Thursday, December 30, 2010

How to Serve Raccoon

How To Serve Raccoon

by Bob Brussack

For some reason, Deputy Fife didn't bark. But I heard the crunching of the driveway rocks. Then the man was talking to Miss Hattie. They were standing under the carport. I moved closer to the kitchen window to eavesdrop. The conversation turned from the usual pleasantries to the reason for the visit: raccoons.

Nothing was said about how cute they were, or how fascinating. To Miss Hattie, who lived to garden, raccoons were a kind of collateral damage -- unlucky guests of traps she had set to catch armadillos. To her visitor, raccoons were a delicacy. These different, but complementary views had brought Miss Hattie and the visitor together previously to do a little business. Miss Hattie had caught one or two raccoons and wanted nothing to do with their removal. Someone referred her to the visitor, who was only too happy to help. He charged nothing for his services, and she charged nothing for the raccoons.

Now the visitor was back, hoping to renew their mutually beneficial association. He asked if he could set some of his own traps on the place. Miss Hattie gave her permission. The visitor needed raccoons, he said -- 18 to 20 of them -- for Superbowl Sunday. On that day each year, in what was a settled local tradition, he and his wife opened their house and sold plates of raccoon and sides to the many folks came over to watch The Game.

Miss Hattie's daughter, visiting from out of state and in the food service business herself, asked the man how he prepared raccoon. Boiled it, he said. Then deep-fried it. Then baked it, surrounded by sweet potatoes.

Some of you, on reading this, might be brought back to another December a few years ago, not in the rural environs of my vignette, but here in our college town. Animal Control had responded to a fraternity house to investigate a report of animal cruelty. A story in the paper quoted Animal Control as saying that one of the members of the fraternity, on encountering an "erratically-behaving" raccoon near the frat house, had killed it with a construction pylon and a pellet gun. A second fraternity member then had skinned the raccoon in the bed of his pickup truck. And a third fraternity member then had cooked and eaten parts of the animal.

Down the road apiece, the killing, skinning, and eating of a raccoon would be a matter neither for Animal Control nor for a write-up in the local paper. It would mark only the coming around of another Superbowl Sunday.

_________________________

Bob retired after a career teaching law at the University of Georgia in Athens. I've read now at Aralee's monthly open mikes and  upstairs at The Globe, a local pub.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Smoky

I don’t know why my daddy decided he wanted a cat. It wasn’t like he ever admitted liking animals as pets, although I think we all saw through his bluff. But we had a dog - a miniature dachschund named Ginger - and I don’t recall any of us kids asking for a cat. So I guess Smoky was Daddy’s idea. I do remember going with him to get Smokey, at the house of someone who worked with him.

He was a beautiful gray cat, a Russian Blue. I don’t remember much of the early days - I was maybe 12 - but I do remember how Ginger, even though she was smaller than Smoky (who must have been fully grown when we got him), completely dominated that cat. She would shove her way between Smoky and his food bowl, and Smoky just took it. He wasn’t afraid of dogs - more than once I saw him face down much larger dogs, including a boxer that thought he had cornered him on the porch one day. But he never stood up to a 10-pound dachschund.

Smoky did tangle regularly with other neighborhood cats, however, having some memorable fights. I have a vivid memory of an early Sunday morning brouhaha with a large tabby from down the street, which took place over our front yard and two neighbor’s front yards, with my mother following them with a rolled-up newspaper which she would throw at them, while yelling “SMOKY, YOU’RE GOING TO WAKE UP THE NEIGHBORHOOD!”. The Railsbacks, across the street, particularly loved that one, although Mrs. Railsback was terrified of Smoky. She would come to visit, and Smoky would sometimes run into the house - he was an outside cat, but was always trying to get in, especially after he got in unnoticed one day and found a German chocolate cake cooling on the kitchen table. So when he would run in, my mother would chase him down and grab him, and throw him back outside. He would hiss and spit and “rowrrrrrrrrrrrrrr” loudly when this happened, but never tried to scratch or bite. Nonetheless, Mrs. Railsback was deathly afraid of that cat.

So it was a little ironic that Smoky died in her garage. Smoky’s one unvanquishable foe was a large Siamese that lived a block away. They would fight, and the Siamese, being bigger, always won. Smoky would often end up with an infected, swollen tail. I remember that we took him to the vet twice for the swollen wound to be lanced. The third, Daddy decided he could do it himself. So he took an old army rucksack, and put Smoky in head first, with only his tail sticking out. He told me to hold the sack, then he grabbed his tail and popped it with a lance. We did this in the kitchen. That was when I discovered that an Army rucksack, made of canvas, will not hold a cat that really wants to be out. Smoky tore the seams apart, and when I saw both front paws and the head coming out, I dropped the sack. Daddy started yelling at me, but I was more concerned with getting the hell out of the kitchen, preferably by a different door than Smoky. I turned over one chair, Smoky turned over another chair, and daddy came running out of the kitchen with the sack trying to catch Smoky and get him back in the sack. I think he’d have had a better chance of finding the Pope in that sack than ever finding Smoky in there again.

But back to Mrs. Railsback’s garage - Daddy was out of town, and I think Smoky had another fight with the Siamese. I just remember he had a swollen tail, and was slinking around the house for a couple of days, obviously not feeling well. One night, he didn’t show up for supper. The next morning, Mrs. Railsback called my mother to say he was in her garage dead. My little brother and I were both at school, and Daddy was still out of town, so my mother got Smoky and buried him in the back yard, so we kids wouldn’t have to see him dead. Now, this was in the spring, at a time when we get heavy rains and the clay soils will swell. One of those fronts came though that dropped several inches of rain over the course of a couple of days. Daddy had gotten back, and was out in the back yard looking at his flowerbeds when he noticed a strange sight - what appeared to be four legs of an animal sticking up from the ground. Smoky had returned, in a fashion. Daddy dug him up and reburied him, much deeper. He didn’t tell my mother for years. Neither of them told us for quite a while. They just let us think Smoky had wandered away, although I figured out the basics of what had happened. It was at least ten years later, after I was out of high school and college, before Daddy told me the story of the legs sticking out of the ground.

