.” Well, they might have been good kids but one cigarette carelessly tossed from their car burned down Old Man Walker’s barn and most of his farm. Jane and her friends didn’t even realize what happened.
Jane’s mother made all the costumes for the high school Christmas pageant and gave Jane explicit instructions to deliver the box of costumes to the auditorium. The door to the auditorium was locked but there were other boxes piled against the wall so Jane added her mother’s to the collection. The next night at dress rehearsal, the costumes were nowhere to be found. Jane was asked about the missing box and replied that she had put it with the other boxes. It was quickly determined that the pile was actually trash which had been picked up and disposed of. Needless to say, the pageant was not the same without costumes.
Jane volunteered at the local women’s hospital; caring for newborns was the highlight of her day. One unusually quiet Saturday morning Jane decided to bathe the babies. There were only five little ones – not a difficult task. Starting with the first, she carefully undressed it, gently removed the name bracelet, bathed the baby, dressed it in a clean onesie and returned it to a bassinet. When all the babies were bathed and swaddled, Jane suddenly noticed the stack of name bracelets by the wash basin. Panic set in when she realized she had no idea which baby was which! How was she ever going to match each baby with its correct bracelet? “Well, I’ll just have to take my chances”, she thought and randomly reattached the bracelets.
Later that day pandemonium had erupted. “Get over here, Jane!” demanded the head nurse. “The mother of baby Jesse is screaming that he’s not hers and all the other moms are frantic! It’s bedlam here, Jane! What on earth have you done now?”
As we drove down the gravel road to our summer house, I opened the car window and inhaled deeply. Mixed with the salty scent of the ocean was the fragrance of lilacs and honeysuckle – the delicious aroma I missed last year. The pool was still beyond our sight but I saw it clearly in my mind … our private haven … the sensation of floating, feeling all stress evaporate, stillness interrupted only by an occasional breeze.
Our house is large with floor-to-ceiling windows affording us spectacular views of the distant ocean. Located on a cul-de-sac, there is no traffic and we are invisible from the street.
Last year was the first time we didn’t make it to our sanctuary.
It all started on June 3rd when Bill fell off a ladder. I was sitting in our den overlooking the backyard and saw him fall. In the seconds it took me to reach him, he was sprawled on the deck, barely conscious, a lump on his forehead the size of a peach. But it was the sickening angle of his leg that made me realize this was serious.
I called 911, then our kids and we followed the ambulance to the hospital. Bill had a badly broken femur. Surgery was done that night which would be followed by a lengthy hospital stay and rehabilitation. We all realized our long-anticipated vacation scheduled for June 30th would be cancelled. Priorities.
Surgery went well and I visited Bill every day, staying all day. At night when I closed my eyes I saw him falling off the ladder. Stress took its toll on me, my arthritic knees screamed in agony and my back began to spasm.
Compounded with Bill’s physical pain was his guilt over “ruining our vacation”. He felt far worse for me, our kids and grandkids, convinced that we were too disappointed to forgive him. Again, priorities.
As Bill began to improve, I thought I would also but my pain became excruciating and I began a months-long regimen of spinal injections to relieve the torment in my legs and back.
And the year from hell ravaged us, bringing with it more hardship and tragedy than we could imagine – all difficult, some almost unbearable. The most crushing of all was the overdose death of our dear nephew – ripped so cruelly from our lives. We cried in pain, sobbed in anguish. We woke every morning of that hellish year, putting one foot in front of the other, somehow managing to go on. A missed vacation paled in comparison.
Now rebirth … another summer. Driving down the gravel road to our vacation house all I can think about is floating in the pool with Bill, the sun shining down on our battered bodies. The unpacking and settling-in will get done soon enough but right now the warm blue water of the pool and the smell of honeysuckle and lilacs is all we need.
Covered in filth and mange, a multitude of dogs and cats that survived Hurricane Katrina were crammed into military vans. Some had maggot-filled sores, broken limbs and infected eyes that burned like a red hot poker. The vans were filled to capacity and it was impossible to tell one animal from the other.
Those once long-haired canines with soft billowy fur now resembled stone creatures encased in a shell of thick crust. Scrawny, flea-ridden cats no longer purred contentedly but howled in fear and pain. The muscular pit bulls were reduced to skeletons, the outlines of rib cages and hip bones clearly visible in emaciated bodies. On and on it went, each animal a mere shell of its former self.
The catastrophic hurricane had ravaged New Orleans, Louisiana three weeks earlier. The relentless rain caused the levees to burst, resulting in extensive flooding. Home-owners lost everything, all their possessions destroyed. Many scrambled to the roofs of their houses in a desperate attempt to save themselves while others tried swimming to safety. Those lucky enough to own a rowboat floated on the flood waters, dragging people into their boats along the way.
The president declared a state of emergency and the military arrived .. some say too little too late … but they worked their asses off to bring a sense of order to New Orleans. Non-commissioned officers worked side by side with police lieutenants and fire chiefs. Doctors, paramedics and volunteers all worked hand in hand. The levees were rebuilt and people were relocated.
However the animals … too many to count … were forgotten or deliberately left behind in the frenzy. When the waters subsided weeks later, they were found chained to fences and porch railings. Others had climbed up trees or hidden themselves away in the attics of abandoned houses. All were starving, sick, in pain and scared. Others struggled valiantly to survive but failed.
