![]() Ruth Z. Deming, winner of a Leeway Grant for Women Artists, has had her work published in lit mags including Hektoen International, Creative Nonfiction, Haggard and Halloo, and Literary Yard. A psychotherapist and mental health advocate, she runs New Directions Support Group for people with depression, bipolar disorder, and their loved ones. Viewwww.newdirectionssupport.org. She runs a weekly writers' group in the comfy home of one of our talented writers. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia. Her blog is www.ruthzdeming.blogspot.com. THE SAINT OF THE POCONOS She was sick of it. Another bulging manila envelope poking out of her mailbox just outside her door. She threw it on the living floor in a pique of anger. Then she picked up her coffee cup and took a sip. “Who are these people, anyway?” she thought. Frauds, without a doubt. “Fraud.” That was her husband’s favorite word. This politician, that politician. They were all frauds. She opened the envelope. She, Margie Morris, was awarded a certificate for being a “defender of the orphans” at Father O’Hara’s dude ranch in The Pocono Mountains, 102 miles north of Philadelphia. “Honey,” she said to her husband, who was reading The Sunday Times and sipping on his coffee, which they drank throughout the day, “Would you mind if I went on a little road trip?” She showed him the contents of the envelope – address labels, tiny gold stars, a rolled-up Phillies cap, since they lived in the Philadelphia suburb of Abington, and to top it off, a solar-powered calculator. Norman shook his head back and forth. A stern man, he nearly began to laugh, but stopped himself. “You’re not working?” “I’ll just tell them I need some time off. That my carpal tunnel is acting up.” “Is it? I don’t want you lying to the library,” where she was the children’s librarian. “Happens to be true,” she said, showing him her small hands with their pink-painted nails. She left in the morning, driving the “truck,” as they called their red Jeep Grand Cherokee. Margie took the back roads so she could watch the scenery in the middle of March, where a series of snow storms had closed her library and made hermits of everyone. She and Norman had a “marriage of convenience,” where each one did what they pleased. “If you’re sleeping with anyone, Norman, keep it to yourself.” Whoever the woman was who wore lilac-smelling perfume was his current dalliance. She tried not to be bitter. She was grateful for so many things he provided her with. Material things, that is. Not love anymore. She longingly look out the window at pine trees, dusted with white sprinkles of snow which glittered under the white cloudless sky. The white sprinkles reminded her of – what were they called? – nonpareils, wafers of chocolate with tiny dots of hard white sugar. She took a sip of her still-hot Dunkin Donuts coffee, which she sipped from a thermal cup. At home, in one of his unkind outbursts, Norman had said to her, “Why do you make so much noise when you sip your coffee?” She was mortified but what was there to say? Later she called her sister Donna, the manager of a Starbucks Café. “What a jerk!” said Donna. “I’ll tell you why you make that noise. So do our customers. It’s the best way to appreciate your coffee, to best savor the taste. Babies do it!” Margie certainly couldn’t remember nursing Norm Jr. or Cecile or Eugenie, but Donna was a smart one. The red Jeep charged along the highway like a sonic stallion. Margie had shut off the GPS. It was like their friend, Lorraine, who talked too much, and always wore smeared lipstick. “Frog Hollow Rest Stop” read a sign. Margie pulled over, used the ladies’ room – “all that coffee,” she thought, and vowed not to drink another sip – sat in the truck and reached into her brown paper lunch bag. “No, you won’t,” she said to herself, about eating the Thin Mints first. In the rest stop, she picked up her egg salad sandwich on rye, complete with minced olives, and watching the people go by, she took one delicious bite. She leaned her head back in the car in silent ecstasy, while seeing a father and son go into the rest room. Yes, Norm had once been like that with little Norman. She was so proud of him for being a good dad. She wrapped up the other half and put it in the paper bag. The Thin Mints were wrapped in foil. Five of them. She put them in the passenger seat and began to drive away, but not before biting into one of them. Her granddaughter Chloe like the Samoas best. Too sweet for old people like Nana, coming up on seventy-three in July. Squashed squirrels, their white bellies up, were in the middle of the road. Once they’d stepped in the Rubicon of the road, you never knew if they’d make it or not. Margie instinctively patted her chest in sympathy for the families awaiting back home, all curled up when they slept, using their tails as warm quilts. Big fat snowflakes begun to fall. Margie switched on her wipers while wondering about her decision to reach the so-called dude ranch by twilight and then turn around and go home. Her Jeep lived up to its name as one of the best vehicles to drive in the snow. Mercifully, the snow stopped and she allowed herself another nervous sip of coffee. She punched on the GPS. A mature woman’s voice spoke in a British accent, “Your destination is in two more miles on the right.” Norman must have chosen this voice. Did the woman wear lilac perfume? One day before driving home from the library, Margie drove to the Willow Grove Mall. She went to the perfume department. “May I help you?” asked an attractive older woman at the Clinique counter named Lou. All the counter people wore black. “Do you have anything that smells of lilacs?” Margie asked tentatively. “With your attractive