He sits on the toilet and begs her not to leave.
“Don’t go! Please…” Danny’s voice trails off as he leans forward, jeans pooling around his ankles, skinny legs exposed. His face is flushed and damp, his eyes are pleading, but he is harmless and vulnerable in this position. She can walk out the door.
Hillary doesn’t know when walking out the door became so easy for her, when she became able to forget his pathetic looks, his sorrowful moans, his child-like whining. Somewhere along the way, she forgot why she used to stay and argue until late into the night, early into the morning, hearing the birds chirp at dawn that always made her cry. They never resolved their battles, only fell onto the soft bed out of exhaustion when hysteria failed.
Hillary finally understands how love slips into hate, how hate mimics love, how anything in between only glues a couple together. She remembers to close the porch door behind her. The porch that they painted in magenta and purple, with sheer curtains piped in velvet surrounding chenille armchairs. This was their final project, their desperate attempt to create and distract themselves from the inevitable end. She wore a vintage slip and stood on a step ladder, scraping blue painting tape from the French window panes. It was campaign season, and Mayor R.T. Rybak came to drop off some flyers and a glossy yard sign. He saw Hillary high on the ladder, paint dripping down her arms, splattering dots of magenta on the edge of her slip. He commented nervously on the color. She told him it was called Haunted Melody.
Danny soon abandoned the project for prescription pill bottles. He left her on the porch with all the windows to edge, a sorry plastic tape deck, and new paint brushes. She swears her heart is trapped on the porch, smothered in the paint that violently adhered to the stucco walls, the walls she painted over and over again until the color became thick and dark enough, leaving no traces of the brillant white the previous owners had painted. The white that grew shadowy and nicotine stained under the strain of their care. It was an attempt to hide their history; A history that still echoes in the room.
Sunday, July 23, 2006
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Mill Ruins Ondine
“My earring,” she said, leaning forward into the rectangular slot of earth before us. The old woman straightened out with some difficulty and the wrinkles in her face deepened with the effort. The soil was dry and our trowels made a grating noise as we scraped an outcropping of stone. Her skin was dry too, despite the blazing afternoon sun above us.
“So, you are…were an archaeologist then?” I asked.
“No, no,” said the woman, “I volunteer with the park board sometimes. An old woman needs something to do with her time – my son’s grown, doesn’t want me around anymore. I’ve got to do something with my time. I’m Ondine, by the way.”
“Like the play?”
“Hmm? That’s right. Like the play.”
“Sarah.”
Ondine held the dustpan for me while I swept loosened pieces of limestone and dirt out of the corners. She transferred the debris into the empty bucket next to her.
A mother with two young children approached and nodded silently. She looked tired. “See what they’re doing?” she said to her children, “Wanna do some digging? Or do you want to do the art project instead?” The children responded with a dumb stare.
“The art project?” prompted the mother. She shrugged her shoulders in our direction and said, “Family Days” as if it explained everything. Then she prodded the children back towards the entryway, where flickering flags had been strung to draw attention to the open-dig day.
“What about you?” Ondine asked, “How did you hear about this?”
“Oh. I saw an ad in the paper and thought it would be fun. When I was a kid, I wanted to study archaeology, I guess. But you know, I got married right out of high school, had kids of my own, and it just didn’t work out that way.”
Just then, my trowel scraped across something metal. Ondine slid her legs painfully over into the hole, bowing the single strand of twine that demarcated the area. Her ankles were swollen and dotted with liver spots. With a hand-held whisk, she brushed my arm away and plucked what looked like an old timepiece out of the dirt.
I leaned forward to see, but Ondine quickly pocketed the object and said, “Looks like garbage. We’ve been finding a lot of garbage. We’re not that far down yet.”
“Uh..I don’t think you’re supposed to keep anything that you find, though.” I said uneasily, “I mean, shouldn’t we put anything man-made that we find in that bag? The Level 4 bag. See it?”
Ondine looked at me blankly. She seemed confused and put her hands down on the cracked ground to steady herself.
“You ok?” I asked.
She shook her head, seemed stunned. I moved across the hole to sit beside her and her body leaned heavily into mine. She was older than I had initially thought. I could see patches of scalp beneath her stiff thinning hair.
“You ok?” I asked again, “Do you want me to call an ambulance?”
She jerked her head upwards to face mine. Her eyes weren’t focusing correctly, I could see. “No, no.. just help me down there, into the shade.”
Her hand waved faintly at a square of excavated earth nearby. It had been dug about three feet down, and a metal shaft protruded from one corner. It was rusted through and a sign posted next to it indicated that it had been the chute through which the eight or so mills on site had shared water at the turn of the century.
