JOE OPPENHEIMER - SHORT-STORIES

Joe Oppenheimer is an award winning poet and fiction writer.  His poems focus on our feelings of injustice, loss, friendship, nature, aging, and the foibles of life.  His short story “Charlemagne” is anthologized in Us Against Alzheimer’s: Stories of Family, Love, and Faith.  ed. Marita Golden (New York: Arcade, 2019).  Previously a professor of mathematical social science at the University of Maryland, his poems, stories and a play have been published in Origins, Chronogram, Foliate Oak Literary Review, Corvus Review, and Scarlet Leaf Review, among others. 
​Many of his writings are available on his website http://www.gvptsites.umd.edu/oppenheimer/.

​Free

​     Mother’s unexpected call woke me today.  My wife too.  I mean, it was rude. Early in the morning.  Maybe 5?  There I was, suddenly awake. After less than 4 hours of sleep.  A pounding headache, still totally hung-over.  I’d tried to drink my way out of a deep funk at The Saddlery.  So many things had been rushing through my head.  Then mother pushed one more, “Your father wants you to come to his bedside.”  He’s been ill for God knows how long. 
     I just wanted to turn around and go home today.  From my 25th school reunion.  Leave.  Because of him.  Well, him and Jerry.  Dredged up hurt so bad.  That’s why I got drunk.
     I never get drunk. 
     Ask my wife.
     But here I am, now, by his bed.  Here.  You’re thinking, “Of course you’d go.  After all he is your father.”  But it’s way more than that.  And I’m not staying for any long hours.  Believe me.  When I got here, he whispered, “Hold my hand.”  And then as if my hand were some lifeline, he grabbed it.  Tight.  Closed his eyes.  He’s been holding on, pretending to be asleep ever since.  So here I sit.  Sort of imprisoned by.  Or at least tethered to.
     It’s like some deep communication cable inserted through my hand into my mind.  Happened last night, too.  Gigabytes of memories passed into me.  At top speed.  Now, here I sit receiving messages from some gone world.  I didn’t ask for this.  Couldn’t stop it.  I tried hard to pull the plug at the bar.  Failed.  Sleep helped.  But it’s battering me again through his God-damned arm.  It’s like some forced infusion of a psycho-altering drug.  Same thing last night but then it was Jerry.  Maybe that was even worse.  Came so blindingly fast.  I couldn’t say, “Stop!”  ’cause I wasn’t even aware what was begun ’till it slapped me flat. 
     Like being hit by lightening.  You don’t have time to get out of the way before you burn.
     We walked in to the hotel lobby, joking, feeling great.  Going to the party.  We were early.  No one was there except Jerry and Roz.  I always liked them.  When we were kids Roz was my neighbor.  She was always up for fun.  Jerry was the butcher’s son.  Now he’s an electrical engineer.  Anyhow, we all go way back.  My wife and I go over, hug and say things like “Wow!  It’s been so long!”  Jerry looks at me like I’m some person he lost on Mars and starts, like a wind up, or robot, or killing machine or something.
Man, did you know I worked in your Dad’s place when you were in the Navy?  You know what that was like?  Any idea what that was like?  Your Dad? 
’Course I don’t know where he’s gonna ride this pony.  So I get into the conversation saying something simple, innocent, like, “No, Man.”
You remember Sam.  You know, Sam: short, older.  A bit slow.  Just did menial stuff.  Like the mail sort.  Had a  limp.  Sam.  Well, one day he he comes in and drops the mail he’s carrying.  On the floor.  You’d think that’s nothing right? 
And now he’s looking at me, begging me to agree, and so, what am I gonna’ say?  After all, it isn’t a big deal to drop some mail.  So I agree, again just saying something simple like ‘yeah,’ laying another brick on this road to no where that I expect.
But no, your Dad, he gets crazy.  I mean absolutely nuts.  Gets up from his desk – the big one behind the glass partition – and he’s screaming.
And now Jerry is screaming.  And that’s when I see more people arriving.  They’re crowding round.  They’re Jerry’s audience.
“Christ!  You fool!  You idiot!  Can’t you do anything right?”  And he just goes up to him, right in his face.  Your father, you know.