That’s what the military and animal rescue workers found. Helpless, hopeless animals in need of immediate medical care. Who knows what those poor creatures were thinking as they were being loaded into the vans. Could they sense these people were trying to help them? Were they frozen in fear, traumatized by the events of the past few weeks?
All the dogs and cats were brought to animal hospitals and makeshift triage centers throughout the state. With the patience of Job, veterinarians … many from out of state … treated thousands of animals, gently cutting off matted crusty fur, administering antibiotics and vaccines, providing food, water and shelter, bringing those nearly dead back to life. If necessary, infected eyes were removed and useless limbs amputated but sadly, in the end, more animals were lost than were saved.
Is human life more important than animal life? As a reporter, I ask: “If you saw an injured animal lying in a ditch, would you help?” If we choose to believe that a Higher Power created all living creatures in His or Her image, the answer is easy.
“Eavesdropper, eh? Terrific odds. He’s a mudder and the track is muddy today. And look at his lineage! Yep, Millie, I predict that’s the winner of Race 9” said Harry Goldman to his wife.
She brushed him off with a wave of her hand. “Whatever, Harry Houdini. Not one of your famous magical predictions has paid off yet.”
“All right, Millie. I admit you got lucky today. What’s your secret …. communicating with a horse whisperer?”
“Oh, zip it, Harry! If it wasn’t for me, we’d be in the poor house. You haven’t won all day! Now be quiet and let me concentrate on my choice for this race.”
Harry heaved his portly body out of his seat. “Pardon moi, madame. I’m gonna place my bet on Eavesdropper. Then we’ll see who’s got horse sense!”
“You mean horse’s ass, don’t ya?” Millie cackled. “Go on. I’ll be along in a minute. I’m thinking here.” Snapping her chewing gum, Millie studied the racing form, then traipsed to the betting windows.
Bets placed, Harry and Millie settled in for the race. “I got a good feeling about this one, Millie!” Harry said excitedly.
The starting gun shot out and the announcer shouted “And they’re off!”
Eavesdropper took the lead immediately and held on. Anxious, Harry stood to watch. Suddenly the horse in fourth place started picking up steam. Faster and faster, he flew past the other horses and at the last second crossed the finish line just before Eavesdropper.
The announcer’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker. “What a shocker! The winner by a nose …. Muddy Waters!”
Harry slumped into his seat. “I don’t believe it! Eavesdropper was a shoe-in.”
Millie, however, was flying high. “I won again! Good old Muddy Waters. I knew it!”
“Millie, I’m begging you! “How’d you do it?”
“Harry, remember how you said the track was muddy today? When I saw the name ‘Muddy Waters’, I knew that was an sign.”
“But how did you pick ALL the other winners?”
“It’s the colors! If I like what the jockey’s wearing, I’ll pick that horse.”
“That’s your strategy? COLORS?!? Ok, who you picking for the last race?”
Millie looked around surreptitiously and pointed to a name on the card.
“HIM?? Rabelais? His color is ‘Eiffel Tower Brown’ – like a turd!”
“Not so loud, Harry! He’s from France and you know how ‘I fell’ for those Frenchies!”
“Aren’t you the clever one?” Harry groaned at Millie’s little joke. “I give up, Millie. Go with your cockamamie ideas and bet it all on Rabelais!”
Millie was already at the window before Harry was even finished talking.
“Eavesdropper! Go away, Cathy, and stop being so nosy!”
“I’m not an eavesdropper, Susan! I was just walking down the hall. Besides, you’re not my boss!”
“Don’t make me come up there, girls! What’s going on?” shouted Cathy and Susan’s mother Evelyn.
The girls stomped down the stairs, both yelling at the same time.
“QUIET!” They took one look at their mother’s face and immediately stopped talking. “That’sbetter! Now, one at a time tell me what happened. Cathy, you first.”
“Why does she get to go first?” whined Susan.
“Because I said so” sneered Evelyn. “I’m tired of you girls arguing all the time. Start talking Cathy.”
“I was on the phone talking to Marcy about Rabelais and I saw Susan listening at my door .. as usual.”
“About him .. your French boyfriend” teased Susan, making goo-goo eyes and kissing noises.
“Excuse me?” Evelyn asked sarcastically. “What’s all this about a French boyfriend?”
“It’s true”, replied Susan. “I heard her talking about him .. how he’s smart and funny, he’s a writer and a doctor. He must be ancient .. like 30 or something!”
“Nice trap you set for yourself, Susan”, commented Evelyn. “For someone who claims she’s not an eavesdropper, you seem to know an awful lot about your sister’s private conversations.”
Susan’s face turned bright red in embarrassment and anger and tears welled in her eyes.
“But, mom…..” Susan stammered.
“But nothing, Susan. Be quiet! Cathy, you start explaining just what’s going on and it better be good!” Evelyn demanded.
“Mom, there’s no boyfriend. And Susan, you’re such a dummy!” snapped Cathy. “Rabelais lived during the French Renaissance! Do you even know how long ago that was? Marcy and I were discussing our book reports about him. Mom, she’s just jealous because you gave me a Princess Phone for Christmas and not her. I am 15, after all.”
