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Saturday, 07 November 2009

Living For the Night

For Murisopsis

I.

Out in the courtyard, they sat still and waited. There was only a sliver of moon, and a few apartment lights were on.

They were old now, the four of them, and during the day, they felt old. But night was here now, and night brought the angel. The angel brought life and love and laughter to them. Hours of it.

The angel was six-year-old Jessica Martin. She lived in 2B, with her mother’s brother, Uncle Rob, and his wife, Aunt Gretch.

Rob worked the third shift at Wallace’s, the big factory two blocks over. Once he was gone and Aunt Gretch was asleep, Jessica put on her play clothes, took the key and brought a hunk of cheese down to the courtyard. Then, the festivities began.

The angel came down and patted Steve’s head – well, his top hat. She moved up onto her toes and planted a kiss on the side of his face, right next to his whiskers. He blinked, and his blue eyes opened wide as the white stone-dust left him.

“Hiii, Steeeve,” Jessica sang, handing him the hunk of cheese.

Steve winked and tipped his hat. “Good evening,” he said.

Jessica ran to another corner of the courtyard, the one occupied by Larry. She patted the top of his head, then leaned up and kissed his nose. As his brown eyes opened and the white stone-dust left him, Jessica kissed him again, this time smashing her mouth against the left side of his face. “Steve’s got the cheese!” she said.

As Larry scurried over to Steve (and the cheese), Jessica went to the next corner, where Perry stood still, waiting for her. She stood on the wooden bench next to his and rubbed his head behind his ears. The little girl deposited a kiss on the mouse-ear closest to her and whispered, “Wake up, sleepyhead! Steve’s got the cheese!”

“Good evening, angel,” Perry said, brushing stone-dust from his trench coat. “Nice to see you,” he called over his shoulder as he ran toward Steve.

Giggling, Jessica ran to the last corner and hugged Farmer Harry. “Time to get up!” she whispered into his ear.

From the first day that Jessica came to live with Uncle Rob – even though she was very sad – the four mice in the courtyard enthralled her. Before she finished unpacking, she asked her uncle to take her down to see Harry, Perry, Larry and Steve (she knew their names, but didn’t know how).

The mice stood a little taller than Jessica. Rob thought his niece might find them scary.

“No,” she said. “I think they’re nice.” The little girl moved to the four corners of the yard to pat each mouse on the head. “Nice mice, nice mice,” she crooned, “I think they like me, too.”

That night, she watched Harry, Perry, Larry and Steve from her window. Steve, the one in a tuxedo and top hat (she thought of him as “the fancy one”) looked up at Jessica and winked; her hand went up to her mouth as she gasped in surprise. When Larry turned his head toward her and smiled at her from the opposite side of the yard, Jessica clapped and squealed.

“Jess?” Uncle Rob knocked on the door. “What’s up?”

“Come see!” she said.

She led Rob to the window and pointed down to the courtyard. He pressed his forehead to the glass and squinted.

“Sorry, honey… what’m I looking for again?”

“The mice!” she said. “The mice move!”

Rob smiled. “Ohhh… hm.”

He humoured her for a few more seconds and then said, “Well, Jess, maybe they only move for you?”

She frowned. “Look again. See Steve? He looked up and winked at me, Uncle Rob. I swear!”

Rob put his arm around her. She’s been through so much. Let her have the mice.

He kissed the top of Jessica’s head. “I believe you, honey.”

Long after Rob left her room, Jessica stayed at the window, watching. Waiting. Nothing happened.

The next morning, she went down to the courtyard with Aunt Gretch. Again, Jessica gave each mouse a pat on the head while her aunt sat on a wooden bench and sipped her coffee.

Jessica skipped from mouse to mouse, singing, “Nice mice, nice mice, I think they like me, too.”

That night, Jessica looked out the window, and Steve winked at her. He held a paw to his mouth: Shhh! Then Steve waved to her. Come down! Let’s play!

Uncle Rob was at work. Aunt Gretch was asleep in front of the television in the living room. Jessica tiptoed past her aunt and went into the kitchen. Aunt Gretch’s set of keys was hanging from a hook on the wall. The little girl took them. At the last minute, she opened the refrigerator and grabbed a wedge of Brie. I bet they’re hungry, she thought.

