Knowledge

Judging by the color of them, the ceiling tiles must have been recently replaced. The walls, unevenly covered by some kind of plaster and patched in several places, unsuccessfully blocked noises from surrounding exam rooms. There was a screw missing on a panel near the ceiling that might once have featured a clock. The glass covering an innocuous aluminum-framed print needed washing.

I began to feel the chill of institutionally gray tiles through my thin cotton tee shirt, and realized the danger must have passed. To my right, viewed between assorted steel railings supporting the bed between us, the P.A.’s navy-pinstriped legs moved slightly with her efforts. Her shoes were expensively sensible. I admired her slacks; the hang of them, the color, the fine weave of the fabric from which they’d been fashioned. I wanted to ask where she’d found them, but worried I might not be heard from my vantage point on the floor beside the bed.

I considered getting up, as the floor seemed to grow colder every minute I lay there. I eyed my jacket, draped across the back of the ridiculously uncomfortable chair I’d ridden for the better part of three hours.

“You ok down there?” Her Midwestern accented voice carried no judgment.

“Yeah, I’m good.” I answered, making the decision to stay put for the time being.

The sight of his sweat-pant covered legs, dangling as they did, from a gaping hole in the ceiling, alarmed me. All sorts of maternal recriminations sprouted inside my head, and I kept them there, knowing he would consider me unnecessarily concerned, and motherly. I approached with pursed lips in anticipation of cradling the box of ornaments he would hand down, and was met, instead, with a rain of limbs. He recalls his foot slipping from the ladder he meant to jump upon. I remember a slow-motion, herky-jerky, free-fall during which my mind immediately began to catalogue possible injuries.

As my brain continued its seamless shift into “medical-mode”, I watched the way his feet met the floor and felt sure he’d done no lasting damage. He plopped to a half-sitting/half-crouching position against the wall. Raising up as I bent towards him, he held one arm with the other hand, and below that was something I’d seen only in well-worn textbooks. I immediately bent his arm at the elbow, in an effort to close the gash.

Surreally, images of pioneer women rending their skirts flashed across my brain, before training took over again, and I envisioned the gridwork of veins and arteries snaking through that part of the human arm. I had no skirt to rend. The size of the dressing seemed most important to me as I envisioned wrapping towels of every size around his arm. Discarding each of them as too bulky, I raced through the house in the direction of the rag bag. Grabbing the telephone on my way back, I dropped it twice, before successfully dialing 911.

I raced back and forth around him following, implicitly, the instructions given by the emergency operator.

“Do I have to sit here?”, he asked from his puddle of blood.

“Well…” I hesitated, conjuring something akin to a “scene of the crime” kind of vibe.

He drew his legs up to rise.

“No! Wait!” Seeing he was determined, I helped him up, observing, as taught, for any changes in his gait.

I planted him on a chair in the kitchen.

“Hey? Can you get my cigarettes and coffee?”

Complying, I placed them before him as diffused strobe lights began to play in the next room, and removed them as quickly as I’d lain them down.

“It’s not cool to meet paramedics with your cigarettes and coffee between you.”

After opening the door, I left them to their ministrations, tempered with cheerful holiday banter. They were good at what they did.

The house was quiet again. The lights continued to play while they settled him inside the rig. I took the puppy out to feed him.

An insistent rapping against glass caught my attention and I fixed my expression on my way to meet the curious neighbors I’d been expecting. Robert lives next door.

“Yeah…” The word was jovial, coming from my smile.

“Uh, look, he wants to ask you something.” This was not what I had expected. “You know, I was just coming to make sure you were alright, and he stopped me. He wants some things from the bedside table, and he wants to ask you something.”

“Ok…thanks.”

“Let me know if you need anything…”

They had him strapped onto the gurney under very bright lights. He wore the grin that always means “I need you but you’re not going to like it.”

“Did you know that if I don’t ride, there’s no charge?”

I looked at the paramedic manning the door.

“Really?”

He inclined his head.

