Celia meandered into the kitchen
where the radio was perched on the sunny windowsill, playing classical music.
She hummed along with a familiar song, but whether it was Bach, Brahms or
Mozart, she didn't know. Music kept her focused on her household chores. It
kept her thoughts from straying so she wouldn't forget the things right in
front of her that needed attention, like the apple pie she was baking.
She tugged open the oven door and
checked the crust to be sure it wasn't getting too brown, while bobbing her
head to the cheerful waltz. The mingled aromas of cinnamon and apple drifted
lazily throughout the house. Another five minutes, and the pie should be done.
The mail slot clinked between
symphonies, disrupting Celia’s thoughts. She went to the front door
automatically, conditioned to the everyday sound, and picked up the pile of
fliers, catalogs, and assorted envelopes off the floor.
She didn’t pay the delivery much
attention. There hadn’t been anything in the mail for years that she cared to
see. No letters. No postcards. Bills were far from exciting, and even the
glossy advertisements failed to capture her attention.
After a while, Celia had stopped
hoping, stopped looking. Now she tossed the mail onto the counter to await the
arrival of her husband Jack after his golf game. The corner of a yellow
envelope slid from the inside of the mail stack unnoticed. Celia walked around
the counter to pour a cup of coffee for herself. There was not much left in the
glass pot and while holding her mug she debated how efficient she wanted to be.
Sometimes she would upon taking the last cup of coffee empty the contents and
place a fresh filter full of coffee and fresh water in the machine to await the
next morning when she could just hit the ‘on’ button. She let the last cup
remain undrunk in the coffee pot to continue heating till the timer on the
machine gave out.
She looked outside, admiring the
California beachfront view, the reason Jack had chosen this house twenty-five
years before. The tide was coming in, foamy ocean swells playing with the sandy
shoreline, a methodical game of tug-of-war. He had chosen it for the beach and
the golf courses. How Jack loved to golf. He bragged about albatrosses and
eagles. He talked about going pro now that he was retired and had the time.
Celia even encouraged it until his snickering golf buddies showed her his score
card and saw what fish tales his brags were. She never told him of his exposed
fairy tale world and let him go on with stories of how he could hit any ball
out of the sand trap in one stroke. She just smiled to herself to see him
happy.
Still entranced by the natural
beauty of the incoming tide, Celia jumped when she heard the oven timer beep
over the music on the radio. Slipping her hands into a worn-out pair of oven
mitts, she drew the pie from the oven and transferred it to the stovetop to
cool, beaming down at the fruits of her labor. It was a perfect pie, from its
buttery flaky crust to its tempting sweet apple fragrance. Celia loved to bake.
Another timer shrilled, and she
headed to the laundry room and opened the dryer.
As she was pulling out a load of
towels and washcloths, Jack walked through the door and tossed his golf bag in
the corner closet. “Celia? Are you home?”
Jack was a handsome man. Celia
hadn’t always considered him handsome. When they were first married she
considered him quite plain. When they had met in college the only heads he
turned were the parents who thought him a good match for their daughters. Even
Celia wouldn’t have noticed him except that he was a student tutor on campus.
When her grades had begun to fall her father hired him to help tutor Celia.
Soon after she saw the personality that made him beautiful to her, and her
alone. But time had been extremely kind
to Jack. He had slimmed exposing muscle no one knew he had. The crow’s feet and
salt and pepper hair that comes with age gave him a certain sophistication. He
could now turn the head of any college girl. His friends, with their balding
scalps and beer bellies, took note of his attention from viable young females
and envied him for it.
But Jack never noticed, never
cared. Celia was the only woman in his world.
“Do I smell pie?” he called,
sniffing the air appreciatively. Awaiting an answer, he ventured down the short
hallway to the kitchen. “Let me guess. Cherry?”
Celia stepped into view, laundry
basket balanced on her hip. “It doesn’t even smell like cherry. It’s apple.”
Jack pursed his lips. “Why not
cherry? You know cherry’s my favorite.”
“Apples were on sale, cherries were
not. So Apple it is.”
Jack grabbed a fork from the rack
by the sink and plunged it into the pie. Celia was horrified “Jack, NO!” He wrinkled his nose “Do we always have to be
so proper?” and stuffed his mouth, screamed a bit then spit the pie into the
sink”
“No, we don’t have to be proper but
it tastes better if you let it cool before biting into it. I just took that pie
out of the oven.” Jack whimpered with his tongue hanging out a bit “I think it
tastes good, I’m not sure though.” Celia laughed.
After a glass of water to soothe
his burn, “Now, what do you say you get on that sexy little black dress of
yours and let me take you out to the Indonesian restaurant while this pie
cools?”
“Sounds wonderful!” Celia
exclaimed, springing up on her toes to give him a kiss. “Just let me fold the
laundry, and I’ll go get changed.” He smiled thinking of that dress on his wife.
She had always been beautiful. He had been thrilled to tutor her in college and
be so close to someone so simply beautiful as she had been. When she laughed so
easily at his jokes he was overcome. No one else of the female persuasion had
given him a single glance. Yet she laughed with him and her eyes had sparkled
at him. Even now as her age showed in her face, she was breath taking. Celia
still moved youthfully and could wear anything off the rack as if it had been
tailored just for her. He loved how she never wore much makeup. Most days
consisted of eyeliner and chap-stick. It allowed him touch her, kiss her, hold
her without worry of messing her up. Even when she cried, and how she had cried
over the years.
While she sorted and folded the
fresh-smelling towels and washcloths, Jack grabbed the mail off the counter and
looked through it, separating the expected bills and flyers. Then it was there.
The yellow envelope. When he came to it, he paused. Anxiety squeezed in his
chest. Glancing at the return address, his heart thudded and he wondered
whether Celia had seen it yet, wondered if he had time to hide it. Better yet,
burn it. It had been years since one of these came!
Jack wasn’t sure if his wife was
strong enough to deal with this again. He wasn’t sure if he was strong enough,
for that matter. Impulsively, he whispered to himself. “Dear God, why do you
allow this kind of torture?” The first one had been sweet but then they had
kept coming. They were unkind, unhealthy, and unnatural. He looked up from the
envelope to eye the stove. If he burned it, made it disappear, would she know?
Celia had changed into knee length
black dress, propping her arm against the counter. “I’ve been thinking,” she
said lightly. “I don’t know if I’m really in the mood for Indonesian food
tonight. Italian sounds better to me. How ‘bout it?” She paused, noticing the
expression on her husband’s face. Glancing down, she spotted the yellow
envelope in his hand.
“What is that, Jack?”
His eyes betrayed anger, sadness
and disappointment. He realizes she hadn’t seen it yet and was regretting
holding onto it so long.