Almost every night, until she left for college, Jessica played with her friends in the courtyard...

II.

“Grandma? Whatcha doin’?” Jo-Jo walked out onto the porch, carrying her stuffed monkey by the head.

Jessica looked up, slightly startled. “What are you doing up? It’s late.” She smiled. “Come here.”

Jo-Jo walked over, and sat on the swing next to her grandmother. She put the monkey onto Jessica’s lap. “I woke up and you were... gone.”

“Oh.” Jessica put an arm around the little girl’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, honey.” I remember what that’s like.

“Why are you out here at night, Grandma? Aren’t you afraid?”

Jessica smiled and pulled her granddaughter closer. “Afraid? Of what? The night?”

Jo-Jo nodded. “It’s scary.”

“Eh. I don’t think that nighttime is scary, Jo-Jo-Beans. I love it.” She is so afraid... and so sad. So fragile.

“Were you sleeping out here?” Jo-Jo fidgeted, first rearranging her pajama top and then the stuffed monkey’s arms and legs.

“Nope. Just thinking.” Jessica kissed the top of her granddaughter’s head. She is still a little nervous. Hell. So am I. We’re just getting to know one another.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” The little girls eyes widened. They are so blue, Jessica thought. So open and clear.

“How old are you now, sweetheart?”

Jo-Jo frowned. “Eight. You know that!”

Jessica smiled. “Eight. Yes. I was thinking about when I was a little girl... I was younger than you. I was six.” She was still smiling, but Jessica’s eyes blurred. She took the little girl’s hand with one of her own. With the other hand she lifted the stuffed monkey. Jessica stood up, putting the monkey in a headlock.

“We goin’ back in now?” Jo-Jo felt nervous. Her grandmother looked like she was going to cry.

“Nope,” Jessica said, “I want to show you something.” She leaned down and kissed the top of Jo-Jo’s head. “Just between you and me, okay?”

The little girl nodded, a mixture of fear and excitement building on her face.

Jessica led Jo-Jo to the shed. She unlocked the door and picked up the flashlight that sat just inside. Her granddaughter lagged behind, touching the back of Jessica’s leg. The flashlight went on, and Jo-Jo’s mouth dropped open, and her eyes became big blue circles.

“Whaaa?”

Four statues, a little larger than Jo-Jo, sat side by side against the back wall of the shed.

Jessica smiled and placed the stuffed monkey on a shelf to her right. “Harry, Perry, Larry... and Steve.” She felt a lump in her throat. “My mice.”

Jo-Jo moved slowly, keeping a few fingers on her grandmother’s leg. “The one in the big hat is Steve, huh?” Her voice was just above a whisper.

“Yes,” Jessica answered. The fact that Jo-Jo-Beans instinctively knew which one was Steve poured hope into her heart. “It’s a top hat. He’s the fancy one.”

Jo-Jo’s hands moved out in front of her. “Is it okay if I touch them?”

“Please, do, Jo-Jo-Beans... they haven’t had anyone to play with in so long...”

The little girl stepped forward. The flashlight behind her trembled a bit as she patted the old top hat and the tuxedo-clad mouse’s blue eyes opened.

Jo-Jo giggled and clapped and exclaimed, “Grandma! He’s... moving!”

The flashlight was placed on the seat of an old chair and Jessica rushed forward. “The others... oh, please, Jo-Jo-Beans! Touch the others! Please!”

“Grandma?” The little girl called, patting each of the remaining three mice on their heads and giggling. “They’re nice mice, huh?”

Jessica was hugging Steve close to her. Through her tears, she sang, “Nice mice, nice mice... and I think they like you, too!”

The six of them ran through the yard, dancing and singing and nibbling on cheese.

A new angel brought life and love and laughter to them. Hours of it.

Monday, 02 November 2009

Room 209

Becky knew her way around the hospital quite well, now, and no longer needed to follow the blue arrows on the floor to the elevator.

