Stripped, Searched on Her Front Porch

for Hayden

Stripped, searched by shot gun, after being locked out of my house:
First the shirt son, hand it through the door.

Her daddy wadding it up like an empty box of shells,
tossing it back into my face, as my bare chest absorbs
the fall cold mist: Don’t wancha chatchen cold.

Stripped, searched by shot gun, on her front porch:
Now undo the belt, let the drawers drop
right where you stand; step out slowly and kick
them to the door.

The cold fall air riding up my boxers; any ideas have left
my head for the warmth of britches. He shakes everything from the pockets:
my keys, my change, a few loose bills, and a condom; he smiles,
throws the britches over his shoulder like a sack of grain,
opens the door wide: Come on in, son; don't
forget your keys and the little change you have.

Stripped, searched by shot gun, after locking my self out:
The wife will bring you jogging bottoms, two wool blankets,
with a pillow; the cot in my room is yours. Don’t let the dog
bite you when you enter the room.

Stripped, searched by shot gun, on her front porch.

Retelling Gran'ma's Stories in the Right Position

Disregard, all is correct now. (Note: If you begin reading this before I have finished putting in the proper spacing for the poetry, the poems may not bring the intended meaning. All poems in this piece have some sort of spacing. Please give me time to work through the spacing. Also, in the copying and pasting, some other transition issues have taken place. This will also take time to find and correct. Within three weeks of this posting, all should be correct. Thank you.)

for Virginia

    Gran’ma sits at the round kitchen table in the rec-room that was once a garage.  Some of the garage is still visible--the door, and a small deck area for storage covered by drapes.  The real reason I’m here is to listen to gran’ma stories, which is why I always come--the chores are worth doing to hear her.
    “Didjya get the table cleaned off?”
    “Yes, gran’ma.”
    “What’cha do with the crumbs?”
    She already knows.  I look down.
    “Get the sweeper.”
    I know I’m supposed to sweep the crumbs into my hands, then throw them into the trash can under the sink.  I quickly pull the sweeper out, struggling with it massive weight to clean the freckled floor of bread crumbs from our made-together cheese toasties with pickles and onions done in the toaster oven--the best way to make cheese toasties.  I must do it quickly, but not so fast a to miss a spot.
    “Good.  I’ll get it later.”
    Gran’ma sits in one of the bucket chairs, and I pull up another on the other side of the round table.  Elbows and chin are always needed for gran’ma’ stories.
    “Here, when your dad was small, we bought the first television.  All the neighbor kids would come watch the television in the evening.  The living room would be full.  I remember Bud’s friend, Butch, whose family thought they controlled everything.  He thought him and Bud were in charge.  Your dad and his friends would watch Howdy Doody.  Butch thought he’d watch. . . .”
    I’m sorry to say, I can’t remember what the name of the other show is.
    Anyway. . . .
    “He turned the channel.  I wasn’t having it.  I grabbed his ear.”
    The ear is gran’ma’s favorite body part when he gets mad at you.  I’ve seen Tom’ ear dragged a few times to his bedroom.
    “I didn’t care who his parents were.  They could buy a television of their own to watch, by the Almighty.  They weren’t going to rule my house.
    “Your dad and his friends went back to Howdy Doody.  I made Bud watch the show too.  Just because you’re the oldest doesn’t mean you do whatjya want.
    “Pete, Jack’s friend--your dad’s friend--laughed so hard he threw up his supper.  His poor mother was worried sick after I called her.  Thought he caught something.  He wasn’t allowed back for a few weeks.
    “Every week the same group of kids came.  I didn’t mind the kids.  Preferred it.
    “One evening, Jack--your dad, . . . .”
My gran’ma has a habit of doing that.  Like I would forget who my father is.
    “. . . wanted to play ball instead of watching Howdy Doody.  He refused to watch the show.  We all had a good time.”
    It’s hard for me to imagine my dad missing a show.  My dad wanting to play ball!  If he thinks he won’t be home for a show, he sets the tape recorder.  Before electronic smarts, he bought the tape with the longest recording hours.  Mom would have to start the recorder before we left to pick him up at work, so when we returned from the baseball diamond--he coached baseball--he could watch all those shows he missed.
    “The television wasn’t very large.  I don’t know how all those kids could see the screen.  The box was so large, it made the screen look like a square plate.  Brown wood encased all the gadgets in the back; gadgets that took up more room than the screen.  The television always went off after Howdy Doody.”
    This isn’t my favorite story, but my dad is in it.  It’s hard to imagine this house without the three back rooms, and the bathroom.  If I heard gran’ma right, when she told this story before, they were the first with indoor plumbing--a bathroom!
    Gran’ma begins another story; this time it’s about Bud.
    “I got a call fro Butch’s mom.  She didn’t like what I had to say.  Always running around, making me have to chase Bud down.  If all beat! he crawled into Bud’s window, woke up the other boys, trying to get Bud to take a joy ride in his parents’ new car.  I called them up.  ‘No, no, our son's in bed.’
    “I walked him home.  Bud didn’t see the light for days, and stayed in my room on the floor.”
    I wondered how gran’ma knew if he stayed there.  No reason to ask.  Gran’ma knows everything.
    “Always knew what Bud was up to.  Neighbor’s kept me informed.  Even knew he broke into the school to steal a test before the principle called.”
_________________