Celia was struck with a sudden
realization that made her heart skip a beat. The yellow envelope. She was in
disbelief and it was everything she could do to contain her excitement in front
of Jack. How this could have happened she didn’t know, but there it was in his
hand, as real as the air she was breathing. They stood staring at each other
knowing they felt very differently about these letters. He thought they were
sick and psychotic, she thought they were heavenly. Jack, after what felt like
forever, slumped his shoulders and handed his wife what she wanted. “I’ll get
pizza delivered.” Celia took it
cautiously and resisting the temptation to rip it open. Instead she walked
slowly to the bedroom to read the envelopes contents. Jack hurled the day’s
junk mail and fliers across the room in frustration and anger. After a few deep
breaths, he picked up the mail off the floor. Jack wondered if it was too late in his life to become an
alcoholic. He thought better of the idea and decided that an iced tea would
suffice.
Jack took the tea outside to the
beach and allowed the waves to wash over his feet. He had bought the house for
Celia. To help her move on. A new house without memories. A new house, new
town, new state. Everything inside was new too. New furniture, clothes, art. He
bought the farthest house he could find from Ohio, on the beach of California.
He sold the old house as fully furnished. What didn’t sell with the house was
given to charity and what absolutely couldn’t be parted with was in storage.
Out of sight, out of mind. The only thing he allowed her to bring was a
scrapbook. Whatever pictures, newspaper articles, awards that would fit in the
scrapbook, she could keep. The book was put in the den behind a closed cabinet
door. He left only room for new pain free memories. He did it all for her. So
he told himself. He still denied that it was he that was trying to forget.
Celia wanted to remember. That is why he hated the letters and she lived for
them.
As he walked back inside
anticipating the pizza delivery kid all he could think of was how the letters
were starting back up. For fifteen years they had stopped. Why again? Why now?
A couple of hours passed before
Celia finally stepped out of the bedroom. Jack eyed her carefully, trying to
gauge what he was in for. How far down would this letter drag her? How many
steps backward would their life together take?
She walked quietly past him to the
laundry closet, moved aside the extra dryer sheets and the bleach bottles, and
pulled out a large shoebox. Celia placed the box next to the cold pizza on the
counter and lifted the lid. All the letters were there. Even the postcard was in there, signed by the neighborhood
kids, “We will miss you!” A rainbow of
colored envelopes, all addressed to Cheryl. Some were even singed from his
attempts to burn them. She had managed to rescue them from fireplace and trash
alike.
When she stood before Jack, he
could clearly see that she had been crying. But now her eyes were dry, and
there was strange expression on her face, an almost ethereal glow. She handed
the letter to him, neatly refolded inside its yellow envelope.
“We need to go back.”
“No.”
“Please, Jack I need to give them
to Cheryl.” Jack looked appalled at the suggestion and started to yell “Our
daughter is….”
“JACK!!” She screamed before he could finish the
sentence and then composed herself and handed the letter from the yellow
envelope. “Jack,” she said softly “read
it, please read this one”
“How do you intend to give these to Cheryl?”
Jack asked at length. “We can’t go through this anymore!” He unfolded the
latest letter, skimming its contents.
“Oh…I see.” His voice was softer
now. For a moment, he stared at the signature on the bottom of the page: “Love,
Cheryl.” It took a long time to grasp the significance of what he held in his
hand. At last, he handed the shoebox and the yellow envelope back to his wife.
“Okay we will just mail them back. Good to get them out of the house anyway.”
He turned resigned to be settled of the matter. “No, Jack I need to go.”
“I don’t see why you have to
physically go. I mean, I brought us out here to avoid all of it.” Celia smiled
slowly “You brought us out here so YOU could avoid all of it. I look back
everyday. I still pull out the scrapbook and stare at it for hours. I need to
do this. I do.”
Jack was still. “I can’t go with you. I can’t
go back.” With resignation “You go pack. I will call and order a plane ticket.
I will keep them open ended so you can take as long as you need.” Celia reached
up and kissed his cheek. “I understand” She turned back to the bedroom to pack.
She came back out with a small overnight bag. In the kitchen was a piece of
paper with the flight number, reservation number for a hotel and a note “Taxi
is on the way. Be safe. I will be here when you get back.” Celia looked out the
kitchen window and saw her husband standing in the waves. Her heart ached for
him. She took the box of letters and left in the taxi.
On the plane Celia took out the box
and looked over them again. The hand-writing for the address was big and bold
compared to the writing on the letter. Not once did the hand-writing ever match
from envelope to letter. She unfolded the first letter behind the postcard and
read it and all the others one more time
Click here for Complete Book
Chapter 1
Dear
Cheryl,
I hope it’s
not weird writing you where you are but I really miss you. I don’t like the new
babysitter. She doesn’t play games with us like you did. She just sits and
watches TV or talks to her boyfriend on the phone. I wish Brandon was old enough to watch me and
Lori. He is stupid sometimes. He ignores me and Lori at school even if we try
to talk to him. He says we are too young and his friends at school will make
fun of him. After school he sometimes hangs out with us. He taught Lori how to
throw a baseball and taught me how to swing a bat. He is fun at home and a dork
at school.
Love Angela
– Age 8
The bus ride home was as bumpy as
ever. Angela enjoyed the vehicle’s bouncy suspension, but Lori found that it
got in the way of writing down answers for her homework. Frustrated, she
groaned, scrubbed at the paper with her eraser, and started all over again. Inevitably, the bus jolted over a bump in the
road, causing her pencil to fly to the floor and roll beneath another bench
seat. Defeated, Lori buried her face in
her hands.
“Why don’t you ever do your
homework at home?” Angela teased her.
“After all, there’s a reason why it’s called that. Home-work.”
“I do some of it at home, just not
all of it. I wish I could, but there
isn’t enough time in the day,” Lori told her friend. “Sometimes I feel like school has invaded my
life!”
“C’mon, it doesn’t take that long,”
Angela protested.
“Not all of us are geniuses,
Ange. I think you forget that
sometimes.” Lori pulled a fresh pencil
from the zippered pouch inside her binder, and then peered down at her
homework. “Do you know who the seventh
President was?”
“Andrew Jackson,” Angela replied breezily.
“Case in point!” Lori jotted the answer, struggling to keep
her pencil on the paper. “Besides if I ever do manage to get my homework done
ahead of time, then I’ll have time for things that are actually fun, like hanging
out at your house.” She smiled at the other girl, and Angela smiled back.
Just as Lori was glancing down for
the next homework question, she felt the page being ripped away from her. Startled, she jerked her head up to see Eric
Johnson leaning over the back of the seat in front of them.
Eric was a big boy--tall, broad and
somewhat overweight. As the largest kid in fifth grade, he would be smart to go
out for high school football and try to land a scholarship. Everybody knew that
would be the only way he would get into college, as he sure didn’t have any
smarts to go on.
“What you brainiacs got back here?”
he sneered, peering at Lori’s homework page in his grubby clutches.
“Eric! Give it back.” Lori lost
more homework this way! She couldn’t afford another missing assignment.
“History…of…the…Presidents.” Eric squinted his eyes, struggling to make
sense of the basic English. Perhaps he thought that squinting made it seem as
if his reading skills were due to poor eyesight rather than Neanderthalism.