auburn curls,” said Lou. “I have just the thing.” She brought over a clear-colored bottle and spritzed it on Margie’s wrist. “Mmmm,” said Margie. “Wonderful.” She explained she might come back and buy it as a gift. What? For the “other woman?” Lou gave her her business card, which Margie put in her pocket, then tossed it out as she was leaving the store. And, then, sure enough, a blue sign decorated with a white fence and horses, appeared on the right. She could not wait to catch “the fraud and con man” in the act. A little frightened, she pulled in and saw a long driveway awaiting her. Young men, some wearing jeans, others in shorts, had their sleeves rolled up and were shoveling the long drive. One wiped his face with a striped kerchief, another fanned himself with his knit cap. A few waved at her as she pulled up to a large white house with a porch. “Park in the back,” said a young man pointing. She parked her Jeep, quickly ate the last Thin Mint, and walked around to the front door. Apparently “the savior” had been notified, as he appeared on the front porch. “My goodness,” she thought, “he’s a real priest. Apparently.” He was an old man who wore a long black cassock. His hair sprouted in whiffs on his mostly balding head and he stared in wonder at his new guest. She clomped up the stairs in her suede boots, and stuck out her hand. “Hello,” she said, not knowing what to call him. “I’m Margie Morris.” She wanted to say, “And I’d like to use your bathroom and for you to feed me,” but instead she blurted out without thinking, “I so love those packets you send me and wanted to meet, well, the man behind them.” He smiled. “Father O’Hara is my name. Won’t you come into our humble abode.” She gladly did. Humble? It was huge. What had he done with all that money? She stomped her wet feet on the rug, then decided to remove her boots. “You must be hungry from your trip from….?” “Oh, Abington, Pennsylvania. Yes it was quite far but my pony and I made it,” she laughed. “The facilities are in there,” he said, pointing to a rest room that turned out to be spotless. He served her a ham and cabbage meal since St. Patrick’s Day was only yesterday. He invited her into the living room to talk about their work here at the dude ranch. “I don’t run the ranch atall,” he said with a mild Irish brogue, “but I’ve got me some fine young men who help with it.” “Bobby!” he called. “Comin’ Father,” said a young voice from upstairs. He ran down the steps with an accustomed quickness she remembered when Norm Jr. was young. “I’d like you to meet Mrs. Morris from far away in Abington, Pennsylvania.” “Hello, Mrs. Morris,” said the young man. “Pleased to meet you.” The three of them sat and talked, while sweet-smelling logs burned in the wood-burning stove. “I loves these cozy evenings,” said Bobby, who wore a white Stetson hat. “Can’t wait till spring blows in. Neither can the horses.” The Father explained it was one of the ways they made money. People from all over the area stayed at a nearby hotel and rode the horses during the day. The orphans, who ranged in age from 12 through 20, lived either in the house or in small cottages on the property. “You wouldn’t happen to need a job, Mrs. Morris, would ya?” asked the father. “And what kind of job is that? I know nothing about horses or shoveling snow.” “Bet you’re a darned good cook and maker of splendid cookies with icing on them and coffee.” “You know me through and through though you’ve never met me before.” “Your thoughts, Mrs. Morris?” She was quiet for no more than two seconds. “I would be honored, Father,” she said. Margie Morris and her auburn curls and borrowed white night shirt slept soundly in a bouncy bed with stuffed animals lining the outside. She fell asleep as she dreamt of making spice cookies with vanilla icing and chocolate-covered sprinkles. Here she would find love and meaning. Who said age seventy-three was too old to begin again?
0 Comments
![]() Ruth Z. Deming, winner of a Leeway Grant for Women Artists, has had her work published in lit mags including Hektoen International, Creative Nonfiction, Haggard and Halloo, and Literary Yard. A psychotherapist and mental health advocate, she runs New Directions Support Group for people with depression, bipolar disorder, and their loved ones. Viewwww.newdirectionssupport.org. She runs a weekly writers' group in the comfy home of one of our talented writers. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia. Her blog is www.ruthzdeming.blogspot.com. THE BUS TRIP She sat in the middle of the huge Hagey Bus with a window view. She wanted to watch as much as she could without falling asleep. Her elderly father had driven her from their home in Parma, Ohio, to the tourist bus in downtown Cleveland. The bus driver, Stan, helped her on, as she had a pronounced limp. Polio. The epidemic was stopped after the Sabin and Salk vaccines had been discovered. How angry she’d been when the schools were flooded with entire families downing the sugar cube that held the Sabin inside. The poliomyelitis serum, with tiny wiggling half alive critters who longed to cripple and maim everyone, but were now thwarted for good. And, she, Gloria, was left with a limp. Under the pant leg on her left leg, she wore a hideous brace. She refused to date and only socialized with family members she didn’t even like. In her bedroom with its light-green wallpaper and canopy bed with white ruffles on top, she spent hour upon hour reading. Novels mostly. Stendhal, Tolstoy, Faulkner, Hemingway, and her favorite Flannery O’Connor, dead at 39 from lupus. “What’s the attraction to O’Connor?” asked cousin Millie over dinner one night. “Her stories were very odd, just like I am. I feel almost normal when I read