I thought about this because of a story I read at Dew On The Kudzu, about the much nobler burial of Kudzu the dog. That’s a story worth reading, even if all of Kudzu’s body parts stayed buried.

Sunday, December 26, 2010

Sanibel

       Sanibel

I see it from above
when I come home on high.
I see it brow-low
after I steer towards McGregor
and leave San Carlos Boulevard
behind.

I see it on the map,
Pine Island resting in its lap,
a finger pointing North
from a fist in gloves,
tanning itself in
warm and gently lapping
South-West Floridian waves,
a barrier island protecting
yet another against
the gulf's immensity,
its winds, its sun, its waves,
with all the whistles,
all the bells,
Sanibel.

Who knows if it is
"Puerto Sur Nibel"
of Ponce de Leon or
José Gaspar's Santa Isabella
that is implanted in our mind
as Sanibel.

But we couldn't care less.
The little island paradise
has sunsets, lighthouse beacons,
which guide the wanderer
on waters, luring him,
whispering "Come, son, come
and share the name that
I will tell, it's Sanibel."

       *   *   *
___________________________________________

Dan Barkye
Rehovot, ISRAEL
---
BIO

A full time writer, poet, publicist, and lecturer, Barkye (rhymes with 'sky') writes fiction and non-fiction, short stories and poetry, and sends his opera to the world from ISRAEL.
His book "Spirituality and Meditation” was published in June, 2008, in the US.
Besides reading his poems at the SW Florida Poetry Alliance, in Florida, where he lived at the time, his poems appeared in the online poetry site "The Critical Poet", where he was nominated twice for "The Best Poem of the Month", and in the Israeli English literary magazine, "Cyclamens and Swords". He is the recipient of a governmental stipend for his literary work.

Friday, December 24, 2010

The Year Daddy Shot the Christmas Tree

The Year Daddy Shot the Christmas Tree
By:  Tori Bailey

  Dead leaves fluttered in the air from being kicked out of frustration.  Naked hardwoods loomed overhead with their bare arms.  Unseen creatures scurried making eerie sounds.  Norlena hated walking in the woods.  She’d much rather be in her bedroom, lying across her bed, reading about her favorite teen idols, and listening to the countdown of the latest top forty hits.  Norlena promised her best friend, Squirrel, that she’d record their favorite songs from the radio. She’d bought a new cassette tape with her allowance.  Instead she had to be part of the great family adventure to check a loose board on her daddy’s deer stand.

              The sight of Daddy’s flannel coat and tattered hunting cap brought a sense of security.   The barrel of his rifle rested against his shoulder.  Daddy always brought it along with him. If it moved it could be hunted. Whatever ended up on the wrong end of Daddy’s gun often turned up on the table.  Today’s victims were squirrels.  Yesterday’s had been a six-point buck.  

 Daddy’s whistling drifted through the woods. She recognized the tune from church.  To her chagrin his pace was not hurried but a casual stroll.  It amazed Norlena how he never became lost in these woods.  Everything seemed foreign to her and unfamiliar.  She knew they would not retrace their steps on their return.  Daddy always said, ‘ you never come out of the woods the same was you enter.’ This logic confused Norlena. 

            The sound of Momma’s laughter echoed through the hollow.  Norlena could not think of what there was to possibly laugh about.   Momma had made it clear at the dinner table they were going to spend the day together.  Norlena felt that as long as everyone was under one roof they were together.  But Momma didn’t see it that way.  She wanted everyone to be a family.  That meant having to put up with her older brother, Scoots.  

Now, Norlena was stuck at looking at his backside.  The whizzing sound of a tree limb narrowly missed her head. “Hey, watch it!  You almost hit me!”

            “Should’a been watching where you going, Pumpkin Head.”  Scoots kept walking not looking back.  He enjoyed these outings and the times spent with Daddy in these woods. Scoots had learned more than hunting from Daddy among these trees and hollows.  

Norlena hated her brother’s nickname for her hair.  Why couldn’t he been the one born with orange hair?  She didn’t understand how God saw fit to waste blonde hair and blue eyes on a stupid boy.  “Stop calling me that.  Momma make him not call me that.” 

The nasal whine of his daughter was the last straw.  “Girl, if you don’t get a move on, you gonna have more to worry about than what your brother calls you.” Daddy was tired of Norlena’s sulking and lagging behind.  “Your Momma wants us to be together today and we are gonna be together.”  

The tone in Daddy’s voice was worse than a whipping in itself.  Norlena hung her head. Dried leaves crunched under foot announcing the increased pace of her bright pink tennis shoes.  Norlena tried to not think about the old civil war soldier’s grave to her right.  Instead she concentrated on watching the back of her brother’s denim jacket.  

Daddy stopped.  “Scoots, why don’t ya’ll walk the ridge?  Let’s see if we can scare up a squirrel or two.”

“Sure dad.  It won’t be hard with as much noise as Pumpkin Head is making.” Scoots grinned at his sister.  She made it so easy to tease.  Norlena waited until her parent’s backs were turned before sticking out her tongue.  “You might want to put that thing back in your mouth.  Some bird might think it’ll make a good supper for ‘em.” 