“It’s not fair!” cried Susan. “I’m 14 and all I got was a stupid record player!”
“The very same record player you use every day listening to your beloved Beatles?” interjected their dad peeking over his newspaper. “And if I’m not mistaken, the famous foursome are appearing on the Ed Sullivan Show tonight. Now .. if you think there’s even the slightest chance you’re going to watch that show then you better stop arguing, apologizeand help your mother set the table for dinner.”
“We’re sorry!” the girls sang in unison and ran happily together into the dining room.
“How did you manage that minor miracle?” Evelyn asked her husband.
While cradling my year old son in his bed after a bad dream, I sang softly to him my favorite Beatles song, In My Life. He stared up at me, his blue eyes moist with tears. Slowly his breathing became calm and his eyelids began to flutter. At last he was asleep and I kissed his eyes, removing the last traces of salty droplets as I pulled up his covers.
Closing the door gently behind me, I went back downstairs where my husband Bill was watching Monday Night Football. One look at Bill as he sat on the sofa, his head in his hands, told me his team was playing badly. I kidded him about being so serious about a game but he didn’t react. I softly called his name and when he looked up at me there were tears running down his face.
As I sat next to him he turned to me, took my hands and told me that John Lennon was dead, shot on the doorsteps of his home, The Dakota. I stared at him in shock. Why would he say such a horrible thing? Who would ever want to hurt John?
He turned the tv volume back on; the game had been interrupted by the report of an incident involving John. I fell to the floor sobbing as the reporter droned on about ‘rapid gun shots’ .. ‘police/John/hospital’ .. ‘dead on arrival’.
I cried uncontrollably and kept repeatingno! no! no! as my husband held me in his arms and I sobbed in sorrow and disbelief. We sat on the floor for a long time, clinging to each other, unable to stop my tears or un-hear the words coming from the tv.
At one point my three year old son crept down the stairs, frightened and wondering “what was wrong with mommy”. My husband quickly scooped him up and returned him to his room, whispering that “mommy was very sad about something she saw on tv and she would be ok tomorrow.“
But I was not ok the next day. I was not ok the next week. I was never truly ok after that night. No living, loving soul in the world was ever ok again.
These days, almost 38 years later, as I cradle my son’s babies in my arms and rock them to sleep, I sing In My Life and I remember John.
As she kneaded the dough for that night’s supper, Juliana caught a glimpse of her reflection in the open kitchen window. The wild child from years ago had been replaced with a confident, sexy woman. No cover girl, for sure, but not bad at all for a well-seasoned dame of a certain age.
Long brown hair, hazel green eyes and a captivating smile more than made up for her slightly prominent Sicilian nose which only added to her unique beauty (or so she had been told). She was not tall and thin but her legs were long and her curves voluptuous. No skin and bones, this one. Laughing lustfully, she thought “more like a handful …. or …. a ripe mouthful”. She laughed at herself often …. another appealing characteristic (or so she had been told).
Her laughter rippled through the sun-kissed Sicilian air. Brushing an errant lock of hair from her face, she continued kneading and massaging the dough with sensual, undulating back and forth motions.
Looking outside, she noticed the handyman, Santino, across the veranda smiling, watching her appreciatively. Should she smile back or simply ignore him? She had seen him working next door several times before …. no movie star, he …. but there was something intriguing about this stranger. That familiar fantasy began surging in her mind. Was it his powerful arms, the cigarette dangling from his lips, his crooked smile, the devilish twinkle in his chocolate eyes?
Chuckling heartily, he pointed to her, then began wiping his face with his hand. Glancing quickly at her reflection, she saw a streak of flour across her forehead and nose. Mortified, and barely managing to maintain her composure, she reached for a towel to clean her face. Suddenly he roared with laughter and she realized in her haste she had wiped her face with the discarded flour sack, not a towel.
Now she, too, was consumed with laughter, tears streaming down her floured face, doubled over in giddy convulsions. Regaining self-control, though still giggling despite herself, she stood …. only to find she was face to face with this charming rogue. Spellbound, she allowed him to gently wipe the flour from her face, her eyes never leaving his, tiny gold flecks dancing provocatively as he looked at her intently.
“I prepared lamb stew for supper. Would you like to join me?”
YOU ARE SUMMONED TO VIE FOR THE HAND OF PRINCESS AMIRA!
Fifty answered the royal command. Upon seeing Amira, everyone gasped; she was stunning. The double of her late grandmother, she grew more beautiful every year .. skin as white as porcelain, eyes as blue as crystal waters and hair the color of the stars. Her loveliness was surpassed only by her cleverness. She longed to be married but found men boring and inane.
Amira motioned for everyone to sit and in a confident voice addressed them:
“One among you will be my husband! Marriage is not based solely on appearances. To win my hand, you must be clever and smart. These fifty parchments, one for each of you, contain three riddles. You have two days to solve them. Record your answers on the parchment, returning them to my secretary. Use your brain; only a clear head and clever mind will win my hand.”
Forty succumbed on day one. On day two, the remaining ten reported to Amira’s secretary. Nine answered incorrectly and were dismissed. Only one had all correct answers. Placing the parchment in her desk, the secretary presented the victor to Amira.
“Greetings, clever prince! What is your name?”