     Jerry’s volume keeps rising and there are ever more people coming in, gathering round.  And Jerry’s just warming up.  He’s acting the whole scene out.  Comes right over to me.  His nose maybe only four inches from mine.  And he’s yelling.  Spittle from his mouth comes flying out at me.  Grabs hold of my shirt.
“Pick up that shit.  All of it!  Now!  Get down.  Do it!” 
     And he pushes me hard.  Then, as if I’d fallen and am on the floor picking up some of that invisible mail, he turns toward the me on the floor.  Now he’s dancing on one foot to get a good balance for making a kick, a vicious kick.
“There, you scum.  Over there, there’s more.  Pick it up, God Damn it.”  
And he starts to kick the imagined fallen Sam for real, over, and over again.  And he’s yelling.  And hopping around the imagined Sam for yet another vantage point to hurt the poor old man.  And my whole high school class with their wives and husbands, now all crowded around, breathless.  Now Jerry’s staring at me.  Like a rabid dog. 
“Pick up that shit.  Do it!  Now! . . . ” 
You know, don’t you?  Your own frigging father?  Treating human beings like that?  An old man.  You knew, didn’t you?  And there we were, his office staff.  None of us moved him away.  None of us told the boss to stop.  To go stuff himself.  Didn’t you know?
     Now all these people staring at me.  Like it was me.  Didn’t I know?  My father?  Of course I knew.  I’d seen him like that many times.  Many places.  With employees in his office.  With hired help at home.  With the dog.  My sisters.  My mother.  Me.  But suddenly, my whole class knew.  And Jerry’s still screaming, dancing, frothing at the mouth trying to exorcize his memory.  Pushing it from his brain into mine.  Searing it.  But I’m no longer hearing. 
     I’m looking around.  Everyone now in a ring side seat, looking at me as the freak son of some evil.  Some horror.  Expecting me to answer, to be something I’m not.  Never was.  Someone who’s got some honor saving role.  But I don’t.  Never did.   Well, maybe once.  Once I’d seen him swinging that big boot at my little sister fallen on the floor.  I stopped him then.  That once.  But last night I couldn’t think of that.  I just grabbed my wife’s hand.  We left.  Went to The Saddlery. And drank. 
     And now, here’s Mom looking straight at me from the door.  Just like those schoolmates last night.  Her thoughts land rapid fire in my mind, “Stay here with me.”  “Why, didn’t you, you big strapping boy, why didn’t you ever protect me?”  “Tell me.”  “Stay.”  “Let him go in peace.”  “Beg his forgiveness.” 
     And an answer begins to form.  Remains unspoken. “And why, mother, why did you never protect me?”
     The understanding takes shape, flies around my brain.  The cable breaks.  Unplugged.  Perhaps I scream.  I can’t know.  My hand loosens from his grip, I am no longer hearing.   No longer receiving.  I push past my mother, down the stairs.  She’s saying something.  Is she calling my name?  I don’t stop.
     Out the door.  Free. 
 

The Maid
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​Names, dates and identifying details have been changed to maintain anonymity.  All other details are reported as accurately as possible.

​      Anja came highly recommended.  She had worked at the Lezanio’s but when Bill got a job in New York, Mary recommended her to us as an extraordinary maid.  So it was only natural that we called Anja and had her come, on spec of course, to clean our house.  As always we had our maids come on Tuesdays. 
      Anja arrived on time, at 11, with her sister, Carla.  Anja is a short, middle aged Guatemalan.  Nice looking.  Her approach to cleaning is enthusiasm.  If there is dirt, it is to be eliminated.  Straight out of Zen and the Art of  Motorcycle Maintenance.  Her aggressive engagement in the cleaning wars charmed my wife, LuxAnne.  But it was Anja’s personality and her attention to detail that won LuxAnne’s approval.  Her sister, on the other hand, had a far more conventional, or should I say casual, posture regarding dirt.  In any case, I my wife declared she would hire the two of them and so I did my job: I took the necessary details: social security numbers, work permits and citizenship questions, addresses, etc., and then left to take a run. 