Great now she was stuck depending on her brother.  She hoped no squirrel would appear from its nest. They were cute and fun to watch.  How could she contribute to killing something that her best friend was nickname?  

“Hey dad, there’s a nest up there in that pine.  I think I can pull on these muscadine vines and shake it.”  Scoots already had his hand on the vines and begun to shake the tree branches.

Norlena looked up the tall pine and spotted the nest.  She thought about how some poor unsuspecting squirrel was about to be evicted from its home and killed.  It was probably curled up enjoying the warmth of the sun doing what it wanted.  Now, its home was being shaken like a violent storm.  Norlena yelled hoping it would alert the nest’s resident.  “Scoots, you just wast’n your time.  There ain’t no squirrel in that nest.”

“Yeah, they heard you tromping through here like a gorilla and ran away.”  Scoots stopped yanking on the vine.  “No luck dad.”

“Keep walking the ridge we’re almost to the creek.”  Daddy continued.  He reached out and took Momma’s hand.

Norlena rolled her eyes at the sight of her parent’s holding hands.  Weren’t they too old for that mushy stuff? It was sickening the way they talked all lovey-dovey to each other on the phone.  Momma restricted phone use on the nights Daddy was supposed to call.  She didn’t want the line to busy.  Driving a truck took Daddy away from home sometimes for several weeks.    Momma never complained but there would be sadness about her during the long absences.   

“Hey Pumpkin Head, you might want to watch where you put’n them clod hoppers.  You know those copper-headed-water-rattlers love bright pink shoes.”  Scoots stood at the edge of the creek.

Norlena let out a screech at the thought of a snake anywhere near her. A tree branch came to her rescue just in time.  Hanging onto it for dear life, she gained her balance and footing on the bank, narrowly missing getting wet. 

Scoots let out a loud whoop at the sight of his sister.  She was such an easy target.  “Hey Pumpkin Head look there’s one right over there.”  Scoots pointed to the end of a limb bobbing above the water’s edge with the current..

A squeal followed by a splash echoed through the woods.  Norlena landed bottom first into the creek.  Arms and legs flailed in different directions while she tried to stand.  She eyed the end of the tree limb just sure that a copper-headed-water-rattler was going to be the cause of her demise. 

“Scoots!  Don’t just stand there help her out of that water.  She’s gonna catch a cold for sure now.”  Momma scolded her oldest son.  Under her breath she muttered a prayer for patience. She had about all she was going to take of her offspring’s inability to enjoy an afternoon of peace and harmony.  “I am ashamed at the two of you.  All afternoon, Norlena you have done nothing but pout because of you have to spend time with us. I could ride to town on that bottom lip of yours.”  Momma’s attention turned to Scoots.  “And don’t you stand there looking all innocent.  You haven’t helped matters with your constant teasing of your sister.  You know good and well there ain’t no such thing as a copper-headed-water-rattler.”

Scoots reached down and gave his sister a hand. He hated seeing Momma upset.  “Yes ma’am.  I’m sorry.”

Norlena stood next to her brother.  “Momma, I’m sorry.”

“You two ought to be.  Christmas is only a few weeks away and with the way you two are acting, I can just about guarantee there will be nothing but a bunch of switches under the tree for you.”

 “Well, momma don’t you think we need to get a tree first?”  Scoot’s asked.

“Son, don’t be smartn’ off at your Momma.”  Daddy spoke. He knew when Momma got her hackles up everyone was fair gain for her ire.  She’d been making rumblings about him not getting a tree since he came home.

Momma turned and glared at her husband.  “He’s got a point.  Christmas is three weeks away.  When you plan on going and gettin’ us a tree?”

“You know with me gone all week drivin’ the truck I haven’t had the time.”

“You’d think as much time you’ve spent in the woods hunting you’d find us a tree.”

“My time in the woods helps put food on our table.” Daddy saw the tears of frustration in Momma’s eyes. He didn’t mean to sound as sharp as he did.   “I will get us a tree.  Come on, we are almost to my stand.  Let me fix that loose board and then we’ll look for a tree.”
The foursome continued.  An air of guilt hung among them.  Norlena tried to ignore the wet clothing, seeking warmth from the sun’s rays filtering through the trees.  Scoots walked beside his sister.  Daddy slid his arm around Momma’s waist pulling her close to him.  Each of them thought about how much this one adventure had meant to her.  In their own way, they had brought disappointment.

Daddy stopped at the cluster of trees.  He propped his gun against one of the trees before making the climb up to the wooden platform of his deer stand.  Norlena was the first to break the silence.  “Momma, I’m sorry I got you mad.”

Scoots looked down at his shoes.  “Me too, Momma.”

Momma looked at her son and daughter.  They were good kids.  “Thank you. It’s not often your Daddy ain’t leav’n on Sundays. ” She knew her children didn’t understand the importance of taking advantage of these rare moments.  She hoped that one day, as adults, they would look back at these times with fond memories.  

Daddy made his way back to the ground.  Hearing his kids’ apologies confirmed that he and his wife were raising good kids.  He picked up the rifle. “Come on, let’s go find Momma her Christmas tree.”  Daddy took the lead continuing the expedition through the woods.  
 Somehow, he had to figure out how he was supposed to cut down a cedar tree without a saw. 
The woods thinned into a small clearing where several cedar trees stood.  Momma instantly spotted the one she wanted.  “Daddy, this is it.”  She walked over and stood next to the bushy cedar that was two feet taller than she was.  “It will fit nicely in the corner next to the fireplace.”

Daddy stood looking at the tree and back to Momma.  He knew when she set her mind on something there was to talking her out of it.  She was right the tree was a good choice.  It would need a little trimming and shaping.  He could already envision Momma and the kids decorating it.  