Room 208 was directly across from the nurses’ station on the second floor. Becky stopped at the station every day before going into her mother’s room. She asked what, if anything, Marian had eaten since the day before. She asked about change: had there been any? Was the doctor available to discuss Marian’s treatment? At first, most of the nurses regarded her with disdain: another pain in the ass relative butting into our business. Now, nearly eight weeks later, the nurses looked at Becky with pity.

The Final Stages of Dementia: Her mother had forgotten how to swallow. A few days before, the intravenous nutrition had been removed; now, Becky’s mother was in hospice care. Hospice. A nice way of saying my mother is dying.

“No feeding tube. I want to go, now,” she’d said simply. “I miss your father… I miss my Robin Hood.” Maid Marian was mentally clearer than she had been in the months before the pneumonia came. She knew that she was dying, and welcomed it. But Becky didn’t want her mother to go. She still needed her.

Sue, Marian’s favourite nurse (the only one she was not afraid of or angry with) met Becky outside of the door and helped her put on the blue plastic gown and the rubber gloves (there was a staph infection going around, so all visitors had to take precautions). She put an arm around Becky’s shoulder and said, “She’s withdrawn into herself today. I am afraid that’s part of… the process.”

“She’s still… in there, though… right?” Becky hated that she sounded like a five-year-old.

Sue hesitated. “Yes.” She spoke quietly. “She can hear you.”

They walked into Room 208 together, Sue’s arm still around Becky’s shoulder.

Marian was sleeping, head back, mouth open. Monitors around her beeped and buzzed as they had for the last two months, only now, there were fewer machines.

As Sue rearranged Maid Marian and her several pillows, Becky plucked dead flowers from the latest arrangement on the bedside table. Only the orange roses were still fresh looking. That’s fine, Becky thought; they are her favourite.

Sue checked the Morphine drip, gave Becky’s shoulder a pat and left the room.

Becky brushed her mother’s hair, and then stroked her face with a warm, damp washcloth. Maid Marian’s mouth closed into a grin for a moment, and then went slack again.

Becky pulled a chair close to the bed and sat down. She pulled the Robert Browning book out of the bedside table’s only drawer and opened it on the bed before her. With one hand on the book and the other on her mother’s fingers, she read out loud. Every now and then, her mother’s fingers would reach upward and lace with Becky’s. She’s listening.

Becky read for about an hour. Then she stood and turned the television on. She turned the volume up so that her mother could listen to the Yankees game. “I’ll be back in a little while, okay, Mom?”

Her mother made a sound that could have been, “Okay.”

Becky bent and kissed the pale forehead. “I won’t be long, and then I’ll read your Roses, Roses poem.”

Patti, the hospice consultant, was waiting for Becky out in the hall. More talk about what was happening to Marian’s body. More details about death. More acceptance. More tears. More support “hot-line” numbers for her to call, should she need any help. Becky thought she might vomit.

After Patti left, Becky stopped at her mother’s door and stuck her head in: Please don’t leave me, Mom. I still need you. God. We used to fight all of the time. Can’t you fight now? Please?

She turned away and stopped at the nurses’ station. She let them know she was going outside to smoke and that she had her cell phone with her, if they needed her.

When Becky turned to head toward the elevators, she nearly walked into the man who had been standing behind her. He was taller than Becky, close to six feet. He was gray and balding, with a full beard and mustache. He was wearing little glasses, a red polo shirt and khaki pants. He was older-looking, but not elderly.

Becky’s first thought was, he looks like a nice man. Kind of a preppy Santa Claus.

They talked a little about weather; it had been pouring when she first got there but now, the sun had come out. He got on the elevator with Becky.

“Which floor did you need?” she asked.

He replied, “B, I guess. I don’t know why they call it the basement... It isn’t underground, right?”

She nodded.

“Wow, that was fast,” Becky said, less than a minute later.

They walked outside together. The man pulled out a pack of cigarettes and said, “This is the only thing I want to think about at the moment.”

She pulled out her box of Newports and told him she felt the same way.

While they were outside, it began to rain again, a sun-shower.

The man pointed at the bench in the overhang and said, “Do you think we’ll get into trouble if we smoke over there?” (No one was supposed to smoke on the premises, according to the sign out front.)