    I love stories, and write them down the only way I know how: mostly with squiggly lines because my vocabulary isn’t large enough yet.  And I want to write the fancy way.  Gran’ma listens to my stories, asks questions, and I explain.  I feel very big.  I can tell a story as good as gran’ma’s!
    My favorite stories are about Betty.  She’s my aunt, but I can’t see her.  There’s the story of the Fortune Teller, and the story of dad playing jacks with her.  Both are creepy, and always give me goose bumps.
    “Down in Converse, when you dad used to sit on grandma Cunningham’s stairs, and played jacks, he would sometimes talk to himself.  He was about four when he started.  Grandma would listen to him a lot.  She finally told me to pay attention.  One morning, Jack--your father--took his jacks to the stairwell.  He would close the door at the foot of the stairwell.  After listening through the door some, I decided a chair would be handy.  I can be sneaky.  I oiled the hinges and knob so I could prop the door open to hear.  Grandma was usually upstairs for a nap when she heard Jack.
    “That morning, Jack--your dad--sat at about the third step up.  He started playing jacks.  About the fourth bounce he started talking.  ‘It’s your turn now.’  I heard the ball bounce some more.  ‘Hah!  My turn.’ Then he’d ask questions, ‘Whenya comin’ home?’ ‘Why can’t you?’  This went on for a long time.  I was concerned.  The doctor said he’d grow out of it in time.  I listened whenever I could.
    “I was at the top of the stairwell one day.  I didn’t bother him.  He started playing jacks, and if that ball and jacks didn’t move on their own!”
    I could see my father sitting on the steps at Grandma Rose’s.  It wasn’t hard to see him as a little boy.  Gran’ma had plenty of pictures.  I shivered.  Every time gran’ma tells the story, I shiver.
__________________

    I write in cursive now.  Gran’ma reds the stories.  Still, she prefers I read them to her as she does her chores.  I follow her round the house, scurrying behind her.  At times, she’s at the sink, and I talk to her as she mumbles approval, or asks questions: why, who’s that?  Occasionally she nods her head.  There are two comments she always makes to me: “You should be a writer.  You and Mark [my cousin, the master of philosophy, the poet, the calligrapher] have beautiful penmanship.”  I know that writing and penmanship are two different things.  I want to know why I get ‘C’s for handwriting if what gran’ma says is true.  Comparing me to my cousin makes me special--he’s smart!
________________

    High school is here.  I still listen to the stories, I still write my own, but not as often.  But I start to ask questions.
    I ask dad about the stairs, about the jacks, about Betty.  He doesn’t say much the first time.
    Dad finally talks to me, just a little.  “I use to talk to Betty on the stairs all the time.  We’d play jacks when she stayed home.”
    He interjects his feelings about government interfering.  This was a time when a doctor and the state could force a family to send a child to an institution for retardation.
    “That was our secret place.  We’d talk about everything.  She hated that place.”
    This is all I received for a while.  I let it go, and wait.
    A few weeks later, maybe a month, he opens up some more.
    “I would talk to her.  I kept begging her to stay.  I was only four.  Children at that age are still connected to the spirit world.”
    Dad doesn’t go to church anymore, but he still believes.  He believes in ghost, he believes in aliens, he believes in the unusual.  No more is said.  I wait again.  There’s something that isn’t being said, something that my gran’ma always hints at; I’ll wait until dad is ready to tell me.
    “Gran’ma calls the doctor.  He tells her I made up an imaginary friend to replace Betty.  Betty wasn’t imaginary.  That ball, and those jacks, moved on their own.”
    I go back to gran’ma’s story in my mind.  I write it out.  I put dad’s words into the story.  What is being said?  I don’t know what to do with this information.  I begin to ask my father more questions, then ask my uncles.  Much more begins to make sense, but a I begin to tell the stories, something is wrong.  Where’s Grandma Rose?  Where’s gran’ma?  Does dad know they are there?  Why can’t I get this story, or any of the other stories, to come out right?
________________

    I have three children.  My oldest, Jessica, listens to gran’ma’s stories.  David is beginning to know the stories, too.  I write the stories down into my journals, or on papers that I put into large three ring binders, which I keep in a certain order on a book shelf.  I change the stories every time I write, especially when I retrieve new information.  Today I will tell a story orally.
    “When your Grandpa Jack was little, he used to play jacks.  Remember the house you saw when we went down to Converse?  He would sit in the stairwell.  Ya know how Grandma Luebke’s stairs lead to the upstairs?  The stairs looked something like that, with the door at the bottom, just like Grandma Luebke’s.  Grandpa would sit on about the fourth step up, and play jacks.  One day, your grandpa’s grandma, Grandma Rose, heard him talking.  She was upstairs taking a nap when she heard voices.  Gran’ma Ginny was usually in the kitchen, or out in the garden, like she does now.  Grandpa would play jacks, talking to himself, or so his Grandma Rose thought.  He would asks questions, such as, ‘When ya coming home?’  After a while, his Grandma Rose became concerned, telling his mom--Gran’ma Ginny.  One day, Gran’ma Ginny sat and listened, but since she couldn’t hear well enough through the door closed, she decided to crack the door open a bit.  The door squeaked; grandpa stopped playing his jacks.  Every time Gran’ma Ginny tried to catch him talking to himself, grandpa would stop.  She kept asking Gran’pa Chick to oil the hinges and door, telling him the door was getting hard to open.  Grandpa Chick wouldn’t do it if she told him the real reason; he would have told her to leave the boy alone.  Finally, she oiled the door one day, after jumping on Gran’pa Chick too many times, who never got around to it--not uncommon for Gran’pa Chick.
    “The next time she had a chance to listen to him, she pulled a chair up close, cracked the door--no squeak.  Grandma Rose was upstairs.  Gran’ma Ginny listened every day.  So did Grandma Rose.  Gran’ma Ginny, and Granma Rose, would talk about what grandpa did, and what he said.  They started to believe that grandpa was seeing Betty’s ghost.  Uncle Bud heard Grandma Rose say she saw things when Jack--your grandpa--was on those stairs.
    “Grandpa would say, ‘It’s your turn now’; ‘You missed that jack’; ‘Why don’t you come home anymore?’
    “Gran’ma Ginny called the doctor.  The doctor told her he had an imaginary friend to replace Betty.  Gran’ma Ginny didn’t believe the doctor; she though grandpa was talking to Betty, that grandpa could see Betty.  Gran’ma Ginny wanted to see Betty, too.
    “Finally, one day, Gran’ma Ginny was upstairs before grandpa came to play jacks (because his grandma was sick).  Gran’ma Ginny watched him quietly, and listened intently.  She saw the ball bounce by itself, and the jacks move into the air, as if someone was playing jacks with grandpa.  Betty was playing jacks with grandpa; Gran’ma Ginny is sure of this.
    “Gran’ma Ginny kept listening, and one day, she finally heard the other voice.  It was Betty.  She swears she saw the ball and jacks move by themselves more than once, and heard Betty’s voice a few times.  Funny thing is, Gran’ma Ginny could only hear Betty’s voice when she wasn’t looking.  I remember Grandma Rose talking about this to Gran’ma Ginny when I had the mumps, and had to stay at gran’ma’s house until I was better.”
    Telling gran’ma’s story to my children is much more complicated than the way gran’ma tells the story.  I realize that gran’ma’s stories are separated, that certain subjects cannot be crossed, but the stories can be changed: two or three stories happen within one day of her history, but none of them can be told together.  There is never “While this was happening, so and so was doing this.”  This makes it difficult for me to write the stories as I see them happening--as a movie; I want to connect them into a clock-like time line.  When I write these stories a continuous flow, I ruin the momentum, I ruin the imagery, I ruin the stories.  Orally, I don’t do much better.
    I complicate the simple.  I am in both worlds now--the stories of my gran’ma’s, and the stories from those who are in her stories.  Which is the writer?  Which is the penmanship?
_________________________