“Daddy, how are you going to get it down?”  Scoot’s question re-echoed earlier concerns.

Daddy walked over to the tree and looked at its trunk.  Then the idea hit him.  He stood and looked at his family.  “Momma, you and the kids go stand over there.”  Daddy pointed to what he thought was a safe distance for his family.  

The three walked to the spot Daddy had pointed.  Each curious as to what solution he had found in cutting down the cedar.  Neither of them spoke or asked questions.  They knew not to bother Daddy when he was working on a problem.  

Daddy laid his rifle on the ground.  The small Barlow pocked knife was fished deep from the jean’s pocket.  It had been his granddad’s knife.  He hoped that trying to trim the lower branches would not ruin it.  Daddy lay on the ground and reached under the tree.  He began to cut through the first of the lower branches.  Slowly, one-by-one a branch was remove exposing the trunk.

Scoots watched his dad.  Surely, he was not going to use his knife to cut through the trunk of the tree.  The sun was beginning to sink to the horizon.  He thought about Norlena and how miserable she must feel from her fall into the creek.  Now, he wished he had not scared her. “Sorry, I scared you and caused you to fall into the creek.  Are you cold?”

“Some.”  Norlena tried to control the chatter of her teeth.  She rubbed her hands up and down her arms for warmth.  

“Here take my jacket.”  Scoots took off his jacket and offered it to his sister.

Daddy looked over at his family.  The sight of his son offering his jacket to Norlena brought reassurance of what a fine young man he was becoming.  Daddy folded the pocket knife and put it back into his jeans pocket.  He hoped his plan would work.  “Okay, ya’ll don’t move from that spot.”  He picked up his rifle, thankful that he had loaded it and had brought extra ammo.  With careful aim, he pulled the trigger expecting the recoil.  The shot hit its mark-the trunk of the cedar.  The air filled with the acrid smell of gun smoke and bits of flying cedar bark.  Daddy looked over at his family and was met with a look of horror on their faces.  At least, they were safe from any ricochet. He turned his attention back to the tree and continued to shoot the trunk.  After several shots, the tree began to lean making it hard for him to aim at the weakest area of the trunk.

Daddy looked back at the group and focused on his son.  It was one thing to put himself in danger but to ask the same of his son was another issue in itself.  Was having a tree three weeks before Christmas that important?  There were some families that put theirs up on Christmas Eve. Trying to convince Momma to change her traditions was an argument he chose to let pass. He would just make it a point to go next weekend and get Momma her tree.

“Daddy, you need me to hold it straight?”  Scoots asked. Momma did not like the idea of her husband shooting the tree.  With each shot she held her breath and prayed for his safety.  Now, her son was about to be put in harm’s way.  Before she could say anything Scoots was holding the tree.  He saw the worry in Momma’s face.  “Don’t worry Momma.  Daddy’s a good shot.  I’ll be safe.”

Daddy looked up at his son.  He was proud of the confidence his son placed in him, but did not want to take the risk. “Son...”

“Daddy, it’ll be fine.  How many more do you need?”

“About two and then I can finish it with my pocket knife.  But…”

“Come on, Daddy.  The sun’s getting low.  If we gonna get Momma’s tree then let’s do it.”

“Okay.”  Daddy picked up his rifle.  “Come stand next to me on this side.”  Daddy waited until Scoots stood next to him.  “You ready?”

“Yes sir.” 

Norlena watched in horror.  Her brother could not be the sharpest tool in the shed at times and this was one of his moments.  In spite of all the grief he gave her, she loved him.  She knew she would miss him when he left in the spring for the Navy. “Be careful, Scoots.”

The sound of worry in his sister’s voice caught him by surprise.  Rarely, did Norlena show her emotions.  He knew it wasn’t because she didn’t have them but the opposite.  She was sensitive and soft hearted.  Despite her brattiness at times, she was okay for a girl.  

Daddy gently squeezed the trigger sending another bullet into the tree.  He watched in slow motion as the tree fell away from him.  For a fleeting moment he was sure that Scoots had been hurt.  Out of the corner of his eye he could see his son’s signature black and white tennis shoes.   He looked upward and welcomed the sight of a huge grin on Scoot’s face.  “Daddy, I think you killed it.  I bet the Game Warden never thought of putting a hunting season on Christmas trees.”

Relief was replaced with laughter at his son’s comments.  “Yeah, think I need to tag it?”

“No, but you might want to consider stuffing and mounting it.”  Scoots walked over and picked up the tree.

Daddy laid his rifle down and inspected the trunk.  “You are right son.  I think it’s in the bag for sure.”  He pulled the pocket knife out of his pocket and finished cutting through the trunk.  Wiping the cedar sap off the blade onto his jeans, Daddy folded the knife.  He picked up the rifle from the ground.  

Scoots held one side of the tree with Daddy on the other side.  “Momma, I shot and killed it.  Now you get to clean and cook it.”

            Norlena looked at the picture on the mantel of her fireplace.  It was one of her favorites of her family.  All four of them standing in front of the Christmas tree that Daddy had shot. It amazed her how thirty years later things remained the same. Brothers still teased sisters unmercifully.  Mothers muttered silently under their breath for patience when children pushed the limits.  Daddies tried to be the family heroes.

 Her kids were always going in different directions.  Just to have a family meal with everyone at the table was impossible.  Then there were the distractions of cell phones, computers, texting, and video games.  Having a conversation without looking at the top of a bowed head was a rarity.  She would feel the need for a walk in the woods with her family every once and a while.  Norlena walked to the bottom of the stairs and yelled up to her son.  “Samuel, get your sister and bring your grandpa’s rifle.  We’re going hunting for a Christmas tree.”