“Yep. Joe here’s not even gonna ride in back with him. He’s only a 3 out of 3. I mean if he’d been a 10 out of 10…but he’s only a 3 out of 3.” There was a hint of apology in his voice.

I marveled, silently, at the notion that the fuel required to drive a person to the hospital had more value than medical services rendered on site, before looking again into the jarringly bright light.

The grin had widened.

“Well, sure. I can drive you….sure. Let me get some things…We’ll take your car, you’re not comfortable in mine.” Most of this was thrown over my shoulder as I hurried back inside.

“God! You just seem miserable! You’re making me miserable! Just go home!” As he said it, from his perch on a bed in the middle of a room that, at least gave the look of being sterile, he turned his head away slightly.

“You know? Here’s the thing. It’s a problem of too much knowledge. It’s knowing that while we’re in here for hour upon hour, they are out there talking about what they served for Thanksgiving and flirting with the maintenance man they called to fix a drawer that won’t open, and they don’t care. It’s just a job, you know? I mean, they don’t mean to be disrespectful, but it’s just like you in your office. You visit right? You walk down the hall and talk to Chris or Steve, right? And you think nothing of it. It doesn’t matter that you’ve got reports on your desk that need editing. You’re bored. You walk down the hall. It’s the same here. And most people don’t know it, but I do, and I just want to go out there and say “Hey! I had plans here! My son is away for four days and I had plans tonight! This was supposed to be my night! Can we hurry things up here? Can you flirt with the guy from maintenance tomorrow maybe?”” Spent, I stopped.

Save for the sounds of a lift being pushed on a bed next door, and the beeps from a portable x-ray unit, and the sound of high heels on tile, and a rough-hewn voice that sounded like a maintenance man’s calling playfully, “Hey, come here!”, it was silent inside the room until the P.A. stepped inside.

After introducing herself she set about gathering supplies and began her work; the picture of kind efficiency. Holding a vial containing clear colored liquid over her head, she inserted a needle of some proportion, explaining that the lidocaine would “deaden the area”. I saw his sharp intake of breath as the needle disappeared behind his body and felt expected to do something. Averting my eyes as I approached the bed, I took his other hand.

“Here, squeeze this.”

I stood, and he squeezed for several minutes, before the back of my knees began to tingle. I bent them slightly as taught in chorus so many years ago and focused on an array of buttons set in the opposite wall. The buttons, and even the wall, itself, became cloudy and I attempted to will it away by blinking. When I realized I could no longer hear the cheerfully kind banter of the P.A., I patted his hand, explaining I should sit down. As I struggled with consciousness, I remembered the coolness of a tile floor, and I climbed off my chair, hoping no one would notice.

Rain sheared across the windshield as I struggled to make out faded lines in the road.

“What was that about?” His speech still carried Dilaudid. “You were a nurse!”

“Now, you know.”

“What? What do I know?”

“You know the real reason I didn’t want to come.”

“But you were a nurse! You saw things like that all the time! How did you do it?”

“It’s different…when the outcome affects the picture you carry in your head, of your life.”

We rode in silence for several minutes before he spoke again.

“Did I imagine it, or did you tie a dust-rag around my arm?”

Taxi!

She pushed away from the table.

Half-eaten, she left it on the plate,

and, reaching the sidewalk, she threw up her hand.

He Said, She Said

He doesn’t so much sit as drape a chair; filling it with athletic grace. His head lies cradled in the receiver as he drags one sturdy hand through a day’s growth. His eyes squint, unseeing, as his own mortality supersedes the flashing image on the other side of the room.

“Have you thought about marriage?”

I push my hair behind my ear as I cross, hurriedly, into the next room. A familiar irony fills me.

My hand holds the same telephone, in the same room, in the same chair. My daughter’s voice comes through the receiver, and, as my hand parts my hair, I ask my question.

“Is this what you really want?”