Becky said, “Naw, it’ll be okay. You have one of those ‘kind’ faces... And if anyone says anything, I’ll burst into tears and play the sympathy card.”

He said, “It’s a deal. If my face doesn’t work, your tears might.”

So now we’re conspirators, Becky thought. I think I might like him.

She sat on the bench; the man remained standing. They both lit up.

He spoke about talking to strangers. He said, “As children, we are all taught that strangers are bad. I think that may be what leads to ‘profiling’… not so much racial, but just kind of judging people by their appearances. Kind of like how sometimes, people with tattoos are considered ‘bad’… now, how unfair is that?”

She nodded.

“This could be a good conversation,” Becky said, “Considering you are a stranger and I don’t usually talk to strangers…”

“Well,” the man said, “I don’t have any tattoos, if that helps.”

She tried to smile.

He handed her a tissue and asked, ‘You okay?”

She hadn’t realised that the tears were falling again. “My mom’s sick.”

The man nodded and said, “I am here visiting a sick friend.”

Becky dabbed at her eyes and asked, “Is he going to be okay?”

“No… Your mom?”

Becky shook her head and tried to stem more tears.

He sat next to her. “Your mom is tired.”

“I know,” Becky whimpered, “But I can’t just...”

“Let her go,” he finished for her.

She nodded, still trying not to cry.

“I am sorry,” he said. “It’s hard when you love someone, I know.”

Becky let a few more tears fall before dabbing at her eyes again. “I’m selfish. I don’t want to be... without her.”

The man touched her hand. Becky could not have explained why, but the touch made her think of her father, Robin Hood. Suddenly, she felt calm. The crying stopped. She looked up into his eyes; they were soft and grass green. Like Dad’s.

He said, “You’ll never be without her, I promise you that.”

A woman walked up to them from the parking lot and reminded them, “This is a smoke-free environment.”

Becky giggled, and said, “So much for your ‘nice face’, huh?”

They stood and walked toward the parking lot with their cigarettes. He said, “And you! So much for playing the sympathy card!”

The rain stopped again. They looked for a rainbow and found none. The man said, “You know... Who the heck is she? It isn’t like she was wearing a uniform or a badge... Or any kind of symbol of authority...”

Becky shrugged. She thought that the woman might have been a nurse, but she was not sure; she told him that.

The man said, “Eh, nurses aren’t authority figures!” He paused at the two big flowerpots on either side of the sidewalk that marked the entrance to the parking lot.

His smile was almost impish. “You know, she didn’t have to be a wise-ass. You know what I’m going to do?”

Becky’s eyebrows went up, questioning.

The man put his cigarette out in the flowers.

Giggling, Becky did the same, placing her cigarette stub next to his.

He said, “Somehow, that felt good.”

“Yeah,” Becky said, still giggling. “That’s puttin’ it to the man!”

They walked back in and took the elevator to the second floor. Becky headed toward Maid Marian’s room. The man stopped at the doorway of the room next door, Room 209.

Becky turned to him and shrugged. “Well, I guess I will be seeing you around...”

He smiled and pointed at his heart. “I’ll always be with you.”

Becky put on a fresh blue plastic gown and latex gloves. She walked into Maid Marian’s room, sat in the chair by the bed and held her mother’s hand. Becky read from the Browning book again. Her mother’s eyes opened and a grin appeared on her face. Her fingers gripped Becky’s tightly.

“He’s coming,” Marian whispered. Her voice was fairly clear now.

Becky closed the book with one hand and with the other, caressed her mother’s fingers as their grip loosened.

Marian grinned again, her eyes bright. “You gonna be all right, Beck?”

Becky smiled as best she could. “Of course, Mom.”

“I love you,” Marian said.

Becky stood and kissed her mother’s forehead. “I love you, too.”

“Go home, now.” Marian’s voice went back to almost unintelligible. She closed her eyes and withdrew into herself again.

“Oh. Okay,” Becky choked. She leaned down and kissed her mother’s forehead again.

I want a cigarette, Becky thought. Maybe my friend with the beard and the red shirt is still here, and maybe he’s craving one, too.

She took off the blue plastic gown and rubber gloves. She walked into the room next door, Room 209.