We rose with great difficulty, my arm supporting her corseted waist, and stumbled toward the hole together. I managed to lower her down onto the ground, and together we slid inside. It was cooler in there, and mostly shaded from the sun.
We sat there for a while. I listened to her shortened breaths and groped in my bag for a water bottle. She took a shallow sip from me and leaned the side of her face against the cool earthen wall.
“My son,” she said, “This is where his father died. Lawrence. It was his watch.”
“Do you want me to call your son and have him come pick you up? I think you really need to go home and lie down for a while.”
“The earring wasn’t mine, though. My ears aren’t even pierced, see?” She pulled back her hair. “Mama wouldn’t let me pierce my ears.”
“What’s your son’s number? I’ll call him and tell him to come pick you up.”
“Lawrence fell asleep one night. Had been carrying on with one of the mill girls. I never even found out what her name was.”
“Ma’am? Ondine? Your son..?”
“Everyone thought it was the flour, you know - Miller’s Lung. He couldn’t sleep and he was so tired and he tried so to keep his eyes open. Then Lawrence just closed his eyes and fell asleep. And stopped breathing.”
Ondine’s own breathing had slowed, but her eyes remained closed. “It broke my heart, the way he carried on with that girl, but there was nothing else I could do. By then, it was too late for me to go back to Mama. It was getting late. I was getting old. My son…”
“Mama?” A man’s voice called out sharply, “Mama?” A shadow crossed the lit portion of the hole and I looked up to see an old man at the ridge.
“For God’s sake, Mama. Miss, would you be so kind as to help me get her up out of there? Mama, let’s take you back now.”
Ondine’s son must have been in his eighties, but his grip on her was surprisingly strong.
“She hasn’t been quite right since Daddy died,” he said, “’Ondine’s Curse’ is what they call it at the center. They give her too much freedom there. Mama, you can’t just wander off like that anymore.”
“So, you are…were an archaeologist then?” I asked.
“No, no,” said the woman, “I volunteer with the park board sometimes. An old woman needs something to do with her time – my son’s grown, doesn’t want me around anymore. I’ve got to do something with my time. I’m Ondine, by the way.”
“Like the play?”
“Hmm? That’s right. Like the play.”
“Sarah.”
Ondine held the dustpan for me while I swept loosened pieces of limestone and dirt out of the corners. She transferred the debris into the empty bucket next to her.
A mother with two young children approached and nodded silently. She looked tired. “See what they’re doing?” she said to her children, “Wanna do some digging? Or do you want to do the art project instead?” The children responded with a dumb stare.
“The art project?” prompted the mother. She shrugged her shoulders in our direction and said, “Family Days” as if it explained everything. Then she prodded the children back towards the entryway, where flickering flags had been strung to draw attention to the open-dig day.
“What about you?” Ondine asked, “How did you hear about this?”
“Oh. I saw an ad in the paper and thought it would be fun. When I was a kid, I wanted to study archaeology, I guess. But you know, I got married right out of high school, had kids of my own, and it just didn’t work out that way.”
Just then, my trowel scraped across something metal. Ondine slid her legs painfully over into the hole, bowing the single strand of twine that demarcated the area. Her ankles were swollen and dotted with liver spots. With a hand-held whisk, she brushed my arm away and plucked what looked like an old timepiece out of the dirt.
I leaned forward to see, but Ondine quickly pocketed the object and said, “Looks like garbage. We’ve been finding a lot of garbage. We’re not that far down yet.”
“Uh..I don’t think you’re supposed to keep anything that you find, though.” I said uneasily, “I mean, shouldn’t we put anything man-made that we find in that bag? The Level 4 bag. See it?”
Ondine looked at me blankly. She seemed confused and put her hands down on the cracked ground to steady herself.
“You ok?” I asked.
She shook her head, seemed stunned. I moved across the hole to sit beside her and her body leaned heavily into mine. She was older than I had initially thought. I could see patches of scalp beneath her stiff thinning hair.
“You ok?” I asked again, “Do you want me to call an ambulance?”
She jerked her head upwards to face mine. Her eyes weren’t focusing correctly, I could see. “No, no.. just help me down there, into the shade.”
Her hand waved faintly at a square of excavated earth nearby. It had been dug about three feet down, and a metal shaft protruded from one corner. It was rusted through and a sign posted next to it indicated that it had been the chute through which the eight or so mills on site had shared water at the turn of the century.
We rose with great difficulty, my arm supporting her corseted waist, and stumbled toward the hole together. I managed to lower her down onto the ground, and together we slid inside. It was cooler in there, and mostly shaded from the sun.