“I am Khalil but I am no prince. I am squire to Prince Wahid. He could not answer your riddles.”
“And YOU can? Let us begin!”
“I can only live where there is light but will die if light shines on me. What I?”
Khalil answered “A shadow.”
“The more there is, the less you see. What am I?”
He replied “Darkness.”
“What disappears the moment you say its name?”
Khalil said “Silence.”
“Excellent, Khalil! All correct! But you tried to fool me.”
“Wahid is a dolt, besotted only by your beauty. He is not worthy of you. Please afford me one opportunity. I have a riddle for YOU. If you answer correctly, we shall marry. If not, I will leave immediately.”
Intrigued, Amira agreed.
“He loves a princess though his blood is not royal.
He has nothing to give, just a heart that is loyal.
He has no earthly treasure but is clever and smart.
And can promise his bride all the love in his heart.”
“Who am I, Amira?”
Reaching for Khalil’s hands and drawing him closer, Amira whispered:
Playboy: a man, especially one who is of comfortable means, who pursues a life of decadent pleasure with multiple women.
Meet Dr. Robert Chase. Even in hospital scrubs, cap and a surgical mask with only his eyes visible, the man was an Adonis. It may be hackneyed but women wanted him and men wanted to be him.
He was rich, handsome, clever – an expert on the dance floor or in the OR, adroit in the boardroom or the bedroom, charming but not cloying. He attracted people and he was admired by all.
Robert was what is called in the trade a ‘nip/tuck guy’ – a plastic surgeon whose clientele consisted of rich women looking for bigger boobs, fuller lips, tighter butts and curvier hips. There was no doubt he had hooked up with most of his patients. In his office he had a provocative poster – half woman/half cello – with a quote by Pablo Casals: “The cello is like a beautiful woman who has not grown older, but younger with time, more slender, more supple, more graceful.”
However, there were two peculiar qualities about Robert that defied explanation: #1) He was married to a gorgeous, funny and smart woman, one any man would be proud to call his wife; why the insatiable need for other women? #2) For someone who was incredibly worldly, he could be uncharacteristically naïve. Perhaps it was his ego or self-denial that made him so reckless as to give women his real name, home and cell phone numbers – the road to perdition.
Robert was the keynote speaker at a medical convention in Miami. Since he wasn’t slated to speak until the third day, he decided to troll the beach to check out the ladies. It wasn’t long before he spotted a fetching redhead chasing her errant beach umbrella in the wind. He came to her rescue, catching the umbrella and securing it in the sand. They talked for a while – her name was Scarlet – and made plans to get together that night for dinner. Robert was his usual charming self and the evening ended with Scarlet inviting him back to her room where he spent the night. In the morning they exchanged phone numbers and he kissed her goodbye.
That afternoon Robert discovered a topless beach and, as a nip/tuck guy, he was in his element. He strolled over to the tiki bar and struck up a conversation with a voluptuous blonde named Denise. Giving her his business card, she jumped up, grabbed his hands and planted them on her breasts. “Feel them!” she demanded. “Do you think they’re the same size?” Not skipping a beat, Robert suggested they go up to her room where he could give her a “proper exam”. He was quite thorough and it didn’t take much convincing for him to spend the night. Next morning he put Denise’s number into his phone and bid her farewell.
Leaving Denise’s hotel, Robert collided with a bikini-clad goddess on roller skates. They tumbled onto the boardwalk clinging to each other. Looking into Robert’s eyes, she said ,”I’m Rita. Pleased to meet you.” Biting her bottom lip, she asked if he’d like to join her for coffee “or something”. Robert groaned in frustration, explaining that he’d love to but he had to get back to his conference. After exchanging names and numbers, he impulsively kissed her, promising to call.
At the close of the convention, Robert was invited by three other doctors to stay in Miami for a few days of golf. Robert agreed and called his wife Sophia to tell her he’d be home in four days. They played eighteen holes every day and relaxed in the evening with prime steaks, fine whiskey, Cuban cigars .. and girls galore. Robert was a legend among his friends and they were duly impressed. They would joke around by saying “Dr. Robert Chase .. always on the case.”
Finally after a week away from home, Robert was ready to return to his lovely Sophia. If she knew of his philandering, she never let on. She was always occupied with lunching and shopping with her friends or going to the spa. And he was sure to return with shiny baubles, flowers and Italian chocolates .. her favorite. On the plane ride home to Santa Monica, Robert busied himself by looking through his iPhone at all the new lady friends he met in Miami. There they were in all their glory .. names, numbers and photos. Don’t want to lose track of those lovelies!
Robert’s driver Charles met him at the airport and upon arriving home he was surprised to see some unfamiliar cars on the driveway. Grabbing Sophia’s gifts, he bounded up the stairs and into the house calling her name. Sophia came running to greet him. “Hurry, Robert! You must say hello to my guests!” She pulled him out to the veranda and much to Robert’s shock there sat Scarlet, Denise and Rita .. all looking like the cat who swallowed the canary.
“Darling”, Sophia purred. “You’ve been a very busy boy. You see, when these charming ladies started calling here looking for you, I decided it would be nice if we all met and had a little chat. They certainly had a lot to tell me about you and Miami. Are you alright, darling? You look very pale. Here, have something to drink.” But before Robert had a chance to reach for the glass of champagne, Sophia threw it at him and slapped him hard across the face.