It was empty.

Well, sometimes, people get shuffled from room to room, Becky thought, and if his friend’s that bad off, maybe they moved him down the hall to one of the private hospice rooms, like they were planning to do with Mom.

She walked up to the nurses’ desk and asked if they moved the person in 209.

Lisa, the nurse behind the desk, frowned and checked her computer. She looked up at Becky and said, “No. No one’s been in that room for nearly a week.”

Becky thought, maybe he just stopped at that room to say good-bye to me, and his friend is in a room down the hall.

She walked up and down the hall, and didn’t see the man. She went back to Lisa and asked her if she’d seen “my friend with the beard and the red polo shirt.”

Lisa gave Becky another frown and said she had not seen anyone like that.

Other nurses returned to the station, nurses who were there when Becky and the man in the red polo shirt were chitchatting by the elevator. They all gave Becky the same kind of frown that Lisa had given her and said that they didn’t see any such person; they saw Becky take the elevator earlier, alone.

Great. Now they think I am crazy.

Becky took the elevator down, crying a little bit. There were other people in the elevator, so she got out on Floor 1, to be alone and use the soda machine.

Once the tears stopped, Becky blew her nose and then got on an empty elevator.

She went outside and headed for the parking lot.

She stopped at the flowerpots, muttering, “You’re crazy, this is stupid, you’re crazy...”

Becky peeked into the flowerpot that she and the man had used as an ashtray.

Her Newport stub sat there alone.

Great. I AM crazy.

Maid Marian died that evening, in her sleep, with a grin on her face.

Becky kissed her mother’s pale forehead one more time. Robin Hood? Was that you?

She looked once more at her mother’s grin and nodded to herself. It must have been.

Sunday, 25 October 2009

The Way to Henry’s Heart

He judged her and found her lacking, just like all of the others. As far as Henry was concerned, that should have been the end of the matter.

Still, the girl stood there… in his doorway. For a month after he’d laughed at her, she asked after his health each morning. Every day at luncheon, the silly, plain girl would bring Henry an apple from her uncle’s garden, and attempt to engage him in conversation.

Was she ill – some mental defect? He went over it in his mind now and then, and could find no sign that he’d offered her hope. Was she mad?

He continued to laugh at her… but he loved the apples. The fruit that the girl brought to him each day was unlike any that Henry had ever tasted. The skin was pale green and a rosy-coral, tart and chewy. The meat of the apple started out crisp and then melted on his tongue; the sweetness lingered. The girl spoke to Henry as he ate; the apples made her attempts to talk to him bearable. Well, he thought, at least she talks about more than parties and dresses.

On the thirty-first day, the girl did not come to see him in the morning. She did not bring him an apple and conversation at luncheon. By four o’clock that afternoon, he wondered if she had finally given up her pursuit.

Three more days passed, and Henry found himself wanting an apple.

He sent his footman to her uncle’s house, where the girl was staying. When Steed returned and told Henry that the lady Elizabeth had given up hope and gone home, there was silence.

After a few moments, Henry sighed and said, “That is too bad. I was getting used to her silly self… and those apples…” He looked up at Steed. “You will take her a letter from me.”

The footman nodded and waited while Henry took out his pen and a sheet of paper.

He began to write of his love for the apples that grew in her uncle’s garden, and then stopped.

I could always ask her uncle for apples.

Henry crumpled the page into a ball and discarded it.

His pen stood just above a fresh piece of paper. Is it more than the apples, Henry? He allowed himself to picture her.

Yes, her hair is brown where I prefer gold… but I seem to recall that when the sun stroked them, her curls became more precious, a bronze, perhaps. Her eyes are brown, and not blue, as I would wish, but when she smiled at me, did they not show light? Warmth? Yes. Was her voice not…? Yes. Her voice was sweet.

The lady herself was sweet… sweet as the apples she brought to him.

He sighed. “I am undone, Steed.” Henry chuckled as he looked up at his servant. “Done in by apples! Imagine it, if you can, fellow!”