We sat there for a while. I listened to her shortened breaths and groped in my bag for a water bottle. She took a shallow sip from me and leaned the side of her face against the cool earthen wall.
“My son,” she said, “This is where his father died. Lawrence. It was his watch.”
“Do you want me to call your son and have him come pick you up? I think you really need to go home and lie down for a while.”
“The earring wasn’t mine, though. My ears aren’t even pierced, see?” She pulled back her hair. “Mama wouldn’t let me pierce my ears.”
“What’s your son’s number? I’ll call him and tell him to come pick you up.”
“Lawrence fell asleep one night. Had been carrying on with one of the mill girls. I never even found out what her name was.”
“Ma’am? Ondine? Your son..?”
“Everyone thought it was the flour, you know - Miller’s Lung. He couldn’t sleep and he was so tired and he tried so to keep his eyes open. Then Lawrence just closed his eyes and fell asleep. And stopped breathing.”
Ondine’s own breathing had slowed, but her eyes remained closed. “It broke my heart, the way he carried on with that girl, but there was nothing else I could do. By then, it was too late for me to go back to Mama. It was getting late. I was getting old. My son…”
“Mama?” A man’s voice called out sharply, “Mama?” A shadow crossed the lit portion of the hole and I looked up to see an old man at the ridge.
“For God’s sake, Mama. Miss, would you be so kind as to help me get her up out of there? Mama, let’s take you back now.”
Ondine’s son must have been in his eighties, but his grip on her was surprisingly strong.
“She hasn’t been quite right since Daddy died,” he said, “’Ondine’s Curse’ is what they call it at the center. They give her too much freedom there. Mama, you can’t just wander off like that anymore.”
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Spider Legs and Glass Shards
Derek hands her a cup of coffee on the corner of University and 4th. “Happy Birthday…it’s all I could afford,” he says as he kicks a chunk of broken sidewalk. His hands are bloated and shaking more than usual.
“But I made you this,” he says as he point to a hunk of cardboard pushed up against the wheel of his bicycle. It’s a rectangle scrap smeared in oil crayons. It looks like a doomsday depiction of the end of the world with swirling fireballs and abstract melted flowers. It reminds her of a picture she saw in the Watchtower that a Witness dropped by the week before. The front of the booklet dripped with smeary, fiery lines of color, thousands of asteroids falling from the sky. People clutched their heads, their cartoon faces contorted from fear. The last page proved the glory of redemption. Blonde girls skipped around in stiff, sky blue dresses and virgin white knee socks. Blissful men and women swam in a sea of chalk white daisies, arms spread upward to the great beyond, their faces contorted with happiness like the manicky red painted smiles found on clowns in toy cars and checkered pants. She always thought the end of the world looked more inviting.
They stand for a few moments, the same pained clown smiles stretched on their faces. Derek’s hair hasn’t been cut since they broke up last fall. It hangs in his face, greasy locks thinned out with age. He pushes it to the left, to cover his eye, the one that a beebee gun ripped into when he was twelve. She loves his eye, all lazy with a permanently fixed pupil encased in glass.
“I can’t sing in Caragan House. I can't sing with all of those people around,” he sighs. He turns his entire head so he can use his good eye. He faces the downtrodden, one story building that houses 30 men. Three rusty coffee cans line the cement steps, overflowing with yellowed cigarette butts. The butts of 30 men who are ordered to make their beds by 7:00 in the morning, who aren’t allowed back into their rooms until late afternoon, who have to pee in plastic coated cups as staff people watch.
“Shit, there’s these guys who are old…I mean really old. I look in their eyes and don’t feel like there’s hope. They’re like 40 or 50 and still living in some halfway house that tells you when to brush your teeth. I might as well be homeless,” he says.
His eye suddenly brightens with light bulb brilliance. “Yeah, homeless! I can get one of those “need money” signs and turn over my social security check to you, ya know, to help with the bills.”
“I don’t want your money,” she says and sips her coffee. He’s the only one who knows how she likes her coffee. He used to make it for her every morning before she woke up. He must have had some scientific formula, some odd water to coffee ratio or a secret grinding technique. Since they parted, the coffee she makes always tastes like shit.
She tells him about the garden. “Only one poppy made it, but the George Vancouver rose is doing well. I moved the burgundy clematis by the gate where it gets more sun.” She tells him this softly, sliding each syllable, trying to make each word extend forever. She feels like she’s having phone sex as she retells every single step, every new hole dug, every single variegated leaf and blossom accounted for. Tears slip down his cheeks, but she knows he’s watching her lips move.
Before they met, she never knew a glass eye could cry. But now she’s used to the tears pooling, streaming down from his real eye, spilling out from his fake eye. When she watches him cry she likes to pretend his tears are shards of glass.