“Maybe if I eat it, then later you can have your crap work back for what it
really is: crap! Get it? Like, when I poop it out?”
“We get it! That is disgusting. Now
give me back the paper,” Lori demanded.
Eric gave a half grin, crumpled the
paper and opened his cavernous mouth for the wad.
“Give it back now, Eric,” came an
unexpected voice.
Lori, Angela, and Eric looked up in
surprise to see Brandon towering over them.
A tall, introspective sixth grader, Brandon lived on the same street as
Lori and Angela. Although the three of
them spent a lot of time together, as there were no boys for a three block
radius, Brandon was reluctant to publicly declare his friendship for a couple
of little girls.
“I said, give it back.” Brandon
slipped onto the bench next to the bully in order to avoid detection from the
bus driver as the yellow vehicle lurched down the road.
“What’s it to you?” Eric sneered in
Brandon’s face.
“It’s nothing to me. I just hate to
see anybody’s hard work put to waste, rotting in your gut next to the dog chow
your mother feeds you.”
“My mom doesn’t feed me dog chow!”
“Maybe if you learned to read the
labels on your mother’s cans, you’d see for yourself what she feeds you. Now,
give back the paper! That’s the last
time I’ll say it.”
“What if I don’t?” Eric drew
himself up to his full size.
Brandon didn’t back down. He just
stared at the bully, intelligence flashing behind his eyes as he communicated
wordless warnings. At a loss, Eric literally growled. Lori gaped at the
guttural sound. She had never heard a person actually growl before. Maybe
Eric’s mother really did feed him dog chow!
He threw the wadded homework paper
back at Lori and glared at her, relocating his bulky frame to a new bench seat.
Lori glared back, and Angela
scooped the crumpled paper off the floor and straightened back up, handing it
to her friend.
“Thanks, Brandon.” Lori smiled
graciously at the eighth grader.
“Don’t think this makes us friends,
all right?” he answered gruffly.
“Um, okay. But I still appreciate
it.” Lori glanced at Angela, rolling her
eyes. Angela smiled back, amused by Brandon's typical charade. The eighth
grader only nodded, retreating once more into his own little world.
Lori and Angela busied themselves
trying to salvage Lori’s assignment. They didn’t realize that Brandon was
watching them the entire time in the reflection of the bus window.
When the bus jerked to a stop at
Shadyside Avenue, Lori, Angela, and
Brandon got off, along with a couple of other kids who had to walk a block or
two to get home. Brandon went straight to his house. The girls quickly went
home to change their clothes, grab their bikes and meet outside.
“Dang it!” Lori kicked her bike
over and stood it upside-down on its handle bars and seat.
“Is it your chain again?” asked
Angela. “I thought your dad was going to
fix it.”
“He said he was going to take it to
the bike shop, but that was three weeks ago.” Lori fiddled with the chain,
trying to realign it with the gears. Angela plopped herself down to the
driveway to watch.
Brandon, who was sitting in front
of his house across the way, also watched, curious to see how long it would
take Lori this time. He had seen her bike chain slip off at least once a day
for the last couple of weeks.
With a roll of his eyes, he stood
up and rubbed his hands down his jeans, deciding to help the girl. First, he sneaked into the garage and
borrowed a wrench of Ted’s. He was well aware of the dangers of borrowing Ted’s
stuff, but it would only take a minute to fix her bike, and besides, his
stepdad must be halfway through his six-pack of beer by now.
“Your gear is bent.”
“What?” Lori glanced over her
shoulder, surprised.
Brandon simply walked past Angela
and stared at Lori till she moved aside. Employing the wrench, he swiftly and
knowingly put the chain back on the gear and straightened the crooked
piece. Then he spun the pedal, checking
his work, watching the pedal turn the gear, turning the chain, turning the
tire. When he was assured that he had fixed it, Brandon replaced the wrench in
his pocket and flipped the bike right-side-up for Lori.
She smiled at him. “We may not be
friends, but you’re becoming my regular hero!” she chirped. Brandon scrunched
up his features, studying her a moment, then shrugged. “Right,” he said, and walked away.
“Really? That’s your best line?
‘You’re becoming my regular hero?’” Angela mocked once he was out of earshot.
“It just came out,” Lori
giggled. “What should I have said, O
Intelligent One?”
Angela let out a breath. “Beats me.
I’m only a genius when it comes to school work.”
The friends hopped onto their
bikes. As they passed Brandon’s house, they spotted him in his front yard with
Ted. Ted was yelling at his stepson,
grabbing hold of his arm and yanking him toward the house. His brutality
shocked the girls, who could hear him accusing Brandon. “Thief! You won’t steal my tools and get away
with it!”
“I didn’t….” Brandon protested
feebly.
“That’s right, lie about it. I don’t expect a thief to tell the truth.”
Ted jerked Brandon’s arm again, hauling him in the direction of the front door
and snatching the wrench from his pocket.
Lori could see that the poor boy
was struggling to keep his feet on the ground. She put her kickstand down and
left her bike beside the street. “Watch this for me, Ange.”
“What are you doing?” Angela
gasped, startled
“I’m not really sure.” Lori
sprinted over to Brandon and his stepdad. “Mr. Trumball!” she yelled.
“What do you want?” It came out
more as a snarl than a question. The
wretched stench of alcohol on Ted’s breath assaulted Lori’s young senses.
Brandon’s face was a mask of fear and dread. He didn’t want anyone to see this,
least of all this girl whom he had just helped—twice! He was embarrassed to
have gone from ‘hero’ to cowering dog in the space of a few minutes. There was
no way this would end well, he was sure of it.
Seeing Brandon’s face, a wave of
fear washed over Lori, as well. She realized that she was in over her head, but
she needed to say something now that she had Ted’s attention.
“Um, well, I, um, wanted to say
that I, uh, really appreciate you letting Brandon borrow your wrench so he
could fix my bike.”
Brandon winced, sensing that this
was going from bad to worse.
“What?” barked Ted.
“My bike,” Lori explained
boldly. “The chain kept falling off, and
Brandon fixed it for me.” She glanced at the boy. “So…thank you, Brandon, for
fixing my bike, and thank you, Mr. Trumball, for the wrench. Now my chain won’t
fall off anymore.”
A doubtful expression crossed Ted’s
face. He turned to see Angela on her bike next to Lori’s parked one. This gave
him pause to analyze the situation and how it must appear to the neighbors.
“Right, your bike,” he said at
last. “Fine! Brandon, put the wrench back exactly where you found it.” He
pushed Brandon forward, toward the open garage dropping the tool at his feet,
and turned back to Lori, who was fidgeting in front of him. “I’m glad your
bike’s all right. Tell your dad I’ll see him tomorrow at the card game.”
“I will,” she promised.
Ted turned and went back inside the
house. Brandon disappeared into the garage.