“Kirkin’ of the Tartans”

Joy was hard to find amongst the throng of worshipers gathered in the narthex of the church. Standing at 4’11”, in her sensible shoes, and colorful tartan skirt, her painted lips broke into a smile as we rounded the pair of taller men blocking our view. Her arms flew wide in my son’s direction, and he fell into them, as expected. As he pulled away, she retained her hold on his arms, looking him almost eye-to-eye, and exclaimed her delight at seeing him. Turning towards me, she fussed with the vest she’d squeezed beneath her jacket as I complimented her skirt.

She’d seen the pastor’s wife, so she was relatively sure the pastor had arrived as well, but she hadn’t seen the bagpiper. We discussed seating. She hoped it would be alright if we sat near the front. “I can’t sit too far back. It’s hard to hear…”

Three rows from the front, she sidled into a pew, allowing just enough space for our three bodies. Joy likes to touch. I could smell her perfume.

She’d been to the opera since I’d seen her. Rossini was one of her favorite composers, but she’d not seen this performance before. She described it as beautiful, light, and airy. She’d liked it very much.

The pews around us filled as I refreshed my memory of the sanctuary. Fashioned from gracious blonde wood, the ceiling arched high to accommodate and enhance the majesty of organ music, and the builders had preferred graceful curves to corners, giving the room a fluid feel. There was little decoration, save for a table on the rising in front of us, holding a single round of bread and a silver goblet. Behind the table, a three-piece band readied itself for the service, opposite a large, tartan-draped pulpit.

I sat, appreciating the warm simplicity of my surroundings, as my son surveyed the crowd of strangers. I wondered what he was learning. I complied with Joy’s request for a stick of gum.

And the music began…very softly at first, as though far away; a single bagpipe playing a familiar refrain. Placing my hand on his leg, I directed my son’s attention, and we turned to look behind us.

The piper was a sturdily built, older woman dressed in traditional Scottish garb. Heavy, utilitarian boots covered thick woolen socks that met her kilt, the plaid of which was repeated in the sash that partially covered her black woolen jacket. Her reddened cheeks alternately expanded and deflated as she sucked for air between blows, and I was immediately struck by her effort.

Behind her, a stately procession of tartans flowed in on tall poles carried by practiced, stern-faced parishioners. Each pole featured a symbol, and the name of a clan, above their corresponding plaid, and, as they passed, the large swatches of colorful material fluttered at us, gracefully. The music resounded against graceful blonde arches above us, and as the procession continued, my eyes filled with its proud beauty.

The musician took her place to one side of the rising as the tartans flowed in and around her, coming to rest at their designated spots along the thoughtfully curved walls, until we were surrounded by ancestral colors, the haunting strains of a lone bagpiper, and synchronicity.

The speaker, an older man of Scottish descent, and one-time pastor of this church, took the podium, proudly wearing the kilt of his clan. He began his address by explaining Jewish tradition, and, at first, I found myself captivated more by his soft, brogue-enlaced speech, than his message. His focus was on the concept, and importance of, “we, first-person plural…”. He credited early Jewish tradition with introducing the concept, and early Presbyterians with embracing it. He related the history of the “Kirkin’ of the Tartans”, and the prohibitions and ensuing violence that his ancestors had survived. As he spoke, I surveyed the proud plaids lining the walls behind him, and I understood.
We rose, as directed, and I added my voice to the others, as we sang “Amazing Grace” to the accompaniment of a single bagpipe….

As a child, I attended church every Sunday. The car rolled to a stop, and my mother unlocked the doors to let us out. As an adult, I attended for many years until politics monopolized our Sunday school lessons, souring me. World history classes, required by my major, officially debunked most of the Bible, assuring me that my soul was, indeed, in my own hands. Since that time, my attendance in church has been sporadic, and usually socially driven.

My choice to attend today was fueled by a desire to provide, for my son, an experience. The emotion I experienced was unexpected. As I sat in the sanctuary, surrounded by parishioners, and tartans, and history, I came to understand why they were there. I felt their belonging.

The bagpipe began to whine again, announcing a reversed procession. The plaids fluttered in the opposite direction, and I watched through tear-filled eyes. The music faded as the last tartan passed, before growing stronger again, causing me to turn, again, towards the front of the church.