    I hear gran’ma’s stories from the grave: all of her stories; even her stories of complaints.  Sometimes they haunt me.  I see, now, how she lived: black ‘n’ white.
    “Dawn, God does punish you.  I did something wrong.  That’s why Billy is like he is; that’s why Betty died--I went to see the gypsy.  I should’ov never seen the gypsy in town.  I never went back.”
    The fortuneteller story.  I was always confused as a child to why she though God punished her when I was taught in Sunday school that God no longer brings His wrath upon our heads.  Now, as I look over her grave, I see the separations in her stories from her life.  I begin to realize the times I told my stories as she ran from place to place doing chores was her kind way of showing interests without reinforcing an illusion of publishing.  “You should be a writer.”  Somewhere inside her she wanted me to tell the stories.  I believe this because she always bought those nonfiction stories for me to red fro Reader’s Digest.  When she told her stories, we were sitting down; when I told my stories, I was following her around.  When I responded to the stories in Reader’s Digest, when we discussed the stories we sat down at the kitchen table.
    Storytelling is for the imagination; penmanship is for the living: “You should be a writer, you have beautiful penmanship like Mark.”
    But gran’ma had beautiful handwriting--I loved watching her write on Birthday and Christmas cards; I still look at them today.  Penmanship is a job; writing (storytelling is a pastime.  Penmanship like Mark’s was to keep me from being her.
    I remember gran’ma telling me that she learned to be a nurse’s aid because she didn’t want to be a sale’s clerk, a receptionist, or a secretary.  She also said she didn’t want to be a nurse; she didn’t wast the responsibility.  Then, I remember her babbling on to Farmer one evening; she was irked about giving “shots” to patients.  For years the nurses assigned her to give shots, even after the law said, “No.”  When gran’ma found out that the law said, “No,” that she would be held liable, she fought, nearly losing her job.  In fact, all the aids fought--gran’ma put it together.  I remember the week where the nursing aids “went on strike.”  Gran’ma didn’t talk about it much.  She also told me how she hated to write up reports.  That wasn’t her job either.  She hadn’t gone to school to be a nurse.
    At gran’ma’s funeral, a very dear friend of hers approached me.
    “Are you Virginia’s oldest granddaughter?”
    “Yes,” not thinking about Beth, who lived in Denver.
    “She was so proud of you.  Are you still in school?”
    “Yes.”  My curiosity was now peaked.
    “How much longer before you graduate?”
    “I’m a sophomore now.”
    “All she wanted was for you to get a college education.”
    The woman left me standing there in complete confusion.  My gran’ma never asked me about college, nor indicated pleasure in my attending.  Although, one time, she did say, “I’m glad you went back to school.”
_______________________

    I’ve finished my bachelors, and have continued onto graduate school.  I practice gran’ma’s stories in poetry because prose doesn’t work.  Poetry helps, but it still doesn’t capture the essence of what gran’ma told.  Do I know too much?  Have I collected too much information that my imagination can’t take over?  I want to write the Stairwell story.  I take advantage of a poetry class:
talking jacks
Bounce the ball
        pick up one.
Bounce the ball
        pick up two.
Bounce the ball
        pick up three.
   Now you have missed,
      you must speak.

In the stairwell, Jack speaks to his jacks,    everyone
thinks                    :
                    “Why did you go away?”
No one hears
a reply                    :
                    (Shh, Jack,    it had to be),
                Jack lays out
                his jacks, again,
                    (this way);
                Jack shakes
                his head,
                    “Your turn.”

Bounce the ball.    Someone
watches from the upstairs landing,
the fourth bounce recuperates
nothing                :
                    “Betty,        why can I see you and they can’t?”
Gran’ma Ginny holds her
breath        hoping to hear        :
                    (Jack,        you missed four).