Letting up the kickstand, Lori
sighed with relief, flinging herself onto her bike. “You are crazy, you know
that?” Angela beamed proudly at her friend. Lori flipped her bike upright with
a shaky hand “Remind me never to do that again!”
Chapter 2
Dear
Cheryl,
Dad said we
may go on vacation this summer to Paris and see where Mom went to cooking
school and worked in her first restaurant. I think that will be fun but we have
to get my picture first for a passport. I hate getting my pictures taken. I think my teeth are too big for my face.
Brandon started sleeping over at Lori’s house next door sometimes. He took my
red teddy bear that I leave at Lori’s to put in the window for his mom to see.
It’s like a secret code. When the bear is in the window, his mom knows where he
is. At Lori’s! They have all kinds of secret codes so they don’t have to talk
around Ted. He’s a jerk. I don’t like him. He was nice and funny when you were
here but he got mean after you left. I’m still trying to figure out why Brandon
had to take MY teddy bear. Lori has all kinds of dolls and stuffed animals.
Brandon said they were all too brown. Whatever!!
Love Angela
– Age 10
David walked outside for some air.
He was thinking about the meeting with the real estate agent. She had showed
him so many rental properties in which to invest. If everything worked out as
planned he could quit his job at the paint manufacturing plant as their
maintenance man. He was excited. His life was going according to plan and soon,
while maybe not independently wealthy, he would be able to provide all his
family needs without too much sweat. They will want for nothing. He still
worried sometimes looking at the bills and knowing he had two girls to send
through college.
Outside thinking and sipping
bourbon on the rocks, a rustling behind the garage arose. David straightened,
his boot camp training kicking in. Putting his glass down, he walked
soundlessly through the grass, around the garage and swiftly grabbed the collar
that peaked in the rhododendrons. Before
David realized it, Brandon was on the receiving end of a near pounding. David
dropped him “What are doing out here? It’s almost 1am?”
“Nothing!” Brandon’s eyes were
still huge from seeing the raised fist. David grabbed him by the collar again
and took him in the house. “Look what I found in the flowers.” Amber was in her
nightgown and robe holding a mug of hot chamomile tea. “Alright, boy, tell me
what you were doing in my backyard?”
“Oh David! Stop being a brute”
Amber chastised her husband. “Brandon, you want a glass of milk” Brandon
nodded, “Thank you” The mother in her took over the interrogation. She gave him
a glass of milk and even added a cookie from the cupboard. After he drank half
the glass, she knelt before him and gently grabbed one of his hands. “Brandon,”
she grinned gently “What were you doing in the backyard so late?” Brandon
looked at her and started to cry. He completely broke down in her motherly
softness and told her everything. He had tried to be strong and keep it all
secret. He didn’t want to shame his mother. The young boy was embarrassed to be
crying but couldn’t help it. He spilled everything to Amber, Told her how
terrible life was with Ted. He admitted that he was back there because Ted was
drinking and it scared him. That Ted hated him, hated the very fact that
Brandon lived and breathed.
“Does he hit you?”
“No, he won’t hit. He won’t do
anything that leaves a mark. But he grabs and pulls me around. He pins me
against the wall and tell me how worthless I am. I’m not big enough to fight
him. He laughs when I try to kick him.”
“Is he like this with your mom,
too?”
“Sometimes, but not as much as me.
She’s afraid of him too, I think. He yells at her for not doing stuff right.”
Brandon wished he could articulate
himself better. Having heard the words out loud, Ted just sounded like a class
act jerk. He wasn’t mature enough to explain how this made him feel powerless
and weak. How he felt like a failure because he wanted to be man enough to
protect his mother but was too weak. How with every word and attack Brandon
started to believe the insults. Brandon was starting to think he was worthless
and unimportant. He didn’t feel that he conveyed the fact that the threat of
violence could be as bad as violence itself. He couldn’t explain how it felt
when Ted would slam him against the wall and hold him there while Brandon
kicked and screamed. He couldn’t say how fearful it was to feel his hot breath
on the back of his neck. How heartbreaking it was to hear a man that was once
nice to you and shared his name with you, say he wished you were dead. Life with Ted had become mental warfare.
Brandon felt he was failing once again to explain what a hostile environment
his home had become.
Brandon prepared himself to be sent
home to face the wrath of his Stepfather. David and Amber looked at each other.
There was a silent conversation between the two. David looked straight at her.
Amber looked straight back then looked worried, then reluctantly nodded in
agreement. Amber picked up the phone and dialed Wanda’s number. Brandon sank in
his chair waiting for his mother to pick up her runaway son.
“Hi Wanda. I know it’s late but can
you come over here? I have something for you.” Amber paused listening to
excuses across the line “Ted’s a grown man I think he can live without you for
a moment…Great! See you soon.” She turned to the kitchen to start a pot of
coffee. Calling Lori out of her bedroom since she knew her and Angela, who was
spending the night, were still awake “Lori, get me your brightest colored
stuffed animal.” The girl obliged wordlessly realizing something big was
happening and not the time to complain. David picked up the phone and called
John. Brandon, however, couldn’t understand David’s conversation. David spoke
French into the phone. David and John often spoke French when the kids were
around and they didn’t want them eavesdropping. It wasn’t but another 5 minutes
and John and his wife was entering the door. Alexandria listened in on the
men’s conversations. John’s wife understood every word. Amber looked over “What
are they saying?”
“You don’t want to know” Amber
again noticed fear and confusion on Brandon. He wasn’t sure what he had started
by talking about the circumstances of his home life but had started to regret
it. “Brandon, go in with the girls till we tell you to come out. Don’t worry
everything will be ok. You will see, we are all friends here and friends watch
each other’s backs.” She winked at him. Brandon joined the girls in the bedroom
but refused to talk to them or even look at them. He curled up on the bed and
wondered if Ted was going to kill him later for telling. After a few failed
attempts by Lori and Angela to get Brandon to spill the beans, the two placed
their ears at the door to try and hear what was happening. Mostly they heard
muffled talking. They recognized Wanda’s voice and realized all their parents
were there and wondered what excitement was taking place that everyone would
gather so late at night. Lori wished her door was a bit thinner. The only clear
words that came through were raised or if the person was facing directly
towards her door. She could tell John and David were pacing but Wanda was
facing the door so mostly her conversation came through.
Muffling …“Is it true?” John’s
voice. More muffling. “It’s been so hard for him.” Wanda’s voice. More
muffling. The back door slamming then only women’s voices. The two men had left
the house. Then only Wanda’s crying parts of her comments came through.
“It’s been hard on all of us.”
“I thought with time”
“I understand but….”
“Are you sure you’re not just
making things worse?”
“I think that will be good for
Brandon”
“The red teddy bear is fine. I can
see that.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you
sooner”
The women conversed over an hour
before the door to the bedroom opened hitting the girls in the head. They had
been caught eavesdropping. Amber raised an eyebrow to them but otherwise
ignored the minor infraction. “Brandon, can we talk to you out here please?”