She stood, singularly; framed by double doors. Sunlight rained upon her and the unlikely instrument, and after several minutes, the music continued as she turned, proudly, and walked away.

If Only

It had been years since I’d sung for anyone I hadn’t either married, or given birth to.

Melissa would change that. Coming into my life in a multi-colored, polyester, double-knit flurry, she challenged me, honing in on a weakness I’ve yet to conquer.

Our debut at The Shoe Box followed weeks of rehearsal that threatened the integrity of her century-old, clapboard house. Inevitably, as the night progressed, the tiny living room filled, flowing outside to surround a seemingly perpetual bonfire. And, we all came for the same reason. Because, even if only in this time, in this place; we were young, we were free, and we were music.

Diamond Cutter

Wedging herself onto the end of a thickly shellacked wooden bench, she sat amongst a group of waiters. Music pumped from strategically placed speakers over her head, as she placed her feet out of range of the oblivious, polo-shirted man standing with his back to her. He laughed, gesturing with his drink, to the delight of his date.

She leaned forward slightly, at the approach of a car, straining to take measure of its occupant. An older man, and the woman riding the passenger seat, meant nothing to her.

Oppressive July heat fell in droplets around her, pasting her carefully chosen cotton tee-shirt to her body. She stretched it towards the laughing man in hopes of a stray, drying breeze.

A garbled voice, calling names, replaced the music. An elderly couple beside her took their cue, barely escaping the flying elbow of the ebullient man. His date’s face quickly flashed from flirtatious delight to horror. Harnessing his elbows, she pulled him forward.

And the music ensued. A family of five occupied the opposite bench. Mother, her face colored by a mixture of fatigue and gratitude, jostled her youngest to distraction, while Father palmed a beer, protectively.

Several sets of legs to her left, parted, revealing him.

She hadn’t seen as much as a picture, but she knew.

His face split, revealing a set of uneven, but well-cared for teeth. The collar of his pastel- hued shirt parted graciously, admitting jet black curls. There was a shine to his hair.

He squeezed his generous frame into the space beside her, leaning against the wall before expelling the air he’d been holding.

“Hey…” The word came on the breath of his sigh, and around a grin that would remain, throughout the evening.

The speakers crackled, again, as his name was called and he took her hand. The niceties had finished.

Months of practice fueled their conversation. She studied the way his generous hand wrapped around a steak knife, and, as he chewed with upturned lips, she marveled at his pleasure.

He paid with plastic as she considered her options.

The interior of his truck spoke to her. She flashed on that first drive with her father. She felt the plastic knob of a gear shift in her hand as she maneuvered the weather-beaten Ford F-150 out of the parking lot, and onto the roadway; setting it up on two wheels. And, her father; his white-knuckled hands gripping cracked vinyl, as he screamed…

“You made me pee my pants!”

Their first uncomfortable silence came as he settled himself against the nylon-covered bench seat. Questions, she was hesitant to answer, hung in the air, buoyed by vibrations emitted from a factory-installed radio. Windows were lowered, and she re-adjusted her shirt.

She felt him before she saw him. He face hovered above hers, eager to deliver what would be the first of many sloppy, wet kisses which would improve with translation, over time. The cadence of his garlic-tinged breath filled the air around them, and, her decision was made, as his hands grasped the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head before the slammming of a nearby car door reminded her they were still in the parking lot.

Time and circumstance placed them together, allowing them every other weekend. For two years, at no small expense, he rented the same set of rooms in a local concrete-encased block of suites. Lamp-light reflected off chrome appliances in the tiny kitchenette; spawning in her, domestic fantasies.

Sated fatigue colored his voice as he drew up the sheet, turning his back.

“There’s something in your drawer…”

Delight propelled her from the bed. A curled hand carried the sheet with her.

He hadn’t bothered to wrap it, and it didn’t matter. Two pewter-toned Tahitian pearls sat, ensconced in tiny diamonds, at either end of a platinum ring which slid easily about her wrist. She raised her arm; twisting the facets in admiration.