them.” The Andrews family all lived together in a three story house on Norris Court. Gloria, refusing to work, was on disability, so she took it upon herself to make breakfast and lunch for the family while her mom had the honors of making dinner. Gloria was a vegetarian, believing her leg might heal that way. Tonight they had broiled chicken, garlic mashed potatoes, buttered broccoli rabe, and home-made apple pie that Gloria had baked that morning. As the bus bumped along, Gloria’s eyes were slowly closing. “The Prayers of Flannery O’Connor” shut itself on her lap. She awoke and pinched each cheek to stay awake. She was a pretty girl with dyed black hair, the same color it was when the tragedy struck. Her mouth, outlined with the reddest of lipsticks, had a downward look, as if someone’s hands had stretched it every night so that it refused to smile. Did it matter? Gloria Andrews avoided mirrors. Forty people sat in the bus. The buzz of their conversation ranged from quiet – did they all sleep in synch? – to loud, as if they remembered where they were going – and quite a few honking snores. A tall woman stood up to stretch. She raised her arms above her head and heard her neck crack. “Ahhhh,” she said. “Ma’am,” called Stan, the bus driver. “I know, I know,” said the tall woman and sat down. “Ladies and gentlemen,” announced Stan through his microphone, “regulations state there is no standing in the aisles of the bus unless you need to use the restroom.” Stan wore a blue uniform and blue cap. His mutton chop whiskers decorated his face. Two men sat together behind Gloria. They were having an animated discussion about film noirs. “Was happy to get a couple of gals to our Film Noir Club at the Parma Library,” said Tony. “Finally!” said Karl, an older man, who had a thick German accent, and loved nothing better than war films. “If my wife Kathe were alive, she’d be there. She shared my love of exciting battle scenes, bodies riddled with bullets, blood pouring through their shirts. And that also includes cowboy films.” “Which we have yet to see,” said Tony. “Last week’s film “The Intruder” with the young William Shatner was one of the best we’ve seen.” “Did you notice his body language?” asked Karl. “Yep,” said Tony. “A master.” Gloria’s held was tilted to the side, so she could listen to them talk behind her. She had no idea she was unconsciously eavesdropping. Soon, though, she got bored. No one sat next to her, so she put her book on the empty seat, got up slowly, and headed toward the rest room. She kept her head down so she didn’t have to watch “the looks” as everyone watched her limp. Da-dump, Da-dump, Da-dump. When she entered the tiny restroom, she plopped on the seat with her clothes still on, just to give herself a rest. The bus was going around a corner, apparently, and she cried out loud. “You all right?” she heard a woman’s voice say. “Fine,” shouted Gloria. When she finished, she stood up to wash her hands and saw a woman’s face in the tiny mirror. The woman was pretty, if not beautiful. She had long straight black hair that fell below her shoulders. Her lips were outlined with enticing red lipstick. Was that how she looked? Quite attractive, she thought, and then banished the thought from her mind. She skip/hopped her way back to her seat. With her head on her chest, she had a long deep sleep, with little snores that briefly woke her up. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Stan announced. “We are five minutes from Andalusia Farms, Flannery O’Connor’s final home.” To Gloria, it sounded like a canned speech but she wanted to hear everything he said and slapped her cheeks to stay awake. She turned on the little fan over her head. The day was beautiful and the Georgia sunshine caressed her face. Stan gave a brief history about Andalusia Farms, which he pronounced like an orchestra conductor: “AN-da-LUSIA FAAARMS.” Located outside Milledgeville, Georgia, the city has three colleges, local libraries and a high literacy rate. The farmhouse itself used to be part of a slave plantation. The passengers gasped. “Well,” said Stan, “you’re forgetting this was the deep South, the place where the four little girls were killed in the bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham.” The bus was silent. And then Gloria heard the German man behind her say, “I would’ve wrung each of their cowardly necks…slowly.” The bus pulled into the vast estate. Most people stood up to have a good look at it. A woman in a green hat greeted the bus. “You made it fifteen minutes sooner than scheduled,” she said. “Traffic cooperated,” said Stan, as he stood up and helped her board the bus. She came inside and he gave her forty tickets. She faced the passengers. “Good afternoon,” she said, in a southern drawl that was difficult to understand. “Flannery O’Connor welcomes you. If she were still alive – and how she loved life – she would be surprised that her final home, Andalusia Farms, has been made into a historic house. And that her collected short stories won the 1972 National Book Award for Fiction, eight years after her death. “Make yourselves at home. Take the self-guided tour. Obey the signs. When they say, ‘Do not sit on chair’ – or ‘Do not touch books’ – we mean it. The sound of an unpleasant buzzer will go off. Miss O’Connor would laugh if she heard it. “Otherwise sit where you like and touch what you like.” She emphasized the best things to view were a large pond with floating wildlife surrounded by summer greenery, the glorious peacocks and peahens which were tame and did not bite unless someone scared or threatened them, and the entire house, especially her writing room. “Enjoy yourselves! Take photos and come back again to see us, y’all.” Stan