He took out a new piece of paper and upon it wrote:

My dear lady,

Forgive me. I set out to write for more apples when it is your person I miss. I judged you silly, but it is I wearing motley now. Could you find a place for this fool in your court, I will shower you forever with the affection I know now that you are more than due.

Forever your humble servant,
Henry

Henry and Elizabeth were married a month later. Henry would take no money, but accepted bushels of her uncle’s apples as dowry. Every morning, he’d ask after her health. Every afternoon he’d bid her come into his study, share an apple with him, and some conversation.

And every evening, as Elizabeth sang sweetly or read for him, he laughed at his earlier shallowness and wondered how he could ever consider her silly or plain.

I don’t deserve her, Lord, he’d pray, But I promise to do all I can to amend that.

Friday, 09 October 2009

Empty

It is all sand and salt and ghosts
Shells and rocks
Fossils, algae, weeds
Broken glass and
Remnants of a bonfire…
Pieces of petrified wood, close to the shore
Are bones resting in the fog.

Save your seeds and bulbs and dreams
For some other ground:
Nothing will ever grow here.

Tuesday, 06 October 2009

Mother Lady Moon

“Ellen?” It was a whisper from the open window in her room. The lavender curtains moved softly with the breeze, softly with the whisper.

The little girl’s eyelids were heavy; she could only manage to lift them slightly, just enough to see the moon’s light coming in between the lavender cotton panels.

Ellen had been in this bed for a long time. It was prettier and more comfortable than the hospital bed had been; the mattress was thicker and the pillows were puffier. The new mother lady – Ellen couldn’t remember her name; she always had a hard time remembering names – had brought in the lavender curtains and softy rubbed a piece of the fabric against Ellen’s cheek on her first day there. See? Soft.

The new mother lady spent most of the day in the yellow and lavender room with Ellen, helping her to eat (“When you’re feeling better, we can have hamburgers for lunch,” the new mother lady promised, and it made Ellen’s mouth water.), and reading to her from books that she said were now Ellen’s. “They’re all for you,” she said time and time again, slowly waving her arm over the pretty white bookcase that was packed with volumes of all sizes and colours. When she told the new mother lady that she didn’t know how to read, the soft-spoken woman smiled and told Ellen, “That’s okay. You’ll learn… when you feel better. Till then, I’ll read them to you.” Ellen had smiled at her, even though it hurt. The lady went on to tell Ellen that she would be going to school one day soon, where she would learn all kinds of things, and make lots of friends. Ellen looked forward to it.

“Ellen!” The whisper was friendly, but insistent.

“Yeah?” the little girl croaked. Her voice might never be the same; Ellen had heard the doctor say as much. But the soft-spoken new mother lady told her that she didn’t believe the doctor.

Ellen turned her head to better face the window, even though her neck and sides still hurt a lot when she moved.

“Come see me.”

She clutched Mrs. B, her stuffed bunny, closer to her. The policeman had given it to her; it was the first toy she’d ever had. The policeman and his friends had saved her from the monsters at the old place; his friends took the monsters away, and he rode with her to the hospital. He stayed with her when she was scared; he gave her Mrs. B to keep her company when he couldn’t be there. Joe. That’s his name. Ellen smiled to herself. Joe’s nice.

“Ellen? You coming?”

“Can I take Mrs. B, too?” The little girl asked, her voice just above a whisper.

“Of course.”

It took her a long time to get up, but Ellen did, hugging her bunny to her the whole time. She shuffled over to the chair nearest the window and sat down slowly, wincing with the pains that seemed to be everywhere. She smiled out at the moon, round and blue over the water.

“There you are,” the moon lady whispered. “I missed you, Ellen.”

The little girl smiled, even though it hurt. “I missed you, too.”

“Everything’s gonna be all right now, Ellen. You like the new mother lady?”

Ellen nodded. “Yes, Ma’am!”

“I’m glad.”

“Are you okay now, too?” Ellen asked the moon.

“Oh, yes,” the moon breathed. “I think I look much better here… don’t you?”

Ellen took in the vision of the round blue ball over the ocean – right outside of her new window - once more. “Oh, yes,” she sighed. “You look beautiful!”

Blue moonbeams caressed the little girl’s face, and Mrs. B’s. “So do you, Ellen.”