The traffic lights keeps flipping, flashing colors that are almost too dull to see in the late afternoon light. They stand on the corner as bicyclists and couples with squirmy and sleepy children move around them. Everyone is heading down to the river with blankets and water bottles. They’re waiting for dusk, for popping fireworks to spill on the city sky, to watch the skinny spider legs of fire fall. She wants to avoid the crowds of people breathing one another’s bug spray, the over tired kids jacked up on cotton candy, the man who used to be her partner that is moments away from becoming a bum pushing a shopping cart full of rags and bird seed.
“I’m sick of being a retard. They won’t even let me near the stove. Everything they feed us comes in a fucking bucket. They shove all of these bratwursts, burnt hamburgers and Tuna Helper crap in gallon buckets and serve them to us. Buckets of fucking meat!” He laughs. “But really, I cannot sing in that house.”
She turns to walk away. She doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he never sang in the first place.
“But I made you this,” he says as he point to a hunk of cardboard pushed up against the wheel of his bicycle. It’s a rectangle scrap smeared in oil crayons. It looks like a doomsday depiction of the end of the world with swirling fireballs and abstract melted flowers. It reminds her of a picture she saw in the Watchtower that a Witness dropped by the week before. The front of the booklet dripped with smeary, fiery lines of color, thousands of asteroids falling from the sky. People clutched their heads, their cartoon faces contorted from fear. The last page proved the glory of redemption. Blonde girls skipped around in stiff, sky blue dresses and virgin white knee socks. Blissful men and women swam in a sea of chalk white daisies, arms spread upward to the great beyond, their faces contorted with happiness like the manicky red painted smiles found on clowns in toy cars and checkered pants. She always thought the end of the world looked more inviting.
They stand for a few moments, the same pained clown smiles stretched on their faces. Derek’s hair hasn’t been cut since they broke up last fall. It hangs in his face, greasy locks thinned out with age. He pushes it to the left, to cover his eye, the one that a beebee gun ripped into when he was twelve. She loves his eye, all lazy with a permanently fixed pupil encased in glass.
“I can’t sing in Caragan House. I can't sing with all of those people around,” he sighs. He turns his entire head so he can use his good eye. He faces the downtrodden, one story building that houses 30 men. Three rusty coffee cans line the cement steps, overflowing with yellowed cigarette butts. The butts of 30 men who are ordered to make their beds by 7:00 in the morning, who aren’t allowed back into their rooms until late afternoon, who have to pee in plastic coated cups as staff people watch.
“Shit, there’s these guys who are old…I mean really old. I look in their eyes and don’t feel like there’s hope. They’re like 40 or 50 and still living in some halfway house that tells you when to brush your teeth. I might as well be homeless,” he says.
His eye suddenly brightens with light bulb brilliance. “Yeah, homeless! I can get one of those “need money” signs and turn over my social security check to you, ya know, to help with the bills.”
“I don’t want your money,” she says and sips her coffee. He’s the only one who knows how she likes her coffee. He used to make it for her every morning before she woke up. He must have had some scientific formula, some odd water to coffee ratio or a secret grinding technique. Since they parted, the coffee she makes always tastes like shit.
She tells him about the garden. “Only one poppy made it, but the George Vancouver rose is doing well. I moved the burgundy clematis by the gate where it gets more sun.” She tells him this softly, sliding each syllable, trying to make each word extend forever. She feels like she’s having phone sex as she retells every single step, every new hole dug, every single variegated leaf and blossom accounted for. Tears slip down his cheeks, but she knows he’s watching her lips move.
Before they met, she never knew a glass eye could cry. But now she’s used to the tears pooling, streaming down from his real eye, spilling out from his fake eye. When she watches him cry she likes to pretend his tears are shards of glass.
The traffic lights keeps flipping, flashing colors that are almost too dull to see in the late afternoon light. They stand on the corner as bicyclists and couples with squirmy and sleepy children move around them. Everyone is heading down to the river with blankets and water bottles. They’re waiting for dusk, for popping fireworks to spill on the city sky, to watch the skinny spider legs of fire fall. She wants to avoid the crowds of people breathing one another’s bug spray, the over tired kids jacked up on cotton candy, the man who used to be her partner that is moments away from becoming a bum pushing a shopping cart full of rags and bird seed.
“I’m sick of being a retard. They won’t even let me near the stove. Everything they feed us comes in a fucking bucket. They shove all of these bratwursts, burnt hamburgers and Tuna Helper crap in gallon buckets and serve them to us. Buckets of fucking meat!” He laughs. “But really, I cannot sing in that house.”
She turns to walk away. She doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he never sang in the first place.
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