She pointed to the girls, one eyebrow raised again “You two stay and mind your
own business.” Brandon followed with his head hung and his hands in his
pockets. Dead man walking. When Brandon entered the dining room where the women
were sipping coffee and had been discussing someone’s fate, he could see his
mother’s swollen red eyes but also a soft smile.
The three women explained to
Brandon the agreement that had been made as Amber slid a house key across the
table to him. He eyed it without understanding. “This is the key to the front
door. The next few nights you will stay with us while things calm down. After
that if things at home get too ‘intense’ for you, then you are free to use that
key, night or day, whether we are home or not. All that we ask is that if you
are here to place teddy bear in the window in the living room window that faces
your house. It will be your secret message to your mother, and only your
mother, that you are here safe and sound.”
Brandon felt a small weight lifted
off his shoulders, he finally had a legitimate escape when he needed. Even
Wanda, while feeling guilty that she was not able to provide as much safety and
stability as she would have like, was grateful that she had amazing friends
that would help provide it.
While Brandon and Wanda were being
comforted in the dining room, the men returned. After washing their hands in
the kitchen David came behind Amber and placed a hand on her shoulder. Ted’s
family saw the swollen bruised knuckles on his hands. One was even cut and
still bleeding. “I think you should go home now, Wanda. Your husband needs
you.” Ted’s wife nodded knowingly and stole a glance at John’s hands. They were
normal. Before leaving the house she looked at David “Did you really have to
hurt him?” David was not proud of what he had done but believed whole-heartedly
that he was right. “Sometimes you have to speak the other man’s language before
they listen to reason.”
Chapter 3
Dear
Cheryl,
School is
ok but I am very ready for summer. We have been playing baseball. I still stink
at it. Lori can hit the ball way over the fence. The best I can hope for is
foul ball. Brandon makes fun of me for it but it’s still fun. We play until it
gets dark and the streetlights come on. After that it’s too hard to see and we
are all hungry for dinner. I think Mom would freak if I didn’t show up for
dinner. haha
Love Angela
– Age 11
A week later, after the
streetlights had blinked on and a rousing game of neighborhood baseball had
come to an end, Angela said goodbye to Lori, stashed her bike in the garage,
and headed into her house.
The savory aromas of rosemary and
garlic met her nose. Alexandria was
placing a platter of seasoned lamb chops on the dining room table between a
bowl of garden green beans with slivered almonds and another of creamy
scalloped potatoes.
Angela sidestepped the table to
wash her hands in the kitchen. Her mother followed her, looking her daughter
over. “Angela, your father will be out soon; why don’t you go put on a clean
top and brush your hair?”
“Okay.” She smiled obediently at her mother.
Alexandria was beautiful, with
raven hair that draped her shoulders in voluminous waves and a flawless olive
complexion that required little makeup. Angela’s mother had already changed for
dinner into a bright yellow blouse tucked into a pair of slim white jeans and
sandals with gold straps. She returned her daughter’s smile with a thin smile
of her own.
After changing into a clean top and
brushing her own dark hair, Angela made a long braid of it down her back,
splashed some water on her face and hands, and returned to the dining room.
“Angela, can you tell your father dinner is just about ready? He is in his
study.”
The study was really meant to be a
third bedroom but since they only needed two it was available to be converted
into a study with a desk and bookcases covering all the available wall space.
Angela peaked through the door as she opened it. John was not a handsome man.
He had, instead, what people called “a kind face,” like that of an absent-minded
college professor. He especially looked like this when he hovered over his desk
pulling at his beard while studying the large book before him. Highlighters and
ink pens gathered in an old cup Angela had made in third grade. The large book
in the center filled with scribblings and highlighting was a King James Bible.
There were also a Jewish Bible called the Tanakh and a Roman Catholic Bible
that include the books Tobit and Judith as well as the books of Wisdom and
Sirach. There were also a score of history books, encyclopedias and whatever
old manuscript her father could get his hands on. “Dinner is ready, Daddy.”
“I will be right there” He replied
absently. His eyes never left the books, his hand still writing in the margins.
Upon returning she settled into her usual seat at the table, which was set with
bone china and crystal water goblets atop a lace cloth.
Her father came out of his study.
As soon as he sat at the head of the table, Alexandria visibly relaxed. She was
always so nervous when it was just her and Angela. The two seemed able to talk
to one another only in the presence of others. This wasn’t for a lack of
affection or desire to be close. There was merely a missing piece, a broken
connection to be gapped by a third person.
Now he plunged a forkful of meat
into his mouth, a bit of juice glistening on his beard. His eyes rolled back.
“Alexandria, this is delicious. The
lamb is so tender.” Dinner for Angela’s family was always a grand experience,
gourmet foods on fine china. Alexandria, who had attended culinary school in
Paris, was a wonderful cook. Angela’s mother had gone to culinary school and
grown up in her Father’s Parisian restaurant.
Angela was never quite sure why her
mother had stopped cooking professionally, nor had she ever thought to ask. For the most part, she enjoyed dinnertime
with her family. Sometimes, however, she would love a break from the slight
chill in the atmosphere. It would be nice to switch it up once in a while, to
have a more relaxed meal like Lori’s family had. They didn’t take each other so
seriously, and the conversation was lighthearted and carefree whenever Angela
had dinner with them.
Alexandria ate a few bites of green
beans, then excused herself to bring out the coffee and dessert. Angela and
John continued eating without her.
“Now tell me,” John said, breaking
the silence between them, "did you have fun playing baseball with your
friends?”
“Yup.”
“Good!” His eyes sparkled.
“Physical exercise is essential for a child.” Leaning closer, he added, “Did
you make any good plays?”
“Ya. I hit a ball and ran all the
way to home plate.” Angela glanced impishly at him. “Of course that was only
because I hit the ball in the bushes and it took ten minutes to find it.”
Father and daughter chuckled together.
Alexandria emerged from the kitchen
then, bearing an elegant crystal tray carrying 2 espressos and a latte for
Angela, and the piece de resistance, a crème Brule, perfectly
golden-brown. After dessert, it was
bedtime for Angela.
John came into her room to say
goodnight. The only light in the room emanated from the bedside lamp. It glowed
soft over Angela, gleaming in her hair and sparkling in her youthful eyes.
“You have the beauty of Queen
Esther in this light,” John told her, smiling as he settled himself at the edge
of her bed.
His smile was so warm, so tender.
It could banish Angela’s worries and bad days in a twinkling. She was in love
with her father the way all daughters should be in love with their fathers. He
held her world in his hands, and every word from his lips was priceless gold.
There was no harm that could befall her as long as he was in her life.
“Queen Esther’s beauty won the
heart of a king over many other beautiful young women,” John continued. “But it wasn’t just her outward appearance
that made her lovely. Her true beauty came from within. If a woman is beautiful on the inside, she
will never be unattractive to others.”