_____________________________________

A native Georgian, Tori Bailey grew up in a small southern town where she developed a love of books, horses and a fascination with flying. After graduating from Brenau College,  Tori pursued an aviation career while working for a Flight School located at Athens Ben-Epps Airport.  She continued her passion for horses becoming an accomplished rider in both English and Western.  A die hard Georgia Bulldog fan, Tori, lives in the Athens area with her husband and four cats. She enjoys writing about growing up in the South and her home state.  Her debut novel, COMING HOME, was released earlier this year.  To learn more about her up-coming novels visit www.readtoribaily.com.


Thursday, December 23, 2010

Play's the Thing

PLAY’S THE THING

There is a theory among some parapsychologists-- spook hunters-- that the moving of objects supposed to be caused by poltergeists is really caused by teenage girls living next door. 

I accept that theory as a matter of proven fact.

Scarlett was a charming nymphet-- a true Lolita -- a beautiful girl, well under the age of eighteen-- still in school, I believe-- but with figure, brains and ability to play a young married woman in New York City. She had long hair the color of ripe corn, full lips and a smile that would’ve besotted a Renascence painter. And she was our leading lady, Scarlett, the daughter of the doctor in Nicotinia, the Virginia village where we rehearsed in an old abandoned theater above town hall.

The producer took one look at her and quietly made arrangements to see that she was driven to and from rehearsals and never left alone with any of the male actors. 

Our play was Neil Simon’s Barefoot in the Park and I didn’t feel it was a very ambitious project for the second production of our budding new company. But the director, a man who’d spent a lot of his life in community theater, thought it was more than enough. As it turned out, he was right.

"You just remember y’r lines-- try not t’ bump into any o’ th’ furniture!"

"Have I ever bumped into any furniture on stage?"

"Sure, lots o’ times!."

"Yeh, but I didn’t break anything!"

Our leading man in the production was an actor named Harry Taylor-- an energetic, muscular, dark-haired young man with a deep rich vein of humor in him and a talent that went way beyond the demands of our little provincial company. Besides being handsome, Harry had an enormous font of emotional resource that he’d learned to draw upon. He could reach down into a character and pull up his heart and show it to you, this with the slightest of hand and without chewing a bit of scenery or breaking a sweat.

His wife Henrietta, a slight blonde woman with large sad eyes and a long face, a little heavy in the thigh, hung on his arm and looked up at him with adoring gaze. She accompanied Harry to every rehearsal, fetched him cokes between scenes and soon became the gofer, fetching cokes for everybody. I remember her standing by his side at the edge of the curtain one evening looking out over the heads of the actors into the nearly-empty dark theater, a faint smile on her lips as if she wanted to turn away and didn’t quite know how to.

We were halfway through one of the early rehearsals when the first signs of real trouble surfaced.

This was the night Harry as Paul had to kiss Scarlett as Corrie on stage. Being in a rural county meant there was a great deal of fakery, of course, and the kiss could not be too passionate-- nevertheless, he had to kiss her-- really kiss her, or seem to anyway. I knew the director had worried about this. He’d delayed rehearsing the scene because he wasn’t sure how Harry’s wife would take it watching her husband kiss another woman in front of an audience-- including relatives and friends. But the moment had come.

I was backstage and didn’t see what happened but those who were out front reported that when Harry embraced Scarlett and put his mouth on her lips, Henrietta gave a start, a little gasp-- her fixed smile never wavered but her body twisted involuntarily in her seat and she turned white as a sheet, her eyes bugged out of her head and she seemed to stop breathing for a long time.

From that moment, a subtle change, an alchemy if you will, took place in Henrietta. Nothing outward, mind you-- little things-- she ignored the kiss when it came back up for rehearsal and she began pay noticeable attention to every detail and nuance of the play-- she read the script again and again and became the prompter for the final rehearsals-- she watched with eager interest each entrance and exit. She was no longer the gofer, fetched cokes for no one. It was as if she was preparing for something, something in the play itself, and it wasn’t long in coming.

The director had planned a tour-- we would take the play to different towns in Morituck County-- start here in Nicotinia at the local school auditorium, go on to Scott’s Pillock, then to Bluestone, and strike the set in the last town, transporting the equipment and materials back to our rehearsal hall. It seemed simple enough-- the sets had been made so they could be taken down and reconstructed and we’d raised enough money for the U-Haul-- the only hitch was Scarlett.

Because of the long run of the play-- long by our community theater standards-- over three weeks with performances on every weekend-- a conflict had arisen: her family had made vacation plans-- a week away right in the middle of the run. But-- chin up-- she announced she was prepared to sacrifice and to stay with the play.

Henrietta stepped in.

"I know the lines. I can do the part."

She smiled, not a sad smile this time, and the look of cold hatred on her face when she glanced at Scarlett would’ve frozen an Eskimo’s plans for a family. Our leading lady did not argue and neither did anyone else. The director was strangely silent.

The rest of our rehearsal time was divided between the two women. Scarlett was ready and Henrietta had memorized every phrase and studied every movement-- she already had the role down pat-- it only remained for the director to let her work through it and concentrate on weak spots and smooth out pacing and changes in mood or place.

Henceforth, Henrietta never sat out front-- she was always backstage or in the wings looking on if she wasn’t rehearsing. When Harry was up-- whether with Scarlett or not-- she stood at the side of the stage and never took her eyes off him. Her expression became one of constant hunger.

And whenever Scarlett left the stage, she always looked at Henrietta-- her lexpression was one of triumph.