And, he began to jump. Both hands clutched the polyester-infiltrated fabric surrounding her, as 200+ pounds pummeled a well-used mattress. She watched, integrating the juvenile glee on his Sicilian-hued face with the incongruously violent swing of his penis. Nothing in her experience could make this right.

Roses arrived. Mounds of them, in varying colors, filled vases on tables throughout her home, only to be replaced by fresh bouquets the next day.

And jewelry; rubies protected by diamonds, and a pendant supporting a single, large, perfect stone.

They talked, hesitant to disturb the stillness of a southern spring night, while she fingered his gift. And, as he lifted her hair to cinch the clasp, he assured her…”No strings…”

He hadn’t tried to hide. As they approached her driveway, his Toyota sat, valiantly, next to her Ford. She whispered her “Goodnight”, before stumbling into the darkened living room.

Straining, she recognized his form, filling the center of her second-hand sofa. Neither spoke. She straddled him, and weeks later, he would invoke the scent of the other man. But, for now…tonight, it didn’t matter.

“I could’ve bought a bedroom suite for my daughter with that money!”

Rubies, and diamonds, and dreams, crunched against concrete under her running shoes before she turned, and mounting the steps, jogged to the door; closing it behind her.

Waiting for the Light to Change

Twenty years old, I sat at a traffic light in a tiny yellow Datsun whose compact size barely accommodated my girth. I was eight months pregnant.

I wasn’t employed at the time, so I must have been heading home from a trip to the grocery store. I remember it was a Friday; payday. The light couldn’t have been long. I lived in a small town, but, it may have been rush hour. There were several people ahead of me, and more behind.

The tears came, unbidden; followed by an incredible rush of feeling unlike anything I had ever experienced before, or since. And, it filled me, starting in my feet, before rushing upwards. My hands, on either side of my mercilessly swollen belly, felt warm, and alive. Love, for an unborn child who kicked, ferociously, at the most inopportune times, making the sheer act of breathing difficult, overcame me, as I fought to remain cognizant of the mundane world around me. And the light changed….

“A person who loses a spouse is called a widow. A child, who has lost his parents, is called an orphan. There is no word for a parent who has lost a child.”

Washed Ashore

Born into a family of blondes, she stood, proud and straight against a hand-drawn measuring stick on the wall. Chestnut ringlets danced about a face punctuated by chocolate brown eyes mirroring the mischievousness in her smile.

I fell in love at first sight.

I was an adult before I realized how alike we were; how her path had intersected mine too many times, and how those shared experiences had built a bond of belonging.

She was rebellious.

She liked bad boys.

She led with her heart.

Life, age, children, and too many days spent on uncharted waters brought both us to shore, in different places.

And, I miss her.

Walk Away

His head, ensconced as it was, inside his man’s hands, gleamed, inviting her to study its irregular surface, an assortment of irregularly shaped freckles, and a day’s growth. She remembered how it felt; and his scent.

“I don’t get it.” He shuffled his running shoes. “I just don’t get it.”

“Of course you do!” She leaned across the table, stretching her arms the width.

“It’s just so much bullshit…”

He straightened and reached for a cigarette, keeping his eyes lowered.

“Then walk away….just walk away!”

“How do you do that? Walk away…” He paused to suck on his cigarette. “How do you just walk away?”

And then, “I wish I was more like you…”

The words swam between them.

She felt them on her eyes, before she stood,

and, walked away.

A Way Out

Four inch heels impeded her progress to the entrance of the building, and November winds whipped the tail of her overcoat, whispering of winter.

A Mercedes passed, piloted by a man clutching a cellphone. She shifted her tote from one shoulder to the other. The bag contained her life; a carefully detailed, pored over, poetically enhanced regurgitation.

Most days, she hardly felt the weight of it. She carried it, and cared for it, guarding it against intrusion from any but the most accepting eyes. On long, lonely nights, it provided comfort, just by being there. It offered proof of her existence and answers to questions; in hopes they might be asked.