“So, you’re saying I am a good ugly
person?” Angela held in her laughter behind her teeth. She loved to twist his
words. David raised an eyebrow at her but a smile was hidden in the corner of
his mouth. “Sarcasm is ugly. Where do you get this sarcasm? I bet you get it
from Brandon, he has a sharp tongue. Perhaps I should not allow you to hang out
with him so much” saying as he reached through the blankets to tickle her
making her scream with laughter. “Perhaps you are no Queen Esther, but you are
MY Angela and you are the most beautiful girl in the world.” He winked and
kissed her goodnight.
Brandon walked slowly up the path
to his house. Gently turning the handle of the front door, he cracked it open
and listened. The offensive stench of beer mingled with cigarette smoke met his
nostrils a split-second before he heard his stepfather cursing at a game on the
TV in the back room.
Brandon knew that if he was swift
and silent, he could make it upstairs to his bedroom unnoticed. He drew a deep breath and made a run for it,
soundlessly sprinting across the living room carpet and up the stairs.
Upon entering his room, a more
pleasant aroma greeted him, causing his stomach to growl in hunger.
“Aw, yes! Love you, Mom,” Brandon
quietly exalted, for there on his bed was a lidded dinner plate with the
attached note: “Missed you at dinner, sunshine. XOXO. Mom.”
Lifting the lid, he revealed three
still-warm slices of homemade meatloaf, a generous helping of perfectly fluffy
mashed potatoes drenched in his mother’s special brown gravy, seasoned peas,
and homemade bread with melted butter. It’s delicious fragrance seemed to clear
the air of the foul smoke and alcohol.
Brandon appreciated his mother.
Wanda accepted things for what they were. For example, Brandon couldn’t stand
the sight of Ted, and Ted couldn’t stand the sight of Brandon, but she never
forced either of them on the other.
Rather, she raised Brandon quietly,
loving on him when her husband was at work or out with friends, allowing him to
remain invisible when her husband was home.
She would smile or wink at him as
he tiptoed past Ted, wordlessly communicating her affection without drawing
attention to him.
Brandon changed from his school
clothes into sweats before he ate his dinner, sitting Indian-style on the
mattress, the dinner plate balanced on his knees. He loved his mom’s cooking
and was always telling her that she should leave Ted and open a restaurant.
A meal made by Wanda was worth
sneaking home for. Like magic, she could make cheap hamburger taste like
steakburger, employing the tips and tricks she had picked up from years of
observing such experts from Julia Child to Martin Yan. Brandon liked Yan’s
Chinese accent.
Sometimes, while Ted was at work,
Wanda and Brandon would watch the cooking shows together, learning how to
quarter and season a chicken for one night’s dinner, turn the leftovers into
Mexican chimichangas for the next, and the leftovers from that into a spicy
chicken soup that could clear the sinuses for yet a third meal. Never once
would anyone know that they had just sat down to the same chicken three nights
in a row.
On evenings when Ted was at the
bar, Wanda taught Brandon how to make bread the way her mother had taught her.
The recipe was simple, and could be prepared in a number of ways. He loved the
bread making. It smelled wonderful and could be almost anything. It could be
deep-fried into doughnuts, seasoned with herbs for dinner or rolled with
cinnamon and butter then sweetened with a brown sugar glaze for breakfast.
His mother was a culinary
genius. It was just too bad that Wanda’s
taste in men was not as half as good as her skills in the kitchen.
Placing his licked-clean plate off
to the side, Brandon pulled open his nightstand drawer. Nestled within was some
candy he had stashed from his last trip to the store and the tape player he
liked to listen to, along with his favorite recording of nature sounds. This
was his secret enjoyment, his security blanket.
He pushed through the Snickers and
Milky Ways and pulled out the tape player, exposing the picture of his parents
that he kept hidden beneath. In it, they were sitting together on a porch step,
his father playing the guitar, his mother singing in harmony.
Brandon could tell they were happy
by the way their eyes crinkled at the corners. Wanda’s hair had been longer
then, with thick streaks of golden-brown from the sun rather than the fingers
of gray that had replaced them. Brandon’s father had an out-of-date blond
mustache, clear gray eyes, and a square jaw. He was thin but muscular,
healthy-looking, his blond hair waving around his ears.
This picture once stood proudly on
Brandon’s dresser, where he would stare at it for hours, longing for his father
to march through the front door, announce his presence, and waste no time
kicking Ted out.
Brandon would try to convince
himself that his father had joined the military and was part of an elite band
of heroes who were not permitted to come home until the world was safe for
their families.
At night, he would put the picture
on his nightstand to watch over him as he slept. When his mother came to tuck
him in, he would pepper her with questions about the mysterious blond man who
had helped bring him into the world.
Through his many interrogations,
Brandon had discovered that his father was an excellent guitar player who had
been in a band, that anyone who was in his presence was happy and laughed all
the time. Knowing these things initially
comforted Brandon, made him feel secure.
As he got older, however, he
noticed what he had overlooked before. He would often come home from playing
baseball with the guys or hanging at Lori’s and his Mother would be staring at
it. His mother, when she spoke of his
father, seemed tired and drawn, her brown eyes more liquid than usual. Her
answers to Brandon’s questions, while honest, were reluctant. Brandon realized
that it pained Wanda to look at the picture. It hurt her to talk about the blond
man on the front-porch step.
Brandon, in his youth, didn’t know
whether this stemmed from anger, pain, longing, or a combination thereof. He
didn’t know whether the feeling was the same for Wanda as it was him. He knew
enough that whatever kind of pain it was, it was still pain and he knew enough
to stop asking the questions he yearned to have answered. He put the photo away
in a drawer.
For a long while, he didn’t see
that strange expression on his mother’s face.
And then one day, he noticed it while she was looking at him.
Brandon glanced up from the
photograph and into the mirror over his dresser. He saw the resemblance that
his mother had seen. He had his father’s
clear gray eyes. His jaw was becoming
chiseled like his father’s. Physically,
he was turning into the mystery man, looking more like him every year, every
day.
Would he be his father’s son?
Brandon wondered. Would he grow up to abandon his family? Were things like this
destined to be or did one have a choice in the matter? As he contemplated the future, another photo caught his eye, a
snapshot of Angela, Brandon, and Lori at the county fair, wedged into the frame
of the dresser mirror.
I do have a choice, Brandon
determined. He would not be his father’s
son. Any resemblance to that man ended in his reflection. He would be his own
person. He would be good and loyal to those that loved him. He would always
take care of his mother. He would always be there for his friends. There would
be no burden great enough to make him leave.
Over time, he had learned to accept
that his father was never coming back. Perhaps one day he would find him and
ask him all of his questions. How could you leave a woman like his mother? A
woman who was a good cook and home-maker? A woman who was always strong, always
happy even in the worst of times? A woman who could see the good in every
situation?
After all, that is precisely what
she had done with Ted. Even after he had changed so drastically, She had seen
the good in him in spite of his cruelty. She could overlook the way his words
pierced her to the core, the way he pushed her around. She saw beyond his
drunkenness something that Brandon could no longer see since that winter's day
so long ago.