thanked her and followed her out the bus. He stood outside and helped everyone off the bus. He parked in a large parking lot with a white sign with peacock feathers on it that read “For Buses Only.” It was August, the hottest month of the year. A few white clouds like puffs of pipe smoke moved reluctantly across the sky. Hankies were pulled from pocketbooks and back pockets. Gloria took a good look at the two gentlemen behind her. Tony was wearing khaki shorts and a striped T-shirt. She wondered if he were married. The older German man looked like a movie star. Was it Clark Gable he reminded her of? He sure didn’t look his age. The disembarked passengers were moaning about how hot it was. What they soon learned was that the house contained no air-conditioning but was built to preserve heat in the cold months and stay cool in the hot months. Ceiling fans were in most of the rooms. In the dark of an evening, an occasional moth twirled round and round the fan blades, like a dog chasing its tail, she learned. The group dispersed. The film noirs fellows found a marble bench under a tree whose leaves acted as an umbrella. A large pond glimmered in the distance. Clusters of people walked toward it, fanning themselves with Andalusia brochures or their caps or straw hats. Gloria wore a long sky-blue dress that hid her brace. She was already in her mid-fifties and envied the numerous couples who had traveled together. “Oh, well,” she sighed. From her pocketbook she removed a Cleveland Indians cap. Folks from Parma were usually fans of the Indians or, upon occasion, of the Pittsburgh Pirates. She was faithful in her love for the Dominican Danny Salazar, who was named to the American League All-Star Team in 2016. She was attracted to him for the hardships he endured while coming up from hardscrabble Dominican Republic. As she walked about the estate, she looked up at the sky and down on the fertile ground that bore patches of red and yellow flowers whose names she didn’t know. “Miss O’Connor,” she prayed. “Please help me. I would be forever grateful.” She said this over and over like a mantra, sometimes the words slipping aloud from her lips. “Make this limp go away.” She took off her cap, deep blue with a red peak and the famous goofy-looking Indian in the front. She fanned herself with it. Truth be told, she kept it on her bedside table, next to her glass of water and pile of books. Often before she went to bed, she would lift up the cap, outline the Indian with her fingers, and say, “I love you, Danny Salazar.” “So, you’re an Indians fan,” said a woman catching up with her. Gloria couldn’t think of anything to say. “I’ve been watching the Indians forever,” said the white-haired woman in a shiny white pantsuit and sandals. “When I was younger, I’d listen to Jimmy Dudley, the radio announcer. You could see everything when that guy spoke.” “Well, good for you,” said Gloria, realizing the words came out wrong. “I mean, that’s really good, really great.” Gloria quickly wove away toward that great big white house with all the stairs. Where was the handicap access? Probably around the back. She walked over to the right of the stairs, grabbed the railing, and praying to Flannery, ascended the stairs, sweat pouring down her face and bare arms. Coolness surrounded her in the house. More stairs to Flannery’s writing room. She was panting and gasping by the time she entered and thought she might have a heart attack. She sank into a cushioned chair, clutching her heart. All she needed, she thought, were a few moments of meditation and prayer. With her hands steepled beneath her chin, she went into something akin to a trance, never hearing when a few other people entered the room. She wandered the rest of the house, marveling that a great writer had once lived here. Maybe she, the limping Gloria, should give writing a try. She did have one talent. She played the zither. Often after dinner, when the family was sated with mother’s food, they’d gather in the living room, as Gloria played tunes on the zither. “Do Amazing Grace” or “Oh Susannah,” they’d request. Her reverie was interrupted by Stan the bus driver. She glimpsed those crazy- looking muttonchops as he entered the dining room with its white linen table cloth embroidered with tiny flowers. “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Bus,” he said with his stentorian voice. “Say your goodbyes to Andalusia Farms, and prepare to get home to Parma around 10 in the morning tomorrow morning. “Oh, no,” said a couple of women. They’d forgotten to visit the Gift Shop. All right, he said, and everyone flocked inside, including Gloria, who bought a black shirt with a huge peacock on it. Nearly everyone was asleep on the bus, which zoomed past a procession of lights: red traffic lights, yellow street lights, lit-up houses with bedroom lights still on, until finally it pulled into the parking lot of the Cleveland bus station. The bus lights switched on. People blinked their eyes and gathered their gear. Gloria gave Stan a five-dollar tip. Her parents had told her to. She took a final glance at his mutton chops. She entered the bus station, sat on a bench, and looked for her father. The old German chap came up to her. “I admire you, young lady,” he said. “Not easy walking around like you do. You’re a real Helden, as we say in German.” She stared at him. “Might you give me your phone number?” “Oh!” she said, surprised. It took her a couple of minutes to remember it, but she recited it slowly, and wondered if he would call, and what she would think of him if they went out. ![]() Ruth Z. Deming, winner of a Leeway Grant for Women Artists, has had her work published in lit mags including Hektoen International, Creative