      Exiting the house I was surprised to note a late model, sapphire blue, Cadillac Escalade parked outside.  Anja and her sister apparently had arrived in this finely appointed vehicle.  It towered over our 2002 Sentra.  While this buzzed my brain, I began my run.  My run, and most of us casual runners have a ‘run,’ begins  with a short, but steep, up hill stretch to the neighborhood park.  When I skimp on my warm-up stretches, as I had that Tuesday, my elderly tendons and calf muscles complain bitterly.  It is embarrassing to consider the number of times I have sworn that I will never run until I stretch.  But vows are made of ether, and that Tuesday, my aches carried me to the park.  There the run flattens out through a beautiful wooded area.  The trail was soft and muddy and the woods still had splotches of snow from the previous week’s late February blizzard.  But I paid little attention to my environment as I tried to understand the puzzle of that blue Escalade.
      Next Tuesday came and Anja was back.  But not her sister.  This time she arrived with her son.  He appeared about twenty and spoke far better English than his mother.  But it was Anja who spoke up to explain, “My sister returned to Guatemala to visit her sick mother.  Is it all right for you, my son, Rico, to take her place a short time till she returns?” 
      After the initial introductions, and giving them their instructions, LuxAnne went shopping.  I remained and asked Rico, “Are you in school?” 
      “I was studying computer science at State but I dropped out last summer.”
      “Well then what are you up to now?”
      “Right now, I just help out as much as possible ’cause we’ve had some tough times.”
      “Are you hoping to go back to finish your degree?”
      “No, I hope to help my Dad with his contracting business.”
      Nothing really added up, father a contractor, mother a maid, son helping clean floors, driving a big blue Caddy.  But my heart wasn’t in this conversation.  I wanted to get out of the house.  Take my run.  Changed, out the door, and noticed: no Cadillac.  In its place, a relatively new black BMW.  List price for the two cars was roughly what we paid for the house.   And we were paying them to clean our floors?  What was going on? My curiosity was definitely yanked up. 
      I came back sweaty and determined to get to the bottom of this car mystery.  Rico was wringing out a mop when I entered.  I went up to him, “Rico, tell me, what is the problem that leads you to be cleaning floors rather than working for your Dad’s contracting business?”
      But Rico didn’t answer.  He said, with a newly acquired inability to speak English, and a fine Guatemalan accent, “Señor, perdóneme.” And he pushed by me to hang up the mop.  Whatever was going on, I wasn’t gong to find out from him.  The two of them soon left and LuxAnne  returned. 
      Two weeks went by.  Tuesdays Rico would drive his mother in the Beamer, until Anja’s sister returned and the Caddy reappeared.  For more than a month, our house was polished to a fare thee well.  Perhaps motivated by the reappearance of the Caddy, I vowed that this would be the week I would get to the bottom of the mystery. 
      “It’s so good to have you back!” my wife began.  “How is your mother?”  Carla looked a bit surprised and seemed to look to Anja for an answer. 
      “Oh, her mother died, even before she got to Guatemala.”
      “Oh, I am so sorry!”  LuxAnne immediately began a hug of Carla, even though Carla appeared to not comprehend what the fuss was about. 
      When my wife let her arms down, Carla went to get the cleaning supplies.  Anja stepped in to smooth any apparent anomalies, “It was expected.  Her mother was declining for a long time.”
      “Isn’t her mother your mother?” I asked.
      “Oh no!  Carla is my sister in law.”
      “I see.  How did it happen that she and you are working together cleaning houses?”
      “About a year ago I found out I had cancer.”
      “Oh my God!  I am so sorry!” said my wife and she gave Anja a hug.  LuxAnne dispenses hugs like a social worker. 
      “What’s your status now?” I asked.
      “Oh, the doctor tells it is under control.  One day some years from now they will call me cancer free,” she laughed, then added, “Carla come to help me because the treatment I so tired easily.”
      “That is so wonderful that Carla helps.  What sort of cancer?” asked LuxAnne.
      “Breast cancer.  I was very sick.  Much treatment with chemical.  I had to have my breasts removed.”
      “That is for the best.”
      “Yes, but Enrico, he doesn’t see that.  He is very angry.  He doesn’t want that.  You know how men are.” Anja stole a glance in my direction.  But I didn’t interrupt the two women.