Robert reeled from the smack. He was stunned, humiliated, desperate and begged pitifully, “Sophia, please, let me explain.”
“No! Not one more lying word from your filthy mouth! What a damn fool I’ve been all these years!” Sophia snarled at him. “Your bags are packed and Charles will drive you to a hotel. Do not try to see me or contact me in any way. My lawyer will be in touch. And Robert, before you go .. leave the gifts.”
With vacation just one week away, Lauren was excited about buying a new bathing suit. Over the past year she had been diligent about diet and exercise and lost 65 pounds. She was proud of herself and eager to show off her great new figure.
At the mall she passed a few swimwear shops until one caught her eye. There was no loud music or glaring, off-putting lights; rather the atmosphere was quiet and relaxing. Feeling comfortable, she went in.
“Welcome” said the saleswoman. “May I help you or would you care to just browse?”
Lauren explained her recent weight loss and asked for a few suggestions.
Impressed with Lauren’s recent accomplishment, the saleswoman said she needed an eye-catching suit that would leave everyone speechless. Darting between display racks, she returned with three suits for her to try on – a blue and white polka dot bikini, a strapless jungle print bandeau and a simple one-piece with matching tunic set.
Lauren entered the softly-lit dressing room. Stepping into the one-piece, her breath caught when she saw her reflection. The suit fit her perfectly, modestly showing off her curves, while the subdued shades of purple and turquoise shimmered slightly. The purple cotton tunic provided just the right amount of coverage. “I look amazing!” she whispered.
Lauren bought the set and as a first-time patron received a coupon for 15% off her next purchase.
During the week she was busy packing. On Friday morning an Uber picked her up for her flight to Mexico.
In her hotel room Lauren put on her bathing suit, cover-up and stepped out into the pool area. She found a free lounge chair and swept the tunic over her head. Suddenly she heard loud gasps, laughing and lewd whistling. Looking down she was appalled to see her beautiful new suit had turned totally transparent in the bright sunlight!
Grabbing her tunic, she covered herself, humiliated. Immediately hotel security arrived and escorted her inside.
“I don’t know where you come from, señorita, but here in Méjico we have laws!” barked the hotel manager. “I must insist you leave this hotel at once.”
Back in her hotel room Lauren suddenly noticed the tiny label inside her bathing suit – “THE REVOLUTIONARY ‘DARE TO BE YOU’ COLOR-VANISHING SUIT!”
Bags packed, she tossed the scandalous suit into the trash thinking ruefully to herself, “caveat emptor”.
‘It is raining again’ Rachel thought woefully as she looked out the window of the Manhattan apartment she shared with her boyfriend Jeff. ‘And the weather forecast is for rain all week and into the holiday weekend!’ She and Jeff talked about getting away for a few days, maybe to Washington DC or to Boston but the weather all along the east coast looked bad. Labor Day weekend was just a few days away and it would be great to escape this incessant rain.
“It is raining like crazy!”exclaimed Jeff as he entered the apartment. “I’m soaked, hon. Toss me a towel, would ya? We’ve been talking about getting away for Labor Day. Why don’t you check the computer for vacation spots while I get changed? I’ll be back in a sec.”
“It is raining everywhere” whined Rachel as Jeff returned to the living room. “I thought about going to The Rock & Roll Hall of Fame or Disney World but they’re having rain, too.” All evening they checked out various places, with no luck. They were about to give up when Jeff shouted “Whoa, babe! Look what I found on Expedia .. two round trip tickets to Cabo San Lucas for $296 per person and only $200 for the hotel! AND NO RAIN IN SIGHT!! Let’s go for it!” Rachel threw her arms around Jeff’s neck shrieking “Cabo! Swimming! Mojitos! SUNSHINE! HELL YEAH!!”
“It is raining, babe. Can you hear it? For the first time in ten days I don’t give a damn because tomorrow we’ll be in sunny Méjico! I’m so stoked we made those reservations the other night.” Jeff yawned while Rachel snuggled up against him. “I thought I was dreaming”, she replied sleepily. “Cabo, here we come!” and they drifted off to sleep. When they woke the next morning, the rain had stopped but it was cloudy and the sky was gray. The Uber picked them up at 8:00 for their 10:00 flight. The closer they got to the airport, the lighter the skies became and by the time they were seated in the plane, the sun was trying to break through the clouds. They arrived in Cabo just in time for cocktails and dinner, watching the glorious sunset from the hotel’s veranda. Very early the next morning Jeff was awakened by Rachel’s crying. “Honey, what’s the matter?” he asked.
It is raining. Little Joseph, only four years old, is riding in the back of a big black car, his mother Carla by his side. They are following a long flower-covered car. Mommy said daddy’s in that car but Joseph can’t see him. Their car stops; other cars arrive. Everyone is dressed in black. They’re all crying. Everyone follows some men carrying a long black box into a grassy field. ‘Is this a picnic?’ Joseph wonders. The men lower the box into a large hole in the ground and mommy tells Joseph to “say goodbye to daddy.” He is confused but follows her lead, tossing a flower into the hole. They return to the car. Carla lights a cigarette, smiles and tells Joseph daddy won’t be coming back. Joseph is sad and doesn’t understand why daddy would leave without saying goodbye. Looking out the window he waves bye bye with his little hand.