Nonfiction, Haggard and Halloo, and Literary Yard. A psychotherapist and mental health advocate, she runs New Directions Support Group for people with depression, bipolar disorder, and their loved ones. Viewwww.newdirectionssupport.org. She runs a weekly writers' group in the comfy home of one of our talented writers. She lives in Willow Grove, a suburb of Philadelphia. Her blog is www.ruthzdeming.blogspot.com. WOOLEN STOCKINGS Winnie took a cab to Laura’s town house. Laura met her on the porch. They hugged and Winnie gave her a box of Stutz candies. “You shouldn’t have,” said Laura. “I’ll get even fatter.” Laura always nursed a belly that looked like she was a couple of months pregnant. “I’ll put the coffee on,” said Laura, as she opened the door and led her friend inside. The place was immaculate, done all in white, with shiny white tiles in the kitchen and windows looking onto a small back yard with a swing set and slide beside a couple of small maple trees. Everything was frosted with snow and glistened under the noonday sun. “Laura,” said Winnie. “Amy’s in college. What’s with the swing sets?” “You know me, Win. Bobby and I don’t like change.” Winnie shook her head as her friend put the tea kettle onto the all-white stove with one of those tops that was a smooth single panel, easy to clean. The two old friends stood in the middle of the kitchen. They once lived in the infamous Village Green Apartments, built on a flood plain. Fortunately they had moved out before the tragedy. A tragedy waiting to happen, caused by greedy developers who built on a known flood plain. Laura and Winnie knew the four people who were killed. Murdered might be a better word. They died not by drowning. But by something much worse. The water had risen quickly, like it always did, up to “A” Building – the old people’s building. But instead of receding and settling back into the tributary of the Pennypack Creek, it rose higher and higher, all the way up to the second floor of the building, where Angie and her son, Rudy, were waiting to be rescued. The sound was heard for miles around. An explosion in the basement of “A” Building. The gas dryer had exploded and blew away six tenants. Over the years, Laura and Winnie kept in touch by phone or met for shopping dates. Winnie knew every detail of Laura’s life and on New Year’s Day, when she had off from work at the factory, she took a cab over to the Parkview Town Houses. The tea kettle began its high whistle and Laura poured the water through her clear-glass Chemex coffee maker. “You and your perfect cups of coffee,” Winnie laughed. “I know you want a tour of the house,” said Laura. She patted her belly, a habit Winnie remembered from the apartments. “Bobby home?” “That husband of mine. At the gym. He practically sleeps there.” As they walked, Laura gave a slow narration of her husband’s habits. He was either at the gym or at work. He had started his own computer company and did very well. “You know what my husband did?” Laura asked Winnie. Winnie laughed. “Can’t wait to hear.” “He gave everyone a huge bonus – all one hundred fifty employees – and also took them out for dinner.” “Let me guess where they went,” said Winnie, who seemed to pick up gossip as easily as picking up a piece of chocolate. “Abado’s Café.” “Damn, Winnie. How did you know?” Winnie begged off, saying they’d sit down and talk after the house tour. The living room was a show place. It had that unlived-in look. Like looking in a store window. The carpet was eggshell white and most of the furniture, including two white sofas that looked so delicious you wanted to sink your teeth into them, was a pristine white. Yellow accents such as a tall yellow and turquoise vase on the carpet lent an air of sophistication to the room. Neither Laura nor Bobby O’Riley was sophisticated. Photographs of Amy hung above the sofa. A beautiful child, if a bit pudgy like her mom, she had a broad smile when she lived in the apartments. As she inched toward high school graduation – and, yes, there she was in her cap and gown – her face looked less full. A third photo, taken in a lavender prom gown, as she stood between Bobby and Laura, showed a poised young woman on the edge of a brave new life. Winnie learned that Bobby had taken his daughter under his wing and introduced her around the gym. “She was always Daddy’s girl and the two of them would gallivant off to the fitness center, what a damn bore, where he taught her to ride all those godawful machines.” Winnie laughed. “She turned out to be a beautiful girl, don’t you think?” “More beautiful than I am,” said Laura. “If there’s one thing I hate, it’s when you and me go shopping at Marshall’s, try on clothes in those tiny fitting rooms and I have to look at myself in the mirror.” She shook her head and fluffed up her dark brown hair. From the living room they walked up the carpeted stairs to the second floor. “The home of a movie star,” laughed Winnie, as she followed her friend. Three bedrooms appeared at the top of the stairs. Amy’s room was childlike. Her stuffed animals – a white unicorn with a lifelike horn emerging from its forehead, Kermit the Frog, and a baby giraffe with huge button eyes – lay on the pillows of her bed. One window, in the shape of a huge half circle, looked over the front of Parkview, at the cars asleep in their parking spots on this enforced day of rest, New Year’s Day. “Does she come home much?” “Barely,” said Laura. “She has so many friends now that she’s at Penn. It’s a tough school to get into, you know.” Winnie didn’t wonder that she rarely came home. Bobby and Laura were constantly fighting, voices raised, fists pounding tables. Once, Laura told her over the phone, that Bobby had punched a hole in the kitchen