Bounce the ball.    Alone
he is left to talk it through;
Gran’ma wants the twelve year old
spirit        to visit her.
She stands at the stairwell’s door
awaiting the voice of the daughter    :
                    “I’m not growing up
                    because you’ll go away.”
                    (Jack),
                jacks roll
                without his touch,
                    (I can’t play anymore).

This isn’t my story.  I still cannot feel the story as when gran’ma told it.  The writer in me wants to be free.  I am free, but lost when I want to tell gran’ma’s stories.  Writing these stories down gives great loss to the way they are supposed to be.  What is the story?  Maybe I should be asking, “Whose stories are these?”  Are they gran’ma’s, are they mine, are they the person’s of whom they are about?  Are they my children’s, or grandchildren's?
    And then, there is always, what is the penmanship?  First, I find, in myself, the penmanship is the person wanting to be correct, to be perfect, the person who wants all the information in the order it’s supposed to come in.  The penmanship is oral-nation coming to life on paper.  That’s the logical side of me.  I cannot tell the stories my gran’ma told, I can only add to the stories.  I will always be in two worlds when I re-tell her stories, for I know what she did not know: that little kid in me enjoying the nonlinear line of a story, where different time lines are all one; and that older I, who is now in the academy, attempting to answer the underlying questions that my children, and grandchildren will ask me, “Why?”  Do I need logic, must there be logic?
    But there is more, much more happening in the “you should be a writer” and “beautiful penmanship.”
    There’s the “like Mark” comment.  Mark the ex-philosopher, Mark the ex-poet, Mark the calligrapher, Mark the Fortune 500 company owner.  I can only conclude that Mark’s education is what gran’ma saw me doing, that my penmanship would lead me to the Right Position, but not the position that another wants me in--it’s my position.
    No, I’m not Mark; and, maybe my penmanship is beautiful, but I can tell stories, I do have a degree, I’m where gran’ma wanted me, in the Right Position.  I’m not in the position that someone else wants me in, but the position I want to be in--making change.  It’s alright to change gran’ma’s stories.  I can be a writer; I can be the penmanship.  I don’t always have to please--anyone but me.

Blind Marriage

     Opal Ling-Smith waited on a park bench near, and facing, a marbled horse and his rider—Mad Anthony.  A letter in her hand was shaded by the horse’s legs, and a breeze played with the two upper corners of the page.  She sat, dressed in her white spaghetti strapped shirt and a thigh length jean skirt that fit snuggly to her body.  Two thin white sweater sleeves draped over her shoulders and were folded neatly one over the other just below the crevice of her neck, just above the crevice of her breast—just as great grandma said not to do.  Her skin was not tan, but dark none-the-less, and shined beyond the white display.  It was nearing one and she remembered bells rang downtown every hour.  City of churches; also, city of restaurants.  Every block seemed to have a restaurant.  She stared at the motionless animal and his rider.  Mr. Anthony looked like he was in need of a cleaning, the brass wilty looking and his angry face added just that much more to he need.  “Mad Anthony,” she sighed.  “I’m as mad as you to think anything will come of this.”  She lifted the letter to him as if he would read it.  She looked at the letter again.  She remembered coming down to this park for a festival a couple of times.  She had enjoyed the first homestead out on Butler Road, shared by her, her parents, and three siblings.  Honnoy Hong lived next door.  His family way into the Chinese culture, though he was fourth generation American.  Her family not so intense, though they had started a ritual three generations back: “not married by twenty we find you a marriage,” as her great grandmother put it.  So, she was twenty-three and traveled—because of her parents.  Born in the U.S., keeping her U.S. citizenship, and living in Scotland, Hong Kong, Paraguay, Berlin, and lastly Columbia.  The last three places all within two years—without her parents.  This was only a visit home, and back to. . . .  Well, where was she moving onto now?
     She read the letter again, and said the signer’s name aloud.  “Honnoy Hong.  Honnoy Hong.  You annoy Hong.  You annoy, go get hung.”
     That’s what came to mind listening to, hearing the, saying the name—Honnoy Hong.  Who was she kidding?  She’d never fall in love; and thought she had at one time.  That was annulled after he confessed, in their wedding bed; he couldn’t get it up for a woman.  He loved her, but men turned him on.  After she had evaluated her feelings, she realized the reason why she married: a solid last name.  Her parents gave her both of their names: Ling and Smith.  Both too common, both so . . . well, so wrong for her.  “This way you have a part of both of us,” her mother told her one day.  She couldn’t understand how great grandma allowed it, but dad was the strong type.  While she insisted on keeping her married name—Cronwall—the government refused: no consummation, no change of name.  The church idea had really taken hold in the Soviet Union.  But they weren’t called that anymore, were they?  The Republic of something?  Now, if this arrangement didn’t work, she’d change her name to Opal Cronwall legally, at least in the U.S..  It would cost her, but she would do it.  The name Cronwall was her, so her, not Ling-Smith.  She sighed, deeply; that questioning sigh when one thinks they know.
     The bells awoke her to one thirty.  No Hong.  Mad Anthony was looking pleasant.
     “Ugh!” she kicked her bags to the left of her on the cement.  Two bags and a purse were all her worldly possessions.  Well, not quite, her books, her bit of furniture, and her stuff animals—except one—were with her parents in Indianapolis.  They had moved back to this state, the state of their bliss they said, to become reconnected.  They wanted to move back to Fort Wayne, actually, but . . . you went with and to the job.  “Ah!”  She told them that she wasn’t coming home.  Home wasn’t here anyway.  And here she was.  She had no home except what she took with her, and that was mostly her bags.  Somehow they had managed to talk her into coming to this . . . this place!  And now?  Honnoy Hong wasn’t here.