Perhaps she had done the same with
his father. But her loving ways hadn’t
softened the heart of the mustached guitar player in Brandon’s dog-eared
photograph. Brandon closed the drawer on the photo, climbed out the window by
his bed, and jumped off the back porch roof.
Next door at Lori’s house, he used
the key her parents had given him, and placed the red teddy bear in the front
window so Wanda would know he was safe.
It was their secret symbol, alerting Brandon's mother to the fact that
he had gone to Lori's, where he could sleep in peace. In the family room, he gathered an armful of
blankets and throw pillows, curled himself up on the overstuffed couch, and
promptly fell asleep.
Lori meandered through the door
moments after the streetlights had come on.
“That you, hon? Come set the table for me,” called her mother
from the kitchen.
Lori breathed deeply the garlic in
the air. Spaghetti and garlic bread, her favorite! She entered the kitchen, where her mother was
pouring marinara sauce from a can into a saucepan. She opened the cabinets to
get out the dinner plates. Lori opened the oven to look at the garlic bread
that came straight from the grocer’s freezer section.
“Wash your hands first,” her mother
admonished, playfully swatting her daughter away from the clean stack of
dishes.
Lori giggled, inspecting the dirt
beneath her fingernails. “Oops! Be right back.”
She darted toward the bathroom,
nearly colliding with her father as he emerged from his bedroom.
“Hey, chipmunk! How was
playtime?” David bopped the top of her
head with the novel he was reading.
Lori giggled again. “It was super
fun! We played baseball.” She clicked on
the bathroom light, pumped liquid hand soap into her palm, and created a frothy
lather beneath a warm stream of water from the faucet.
David leaned on the doorjamb,
grinning at his daughter in the mirror above the sink. “Did you know that a
microwaved baseball will fly farther than a room-temperature baseball?” he
asked, smacking his fist into his palm like a ball into a mitt.
Lori shook her head, reaching for a
fluffy towel to dry her hands. “Where do
you dig up this weird trivia, Dad?” she teased him.
David reached around behind her to
turn off the bathroom light. “Consider
it my specialty,” he said.
Since her older sister Claire had a
study date, Lori had her mother and father to herself that night. Lori loved Claire, but she tended to be
overly chatty and hog the dinner conversation.
It was nice to sit down to spaghetti and garlic bread, just the three of
them.
“Mom?” Lori asked, scooping salad
onto her plate.
“Yes, sweetheart?” Amber ladled marinara over David’s spaghetti,
topping it off with four enormous meatballs.
“Can I borrow the microwave
tomorrow if we decide to play baseball?”
Amber dropped the ladle into the
pot with a clink. “What? Why?” she sputtered and then glanced at
David, seeming to recall his microwaved baseball factoid. “Absolutely not,” she told Lori,
laughing.
Lori shrugged mischievously. “Figured it was worth a try.”
Dinner at Lori’s was a free for
all. Her family talked about anything and everything at mealtimes. Tonight, they discussed the apartment complex
David owned, with its complaining tenants and the leaky faucet in one of the
master baths that David had never gotten around to fixing.
Amber asked for her husband’s
opinions as to which book her book club
should read next, because she had suggested Breakfast at Tiffany’s, but
Cindy wanted some erotica romance novel.
“I’ll have to side with Cindy on
that one,” David cracked.
Amber smacked his arm in jest.
Lori told her parents about the
math test she’d taken at school and asked if they were going on a family
vacation that summer.
The family chatted and laughed
until dinner was over. Once the table had been cleared and wiped off and the
dishes were in the sink, David asked, “Who’s up for some gin rummy?”
“I am!” chirped Lori, eager to make
the most of this special time with just her parents.
“Sounds good to me,” Amber
agreed. She poured tall glasses of milk
while Lori plated some Oreo cookies and David dealt three hands.
“Hey, Lori,” said David, crunching
into an Oreo. “Bet you didn’t know that
during World War II, while Americans were imprisoned in German camps, the
United States Playing Card Company collaborated with the government to make
special decks of playing cards. When they were wet, these cards would peel
apart to reveal maps that would help the American soldiers escape the camps.”
“I didn’t know that!” exclaimed
Lori. “Very interesting, Dad. You should
write a trivia book.”
Amber rolled her eyes. “He could write a trivia encyclopedia.”
“And you could read it at your book
club!” said David, inspired.
Amber shook her head. “Your turn, Lori,” she reminded.
Lori drew a card. Ten of hearts.
She placed it on the discard pile.
On a roll, David continued with his
stories of wartime victories that had been won in unusual ways. That was Lori’s
dad, all right—a walking encyclopedia of useless facts—and she and her sister
loved him for it. In fact, all the kids
loved David.
That evening, as she basked in the
warmth of her family’s closeness, as she played rummy and dunked her cookie in
the milk, Lori knew she was a lucky girl.
She and David and Amber and Claire
weren’t anything exceptional. They were, quite simply put, normal people who
loved one another and could rely on one another. Like all families, they had
their differences. They argued
sometimes, slammed a door now and then.
But they all knew, deep down, that nothing could ever drive a wedge
through their love for one another, and that made all the difference.
As much as Lori talked with Angela
about growing up and getting married in a double wedding and living next door
to each other, she was not in any sort of rush to do so. She liked her average,
comfortable, Oreo-and-rummy family, and she was more than happy to share it
with anyone who needed an escape from it all. Like Brandon.
Late that night, after Lori had
been up in bed for a while, she heard him come in and make himself comfortable
on the couch in the family room.
Chapter 4
Dear
Cheryl,
Life is not
fair.
Angela –
Age 13
Angela slammed into the house,
dropping her backpack on the carpeted floor.
"I'm home!" she called out.
"Mom? I'm home!" Although it was a sunny Friday afternoon,
Lori had not been able to play. She and
her family were headed to her uncle's lakeside cabin for Memorial Day weekend,
so Angela was on her own for the next three days.
She kicked off her shoes, placed
them neatly in the closet as Alexandria requested, and went down the hall to
the kitchen. It was sparkling-clean, as
always, but empty.
Angela was surprised. She couldn't remember the last time she'd
come home to find Alexandria anywhere but in the kitchen. Then she saw the post-it stuck to the
refrigerator door.
"Darling,
I was at the doctor's office with
your father this morning and had to reschedule my hair appointment for three o'
clock. Be back soon.
Mother."
What was wrong with her father?
Before shrugging it off, she went to the counter and picked up the phone to
call him at work and make sure he was all right.
Before she could finish punching in
the number, however, John appeared at the kitchen doorway.
Angela stared, replacing the phone
in the receiver. John walked out in
T-shirt and jeans. His hair was messy,
his beard unkempt, and there were dark circles ringing his eyes.
"Daddy?" she gasped. "What's wrong? Why aren't you at work?"