It is raining .. again. Joseph wants to play with mommy but she says “No .. I’m busy on the phone”. He goes exploring the cellar where there are lots of boxes .. great for climbing and building. Joseph spots a small box among the big ones and decides it’s perfect for the top of his fort. Just as he’s placing it on the tippy top, it slips from his hands, scattering torn photos of daddy. There’s a newspaper clipping, too, but he can only read a few words – ‘BOAT’ .. ‘LOST’ .. and ‘ROMANO’ – his surname. Joseph doesn’t understand any of it but he instinctively knows mommy would be mad at him. He puts the box back where he found it and goes upstairs.
It is raining but Joseph hears laughter outside. From the window he can see mommy and a man kissing under a tree. The man takes a suitcase from his car and he and mommy run to the house. They throw open the door, dripping wet, still laughing. Joseph thinks it’s all very strange for grown ups to act this way. Carla looks at Joseph and scolds, “Naughty boy! Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?” But Joseph just stands there, looking at them. “Well, silly goose”, purrs mommy, “say hello to my friend. He’s your daddy now.” Laughing and hugging, they ran up the stairs, leaving Joseph alone in the hallway. Slowly he walks to the window and starts to cry. Will it ever stop raining?
Monday after school my friends and I are in our usual hang out .. Carroni Brothers Grocery store. We go for snacks, gum .. typical things 10 year old boys like. I want chips but I forgot my money. My friends don’t have any to loan me so I just walk around the store .. but those chips keep calling me. Next thing I know, I snatch the bag of chips and bolt out the side door. Instead of running as fast as lightning, I toss the bag into a nearby milk crate and squat down next to it. Whew! I made it! Suddenly Mr. Carroni is looming over me. He grabs the bag of chips and snarls at me “Get out of here, you little thief, and never come back!”
That night I prayed Carroni’s would burn down. No such luck.
Every day that week I gazed longingly at the store from my school bus.
One thought kept haunting me: Sunday morning .. when Dad and I take our customary walk to Carroni’s for fresh Italian bread, a box of macaroni, cannoli and the newspaper. Maybe I should just run away from home.
Sunday arrives and Dad’s calling for me to “get a move on!” I keep making up excuses why I can’t go but he’s not buying them.
Dead man walking. I’m dilly-dallying the whole way .. watching caterpillars, kicking pebbles, stopping to tie my shoelaces … again.
“C’mon, kiddo! What is this…a funeral?” Yeah. Mine! I start crying, blubbering gibberish. Taking hold of my shoulders, Dad looked me square in the eye and said “Ok, what’s going on?”
Sobbing pathetically, I told Dad the whole sordid story. Taking out his handkerchief, he wiped my face, held it to my nose and said “Blow. Listen, kiddo, what you did was wrong but it’s over. Now we go apologize .. and not a word about any of this to your Mom. This stays between us guys.”
We walked into the store, picked out our usual items and walked up to the counter. “Mr. Carroni, my son has something to say.” I managed to squeak out “I’m sorry, sir. I’ll never steal anything from you again” and extended my hand. An eternity seemed to go by but to my shock, Mr. Carroni took my little hand in his meaty one, gave me a solid handshake and nodded in agreement.
“Anything else?” he asked my Dad.
“Just this” responded Dad as he tossed a bag of my favorite chips onto the counter.
Out of the blue the call arrived. It was late and I was beyond tired. We were tempted to let it go straight to voice mail, but Gary thought it might be important.
“Gary? It’s Alice from the adoption agency. Fabulous news! We have a baby for you and Carol. Can you come by in the morning?”.
Gary jumped up. “My God!Are you sure?” Completely convinced that something terrible had happened, I grabbed the phone. “This is Carol Wheeler. Who’s this, please?”
Not bad news. Just the opposite … elating, top of the world, Lucy In the Sky With Diamonds news!
ALICE FOUND US A BABY!!!
“Yes!! We’ll be there! Thank you so much” I sputtered.
Dumbstruck, we stood there … then pandemonium erupted. Laughing, crying, hugging, kissing, dancing like lunatics. We didn’t think … or even care … to ask “boy, girl, age”? After eight years of trying to get pregnant and failing miserably, some loving stranger was presenting us with the most precious gift imaginable.
Collapsing onto the couch, we talked about the past eight years … the failed attempts … heartbreaking losses … the baby things we collected over the years, now hiding in the attic.
“Gary, do you realize tomorrow we will be a family of three?”
TOMORROW!!
All tiredness forgotten, we raced to the attic for the plastic bins of assorted baby items. There in the corner sat the bassinet, glowing in the darkness – a mystical aura the likes of which I’d never seen before. I believe at that moment I heard angels singing. We reverently carried it down to our room. I leaned into Gary, overcome with elated exhaustion.
And then the phone rang … again. We stared at it, afraid to answer, convinced it was Alice calling to say the baby’s mom had changed her mind, there would be no happy family for us.
I reached for the phone and wearily, warily said “Yes?”.
“Carol? It’s Dr. Shaw. Sorry to call so late but your tests results are back. The reason you’ve been so exhausted lately? You’re three months pregnant … with twins … and everything looks great!”