She crossed against diesel fumes, and hurried up concrete stairs, hoping the winds wouldn’t “undo” her. The weight of glass and steel paled in comparison to that of the artificially warmed air that greeted her upon opening the door. She hurried through the anteroom and breached a second entrance, while her eyes scanned the landscape for an alcove leading to a bathroom.

Satisfied that her morning ministrations had survived the crossing, she shouldered her burden and struck out, in search of a receptionist.

She left her name at the desk, and surveyed the glass-enclosed space for a seat, choosing a chair opposite the desk in an unoccupied row. Her cellphone trilled, giving her something to do with her hands. It was her son, home from school. “Just checking in…” She smiled in appreciation of the sound of a young boy’s voice, knowing she hadn’t much longer to hear it.

Her smile faded quickly as she pocketed the phone and lifted the tote to her lap. She glanced at the receptionist’s desk as she removed a document from the front pocket of the bag. A striking young man approached; his carefully manicured hands striking the desk twice before he unleashed his artificially whitened smile. The receptionist, at once bored, and barely breathing, reacted as expected by reciprocating. A conversation ensued, uninterrupted by the approach of a second visitor.

She shifted the paper from one hand to the other, uncrossing her legs, and re-crossing them in the other direction as she watched the trio. The young man bent over the counter, reaching, as the receptionist giggled and the visitor cleared his throat. They answered with laughter. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other while adjusting his cap.

“Ahem…” She wondered why he thought it would work, this time.

The doors behind her yawned again, sending a blast of cold air through the empty chairs, and an arc of reflective light after it. Irritation marred her painted features, as the receptionist tilted her head. The second visitor moved to block the light, giving his name, before turning.

She plucked at a dog’s hair, caught in the weave of her skirt. She checked her watch. Metal scraped against linoleum. A sigh escaped him as he sunk into the synthetically covered chair, and warmth, generated by the proximity of his body, told her he was near.

It was her turn to clear her throat as she cast her eyes past the reception desk in hopes of spotting her prey.

“Ain’t love grand?”, he started.
She looked up, before meaning to, allowing him to lead her eyes back to the desk.

She smiled and shifted the paper.

“Whatcha’ got there?” He shifted against the firmness of the seat, pulling his jacket together and turning, slightly, in her direction.

“I have to get this document signed…” She held it out, slightly, before training her eyes on him.

“And, you?” She lowered her hand, moving slightly in her seat.

“Meeting with a client. I’m a writer.” His voice carried pride.

“Oh? Really?” She smiled as she let one hand drop to the bag on the floor at her feet.

“What do you write?”

“Ad copy, mostly. And, I blog.”

“Really? Great!” She re-crossed her legs, wishing she had taken off her coat.

“Are you a writer?” His eyes, behind his spectacles, were kind.

“Oh, I write…some. I have a blog.” She shifted the paper, again, watching as it moved from one hand, to the other.

“Cool! Where are you? I could look you up!” His voice carried enthusiasm.

She laughed, self-consciously.

“It’s not public.” She said quietly, before clearing her throat, again. “I mean I’ve been working on it, off and on, for about a year, but only one person has access to it.”

Confusion, as it crossed his features awakened her insecurities, giving her pause.

“Why?” The word was spoken softly.

Her eyes searched the multi-faceted linoleum at her feet as she considered the question, and, as she turned them on him, spoke before she did.

“I don’t know…” She stopped, as he pulled back his head and shifted his weight. “It’s vulnerable, you know?” Her voice trailed with the last syllable and she mentally berated herself for her weakness.

“But…” He started quietly, before sitting up taller in the inhospitable chair. “Isn’t that the point?” The words were direct, and clear, and spoken by his entire being; and, his face, earnest.

Footsteps approached her chair, and she hastily collected her bag while smiling in his direction. She watched him watch her.

“Thank you…” She efforted to bring her voice above a murmur as she pulled the heavy, oaken door closed before clicking her way down the hallway.

“Hey, kid!” It was the man.

“Yes.” She spoke through a smile, as she shifted her tote from one shoulder to the other.

“Walk you out?” The bounce in his step repeated in his eyes as he led the way out of the building.