     A crowd had gathered at the water fountain and pool area, watching the display of colored lights decorating the water in a matrix of colors, the colors dancing in the pool and in the spurts from the fountain.  Not as bright as they were at night, she recalled.  The joy on the children’s faces made Opal forget her anger, and she flung a backpack across her back, her purse over her shoulder and the other bag she let dangle at her side from around her wrist.  She made her way to a tree, but before getting there a biker’s handle bar hooked her backpack.  The biker flew from his bike and the bag on her back jerked her around and down, missing the back of the bike with the spinning spokes.  She fell hard to the ground on her right side.  She groaned, and smelled the fresh cut grass.
     “Oh! ma’am; I’m sorry, so sorry!”
     She rolled over to see a guy all decked in biker’s equipment getting up from the sidewalk.  “Are you all right?!  I just happened to look at the statue and leaned a little too much to the left.  How clumsy of me.”
     She squinted her eyes and shook her head slightly.  “I’m fine.  Nothing a little clean water can’t fix,” she hoped.  She sat up and rubbed her shoulder from the pain of being jerked, and then landing on it.  A close look at her shirt made her sigh.  The stains would never come out, but that wasn’t the worse of it, it was ripped right up to the seam under her arm and a cut just above her hip exposed itself, about two inches long.
     “Please.  Let me help you.”  He picked up her bags and brushed them off, picked up her purse and flung it over his shoulder like he wore one everyday, then held out his hand for her to come to her feet.  “I should have never looked away from where I was going.  I turned and . . .”
     “. . . ran into me.  I need to . . .”
     “. . . clean up and dress your wound and find . . .”
     “. . . another shirt.”  Opal’s brows rose.
     They laughed.
     Opal brushed herself off more.  “I do need to do all of that but I was waiting for someone.  Don’t know if I missed him, if he’s late, or I’ve been stood up.”
     “Hmmm.  That is a dilemma.  But I believe you need to take care of yourself.  I’m going over to the Civic Theater for practice.  I’ll get you in as my guest and there you can fix yourself up.”
     “Thanks.”  She held out her hand.  “Opal Cronwall.”
     He took her hand and kissed it.  The gesture sent an odd feeling through her.  Dé jà vu.  “Milan Cal,” he smiled big.
     His smile was all she could really see of his face—sun goggles and head gear all blocked what he looked like, and no hair appeared below the helmet; but she felt strangely attracted to him.  The smile was beautifully perfect.  A warm smile made the pain become a dull ache.
     “I think the doctor’s here today.  He can check that wound.”
     “That won’t be necessary.  I’ll wash it out and bandage it with my . . .” she tugged at her tattered blouse.
     Mr. Cal put his bike right and moved towards the building that set next to the park.  Following him, Opal didn’t feel eerie, no danger signal, but awkwardly assured.  And that dé jà vu came back.

     The building smelled of rock and concrete, cold and old.  The walls were rough, as if sand stone had been plastered on, and the sections with doors jetted out like a rugged cliff or an overhang.  Not noticing which direction she was taking, she soon became disoriented, and began to dart her eyes about to find the nearest exit, just in case.  She’d learned long ago to be aware, and for some reason she had let that guard down because of the warm fuzzy feeling she was getting from him.  Soon a door was opened for her, a small personal restroom, a restroom that must have been a closet or storage space at one time.
     “I’ll send Bobbi for you to take you to a room where you can change.  Not much room in there, but it is a private facility.  At least you can wash up some.  There’s no privacy in the rooms.  When you’re done, wait just outside the door.”
     “I’ll do—”
     The door closed.  She wasn’t going to any other room.  Changing right here was fine.
     It was tiny, no doubt, but private, where she could clean the open wound.  There was barely enough room to do that.  Pulling towels from the dispenser she folded them and blotted them with some warm water then dabbed some liquid soap onto the makeshift cloth.  Lightly touching her skin she flinched at the pain and pulled the wound apart.  She would need stitches.  Throwing the towels in the trash she began to take off her shirt so she could rip it into rags for bandages.
     “Miss Cronwall?”  Someone knocked.
     “Yes.”
     “Bobbi May.  I’ll need you to wait back stage for just a bit.  Need to open a room for you.”
     Opal peered out.  “That won’t—”
     The young girl smiled and walked away, signaling her that a seat on stage was hers.
     Opal took her white sweater and shoved her arms through, pulling it close.