wall, apologized, and had it plastered over before anyone saw it. “And, here’s Bobby’s room,” she said, leading Winnie into the master bedroom. “Oh, he has his own room now, does he?” It was filled with mirrors, a huge walk-in closet and a bathroom on the right. Laura opened up two closet doors. Immediately a bright light went on revealing Bobby’s wardrobe. Winnie went over and fingered a red silk robe. “Wonder where he got this?” “Oh, he goes downtown to some fancy shops to buy his stuff.” She led Winnie into the bathroom. Winnie saw the sunken pink Jacuzzi with water jets all around and seats for the bathers. “Me and Johnny, when we were going together,” said Winnie, “stayed in a fancy hotel downtown and had a great time in the Jacuzzi, if you know what I mean.” Laura laughed. “Bobby and I have the same old problem.” “I’m sure you do,” said Winnie. No need to say it: no sex. Returning to the kitchen they sat back down at the glass table. Laura poured more coffee and warmed it in the microwave above the stove. A red amaryllis, sitting atop the table, had just bloomed and sent its tall red spikes into the air. “You do have a way with interior design,” said Winnie. “Your apartment looked nothing like this.” Laura laughed. “We paid for a designer to come out. She still does. And she brought me this plant.” “One of the reasons I never visited before, hon, was because I was afraid to tell you something about your husband.” “My husband? Bobby? I can’t imagine what that would be.” She quickly thought of the first thing that pops into a woman’s head: an affair. But quickly dismissed the thought. Winnie cleared her throat and placed her hand on Laura’s. “Bobby is gay,” said Winnie. There was total silence. Laura got up and took the coffees out of the microwave, then sat back down in silence. She took a sip and sat stiff as a cardboard box. She looked down and then she stared at her friend. “Winnie, how do you know?” “Laura, everyone knows except you.” Winnie mentioned the lack of sex. “Men are horny. They love sex. Look at my Johnny and my Carl. They don’t even mind sleeping with a cripple.” She laughed. “How many times did you do it?” asked Winnie. Laura paused only a moment. “Once on our honeymoon. Or almost. He got sick, so we never finished.” “Go on,” said Winnie. “Well, there was that other time ….” “Yes, when you told him you wanted a child,” finished Winnie. Laura scratched her forehead, trying to comprehend what she had been in denial about for nineteen years. “Tom Abado and his restaurant?” said Winnie. “Bet that’s his boyfriend.” “Winnie, how could you?” said Laura, standing up and walking around the kitchen. “If he is gay, Winnie, do you think Amy knows?” “Probably. She’s a smart girl. But she loves her daddy. And always will. People are liberal nowadays about things like that.” They heard the sound of a car pulling into the garage. Laura looked at her watch, then looked at Winnie. They heard Bobby’s feet running up the basement stairs. He burst inside, panting, and saw the two of them seated at the table. “Honey!” he said, his voice rising. “Why didn’t you tell me you were having company?” Bobby took off his jacket and hung it on a hook in the hallway. He was an average-sized man with firm muscled arms that showed through his blue short-sleeve shirt. His hair was dyed black but looked natural. “Bobby,” said Laura. “You remember Winnie from the apartments.” “Winnie! My God, I didn’t recognize you. How ya doing?” He went over and hugged her. Winnie was a pretty woman with dyed blond hair. As a polio victim, one leg was shorter than the other, but it never stopped her from meeting men or becoming a supervisor at the factory. She wore a brace under her blue jeans and had a specially-made shoe with an elevated sole, her “polio shoes,” as she called them. Winnie smiled. “I finally decided to visit your beautiful home. Oh, it’s lovely, Bobby. Just lovely. Like in a magazine. I’m so happy for you.” “Where are you living now?” he asked. “I couldn’t escape Hatboro, like you both did. I live on the seventh floor of The Garner House, right across from the train station.” Winnie talked about her job at the jewelry factory, wearing special thermal suits and goggles when she melted down gold nuggets to make jewelry. “They gave me a nice bonus since I been there thirty years.” She pulled out a blue-rimmed iPhone from her pocketbook. The phone began to vibrate and they all laughed. “It’s probably my Dawnie,” she said, referring to her grown daughter. “Guess I better be going.” Bobby volunteered to drive her home. “No, no, I’ll take the cab,” she insisted. “Not while you’re in my house,” said Bobby and helped her on with her coat. Laura heard the clop clop clop of her friend’s awkward-looking shoe as she walked down the basement steps and into the garage, where a ride home in a black BMW sports car awaited her. So, thought Laura, it must be true. “I must get used to this. What an embarrassment. Everyone knows but me.” Her festering resentment toward her husband began to grow and as the days passed, she felt uncomfortable living “with a fag in my house,” as she told Winnie over the phone. But how could she divorce him? She couldn’t possibly live on her own. She hadn’t worked a day of her married life. She had waitressed as a teenager at the Willow Inn. Every time she drove by, she was reminded how afraid she was to work outside the home, and how, yes, “pathetic” and “frightened” she was. What if anything happened to Bobby? She’d have to go out and find a job. One evening she was trying to fall asleep in her room. Where was that husband of hers? When she heard him walking up the stairs, she came out of her room, wearing a see-through white nightgown. “Where the hell have