Stunned, crying, all I could manage was a hushed “My God. Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. Congratulations!”
Gary held me closely and whispered “Shh. Another baby will come along.”
I giggled. “You’re so right. That was Dr. Shaw. I’M PREGNANT … WITH TWINS!! We’re gonna be a family of FIVE!”
If you are reading this, I am no longer with you. There’s so much I wanted to tell you when I was alive, so many things I needed to explain but the words failed me. Now I find myself in the early stages of dementia and know this is my last chance to say the words you needed to hear.
You know my life was not an easy one and I learned at an early age to keep my emotions in check. I was always the practical one, keeping everyone and everything in line and doing my duty for the family. If you think I did not realize you cared for your father more than me, you are mistaken. Your father was a weak man and a bit of a buffoon. I was the one who was in charge of the household finances; left in your father’s hands, we would have ended up in the poor house. I was the one who pushed him into getting a job with the postal system; honestly, how can anyone expect to make a proper living as a barber? I know you enjoyed the “fun” times with your father but that just wasn’t reality.
You may have felt that I was stern with you and not a simpering, doting mother; perhaps I was harsh but that’s the only way to raise young girls to become strong women. I never had a care or worried about you because you were the defiant and rebellious daughter, unlike your sister who is too much like me. I think I always knew you would become your own woman and nothing like me. Having seen you with your own children, I know I’m right.
Please know I did the best I could. I did love you even though I never could bring myself to say it. I hope you know that.
Your Mother
August 18, 2009
To my mother:
I’m writing this letter knowing it will never be sent. You’re gone now so who is there to send it to? But some words need to be said.
It was rough growing up thinking I was unloved by you and there were times I hated you for that. For a long time I thought it was something I had done. I’ve learned it was something you couldn’t do – let your guard down and show me love.
My teens years were the turning point for me because I got out of the house and away from you. You know my mother-in-law was a very different type of woman; warm and kind, we formed a bond and I found in her the mother’s love I desperately needed.
How I resented you and your aloofness! What a shame … so many years wasted. Now as I look back I feel sorry for you. Deep down I believe you loved me; you were just too afraid to show it. I’m living a good life, Mother. I have a loving family and we’re not embarrassed or afraid to say “I love you”.
You’re wrong about Dad; I didn’t care for him more than you. I loved him and he adored me even though you kept him on a short leash and told him it was unmanly for a father to fawn over his daughter.
I’m happy to say I’m nothing like you. I hope you can rest in peace, Mother. I will not spend the rest of my life wondering about what might have been.
I have a burning question. How many of us can honestly say we’ve seen God … not just seen Him but had a full-blown conversation – a religious experience replete with images and epiphanies? Ten, twenty, fifty, one hundred perhaps unless, of course, while under the influence of mind-expanding, hallucination-inducing psychedelic drugs the number would increase exponentially.
That is exactly what happened one night when my fiancé emerged from the bedroom after an hours-long LSD trip and announced to all in the living room, “I have just seen God and I now know there’s no such thing as everlasting death.”
Being in various stages of synthetic delusion, our reactions ran the gamut from “Heavy, dude!” to “What-the-fuckedness?!” to fits of hysterical laughter. Undeterred, although somewhat unsteady and quite high, my friancé wound his way through the mass of pillows strewn about the room and situated himself in the middle of the floor like the Maharishi Mahesh Yogi.
Fifteen pairs of glazed-over eyes watched while he went on to explain how God revealed to him that the followers of Pythagoras were extremely superstitious and mystical. They believed that the human soul was trapped in a continuous cycle of death and reincarnation. Although the body dies, the soul lives on, lying dormant in a constantly spinning dimension of the universe where it patiently waits to be catapulted back to earth, implanted into one form or another of the female species, and is reborn. And this cycle of death and reincarnation can be experienced by an individual an infinite number of times.
Minds officially blown, we all agreed this new-found knowledge was indeed “heavy” and required more contemplation while listening … again … to Dark Side Of The Moon. But I, who was always somewhat preoccupied and frightened by the thought of dying and ceasing to exist for all eternity, wanted to learn more about this amazing concept. I found it calming, hopeful and profound. So my future husband and I discussed this astounding, all-encompassing theory which I took fully to heart. Suddenly I was filled with a warm peace, a confirmation that the soul lives on, returning after mortal death. How ineffably comforting.
Soon I found myself drifting off to sleep in Bill’s arms as Pink Floyd played softly in the background:
“I am not frightened of dying. Any time will do, I don’t mind.”
It was the night of the office Christmas party and I was dreading it. I knew Kevin was going to be there. After our breakup, I couldn’t stand being around him. I thought he was a great guy; I was wrong. He was only interested in sex. Kevin never missed a party, a chance to get drunk and hit on me. I wasn’t there long before he spotted me. I turned and headed for the restroom. When I came out, Kevin was waiting…..drunk, leaning against the wall, drink in hand. He stumbled towards me slurring “hey, baby”, pushing the drink in my face. I walked past him but he grabbed my arm and dragged me into the supply room. He spun me around, smashing his lips against mine, tearing at the buttons on my blouse and shoving his hand up my skirt. Somehow I managed to push him off me. Kevin was so drunk, he stumbled and fell backwards. I ran out into the street, gasping as the cold rain washed my body of Kevin’s stink. I couldn’t go to my apartment. Hailing a cab, I fled to the safety of my parents house…..safe from Kevin.