     Opal noticed backstage was full of people: chairs in rows facing the curtain and one column of chairs facing the rows.  Many people were planted through out.  Opal took a seat in the third row first chair.  People were reading, listening through headphones, mumbling, or talking to another.  No one person paid attention to her moving towards the chair indicated for her.  After a small time, an old man balding in the front and all gray came around the farthest end of the curtain.
     “Drake McCallister.  Mr. McCallister,” he called out.
     A man a row up and a few seats from Opal stood.  Drake McCallister?  It can’t be.  She watched.  She stared.  Look this way, will you please.  You can’t be him.  The old man directed him to the column seating where she could see his face but he was too far away.  If it were Drake, his eyes would give him away.  Gathering her bags and purse she moved towards him and began to remember the little boy back in Scotland on the Isle of Skye, the little boy she babysat for three years, the little boy who was devastated by an act she had no control over—her father’s job requirement: move where it took you.  He looked at her, leaning his elbows onto his knees and propping his chin onto his folded hands, just as that little boy back in Scotland.
     ‘Drake.  I have to move.  I won’t be able to come to your birthday party.  I’m sorry I’ll miss your ninth birthday.’  The boy stood there.  His eyes watered.  ‘Can I give you a kiss?’  She leaned over and exposed her cheek.  He grabbed her cheeks between the palms of his hands and turned her lips to him, placing his lips squarely and forcefull firm, and pressing in on hers, their teeth clinking together.  The kiss had only been a few seconds but if felt like a whole minute in her shocked state.
     His eyes were directly upon her and the closer she came the memories flooded her more.
     ‘Mr. McCallister?  I’m sorry about what happened yesterday.  In all of that commotion I forgot to give him his gift.’  Mr. McCallister took her hand when he took the gift.  ‘Drake is devastated.  You know you’re his nightingale.  You know when one finds his soul mate in Scotland one knows—no matter his age.’  He kissed her hand.  ‘He’ll find you.’
     She reached a seat just a few down from him, and elegantly sat her bags down, realizing too late that she had not paid attention to his eyes, which now diverted from hers.  How could she drift?  There was no way it was the same person.  The boy, the 9-year-old boy of Skye would never come to this . . . this city of backwards and boredom.  But she had.  To what?  Another disappointment?  Another dead end?  She sighed: another I told you so from her parents.  Why can’t you be more like Sammy? or marry a good man like Kenra? or go to college and get a real job; her parents’ words echoed.  And Honnoy probably saw you and ran—with that get up what did you expect?  Yes.  That was what great grandma would say.  She wasn’t going home.  At least not until the family took their ritual vacation trip to all the homelands.  Then I’ll go home and gather my trinkets and scadoot.
     “Opal Ling-Smith?  Is Opal Ling-Smith here?”  The old man was calling her, now.  She was confused.  How did this man know her name, her given name?  She stood.  “Miss Ling-Smith?”  To stunned to answer she nodded.  “Follow me.”
     Quickly her bags were on her being, and with a quick look to the McCallister she so wanted to see the eyes of, she trotted off to catch up.
     “Sir.  Please sir.  How do you happen to know my name?  I didn’t sign in, and I surely didn’t use my maiden name.  I’m not here to audition. I told no one who I was.”
     “All I know ma’am is that your name is tenth on the list for tryouts of the Pumpkin Queen.  It was already typed in, and I assume the manager did it.”
     Pumpkin Queen?  “Sir, who would have—?”
     “I told you.  See here,” he pointed to his clipboard, held it out for her to see as they walked.  “Now.  Go down this hall to number 3—on your left.  Costume’s inside, and your script.”
     She looked down the hall.  What kind of game was this?  The hall was nothing more than boards put up as dividers.  But that didn’t bother her the most.  Someone here was pulling a fast one.  Some gag to show her parents what kind of dope she was.
     “I want the manager.”
     “Sorry hon.  Mr. Hong left for an appointment.  You can speak to Bobbi.”

     Bobbi, uh!  “Send her!”  She wasn’t falling for this!  And where was that something Cal or Cal something?  He had to be in on this too!  Then it struck her—Hong!  How many Hong’s would be a manager of a theater—in a town like this?  He stood her up to do this?  Not a good first impression for sure.  Why didn’t he just meet her?  Wait—that biker, Cal, was to fetch me.
     “By the way.  The doctor’s waiting on you.”
     “Doctor?”
     “Mr. Cal said you had a pretty bad cut, and it looks like it to me.”
     Forgotten was her injury.  Touching her side in memory of the convenient set up, a wave of pain enveloped her side, back, and stomach.  Her torn shirt felt matted and sure enough there was a substantial amount of blood, more than when she cleaned it, her sweater absorbing what her blouse couldn’t.  How could she have forgotten about. . . ?  Allowing myself to be astonished and played!

     “Miss Ling-Smith, you need a dose of antibiotics; and when was your last tetanus?”
     “I don’t know.”
     “I’ll give you one for a precaution.  Sign this sheet.  It’s another medical release form.”
     Still dazed by all that occurred she scribbled her name at the X.  Bobbi had come and gone with no direct answers and leaving her with more questions.  No one knew where Mr. Hong was, who was supposed to be back by two.  And flowers appeared—two-dozen white pinked-tip carnations and another sheet to sign—for delivery.  During the ten stitches she read the script.  It was vaguely familiar.  She looked for the writer’s name everywhere on the script.  It just wasn’t there.
     She decided to play along.  There was no other way to get the answers she sought.  And if Hong staged all this, she was surely interested now.  No man had ever gone the limits to entice her.
     The dress fitted well and it was gorgeous.  White chemise under a shimmering light silver coating that caught every color around it; and the veil was made of the same white chemise with silver trim.  She was a princess in a fairy-tale, for real.  Hong was enticing, was sweeping her off her feet, was being mysterious—and she like it.  And she hated it.  When life wasn’t in her control—like most of her life—she became pungently obnoxious.  Somehow she was holding back the worse of her outbreak.  She read and re-read her part, the part she would do on stage in a few minutes, a part that felt so much like. . . .  She just couldn’t place it.  But the surprising part was when the script said, “repeat after the Uniter.  The person playing this part will tell you what to say.”  Memorizing on the spot wasn’t good for her.  And whoever wrote a script like this?  Was this an experimental script?  Not something she expected from Honnoy Hong.