you been?” she yelled. “Business,” he said sleepily. “Business! Yeah, with your gay friends! I never dreamed I’d marry a faggot. A fucking faggot!” Bobby, head down, slunk into his room, saying nothing. He closed the door and she heard him lock it. “Oh!” she screamed as she went back into her room. She turned on the television. And flipped through the channels. In bright vibrant colors she watched a program about farmers. They strode through the landscape filled with purpose and wore odd clothing. Aha! They were the Amish. As she watched, she forgot about her recent discovery about Bobby and totally focused on the program. How good it was that everyone in the family, even the little children, worked, and the man – a manly man! – was the head of the family. While Amy was growing up, they had taken many a trip to the Reading Terminal Market in downtown Philadelphia. It was a high cavernous building replete with everything you would want: cut flowers, fresh fruits and vegetables year-round, and delicious meals from several Amish families. She remembered the juicy chickens and fresh cranberry sauce, piled in Styrofoam plates, along with black-eyed peas and cornbread. Laura decided to act quickly before she lost her nerve. From the basement, she pulled out a suitcase on wheels and dragged it upstairs and into her bedroom. An elevator would have been nice, she thought. She was out of breath when she got to her room and placed the suitcase on her yellow bedspread. Into it she put sweet-smelling clean clothes, pants, bras, underwear, and an old bathing suit for good measure. She packed a few towels and washcloths and took the suitcase downstairs to the kitchen. She would leave in the morning. She wrote a note, which she left on the table after Bobby drove off to work. “Bobby, I’m going away for a while. I’ll be fine. Will get in touch in a few weeks.” She signed it “Laura.” Forget the word “love.” She drove out of the garage in her own BMW sedan, a sturdy gray color. She punched in an address into the GPS on the dashboard and listened to the deep sound of a baritone male voice as she left Parkview Homes behind. She wondered if she would ever return. She was a woman who would not look back. She was afraid to. Hands firmly on the wheel, the roads were fine, the snow had all melted. “Turn left at Meetinghouse Road,” said the male voice. She paid strict attention as if her life depended on it. After a while, the voice stated, “Merge right onto Route 30.” Route 30 seemed to turn into another country, another lifetime, another century. After an hour, she found herself behind one of those famous black Amish buggies. The wheels of the buggy were huge. She lowered the window so she could hear the clopping of the horse’s hooves. The driver motioned to her to pass him and so she did, craning her neck to see what the man inside looked like. There he was, with a long scraggy black beard and a top hat like Abraham Lincoln’s. Her heart quickened. Certainly watching that program was a sign from God that she belonged here. Wasn’t it? She drove along the road. There wasn’t much traffic. Which shop should she pull into? Three of them on her right had quilts hanging outside the stores. My goodness, she thought. Maybe I can learn to quilt. She was more excited than on Amy’s high school graduation day. Had her whole life been a pretense, she wondered. Waiting, just waiting, for this sacred day? She pulled her BMW into the gravel driveway of the third quilt shop. The moment she walked in, she heard a strange language – neither French nor Italian but something like German – spoken by a few people in the store. When she walked in and the bells jingled on the door, a slender young woman greeted her. She wore a calf-length blue dress and the traditional bonnet on the back of her head. “Make yourself to home,” she said. “Look around. I am here to answer any questions you may have about our products.” Laura looked at shelves filled with all sorts of jam and honey, sticks of candy like licorice and mint, small wooden toys and stained glass designs of cardinals and bluebirds. She fingered some quilts, large and small, and lifted up some exquisite pot holders. “Great gifts,” she thought, but then remembered she was not going back. She remembered her suitcase in the back of her BMW. The Amish did not drive cars. She must be prepared to give up her car. She felt certain she could do it. To live like an Amish. To have a purpose. A reason to rise out of bed in the morning. More people leave the Amish community than join. Conversion is rare. She would soon learn this. But the Amish were big-hearted people and welcomed newcomers into their fold, like Naomi her gentile daughter-in-law, Ruth. Laura became a boarder in the household of Jared and Rachel Stolzfus. They lived on a farm with their four children. Laura’s BMW sat in the driveway like a spaceship just landed on earth. She slept in the attic, where various pieces of broken furniture were stored, along with bags of fabric waiting to be fashioned into dresses and pants and long socks. It was chilly in the attic, but several patchwork quilts warmed her body. She kept the window open a crack so she could hear the comings and goings of everyone outside. A small candle sat on her bedside table until she was ready to snuff it out for the night. It was only at night that she had a moment to think. And it was only a moment, since she was so utterly exhausted. Sometimes she would massage her sore feet and ankles. At home in the condo, she would watch television before bed. Despite the strange languages, clothing, and people, she felt utterly comfortable. Perhaps even like she belonged. “Don’t be impulsive,” she reminded herself. “I’ve got to give it