The play began and Scarlett was superb. Her timing was amazing-- Henrietta’s hungry look deepened. Now she watched closely when time came for the kiss-- I caught her standing on tiptoes and I could almost see her counting the seconds the kiss lasted.

At the matinee at the end of the first week, still in Nicotinia, I forgot my lines into the second half of the first act. I whispered to Scarlett and she shook her head and whispered back.
"I can’t help you-- I don’t know ‘em!"

I tried to think of something to do with my hands. I fidgeted. My mind wouldn’t work-- thus followed the longest thirty seconds in my life. Then the lines came back into my head and I recovered and went on. I chanced a glance at the audience-- they knew!-- and they smiled, they didn’t care! At that moment I loved them all.

At the end of the first run we went straight to Scot’s Pillock. Henrietta took over the role and Scarlett disappeared for awhile. But Henrietta did not relax-- her movements, her attitudes, if anything, became more frantic. She was trying to capture something-- but she was competent in the role, no more. The harder she tried the more apparent it became that something was missing-- the spark that existed on-stage between Harry and Scarlett was gone-- that excitement between two strangers exchanging emotions simply could not be captured between a husband and wife in front of an audience. A kiss is just a kiss.
I began to understand backstage love-affairs.

Because of generous public air time and word-of-mouth, we were expecting good audiences in Scot’s Pillock. Instead, we found ourselves playing to empty houses-- once to only five people at the Sunday matinee. Few people came to the evening performances either. But Henrietta saved us. Her friends drove up from Carolina, up all the way from Durham, and they were the only decent audience we had in the town.

The final weekend of the play saw us moving to Bluestone and Scarlett returning. as Corrie. She popped her head in to say hello and smiled and ignored her rival, accepting her role as if it were naturally hers and the other person had only been keeping her place warm.
And I was to have my own final moment with Scarlett.

Because she’d been gone a week, the director decided to rehearse her lines briefly-- just a run-through to make sure she was up on her dialogue and timing. So, we went back to the old theater in Nicotinia– just for the practice before Bluestone.

Having been abandoned, there was no power in the auditorium and we rehearsed in the evening by aid of a lamp connected to a drop-cord that was run up the side of the building from the street below. This gave little light in the theater, and one evening-- somehow-- the rest of the company had drifted away-- lord only knows what they were doing, but I was alone with Scarlett-- alone with her in the dust and gloom and dim recesses of that ancient building.

We were going through our lines together when suddenly we looked at one another and, standing ten feet apart, we stopped and there was some sort of a connection between the two of us-- I don’t know what happened but-- I swear to god, electricity trickled from my toes!
This young girl was looking at me with the same look on her face I had on mine--
It was innocent enough, I suppose, but suddenly it scared the hell out of me. I wanted to run and couldn’t and the only thought I had at the moment was, This girl is underage– and I’m going to jail! Yes, I’m going to prison right here in Morituck County! God, help me!
 
It was gone as soon as it happened.-- it passed in a minute and she smiled.

"Did you feel that? I’ve never-- had anything happen like that before!"

The company came back and I heaved a sigh of relief.

By now, Henrietta’s hungry look had become one of desperation. She haunted the wings and paced backstage in a restless to and fro movement that saw all of us stepping out of her way.
The two women seldom passed one another in the corridor backstage and when they did the tension became so heavy no one could stand it-- players and crew began to walk out into the alley for air. Not a few of us looked longingly at the street.

Came the last performance, another matinee, and my final vision of Henrietta in the theater was a glimpse I had of her in the wings as Scarlett was out front taking her last bow with Harry-- I was just coming back, leaving the stars to their accolades, and I saw her hanging on the curtain, clinging to it madly, with tears in her eyes.

Harry never did another play.

He and Henrietta joined some kind of fundamentalist church that condemned theater and I saw them only once thereafter on the street. Henrietta was pushing a baby-carriage and both of them had put on weight.

I thought of Scarlett as I’d seen her that evening in the abandoned auditorium and I knew I had been given a vision of something-- witchcraft, maybe. And I knew young girls could move objects.

__________________________________


Author: Jack Peachum

Sunday, December 19, 2010

The Eye of the Storm


The Eye of the Storm


The screaming won’t stop. The noise is painfully loud. Every note punches my eardrum.

“Hello?? Where are you?”

There is no answer, only more screaming with a pitch that neither gets higher nor lower an octave. The same scream note after note. Someone needs to save her, I thought. I try several more attempts to ask who it is. There is still no change, just the strong heart-breaking cry. 

I don’t know what to do. I need to find help. I need to find her. The voice sounds like a little girl, but her screaming is so unnatural. The same pitch, never moving up or down an octave. Something is wrong.

I lay down the phone, the screaming is echoing off the coffee table. I get out of my chair and walk quickly out of my room. I stumble over a salt and pepper shaker lying on the floor. How did that get there? I can’t think of that right now, I must find this poor child.

 I walk through the T.V. room, Barb is watching a James Gardner movie. I can’t make out which one. In a distressed voice I tell her about hearing a child screaming. Her empty eyes stare at me, then slide lazily back to the movie.

 I know she is fed up with me complaining about my daughter, but this was completely different, someone was in trouble! How dare she not even pretend to be concerned! I was her best friend! I want her help and I try to think quickly of some way I can quickly seize her attention from the hollow attachment she has with her movie. I start pressing buttons on the T.V. I feel the storm rise up in her eyes. Her lipstick literally dries up as the corners of her mouth crush together like a broken accordion, with her heavy breath pushing air through her teeth in a bellowing growl. Uh oh, maybe I took it too far.  Now I have to worry about two people screaming. As Barb begins her hysterical rant at me, I mumble “Never mind.”