     “Alright.  Miss . . . Miss Smith.  Right?”
     She raised her hand to cover her eyes from the glare of the spot light in hope to see the man speaking to her.  “Miss Smith will be fine.”
     “Okay.  When you see the groom enter from right stage, kneel and bow.  He’s the mighty warrior who has won your love.  When he approaches, swear your allegiance.”
     She turned to stage right.
     “Make sure to speak loudly.”
     “Yes.  I will.”
     “Very good.  Stage right!”
     A man dressed in purple tights and a gold cape with a mask covering his eyes like Robin, and a bow on his left shoulder clinging as a sock’s top and a band around his head with a couple of dangling feathers made her about burst into a hysterical fit.  She managed to do just as she was directed, spite the comical get up of the warrior—just like . . . like whom?  Damn, why can’t I remember where I’ve seen this before?  His hand touched her shoulder and the lines smoothly broke from her lips: “My Lord, my life, my savior, I give myself freely to you and your kind,” and your kind?  She had been so busily remembering the lines that it hadn’t struck her what was actually being said till now.
     “Rise; and give me your hand and I shall pledge my life, my heart, my being, my eternal love.”
     Opal stood and her hand was kissed with delicacy—just like . . . Mr. McCallsiter?  She nearly withdrew.  Pausing, just pausing, she smiled at the man dressed so silly.  Together they turned to back stage where a man in colorful clothes stood.  His apparel had suns and rays, clouds and rainbows, rain and earth in all its beauty—though through it all, the white collar stood out.  The man had not been there when she came on stage, nor when she turned to stage right; the man had magically appeared.  Then she noticed the two wires.
     “Repeat after me Princess Pumpkin,” the man nodded at her.  She returned the nod.  “I, Princess Elegant Pumpkin of Mistress Opal Ling-Smith’s mind do solemnly swear to love eternally through all triumphs and defeats forever and forever.”
     Opal repeated the words with little thought of what she was actually saying due to her concentration, so as to not make a mistake.
     He bowed to her as a reward for perfect recitation and then nodded to the fellow who dressed as a kid’s fantasy.  “Repeat after me Prince Spotted Wind.  I, Prince Little Spotted Wind of Master Drake McCallsiter’s mind do solemnly swear . . .” the preacher went on as Opal’s mind drifted into the past where her conscious began to lift a haze, a fuzziness.  “Swear both of you,” the words registering little now, “under God’s vast almighty hand that this you promise by saying ‘I do.’”  She heard the man next to her say ‘I do,’ but she stood and stood, silently, dumbfounded with realization gripping her face.
     “Miss. . . .  MISS. . . .  HEY!  SAY I DO,” the man from the light booth yelled.
     “Oh!  I do.”
     Then . . . a flood.  She remembered now, remembered the story that she read to little Drake McCallister, a story that. . . .
     The preacher went on.  “Now, by the power of God and the power of the state of Indiana you are married.  Please lift your veil dear Queen; and dear King remove your mask.”
     Before the man in tights could lift his hands to his face, Opal collapsed to the floor.  “Drake!  Drake McCallister!  The letter?  The biker?  Back stage?  The flowers?  THE SCRIPT!”  She remembered the enduring term . . . my little Spotted Wind.  Exactly what she called him after they wrote that silly little fairy-tale together.
     Drake laughed.
     Everyone clapped.
     Then the song, he sung that song from the made up fairy-tale:
        “Rodeo.  Once there was a rodeo,
        and Spotted Wind wanted to ride,
        show them all a McCallister could,
        that he could with his Elegant Pumpkin. . . .”

     And Opal joined him:
        “. . . with his Elegant Pumpkin at his side,
        at his side his new bride, his new bride.”

     Whenever she heard him sing it he was looking out the front window across the street.  She always thought it was for the girl across the street.  She thought the story had been written for the girl across the street.  Everything was for the girl across the street.
     He knelt and hovered above her.  “Opal, when I stared out the window I was actually watching your image cast by the glass.  My heart was yours and is yours.”
     She wept.  She mumbled.  “No Hong.  No Hong.  Find you he will.  No Hong.  No Honnoy Hong.  Find you he will.”
    “Yes.  Find you I did.  No Mr. Hong for you.”

Transformation Evident

     Yellow and pink handprints circle the bedroom's four walls. The blue they are pasted on reflects the summer sunny sky at noon. If you stare at the alternating yellow and pink handprints, ripples appear, like slow moving waves in the wide open ocean. One print, then the other, grasps the rise before the fall, walking on rolling water one hand at a time.

Wanted

I listen to Ginet talk on the phone.
          Life is about the next guy.
          Life is about having a guy chase you,
                    even if he isn't the one you're interested in at the time,
                    --even if . . .
          Life is about being wanted.

Water Spirit

I am the one you may say anything to.
I assure you, I will understand.
Feelings, emotions—they are neither right nor wrong.
They cannot be assigned a value.
Feelings, are.
. . . let it burn through you, . . .
—Circenn Brodie from A Highlanders Touch
by Karen Marie Moning

The park was empty, the sidewalks puddled, an advertisement booth dripping lonely tears onto a heartless surface. Three people walked in the afternoon drizzle through the grassy marsh. Victoria. Troy. Tiara.

—Somewhere at night before today. . . .
. . . from behind the tiered water fountain, double doors beckoned the running feet; they didn’t pound mud on or trace water on cement from fresh marshy grass; the water guiding to, guiding around, guiding through large wooden doors trimmed in brass and gold; swinging easily, effortlessly with a touch of fingertips. An aroma of incense and wax filled nostrils as feet escaped to the stairway just beyond communal water; fifteen steps up and a hundred eighty degrees left; another fifteen steps up and a hundred eighty degrees left; onto a platform vacant and silent, doorways staring, a showcase upholding a golden cross draped in purple silk with a crown of rubies, sapphires, and jades set in thorns. The feet ran without confessing onto the catwalk where a sun paved striped path of light and heat touched down; running and panting to a single door, a single room protruding the whole structure ten steps up; a room cushioned in red and marked by a massive wooden cross; knees falling, crumbling . . .