John raked a hand through his
disheveled mane, laughing wearily.
"I must be a sight!" he exclaimed. "Don't worry, Angie, it's just a
headache. I decided to stay in and rest
today."
Angela glanced back at her mother's
note, rumpled in her hand. "A
headache? Isn’t that what aspirin is for?"
John smoothed his daughter's dark
hair and smiled at her sarcasm.
"I've been having more than my share of headaches lately," he
said slowly. "The doctors are
running some tests, that's all. Just
making sure everything's as it should be."
Angela couldn't keep the tremble
out of her voice. "What do they
think it is, Daddy?"
"Probably just a vitamin
deficiency or something simple."
Angela wadded the note and tossed
it into the trash. There was nothing to worry about. Squaring her shoulders, she turned back to
John with a smile. "What do you say
we pop some corn and watch some TV?" she asked.
"But it's such a lovely
day," John protested. "Are you
sure you'd rather be stuck inside with your boring old man than take a bike
ride through the park with your friends?"
Angela shrugged. "Lori's on vacation," she said,
"and besides, you're not boring, Dad." She ran to her room where the popcorn was
kept. Alexandria didn't approve of such pre-packaged processed foods, so Angela
kept them carefully hidden behind her mother's extensive spice rack. Now she drew out three packages. "What are you in the mood for, Dad? regular, cheddar, or movie-theater
style?"
Memorial Day came and went, and
almost before Angela, Brandon, or Lori knew what was happening, school was out
for the summer.
Summer vacation began as carefree
and innocent as it always had. There was
the county fair to go to, with its wild rides and overpriced games, greasy
foods and smelly animals. The friends
enjoyed every minute of it, sweltering beneath the hot summer sun as they
snapped one another's pictures and mugged for the camera in their sunglasses
and baseball caps.
There were new movies to catch, and
classic car shows downtown, and nights when Angela and Lori slept under the
stars in Lori's backyard, gossiping and picking out constellations until they
fell asleep. And, of course, there was
the public pool, where all the kids from school spent a good majority of their
summer. Angela and Lori went shopping
for new bikinis together, hoping that the boys would be impressed. They spent just as much time sunbathing on
lounge chairs as they did actually swimming.
One summer morning, when Lori
stopped by for a gourmet breakfast courtesy of Alexandria, John couldn't seem
to remember her name. He pulled open the
door, examined the familiar face of his daughter's life-long best friend, and
said, rather uncertainly, "Hi there, Claire. Come on in."
"Claire?" giggled
Lori. "Do I look that much like my
sister?" She stepped inside,
studying her reflection in a beveled entryway mirror. "I'll take that as a compliment, Mr.
Bower, thank you."
John laughed, suddenly embarrassed. "You're welcome, Lori," he replied,
the name evidently returning to him.
"Both you and Claire are very pretty girls." The girls
shrugged their shoulders at each other and delved into more important things.
There were other things, too. John couldn't seem to recall certain
conversations in which he had partaken, the names of several of his coworkers,
the location of his eyeglasses, which he had never before misplaced. She could
tell that these changes bothered her mother, too. But Alexandria wasn't one for talking about
her feelings, and Angela didn't feel comfortable opening up to her, so things
went on the way they always had.
One summer Saturday, everything
changed. Lori was once again at her
uncle's lake house for the weekend, and Alexandria was at the country club,
playing her weekly game of tennis with a friend. Angela had been at the park
with Brandon shooting hoops, but he had to go to a barbeque with his mother, so
she walked slowly home through the heat to check on John.
Her father had seemed perkier the
last couple of days, which made Angela happy too. Perhaps he had simply been undergoing a lot
of stress at work. Angela hoped things
were returning to normal.
She let herself in the front door,
basking in the air-conditioning as she took off her flip-flops. She yanked the elastic from her hair, shook
it loose, and re-ponytailed it.
"I'm home, Daddy!"
John came out of the family room,
where he had been relaxing with a novel.
"Hi, Angie! How was it? You look warm; your cheeks are pink!"
She giggled, fanning her face. "It was fun, but it's burning up
outside. I could use a break for
sure."
"Then how about I run down to
the grocery store and pick us up some ice cream?" John suggested. "When I get back, we can make a couple
of sundaes and play a board game or watch a movie. What do you say?"
Ice cream sounded like
paradise. "That's a wonderful
idea!" Angela gave her father a
hug. "You're the best, Dad! I'll search the refrigerator and see what
toppings we might have for the sundaes.
I know we have hot fudge and strawberry sauce, and Mom made those
cookies last week. We could crumble
those over the ice cream."
"Delicious!" John
agreed. "I'll pick up some whipped
cream and sprinkles, too. Hope your
mother doesn't mind that sundaes aren't exactly gourmet."
Angela giggled again. "She doesn't have to know if we don't
tell her!" John smiled and winked
at the secret. “What flavor do you want?” Angela thought for a moment “I feel
simple, how about chocolate?” John winked again and stepped out and drove off.
About forty-five minutes later
there came a knock at the front door.
Strange, thought Angela. I wonder why Daddy's knocking. He has a key.
She put down the magazine she had been idly flipping through and went to
answer the door. In her father's place, two uniformed police officers, a man
and a woman, were there to greet her, their faces flushed red from the heat,
their eyes full of empathy and concern.
The woman opened her mouth to
speak. "I'm sorryIs your Mother at
home or another adult?" she began. “My Dad should be back any minute; he
went out for ice cream.” The officers eyed each other. “And your Mother?”
Angela got a queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something wasn’t right.
It wasn’t just that there were police officers at the door but that they
behaved funny with the mention of her father’s errand. “My Mother is playing
tennis and won’t be back till two, I think.” Just then Alexandria’s car pulled
up to the curb. The officer’s car blocked her entry into the drive.
Alexandria walked up wearing her
white and pink pleated tennis outfit. Angela stepped out past the officers to
greet her mother and seek security by her side. “Mom your early.” Alexandria
answered without taking her eyes off the police. “It was too hot to play.
What’s going on?” walking and asking at the same time. “I don’t know” and
Angela grasped her mother’s hand.
“Ma’am. Are you related to John
Bower?”
“Yes” hesitantly
“I am sorry to inform you that he
has been in an auto accident…” Alexandria gasped “OH MY! What hospital is he
in?”
“I am afraid he didn’t survive the
accident.”
Angela's world went black. She stared dumbly not understanding. She didn't want to hear what these strangers
were telling her, something about a head-on collision at the corner of Jackson
and Main, with John Bower as the only fatality
"You’re lying!” screeching at
the officers “Why are you saying this?”
"Your husband, ma'am" the
policeman faltered. "He was in a
fatal accident. I'm so very sorry."
Angela watched in astonishment as her
chic and dignified mother curled up on the floor and wailed like a child. Nothing seemed real anymore.
The policewoman knelt and put a
hand on Alexandria's shoulder. There was
nothing she could say to make this go away.
No comments:
Post a Comment