time.” She slept well and could hardly believe how quickly morning had come. “Time to rise, Sister Laura!” called one of the children from the stairs. Laura dressed in her new Amish attire. She looked down at her new costume, for so it seemed at the time, and smoothed it out. No mirrors were to be found in Amish homes. Perhaps, she thought, she might look upon herself in the side view mirror of her car. No, she decided. That would be dishonest. This was her new life. Only honesty would prevail. Mother Rachel told her she would learn to milk a cow. “You must wash your hands very thoroughly,” she said. “And then Rebecca will walk you to the barn.” The soap in the kitchen was home-made. It was a cake of gray soap in the shape of a star. It felt good and pure on her hands, with her pink nail polish, that would soon flake off. Four huge cows were pawing the ground when they entered the barn. The last time Laura had seen a real cow was at a petting zoo. How strong was the smell, she thought, as their feet crunched on soft hay and earth. Rebecca was a fair-haired child, a miniature adult, who patiently taught Laura where to place the metal bucket and how to squeeze each teat to draw out the milk, which landed in the bucket. The sound of the milk was like a gentle rain spritzing on a tin roof. She sat on the little stool and, as she milked each cow, feeling an unaccustomed sense of peace sweep through her entire body. Her eyes began to tear up and flowed down her cheeks. Other chores included walking to the school house to pick up the four children after school. The two-storey wooden structure had a tower on the top with a bell inside. “Dong! Dong! Dong!” How loud and musical it was, she thought, as she approached. She stood to one side as kids from kindergarten through eighth grade came scrambling down the steps. They were like children everywhere. Like her Amy, when she’d come home to mom at the apartments. She gathered Rebecca and Daniel, Ben and Abby, into her outstretched arms. “What’s your name again?” asked little blue-eyed Abby. “Sister Laura. Can you say that?” “I can!” shouted Daniel and Ben in unison. A chorus of “Sister Laura” and “Thithter Lauras” greeted her. Laura helped set the table, with shiny pewter spoons, forks and knives, upon a pink tablecloth. Again she remarked to herself what artists her new people were. They all settled down in the large kitchen. Mother pulled up the shades as darkness was beginning to fall and they had no electric lights. She lit a family of candles all along the high shelves. Everything had been thought of. Even placement for the candles. Father Jared, in his chest-length graying beard, gave the blessing. His voice was breathy and musical. “We ask our Heavenly Father, the Lord Jesus, to bless us all and to allow Laura to learn our simple ways and decide if she wants to live among the plain people.” “Amen,” everyone, including the children said in unison. “How was your day, dear,” asked Mother Rachel. Laura realized how lonely she had been at home. There wasn’t a soul to talk to at the table or even during the day. “I am liking my time here very much,” she said, after swallowing a large forkful of meat loaf. “Rebecca has been so helpful to me. I would like to taste some of the milk we gathered.” “Tomorrow morning, dear, you will have nice creamy milk in your hot oatmeal,” said Mother Rachel. Laura watched everyone digging into the meat loaf, the best she had ever tasted, including her own, and the green beans with butter melting slowly on top, black-eyed peas, and mashed potatoes with butter. For dessert, Rachel brought out a hot apple pie. Laura patted her belly. When they finished dinner, the children asked if they might be excused, and Laura helped with the dishes. The water had been heating up at the wood-burning stove and was ready to transfer into the large wooden bucket. Soap flakes were poured in. Dipping her hands inside, Laura felt the smooth feel of the sudsy water and again her eyes teared up. After the dishes were cleaned, dried and put away, the family yawned and repaired around the fire in the living room. Laura didn’t even consider her own “designer” living room as she sat in a comfortable wooden rocking chair on cushions with colorful blue and white starburst patterns. What a love of art these people have, she thought once again. Father Jared brought out the family Bible, a well-worn book with faded edges. “My man, Daniel,” asked his Father Jared. “What would you like to hear me read, son?” “That’s eathy,” he lisped. “The thalm of King David, pweese,” he said. “The Lord is my Shepherd” was duly broadcast to the little family under the setting sun. When he finished, Rachel told Laura she had a gift for her. In her long green dress, Rachel walked over to a shelf in the living room and picked up a small object Laura couldn’t recognize. In fact, it looked a little like a small furry brown rabbit. “Stockings!” cried Laura, feeling them. “Woolen stockings.” “Yes indeed,” said Rachel. “I wove them this morning just for you.” “Just for you!” echoed little Abby, five years old. Everyone laughed. When Laura went up to the attic that night, she stroked the woolen stockings after she climbed into bed. She held them against her cheeks and then rubbed them across her mouth. They smelled like wool and wood smoke and apple pie. She pulled them onto her very tired feet, first the left and then the right. They clung to her legs as if they loved her and never wanted to leave her. “There’s so much to do here,” she thought. “I cannot wait to learn to knit woolen stockings. I’ll send a couple pair to Winnie, of course, and maybe even Bobby. Yes, I know Bobby would like them. He’s quite the fashion plate.” |
Categories
All
|