   Tiara tipped-toed through the new marsh, the flooded grass rocking, she feeling saturated like the Mother Earth, saturated with emotions she could not display, her spirit over filled in the want of a love she may never regain. Her smoky chemise dress formed to her body as the water weighted the hem and a breeze touched her skin, the rolling waves lapping at her ankles, the coolness bringing the child in her to the surface.
   Troy chased Tiara . . .

—Some five years ago. . . .
   . . . standing over a body, creamy, smooth, soft dark hair, a tattered cloth draped loosely, breast exposed, pink, the want, the need to touch the beauty so sacred, so fair, and so . . . still. Unfair; young beauty lying in the mud, creamy, soft . . .

      . . . , his first legal wife, her steps echoing the prance of a doe. Victoria grabbed his wrist—his second legal wife—grabbed his waist, the fun slowly escaping in front of him. Victoria whined that her feet were cold, shaking her feet like a cat, displacing the goo with each lift of her foot, the mush between her toes sickening her; he sighed out loud and internally yelled Let go!
   Tiara, on the sidewalk, circled a puddle with her pointed toe and dragged it through the middle, creating, for a brief moment, a dry line of two hearts interlocked that quickly flooded again, like her heart that ached for his touch, knowing that she couldn’t advance, knowing that her physically spiraling body cried for him, the world circling down upon her as a dream, the soiled sky changing with each spin, she falling into nothingness, of an earth absorbed by tears.
   Her face uplifted—to hide it—in the downpour, it scouring her eyes to close tight with thunder spilling sourness of a lingering destruction into her mouth.
   Troy grabbed Tiara’s spin, pulled her to him, guiding her to a booth, folding his lips around her moist neck, moving up her chin, her moaning encouraging him, suckling her lower lip, her breath stroking his cheek as she opened her mouth, he advancing. . . .
   The much wanted kiss fell away; see opening her eyes to see Victoria wrap arms around a neck of promises made five years ago, Victoria’s lips filling the space Tiara once filled.
   Her hand slipping . . .

—Some five years ago. . . .
    . . . standing over a body, creamy, smooth, soft dark hair, a tattered cloth draped loosely, breast exposed, pink, the want, the need to touch the beauty so sacred, so fair, and so . . . still. Unfair; young beauty lying in the mud, creamy, soft . . .
    . . . falling to his knees in the mud, wiping the falling drops from her face, the highway above sang about tomorrow, tomorrow and promises, promises . . .

   . . . from him; now running from Troy was the creamy, smooth, soft dark hair soaked and clinging to the drenched chemise that clung to the body, and his want and need to touch the beauty so sacred, so fair, so . . . alive. . . . To keep her always.
   Tiara drifted to the bells, the chill of the wind scurrying her off, walking her poetically atop of the pooled cement, sensing danger, a danger that would fold her soul in, seal it tight, fleeing as an allusive doe, for she may become the victim, jumping spans of marshy grass, feet slicing the swells that greeted them as they paced back down, her marks untraceable.
   Fear chased her steps, echoed her, trudged after her, eyes escaping through the drizzle to one place that called out sanctuary.
   Troy’s fear loose . . .

—Some five years ago. . . .
    . . . standing over a body, creamy, smooth, soft dark hair, a tattered cloth draped loosely, breast exposed, pink, the want, the need to touch the beauty so sacred, so fair, and so . . . still. Unfair; young beauty lying in the mud, creamy, soft . . .
    . . . falling to his knees in the mud, wiping the falling drops from her face, the highway above sang about tomorrow, tomorrow and promises, promises . . .
    . . . she wouldn’t wake, she may never wake he could hear them say as he was pulled up the embankment; never wake to never die . . . lying in tubes and metal forever . . .

      . . . , his heart racing with her, his mind squeezing Victoria into a bubble, his spirit physically climbing out of the valley of Victoria, seeing the fine footmarks fade before him. His spirit bucked and so did his body, ejecting Victoria to the air and from him, his feet taken over by a spirit he knew not as want and need, but as the nourishment of purification that only could be quenched by his love, his love, Tiara. Blasphemous snarls dragged on the cuff of his heels, while his spirit lifted him in leaps across the glistening ground of pavement and grass.
   Tiara felt the spirit of this day. So fresh. So clear. No matter the disaster. She had to follow the spirit, and her feet knew how to listen. If he had not forgotten, he would as well.
    Open doors beckoned at the steepled-gateway, the stairway beyond called, the Mary pressed her on with tender eyes, Tiara’s heart showing through her chemise, speaking through her tears; for a moment she thought she heard Troy call out, but she would not turn, could not turn, for her path would not allow her to look back.

          . . . from behind the tiered water fountain, double doors beckoned two sets of running feet; neither pounded mud on or traced water on cement from fresh marshy grass; the water guiding to, guiding around, guiding through large wooden doors trimmed in brass and gold; swinging easily, effortlessly with touches of fingertips. An aroma of incense and wax filled nostrils as feet escaped to the stairway just beyond communal water, as second feet escaped to the stairway just beyond communal water, fifteen steps up and a hundred eighty degrees left; another fifteen steps up and a hundred eighty degrees left; onto a platform vacant and silent, doorways staring, a showcase upholding a golden cross draped in purple silk with a crown of rubies, sapphires, and jades set in thorns. First feet confess, second feet confess, before running and panting to a single door, a single room protruding the whole structure ten steps up, a room cushioned in red and marked by a massive wooden cross; knees falling and knees falling, crumbling and crumbling more, hands folding and folding and folding within and folding around and around, squeezing gently and more gently, forgiving and forever for . .