      “Your son, Enrico?”
      “Oh no, not Rico.  No, no.  Rico not notice.  Well, maybe.  But Enrico, my husband, Rico’s father.  He not like it.  He still complain.”
      “But he must be happy to have his sister with you at home.”
      “Enrico no is with us now.”
      “Enrico is gone?”
      “Yes, m’am.  He gone 9 months,” and with this statement, Anja broke down.  Sobbing.  Like many men, I am uncomfortable with any show of emotion.  Especially crying.  I mean, what is to be done?  I shifted my weight and leaned against a wall. 
      Luckily LuxAnne was not at a loss.  Another hug, then a quiet, “I am so sorry.  It will be OK.  You can tell me what happened.”
      “Enrico  . . . ,” Anja sobbed.  “Enrico  . . .” 
      I wanted to say “Enrico, what?”  But I knew I was a rank amateur in these matters and left the discovery to my wife.
      “Yes, yes  . . .” LuxAnne consoled her, never releasing her hug. 
      “Enrico, he stopped.  Police.  He have no papers in order.  He is good man.  He put in prison.  But he not criminal.  He just not green card updated.  He good man.  Good man.  My husband  . . .  Rico’s father.  Daughter too.”
      “In prison?  When did this happen?”
      “Yes.  And he will be deported.”
      “What?  Why?”
      “Papers.  He not renew Green Card.”
      My wife let go of the hug but still had hold of one of Anja’s hands and stepped back a bit.  She reached for a box of tissues,  “Here.  . . .  But tell me why, how could he have made such a mistake?” 
      “My cancer.  I so sick.  He was taking care of me.”
      “But,”
      “I know.  I told him.  I said.  But Enrico, he say, ‘No, Obama he will make a new rule and I will be safe.  But Obama, he didn’t.  Then Enrico caught.”
      “We are so sorry.  Will he be deported?”
      “Yes.  Hearing next week.  Thursday.  In Baltimore.”
      “Would it be helpful for us to be there.”
      “Oh yes!” and for the first time in the conversation Anja broke out in a smile.  “My husband is good man.  Contractor.  Businessman.  No criminal.”
      Needless to say Anja and Carla did a great job cleaning the house that week, and the next.  And  then we went to Baltimore.  The only case on the docket was that of Enrico Trodero.  By the time we got there, the hearing chamber was so packed, the door wouldn’t open.  Standing room only and those who were leaning against the door had to move.  The seating capacity of the room must have been about 120, but there were no seats.  Indeed, I’d estimate at least 60 people were standing in the back.
      The diversity of the people in the room was astounding.  The crowd included a rabbi with a party of men all wearing yarmulkes, Asians, African-Americans, Latinos, whites.  A Sheik sat in the front row.  Those seated were asked to rise as the judge walked in.  She asked for the defendant and his lawyer to come forward.  A prolonged murmur arose when Enrico stood to take his oath.  He was wearing heavy shackles that rattled against the floor as he moved forward.  He was wearing a bright orange jumpsuit.  She banged the gavel for quiet.
      The prosecutor spoke.  Enrico was stopped for ignoring a stop sign.  Then he failed a Breathalyzer  test, something he had done in 1994 as well.  Finally, he had no right to be in the country.  In halting English Enrico explained away his green card story.  His defense lawyer pointed out that more than a quarter of a century had passed since his first DWI.  His nine months in prison could not rationally be construed as a reasonable response by the state for the behavior of this man.  “Look,” he said. “Look at the people in this room all of whom have come to support this man’s freedom.  Nine months ago, this man had a business.  He was an upstanding man in the community.  Look at these people.  At their clothing.  At their skin.  At their diversity.  What are we trying to do here if it is not ‘justice’?  Is this America?”
      The judge was quiet for a minute or two.  She examined the faces in the room.  She remarked regarding the broad community of support Enrico Trodero enjoyed.  A few comments summarizing the case and she came to  the only plausible conclusion a gate keeper of justice could arrive at.  She gave him 90 days to get his green card papers processed and told  him she would have his shackles removed, return his street clothing, and set him free.  About 180 people in the room cheered.