“You turn it back on! Turn it back on right now!”

“Turn it back on yourself,” I say as I walk out of the room.

“Fascist!” She yelled back.

She is such an idiot. I yell back “Traitor!” and walk down the hall.  Her tantrum dies down as I get to the window and stare out at the cars passing by. The shadow of the clouds appears. Recently the clouds have been like little sheep following me like I’m Little Bo Peep. I continue the search for the girl. Why did she call me? I can’t call the police. Every time I hang up, the screaming is still is there. Maybe she’s in the house. 

I start looking for our other phone. I walk back towards my room and pass Barb’s ugly picture hanging on the wall. It’s some German word. I don’t understand modern art. It’s ugly. I’m going to go tell her that.  I also pass the cracked mirror. My reflection has jagged lines cutting in my face. Waving lines lights into a pattern on my face. THUMP. I hear something drop from upstairs. I hear Betty’s voice, her beautiful and loud laughter stirs the air. She shouldn’t be here. She stays upstairs all day and night with that man whose not her husband raising some bastard child. I don’t know how she is able to leave her past behind. I want to just shake her and tell her not to forget her husband back up north! I bet the noise was her dropping the child. I wonder if that’s who I heard on the phone. I start to go up the stairs, but Charlie stops me. He tells me I upset Barb and I need to go back and apologize. All he does is baby Barb. I wish they didn’t live with me. I agree to go sit down by them. Once we sit down, Charlie gives me and Barb a bowl of oatmeal. I stare at the pretty vases on the table. I bet Charlie gave them to Barb. When they aren’t looking, I take them and hide them in my sleeve. I then turn to Charlie and say, “Never have daughters. They are trouble.”
“You don’t mean that,” he says.

“Yes. If I could do it differently I would choose to have my three sons and a big hairy dog.”

He laughs and says, “What?”

“My daughter left me and only came back to raise her new baby, yet she never comes down to see me.”

Charlie tries to tell me that I am wrong and that Betty will come down and visit me this weekend. I tell him she drops her baby all the time. 

“No,” he says.

“Yes! You should check on her.”

 He says no again. I purse my lips and look away. He sighs and said he will check. Inside, my heart does a victory lap. I nod my head and start eating my oatmeal.

                The next day Betty comes to see me. I am so overjoyed I peed my pants a little. She gives me a hug and kiss and we go into my room and I start boiling some water to cook her some dinner. I ask her about her baby.

“Mom, I don’t have a baby I didn’t leave my husband.” 

Lying hussy, I thought. She should admit to her mistakes, especially to her mother.
“Mom, we can’t keep having this conversation.”

I lower my head in disappointment and she changes the subject. She tells me about the rest of the family and how everyone is doing.  She tells me she has good news. 

“I finally figured out what was in Dad’s favorite drink.”

I remember that day when my late husband Joseph started to lose his memory. He could not remember what he put in his wine that made it so famous. I never kept track of his wine; I had to deal with cooking huge family feasts and cleaning up the place. I remember him asking our son John, “Hey Johnny, eh what do I-a put in my-a wine?”

“I don’t know, Dad.”

“Eh Johanne, eh what do I use in my-a drink?”

“I don’t remember, sorry.”

“Eh uh Gigi, what do I put-a in my cup?” 

“I don’t know Joe.” I said with my hands in the dishes.

“Ah! you stupid-a woman!” 

He pounded his fist on the arm rest and got up to walk to the bar. He fiddled around with some of the glasses. I heard the awkward clinking of the wine bottles. Then he walked over and handed me a glass of wine and kissed me on the cheek. He looked over at Jonny and said “You uh figure that out for me eh? Hokay.” And he walked outside to the garden. The elm tree cast its shadow on his eyes while fate copied by casting its shadow over his mind.

Betty starts cleaning my room (a habit she’s had since she was a child) and soon she paints my nails and combs my hair. I thought, my daughter has finally returned! She starts to bring me the gossip. She says she saw Wanda delicately plucking the fuzz out of Mr. Barrington’s hair telling him “Next time you need to behave yourself.” 

She continues about how Norma was found walking by herself at midnight completely naked and the next morning she came out of her room with her bra and panties on the outside of her clothes. Norma’s brother came by to eat breakfast with her and after one look he said, “Norma! You aren’t wearing any shoes!” We both started cracking up. I had no idea who Norma or Wanda were but I love seeing Betty laugh, her strong powerful laugh. We fell asleep early that night.

                The next morning Betty was gone. I searched for her, but I could not find her. Charlie told me she said goodbye, but I must have been sleeping. I feel lonely. I don’t hear any movement upstairs. I walk back into my room and open a photo album. I look at the pictures of my three sons and of my little Betty. I grab another photo album and then another one after that. The last photo album I notice a picture where my hair looks completely gray. I thought it’s not all gray yet. Maybe it wasn’t me. But that was my dress and the same room I was in now. I went up to the cracked mirror to check. As I stare into my reflection, I realize that the mirror wasn’t cracked. The jagged lines were the life lines stretched on my face in a wrinkled wave. My heart starts to beat faster. Where was I? Why can’t I go upstairs? I hear a voice outside my room.

“Now Mr. Barrington where are your manners?”

It must be Wanda. I walk out of my room. I see a lady in a wheelchair picking the fuzz off a teddy bear and rubbing it’s belly. I look behind me. My name is written on the door. I feel a salt and pepper shaker up my sleeve. Did I take those off the table this morning? I shuffle forward and see Barb’s German’s sign. The word enters my mind with a familiar grip. It says ALZHEIMERS.