KEVIN’S STORY
It was the night of the office Christmas party and I was dreading it. I knew Rita was going to be there. We had a ‘thing’ once which ended badly….for her. These parties…..I only go to them because it’s expected but they really aren’t my thing. I pop in, make the rounds and take off. I was set to leave when Rita snuck up behind me at the coat closet. Wrapping her arms around my waist, she tongued my ear whispering incoherently. When I turned around to free myself, she pulled me into the closet, fumbling with my belt buckle. Rita was grinding against me, her dress riding up to her waist. I was trapped by a drunken sex machine reeking of cheap perfume and bourbon. This is not how I like being with a woman and I was disgusted. I just wanted to get the hell out of there. Suddenly Rita went limp in my arms and crumbled onto a pile of coats. I grabbed my jacket and made a beeline for the door. The air was cold but I knew it would clear the smell of Rita from my clothes and out of my head.
Head cocked to the right, Jake waited impatiently as I read the article he had slipped in front of me. Having been born with microtia, Jake’s right ear was very small and malformed with significantly decreased hearing…..just like his idol Paul Stanley from KISS….so tilting his head to one side for better hearing was second nature.
“Mom, can we go….PLEASE?” he pleaded. “The article says 50 dogs and cats will be euthanized next week unless they’re adopted. Please, Mom! I’ve wanted a dog forever! If I can get a dog for Christmas, I’ll never ask you for another thing for the rest of my life!!”
I slid my glasses down my nose and raised my eyebrows questioningly. “That’s a really long time, Jake! I’ll tell you what. Today’s Wednesday. If you finish that book report and clean your room by Saturday, then we have a deal.”
“Really?? I swear I will, Mom!” Jake threw his arms around my neck. “I can’t wait until Saturday!” I couldn’t help laughing at his unbridled excitement.
Saturday finally arrived and Jake was true to his word. His report was done and his room was clean. He even found an old frame in the basement for his favorite KISS poster.
So I was true to MY word, too. We got to the shelter early and looked around, stopping at all the cages. After a while, I lost sight of Jake. I called out to him and got an “Over here, Mom!” in response. I finally spotted him in the corner, bending down and staring into a cage. There weren’t any other people hanging around that section and I wondered what type of dog caught Jake’s eye. I was surprised to see it wasn’t a dog but two tiny grey kittens.
“Hey, buddy, what’s up? I thought you wanted to get a dog. Did you change your mind?”
Jake looked up at me, his big brown eyes brimming with tears. “Mom,” he whispered. “Come look. These are special cats!” Bending down to take a look, I thought “what could be so special about a cat?” My question was answered when I looked in the cage; I gasped slightly at what I saw.
“Ah, I see an introduction is necessary” said one of the shelter volunteers. ”These are our Scottish Folds. No one wants these little guys because of their folded ears. Everyone thinks there’s something wrong with them but that’s just the way God made them.”
“Mom, they’re just like me! I love them. Can we take them home, please?”
“We sure can, buddy” I managed to choke out. “What are you going to name them?”
“That’s easy.” Jake smiled up at me. “Paul and Stanley.”
The incessant knocking on our apartment door at midnight did not surprise us. Friends were constantly coming and going at our place, commonly referred to as “Party Central”……or “PC” to our closest friends.
“Michael!” my husband greeted our friend. “C’mon in, man. What’s with the suitcase?”
“I got a problem, man”, Michael uncharacteristically replied as they walked straight into our bedroom and locked the door.
Flashback two years when we first met Michael. We moved into his apartment building and became instant friends. He was the coolest guy we knew…..good-looking, brilliant, confident, irresistible and sexy as hell. He was infectious and we soon started living life in the express lane of sex, drugs and rock and roll. He was fun, wild and fearless. We went to all the best concerts and got into the hottest clubs. We partied every night, went to work the next day and did it all over again.
Oh yeah, Michael was also a narc for the NYPD……a fact that saved us more times than I care to remember – plenty of close calls but all he had to do was show his badge, flash that smile, talk the talk and we were golden.
Yet he always managed to toe the line at work, except for that night when temptation ruled, the night he showed up at our door. Inside our locked bedroom, Michael opened the suitcase to reveal hundreds of plastic bags filled with quaaludes.
My husband looked incredulously at Michael.
“It was in the evidence room, undocumented”, Michael explained. “I just picked it up and walked the fuck out. Can I stash it here for a couple of days until I make a plan?”
“Sure, man. Do what you gotta do.”
They hugged and Michael said “I’ll be in touch soon.”
Michael went back to work and nobody….not one person in the precinct noticed the suitcase was missing. After a few days, he returned to our place with a backpack. Taking out the suitcase, he dumped half the ludes into the backpack and gave the rest to my husband. “Here you go, brother……….courtesy of the NYPD!”
My husband put his arm around Michael’s neck as they walked to the door. He turned, flashed me that amazing grin and blew me a kiss. “See ya ‘round the campus, guys.”
And he disappeared into the night, never to be seen again.
The Elephant's Trunk 