                My brain is soaked by the flooding of memories bursting from every photo, everything Barb yells out, wheelchairs, mirrors and the recognition of a nursing home.  My painted fingernails grab on to the bedpost. The memories flush over my eyes like an avalanche crashing down and hitting a waterfall and crashing down again. Charlie walks into my room. I stare at his scrubs and recognize that he is a nurse. The lost process of adding information is rewired with split cerebral connections. I feel exhausted. I want to let it all in, but I’m scared to.  It is like I am letting the world guide me with one hand and crossing my fingers with the other. I’m scared because I am also remembering how I have remembered before and then forgot again.  This moment feels like everything is being rushed. I look around my room. My life feels small. Charlie leaves my room after he sees my Tasmanian devil eyes decipher every surface and object and picture I can grab.  I miss my house. I miss my husband. I miss my children. I feel alone. The rushing calms down. It seems clear now, like the sea after a storm. But I am not the storm. I am the boat. Who knew living in a storm could be so deceiving. I sit on the bed and let it all sink in. I sink into the sea, the deeper layer of reality. I’d rather drown here than stay afloat. I smile as my memories seem more vivid now. My husband’s face, my sons’ big wedding parties, Betty’s laugh. Betty! I want to call Betty and tell her I remember! I want to hear her laugh at me for my silly delusions of her living upstairs and dropping imaginary babies I want to tell her about Wanda rolling in her wheelchair and having conversations with a teddy bear. I pick up the receiver. I hear a loud scream as I raise it to my ear. My mind freezes and I feel stuck. “Hello?!!”  I say. The scream continues.

I yell, “Where are you??!!”

The screaming is high pitched and loud, like bells of hell loud. Almost like a group of seagulls screaming because they are being chased by screaming pterodactyls.
She seems to be in trouble! I have to help her! 

“Hello?!! Where are you??” I repeat. The poor thing needs help.

 I need to find her.

__________________________________________
Author Natalie Nigro is an English major at Concordia University St. Paul.

Thursday, December 16, 2010

A Christmas Tree That Smiles?

A Christmas Tree That Smiles?
By Cappy Hall Rearick

“When it comes to Christmas trees, less is more,” my friend said. Convinced that he has discovered the secret to simplicity, sensibilities and holiday sanity, he is promoting what he calls The Small Christmas Tree Comeback Initiative.

“We bought a little tree this year and placed it on a table in front of the window. From the street, it looks huge! And last night before turning in, I gazed at the pretty little thing for a while before saying, Lights out! And then, it smiled at me.” 

My friend and I share two things: we both write columns and we both drink martinis. 
It is early morning, but Babe manages to talk our yardman into helping him bring up our 14-foot, pre-lit tree that has been stored since last Christmas in what passes as a basement in St. Simons Island.
 
Once they get it upstairs (cobwebs and all), they stack the three separate pieces on top of each other in an upright position. Well, upright might be an overstatement; it is bending heavily toward the kitchen and looking a lot like a piece of cooked spaghetti.
It is definitely not smiling. Tilting at windmills, maybe, but not smiling. 

We plug it in, but only half of the 16,000 twinkle lights come to life the way they are supposed to. The other half lays dormant as though even more weary than a Mall Santa Claus at the end of the season. For over an hour, Babe and I look in vain for a plug that we think should be buried somewhere within the plastic tree branches. The Chinese people have a lot to answer for. 

The tree cannot even manage a grin.

We are having a swell (sic) time trying to get the stubborn thing to light up, when Babe’s scheduled bridge game trumps our merry Ho Ho Ho’s. He hurries out the door promising to finish the job upon his return. Seriously aggravated, I take off to the grocery store where I spend the equivalent of a two-week vacation on the French Riviera. On the way home, I remember to buy some spruce pine Christmas tree scent with which I intend to drench the artificial tree. 

After the dousing, however, neither the tree nor I are smiling, so I make chocolate fudge and eat every piece of it.

Upon Babe’s return, he looks at the lopsided half-lit tree that smells more like a Lysol-cleaned public restroom than a spruce pin. He says, “This calls for a martini. Maybe what we need to do is lighten up a bit ourselves, so we can figure out whatever is wrong with the lights.”
 
So we sit side by side in front of a crackling fire, sipping elixir imported from Russia while the north wind descends and blows up a storm outside. And we gaze at the imported Chinese half-lit, non-smiling Leaning Tower of Bejing, previously known as last year’s Christmas tree.  
 
“I have an idea,” says I. 

“Forget it, Cappy. We don’t have any more extension cords and Ace Hardware has run out of them too. I checked,” says he.  
         
“I’m thinking we should just get rid of the dang thing. The yardman probably knows somebody who would love to have a 14-foot tree with 16,000 moody twinkle lights. Pay the man twenty-five bucks and see if he’ll take it off our hands or dump it some place where the sun don’t shine.” 

I can tell Babe is warming to the idea, even though he didn’t think of it himself. Hey, it’s a man thing. 

Staring at the lopsided, half-lit tree, he finally lets out a turbo sigh. “What would we do for a tree,” says he. 

“We buy a small one that we can take to the shredder in the Winn-Dixie parking lot before New Year’s Day. I’ll pop some popcorn to string while you look in storage boxes for old lights. We’ll have us a jolly time decorating it like people used to do back in the day before China started manufacturing artificial pre-lit Christmas trees that don’t light up.” 

“Our grandparents wouldn’t have stooped so low as to have a plastic tree,” says he.
 
“Tacky,” says I. 

“Seriously,” says he.
 
 “My friend told me that his small tree smiled at him. Maybe ours will too.”

 Babe rolls his eyes. “You might want to cut back on the martinis, Cappy,” says he.

 “Or maybe not,” says I. “The world needs more smiles.”